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varlaisvea · 1 month

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WIP Wednesday today!

This was the thing that started it all! This was the start of what is now a novel-length fic that I have not posted. It got moved to the prologue, and now might get left out entirely, though I hope I can find a way to include it!

Pairing: Razum-dar & The Vestige (canon)* Words: 5.3k Rating: T, alcohol and allusions to sex Summary: After a fraught visit with Raz's family, Razum-dar and the Vestige have a drunken heart-to-heart. Or something vaguely analogous. (Takes place after the ESO: Elsweyr quest "Home Sweet Home") (*Note: For lulz and challenge reasons, I wanted the Vestige to be the same as they are in-game in ESO, where the canon Vestige lacks a soul and knowledge of their past. Much like the written content of ESO, this Vestige POV also contains no mentions of the Vestige's name, race, age, gender, or any other identifying characteristics. But in a fun and cute way, at least I hope!)

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The food was good, and the overall mood was pleasant, but I’ve certainly been to less tense family dinners. And I don’t even have a family.

“Where are you headed now, my friend?” Raz asks me, after we both say our goodbyes to his family. “If you are not sick of this one by now, you are welcome to travel with Raz to Elden Root.” He does not look enthused about going to Elden Root.

“What’s in Elden Root?” Raz sighs heavily. “The closest portal to Eyevea. Raz dislikes travel methods that disassemble and then reassemble your entire existence, but he does what he must for the Dominion.”

“What’s in Eyevea?”

“All Raz knows so far is that he is meeting a Psijic who claims to have important information, and apparently has very questionable motives.”

“Sounds like the type of work you’re best at.”

“Yes, subterfuge is one of Raz’s many, many sleek specialties, as you well know,” he says, buffing his claws. “But this one has a feeling about this mission.”

I feel a little guilty that I’m more intrigued than concerned, but I’m going to chalk it up to faith in Raz’s abilities. “Sounds like it’s not a good feeling,” I say.

“Just so.” He sighs again. “Her Majesty would not send the captain of her guard, Brogomir, to personally retrieve Her Majesty’s most valuable agent, Razum-dar, from a vacation she herself imposed on him—to send said extremely dashing agent to a secret, inaccessible mage island in a pocket dimension, where anyone with political business is distinctly and explicitly unwelcome—if this were not a very weighty matter for the Dominion.”

“You make a good point,” I say, and now I am even more intrigued, but also concerned.

“To meet a member of the Psijic Order, no less! We know how the Psijic Order feels about the Mages Guild, yes?”

Right, totally, I guess I remember they have beef or something? I nod.

“This is why Raz suspects that Her Majesty could use your help, if you do not have more urgent business.”

He seems more cautious than normal. I think there’s something he’s not telling me. Then again, there always is. “Elden Root’s as good as anywhere, then!”

“Ah, fragrant, as the folks back home—uh, here—would say. Raz will meet you in Elden Root, then!” He heads off without another word—he seems like he’s in a hurry to leave Merryvale.

Despite all I’ve accomplished, I haven’t been in this reality very long, so there are some things I don’t understand yet. For example, why do people always want to meet me somewhere when we’re going to the same destination? It seems like traveling together would leave less chance of getting separated or side-tracked.

Nevertheless, somehow when I get to the inn in Elden Root, Raz has already been there long enough to book us some bunks at the inn, find a quiet place to drink, and make a pretty good dent in a bottle of moon-sugarcane rum. He has found a place not too far from the inn, but a lot nicer: the roots of the Great Tree are wide enough to sit ten people from side to side, and the one Raz is sitting on overlooks a waterfall and the river; the setting sun lights up the arches of the Elden Root Temple in the distance. He even brought a blanket to sit on.

As I get closer, I see he has scrapes all over his face and neck that he definitely didn’t have when we left Merryvale. “Whoa, what happened to you?”

“Five-claw!” he says, as if he didn’t just see me in Merryvale. “So glad you could make it! Please, do not worry about old Raz,” he says, pouring a drink. “There was some confusion after this one placed an order for supplies—” he holds up the bottle of rum. “The vendor called out ‘order for Raz’ and a tall, intimidating, very muscular Orc went and grabbed all the parcels! Raz, this one, had to confront him—”

“Oh, no…”

“—it turns out his name was Roz, spelled differently. A simple misunderstanding!” Raz laughs.

“So… what happened to your face, then?’ I ask, sitting down next to him on the blanket.

“Well, this one and the Orc Roz decided to split one of the bottles of rum. Events unfolded, and we found ourselves in a… heated… conversation.”

“Oh,” I say, grimacing. “Seems like it didn’t end well.”

“Ah, no, Raz should have been clearer—this was the type of ‘heated’ ‘conversation’ that typically ends very well.” He is already drunk, so that joke delights him. “Contrary to what this one’s mother says about him, he can say no to a pretty face, he just does his best not to make a habit of it, yes?” He takes a drink. “And, you must agree, it would be grievously unjust for this pretty face to deny due consideration to all reasonable requests.” He grins.

I roll my eyes. How did he even have time for that? “Right, so… the Orc.”

“Yes, Roz. You may be wondering, how is kissing accomplished with so many differently-shaped fangs involved? Or maybe you do not need to wonder at all, ha!” He tips his cup to me. “But this evening, Raz was reminded that the answer should be very carefully.”

I search my pack for something to eat—it’s been about two or three hours, so I’m hungry.

“You are a member of the Mages Guild, yes?”

I nod. “And the Psijic Order.”

“Of course you are.” He shakes his head and takes a drink, then looks back at me. “Raz did not want to sound concerned,” he says, “but the truth is he is very glad to have you along.” He finishes what’s in his cup. “Arriving in Eyevea will be possible with your help—this one did not exactly have a plan of his own.”

“Glad I could—“

“—And, as an additional benefit, Raz will now have time to threaten you appropriately!” Raz says cheerfully. “Raz assumes it is healthy to have one’s ego culled from time to time, but it was quite unfortunate that you saw what this one’s family thinks of him.” He refills his cup generously. “Raz is glad you have also seen how adept he is at killing, because he is going to swear you to secrecy about his relationship with Mother and Rakhzargo.”

I roll my eyes again as I take a bite of my Longfin Pasty with Melon Sauce. “Who would I tell, Raz? Surprisingly, the subject of how much your family likes you has never come up in conversation with anyone but you,” I say, with my mouth still full for extra mockery.

He laughs. “And it should stay that way, yes? Captain Brogomir’s arrival was what made Raz’s mother and brother change their tune, so luckily Brogomir did not hear them calling Raz a good-for-nothing drunkard,” he says, with an obvious note of bitterness. ”You are the only one who knows.”

“Heh. You think Brogomir didn’t already know you’re a good-for-nothing drunkard?”

“Funny, five-claw. Raz knows Ziz Kurah, incidentally.” I realize how much he doesn’t sound as playful as he usually does when he threatens to kill me. He sounds… kind of hurt, actually. I look up from my meal to see that he’s already nearly done with the cup of rum he just poured. Maybe it’s best to change the subject. “So… what’s next?”

Raz finishes what’s in his cup. “Tomorrow we go to Eyevea and meet with this Psijic. Raz does not know much more than that.” He uncorks the bottle to refill his cup. “Tonight,” he says with a dark sigh, pouring himself a generous amount of rum, “this one intends to get very drunk. One reason we’re staying at an inn—this is frowned on at the Altmer embassy.”

It’s obvious the time in Merryvale upset him. Raz and I have been through a lot together, I realize—he’s one of the closest friends I’ve made in my travels. But I’m not sure if he wants to talk about it, or just get drunk about it. Either way, I wasn’t doing anything this evening. “Could I be helpful with that, too?”

Raz grabs another large bottle of rum from his pack, and sets it down proudly next to him on the blanket. “Ah, five-claw! Truthfully, this one is just as relieved to have you with him on this evening’s journey as he will be to have your help tomorrow!” He reaches into his pack, pulls out another stone cup, and pours me what’s left of the bottle he’s been working on. He lifts his cup to me so we can tap them together.

I down mine—pleasantly sweet—and I’m a little relieved to see Raz take a subdued sip of his. The last rays of the sun shine brilliantly though the tree canopy and make the top of the waterfall appear golden. We share a long, cozy silence.

“So,” Raz says finally, “how did you like Merryvale? Raz must seem like a different cat to you, now that you’ve seen where he comes from.”

“It’s a beautiful place.”

“Yes, and you met this one’s beautiful neighbors, to whom Raz made many beautiful promises when he thought he would never be coming back to Merryvale.” He takes a long drink. “Raz thanks you in advance, as he knows you will also not be telling anyone how that ended.”

I swish around the rum in my cup, then finish the rest of it. “Did you really think you were never going back there, when you told them?”

He sighs, and finishes what’s in his cup. “Sometimes love makes people do irrational things,” he says. “And now you know, this one has been in love at least three times, so… that’s very irrational, yes?“

“If making promises you don’t plan to keep counts as being in love, then it’s been many more than three,” I say, laughing, downing the rest of the rum in my cup. “Come on Raz, you’re a better liar than that.”

“Raz did say at least three times,” he says, without much humor in his voice. He sighs and leans his head back, covering his face with his hands. “Raz is only a good liar to people who have not seen his mother steal all of his confidence with a steely precision that would make Rajhin jealous. Thankfully, that is most people.” He refills his cup, then mine. “But leave it to Mother to get right to the truth, yes? And you have now met Raz’s neighbors in Merryvale, so you have seen this truth firsthand.” He sighs at length, like he’s about to say something he doesn’t want to. “It is very embarrassing to have an admired comrade find out that this one is actually the selfish, manipulative bastard his detractors curse.”

“Hey, I don’t think that about you! How could anyone who really knows you believe that?”

“Raz is telling you, Mother does really know him.” He doesn’t sound upset, just resigned, which might be worse. “Raz knows his reputation; he knows that many of his acquaintances would readily believe a rumor that he is just as much of a snake to his friends as he is to enemies of the Crown. He also knows he is charming enough to easily re-convince them otherwise.”

As with many things he says, I can’t tell if he’s implying seduction, deception, intimidation, or pure charm, but before I can ask him to clarify, I realize that the very fact that I have that question—and that he is more than capable of any combination of those—proves his point. I take a sip of my drink and nod, convinced.

He takes a long drink and looks out at the river, sighing. “But it would not change the fact that, for example, he hurt three lovely Khajiit he grew up with, because his ego was too fragile to see beyond his own whiskers.” He takes another sip, then gestures toward me with his cup. “You must not tell Raz that did not lower your opinion of him.”

“Well, it’s… definitely not one of the more noble things I’ve seen you do.”

“Ha! So diplomatic! Prior to then, you had mostly seen Raz disregard common decency in suave, roguish service to the Queen, and look so-sleek doing so. You had not seen him do it in selfishness, and so clumsily to boot.” He sighs, and drinks. “The folks back home in Merryvale see right through this one.”

“You’ve changed a lot since you last saw them, huh?”

Raz sighs. “Immeasurably.”

“For the better?” I ask, finishing my drink.

“Unquestionably.”

“From the perspective of someone who doesn’t know them, I don’t think they see through you. I think they look at you and see Razum, the sweet-talking troublemaker who left Merryvale many years ago.”

Raz appreciatively nudges me with his elbow. “Raz sees what you are trying to do, my kind friend, but… this one is very much still the arrogant liar who made sweet-toothed promises to his neighbors to get what he wanted, because he was too much of a coward to tell them he could never be happy with a life spent harvesting moon-sugar.”

“Being an arrogant liar is what makes him so valuable to Her Majesty, right? And his sweet-toothed promises too, I’m sure.”

He tips his cup to me.

“See? You’re still an ass, I’d never deny that, but I can’t see you doing something like that to someone now.”

“No, Raz is a much better liar now; he does not have to lie just to make pillow-friends. He finds them naturally on the strength of his sleek and elegant lies for Queen and country!”

I laugh, and we sit in tipsy silence.

After several moments, Raz sighs and says, “and… to be fair… this one’s neighbors still had to make him fear for his life in order to get an apology out of him.”

“You eventually gave it?”

“Yes… this one just had to get over himself a little first. But once I did, I listened to all of them, and apologized truly. And I apologized that they had to force it out of me. As Raz said earlier… sometimes it truly is valuable to see reflections of your less-respectable qualities.”

“But actually reflecting on them, being willing to apologize for them, and doing your best to make them right… those are good qualities you now have that you didn’t back then. Why is it so hard to believe that you’ve grown up, at least a little?”

“Heh, fine. I suppose you are right, five-claw. And Raz did not exactly give Kideya and Rakh-ja much of a chance to see that.”

“I can’t blame you for trying to put up with as few cutting remarks as possible,” I say. “It really started to bother me. You’ve saved my life before.”

“Raz admits, he did not fully realize what he was asking you to do in staying quiet through their insults, since he was so used to them.“ He finishes what’s in his cup. “Perhaps that is something else he should spend some time thinking about. Sometimes we all get used to things we should not, yes?”

I nod. “Especially the most resilient of us.”

He refills his cup and takes a sip. “But! Perhaps new moons have risen for Raz’s family relations! This one is not ready to trust it just yet, but he now finds himself in the shocking position of having received an apology and an enthusiastically glowing admission of pride from his mother.” He gestures at me with his cup. “Nicely done, as usual.”

“You act like I lied to her, like it was some sort of scheme! All I did was talk about you honestly.”

“Ah, heh. Perhaps Raz needs some time for it all to sink in. Or more drinks.”

We share another long but comfortable silence, both of us taking the occasional sip of rum. The moons are visible now, but the last rays of the setting sun still filter through the trees. My arms and legs are starting to feel pleasantly warm, and my head feels satisfyingly buzzy.

Raz breaks the silence again. “Rakh-ja was telling this one that he is in love with a Bosmer who had come through to help at the farm. They write each other letters.” He grins.

“That’s adorable,” I say, smiling at the thought. “I guess that’s what he meant when he saw Brogomir and said he wished he got letters from tiny elves.”

“He said that? Ha!” Raz seems pleasantly surprised.

“I thought he was joking!” I finish my cup. “Maybe technically telling the truth—cryptically, in plausibly deniable way—is a talent that runs in the family,” I suggest. I think I said all of those words right.

“Let us hope so, for the future Rakhzargo-dar!” Raz says, raising his cup. “Anyway, it is not so far to Elden Root from Merryvale, so Rakh-ja is doing as many extra chores as he can, so he can take days away from the farm.”

“Aww.”

“I left him a little pouch under his pillow—enough coin for his next caravan ride, and Raz’s personal favorite Bosmeri poem. Raz has had much success, being versed in poetry of the various races of Tamriel. He wishes Rakh-ja the same success.”

I refill my cup, and we silently toast Rakhzargo’s budding relationship.

“He must be pretty serious about this mer if he’s willing to do all that… stuff,” I say.

“Yes, in Raz’s lifetime he has done many stupid, embarrassing, laborious, dishonest, and/or dubiously legal things for love—well, mostly for… love-adjacent pursuits. But he still cannot imagine being so in love that he is willing to do extra chores,” Raz shakes his head in disbelief.

I laugh more loudly than I’d intended. “Raz, everything you do could be characterized as ‘being so in love that you are willing to do extra chores!’” I try to temper my laugh, which is only possible to do by taking a sip of rum.

Raz sets down his cup in mock offense. “How dare you suggest this! What would ever give you that impression!” He touches his hand to his chest in dramatic shock.

“In your defense, even Her Majesty considers the Crown’s official business a ‘chore.’” I am learning jokes! I am hilarious. “You have always promised me you would tell me the good Ayrenn stories when we were drunk,” I say, finishing the last of what’s in my cup. “Here we are.”

“Ah, it is a sadness, but you have unfortunately missed the short window where Raz is both drunk enough to be willing, and sober enough to do so coherently.” He downs what’s left in his cup. “But! Suffice it to say… the truth is much more complicated than that, five-claw.” He gets very quiet. Then, to my astonishment, Razum-dar volunteers more information than is sufficient to answer a question. “Maybe once Raz loved her,” he says, shaking his head. “Maybe he still does. No, probably, he still does.” He sounds so sincere that I’m momentarily confused.

I shake my head to sober up a bit, because this is the good stuff, despite Raz’s warning. “She never felt the same?”

He smiles. “In our younger days, Raz was so smitten with her, but back then, she never felt any deeper than a drunken mistake or two. Well, four, to be precise. And a half.”

He probably doesn’t want to hear how sweet it is that he remembers how many. “Half a drunken mistake, huh?”

“Yes—four eighths.” He shoots me slick smile to indicate that he will not be elaborating. “Anyway, now, Raz’s old friend Ayrenn is the Queen. She considers those days behind her, and truthfully, so does Raz.” He fills my cup, then his, and takes a sip.

I am honestly not sure whether to believe him. “Hm… you ‘probably’ still love her, but those days are also ‘behind you’?” I look at him sideways while sipping my rum.

His mouth is full so he wags his finger at me while he swallows a gulp of rum. “That is a very unfair characterization,” he says, swaying a little. “Just because Raz said those words in that order…”

I intensify my sidelong gaze.

He sighs. “Raz understands your skepticism, five-claw—this one would also disbelieve Razum-dar in this conversation.” He leans his head back sleepily. “But… this one’s life, reputation, physical safety, and personal pride are all already devoted to Queen Ayrenn and the Dominion. More than that… that is too much devotion, yes?”

Very diplomatic, but I can tell there’s more. I stare at him expectantly.

When he opens his eyes and notices me staring, he sits up and stares back at me for several moments, then takes a long swig, and sighs with disgust. “Fine,” he says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes again. He speaks quietly, and with very little bravado. “Raz has known Ayrenn for a long time. He was, of course, embarrassingly smitten with her, instantly—he is from Nowherevale, Anequina, and she was a beautiful Altmer princess who saw that Raz was smart enough to keep up with her and clever enough to be very valuable—of course in addition to entertaining, charming, and handsome. Ayrenn appreciated and cared for this one very much—and in many ways—but she is an Altmer noble, yes? It did not even occur to her that it was possible to have romantic feelings for someone who is not Altmer. Which was fine, as such things could never be possible for us.”

“Oh come on!” I say, forgetting that he is telling me his own feelings, rather than a very good story about someone else. “Royalty have romances with people they aren’t supposed to all the time! Having a secret affair with one’s close advisor of a different race is kind of boring, actually.”

“Ha! Just so,” Raz says, “but, that is not the impossibility.” He takes a long drink. “It is bittersweet, yes? Time moves faster, for this one, than it does for Ayrenn. We are around the same age, but Ayrenn was still gaining height, when she met this one. Perhaps you have noticed her detractors call her a child? This is because she is still a kid, by Elf standards—barely old enough to have a profession. She has had to grow up a lot, and her bedding-Khajiit-as-an-act-of-rebellion days are over—by now, it has even occurred to her that it is possible to fall in love with someone who is not a High Elf. She has always seen Raz’s good qualities, such as the ones you just forced him to admit to, even when he very clearly failed to display them. And her appreciation for him only strengthens. But while her idea of love has matured somewhat… Raz has matured much faster. As have his ideas about love. ” He looks out over the river and sips his rum.

I have some feelings about time and the way we all move through it, but I am drunk and getting personal information out of Razum-dar; this is not an opportunity I will waste. I nod thoughtfully for a respectful length of time. “Hm,” I say quietly. “That addresses the ‘those days are behind you’ part, but not the ‘still love her’ part.”

Raz glares at me. “Raz is very suspicious of people who listen to him closely enough to notice his strategic omissions.”

He sits back again with resignation, and sighs. “There is a piece of Raz that is still the selfish, overconfident, and so, so, so stupid young cat this one was when he met Ayrenn. And there is a piece of Ayrenn that is still an obnoxious High Elf princess who has never known real danger, hunger, or struggle. Those two idiots will always have a feeling about each other that is not love, but as close to it as they are capable of, and just as irresistible. Said idiots live only in our memories, in the moment in time when they both got to be in the same place. Otherwise they are gone, and this is very much for the best—for us, for the Dominion, and for the mudcrab fight rings and live slaughterfish dealers of Tamriel.” He smiles the I-will-not-be-elaborating smile again. “But those two jackasses will also live as long as we do, yes? This is more than enough—one of us is an Elf, after all.”

It’s just nice to hear him say nice things. “Raz, I am glad you’re my friend,” I say. My head is swimming, but in a nice way. The moons are very clear. It’s nice.

“Heh. Raz has not seen you this drunk before, five-claw,” Raz says, distinctly drunkenly. “Perhaps spending time with Kideya had the same effect on you that it did on this one.” He pours out the last of the bottle, some into his cup and the rest into mine.

“I’m going to say something,” I announce… “I don’t think Kidi… Kedd… Kend… your mother ever really gave up on you. Some of my best Razum-dar stories… she believed them very easily. Like she suspected all along.”

He laughs a little sadly. “You are kind to your old friend Raz, truly. But this one suspects her extracredulousity may have something to do with the messenger. It is not every day you meet the Champion of Anequina, slayer of dragons, Moon-Hallowed, savior of Tamriel and Nirni, hero of the Dominion, and so on.” He does a lazy but sincere toast to me, like he can barely lift his arm.

“Raz!” I don’t know why this embarrasses me so much, but it does. “Here I thought I was just a normal… uh… adventurous citizen to her. You told her all that?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, “this one had no choice. While you and Brogomir were arranging for a messenger to Alinor, Raz was testifying to your good character—so Mother would know he was not inviting a degenerate like himself to dinner. Unfortunately, Mother initially mistook Raz’s friendly admiration for a sign that perhaps there could be grand-kittens for her, down the road.”

I recoil in mild disgust. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Raz says emphatically. “No offense, but Raz had to stop that line of thinking immediately. So, he told her about you saving the world—anyone would admire the legendary defeater of Molag Bal, the one who stopped the Planemeld. Mother was stunned that her good-for-nothing son has frequently fought alongside someone whose deeds were foretold by the Elder Scrolls.” He swishes the last of the rum in the bottom of his cup.

“Ha, well, I am a little embarrassed, but we absolutely cannot have your mother expecting you to settle down.”

Raz nods. “Raz knows he’ll someday have to tell Mother the truth: unless something goes very, horribly differently than Raz has planned, there will never be kittens, and he is thorough about making sure of this. He chooses duty over all else. He has mostly stopped telling people that this is what truly makes him happiest, because it is rare that anyone believes it.”

I’ve never really thought about it before, but of course, of all people, Razum-dar would have words for something I’ve felt but never articulated. “Yes!” I say, slapping his arm in friendly agreement. “They’ll just tell you that you’ll change your mind when you meet ‘the right one,’ or when you get too old to hold a weapon.” I take a long swig. “Anything is possible, even that, but that’s not what I want for myself.”

Raz nods emphatically. “Ha! This one is glad you understand, five-claw! Of course you do!” He waves his almost-empty cup at me. “Even Ayrenn tells this one that he will slow down and find someone to grow old with. Raz thinks she just doesn’t want him to be alone, as she knows she will be—she will have to marry someone she does not love, almost certainly. But this one? He will never be alone! He has friends all over Tamriel.” He gestures again at me with his cup, nearly spilling what’s left in it. ”And, of course, he has pillow-friends in every city, for when a situation calls for deep friendship."

“Ha, cheers to deep friendship,” I say, lazily but sincerely toasting, barely able to lift my arm.

“Now, you…” Raz continues to point his almost-empty cup at me, “must have pillow-friends on different planes of existence. Raz is envious. You must tell him your secrets sometime.” He finally finishes the last of what’s in his cup, which he emphatically sets down next to him, upside down.

I nod with exaggerated modestly. “Ha, I’m flattered, Razum-dar,” I say curtly, “but if I tell you my secrets, I’ll have competition—“

“—very handsome, charming, cultured, clever competition,” he says, knitting his brow with mock concern. “Hm, yes, Raz deeply sympathizes with your problem. Fine, this one will get to different planes of existence without your help. Eh, except tomorrow, when he needs your help." He reflects a moment. "Ha, if the Psijic we are meeting is somehow not an insufferable stuck-up dweeb, perhaps this one will ask them if they would like to bring Raz to Artaeum for a night, and... stretch out time.”

“… I might know someone in Coldharbour you’d get along with,” I joke, laughing, finishing my cup and likewise smacking it upside down onto the wood of the massive oak tree’s root.

“This one has been there once or twice. Ah, Raz’s vision is blurry, it is like he’s there right now,” he laughs. “Is it by any chance the lovely Bosmer trader near the Hollow City wayshrine?”

I wasn’t actually thinking of anyone; I thought he’d know I was joking. “No, I—“

“Or, oh, the sleek and muscular Argonian blacksmith with the—“ he mimes tall horns.

“I could barely get him to talk to me; perhaps you’d have better luck? But, if you’re into big horns and shapely tails—“

“Not even you could introduce this one to the… sexy… Prince of Schemes.” He can’t finish the sentence without giggling, then breaking into full-on laughter.

“Mm, his voice though,” I say, also laughing. “Hello, handsome—” I say in a very bad impression of the Lord of Brutality and Domination.

“—the… Planemeld… is nigh… if you know what I mean…” Raz says seductively, lowering his voice ridiculously to do an equally bad impression.

We are both very drunk and laughing, wiping tears from our eyes about our not-all-that-funny jokes.

“You’re right, though…” I say, through giggles. “I probably couldn’t introduce you.” I start laughing at my joke before I can even say it. “We’re… not on very good terms right now.”

I’m laughing, Raz is laughing, pretty moons, nice friend, good rum. As I laugh, I lean my head back against the tree, and I realize how tired I am.

I wake up in a leather and hide bed, in an unfamiliar communal inn room, with the moons shining directly into my eyes through the window, and my head spinning. I’m still in my traveling leathers, but my boots are off my feet. The blanket Raz and I were sitting on earlier is wrapped around me, and there’s a large jug of drinking water on the floor next to me. I know for sure I couldn’t have done all that myself. I sit up, chug about a third of the water, and manage to get off most of my leathers before stumbling back into bed, turned away from the moons this time, smiling about a joke I don’t remember.

#eso #tesblr #razum-dar #eso fam #the vestige #wip wednesday #eso fanfic #raz spills some ayrenn tea #they do some molag bal impressions #raz manages to get laid offscreen #pls clap #even though i might leave this out there is a lot of ~foreshadowing

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msitp · 10 months

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Chapter 1: It Could have Just Broken My Nose, How Did It Come to This?

After another day, that had already begun to blend in with the rest. Note had spent the day scrolling through job listings and denial letters. As he lay sprawled out on his bed, he pulled out his phone, clicking on an open tab. Reading one or two chapters before bed was a nightly routine; even though one chapter often became ten. The latest web novel Note had discovered was called many blossoms. A low stakes reverse harem story taking place in the classic fantastical world of heroes and magic. Note considered this kind of story a guilty pleasure; as his mind dove back into the current misadventure of the main character Lise and her gang of love interests and friends.

Note wasn’t anywhere near finishing the story but could already tell which of the male leads was likely going to win in the end. A typical story, no unexpected twist was likely - Note had a knack for predicting outcomes- as his eyes began to grow heavy; he was just doing his best to make it to the end of the chapter. Eyes falling shut, his phone slipped from his grip and dove for his face. He braced for the weight of the phone to come crashing down onto his glasses. The pain didn’t come, but opening his eyes didn’t seem an easy task either.

When did I fall asleep? My phone couldn’t have knocked me unconscious, right? Roughly rubbing at my eyes, I could feel the traces of sleep still weighing my eyelids down. Where did my glasses fall; I hope I hadn’t rolled onto them, yet again. Eyes still unwilling to open, I feel around for my frames blindly. The sudden feeling of something solid, aha! There you are! Wait. Why does it feel like my glasses just shuffled away from me? I finally force my eyes open; oh, its not my glasses it’s a bird’s claw I’ve grabbed. ... … ….???

Why? Is there a bird on my bed? I sit up quickly blinking rapidly, the bird doesn’t seem too phased. It only seems offended at me for grabbing at it.

“Apologies for that um, hope I didn’t scare you” The bird looks stern but why am I apologising to it, exactly?

My brain still isn’t fully loaded yet, this can’t be a hawk, right? It sure looks like one, brown feathers sharp talons and beak. Its still just looking at me, could it be an escaped pet that got in through a window. It might be my sleep addled brain but I wonder if it would let me pet it? Its feathers seem so soft.

“Uh um, here pretty bird. Your too smart to be scared by me, right? Want a little scritch, you’re such a beautiful baby. Yes, you are.”

It looks at my hand as I motion for it, before letting out a shrill shriek. My heart, it could have stopped from that so early in the morning! Cruel pretty bird. The hawk seems content at how high I jump at its shout and hops onto the bedframe, looking pleased. Wait, last I checked my bed doesn’t have a frame. Also, since when, was I able to see to the end of my bed so clearly without my glasses on? As I look around, the room is an unfamiliar one. I don’t have much more time to think before a door burst’s open and an older woman comes rushing in.

She looks relieved as she sees me, “Oh dear, thank the heavens! Your finally awake. Your poor sister will be so relieved to see you with some colour in your cheeks again lad!”

The older woman seems to hover at the bed side too excited to decide what exactly to do. After swaying in place for a moment, she seems to make up her mind and rush out of the room again.

Me and the bird watch her go, “Isn’t any chance you know where I am is there, sweet bridie?”

The hawk twists its head back to me, seeming almost surprised as its head tilts. It suddenly hops back on the bed, doing its weird bird walk right up to me. The woman didn’t seem phased by its presence so I try not to flinch as it steps onto my legs. Its sharp talons lightly dig into the sheets, as it stares daggers at me.

I can’t help the nervous sweat I feel forming, “Please don’t try and eat me. Is that stupid to say?”

The woman comes bustling back into the room, a tray in her hands. She doesn’t seem concerned by my being in a one-sided stand off with a bird of prey. As she places the tray on a table, picking up a rolled piece of parchment. Finally looking my way properly, she takes in the scene with a chuckle.

“I’ve written something for the young miss, so she can stop worrying. This fella has been waiting to have something positive to deliver for a week,” she says while gesturing to the bird.

At mention of a delivery the hawk finally turns away from me, jumping to the end of the bed its leg out. The woman hesitantly secures the note to the string already around the bird’s leg. She barley makes room before the bird leaps into the air and out the open window.

She lets out a relieved sigh, “Having a Willow division messenger bird waiting around my house has been an experience I tell you lad. Now have a sip of broth so you can start building up your strength. Poor boy, been twisted up in this bed with fever so long I was afraid you wouldn’t ever wake.” The warm bowl she gently places in my hands seems to trigger my stomach, as it growls loudly. She smiles and chuckles as I try to take small sips and not swallow the broth down all at once. It really does feel like I haven’t eaten in days, but I had a snack right before bed how could I be this hungry?

“Slow down lad, I have more in the pot. Your sister won’t be able to send for you for a day or two, there’s no rush now,” the woman might be saying that, but she seems more than happy to watch me eat and drink.

Do I ask her outright what’s going on? Her clothes look more like I caught her on the way to a Renfair. The room seems basic enough. It gives a rustic feel, as it’s decorated with sewn wall tapestries and dried plants. The she sits at a small floor level table, watching me as she absentmindedly fusses with things on the messy table. What looks like clay vials have been knocked over and very traditional looking medicine pills seems to have spilled onto the surface in her rush to bring the tray in. If this is a dream it’s the most vivid one, I think I’ve ever had. But if it was a dream, I would have gotten to pet the hawk. I try to will myself awake but it doesn’t feel like I’m dreaming. I finish the meal and resist licking the bowl, the woman gets up trading the bowl for a small cup and a pill.

“Now that your awake lad, you can take one of these. Your sister really managed to find some high-quality medicine for you. With such a great sister you better take good care of her. She was willing to rush off all on her own to find the nearest doctor -a few towns over mind you- all for your sake. She could barley get out the door with you clinging to her, delirious as you were.”

The pill seems too large to swallow but it goes down with surprising ease. The woman is beginning to tidy up the table now, preparing to take the dishes. I hope if I take my time drinking, she’ll just continue talking. I can’t tell yet if she’s someone I’m supposed to know. Has my nightmare of showing up to a play I forgot I was in come to pass? The woman continues, and I do my best to tune back in.

“As an older brother, letting your little sister go off on her own for your sake must have been hard. But the girl seems more then capable. She even got the high and mighty Willow division to send over the medicine with one of their fastest birds- a keen one at that- That big fella came to ‘n fro with all kind of elixirs and pills. Most such high-quality stuff, the like I’ve never seen. I’m just glad I had a spare bed to put you in when the two of you came crashing into my inn. If it been the busy season might have had no where to put you, poor dears-.”

I was doing my best to keep up with her train of thought, but she had collected my cup shuffling the dirty dishes out of the room. She seemed to continue talking -more to herself then to me- perhaps she had gotten used to me not being able to respond. Some of the things she said seemed to pull at the back of my mind. I couldn’t help feeling a sense of familiarity with some of what she was saying. The Willow division, I’m sure that’s something. I just can’t put my finger on it, but my memory has never been the best. The woman returns and keeps me company for awhile more before leaving to tend to other Innkeeper duties.

I can’t quite get up the courage to ask where this inn of hers is, or who im supposed to be for that matter. Once alone I get up and search around the room a bit, finding some cosmetics tucked away in a drawer. I open each compact in search of one thing. When the glint of a mirror finally appears, I eagerly move it around trying to take in as much of myself as I can at once. The shock that wells up into rising panic settles over me, my legs give out as I clumsily fall to sit on the floor. The face I’m looking at is angular and handsome in a way that’s apparent even through the small mirror. The skin is ridiculously smooth, my usual morning breakouts not present. Overwhelmed I roughly click the compact shut, it seems….

I have woken up as someone other then myself.

#my sister is the protagonist #msitp #MSITP #ongoing story #original story #writers on tumblr #isekai #portal fantasy #polyamory #queer story #queer writers #transmasc character #transmigration

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staceymcgillicuddy · 1 year

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Top 5 favorite novels!

MY WEAKNESS. Okay. This is all going to be heavily skewed toward favorites that I keep going back and reading again and again, because I read like... a million books a year, and most of them I don't remember, so if it sticks with me, it means something.

Lord of the Rings. It's technically one book, it counts.

The Stand because nobody tells an apocalypse story like Uncle Steve

Ballet Shoes which is definitely a kid's book and 100% imprinted itself on my brain and I will never, ever get it out

The Haunting of Hill House which is just a fucking master class in writing an unreliable narrator and also the scariest fucking book around

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn which I didn't read until later in life but is the type of writing that makes me want to claw my skin off, it's so sparse and beautiful and lovely.

Honorable mention to A Tale of Two Cities which lives rent free in my head and The Book of Longings which made me want to wrench my heart out of my chest this year. Also anything by Ann Patchett or Donna Tartt is a must-read.

#bsc diaries #hangon-silvergirl #book recommendations #weirdly i don't read a lot of romance

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unhingedmentalstate · 1 year

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Together Forever

A bit of a different take for the antagonist? I don’t have a name for her just yet but will figure that out at a later date.

I also forgot to mention that Severed Connection was going to be kinda a visual novel? (As soon as I figure out more on the story and stuff and figure out how to even do a visual novel haha)

But I see a lot of male yanderes and not a like of female orianted ones? I see a few but they don’t exactly itch my brain they way the males do so I thought I would make my own?

We will see if I actually see the project through but enjoy some more readings

Just a warning that this one is more gorey? But also not really? I don’t write gore, really but tried it anyways ^u^

"I have waited-" She began, reaching out and grasping your hand. Her grip tight enough to hold them in place but not enough to cause any real harm.

"I have waited an eternity. Multiple lifetimes, I have waited for you to come back to me! For you to come find me, like you promised you would do forever ago! You can't just leave me again!" Desperate, she grasped your hand with both of hers.

Like you were her everything, their world and beyond.

"I WON'T let you just leave! I done what you have asked! I stopped eating, I stopped everything to make you happy! Why aren't you happy?!"

You didn't know how to tell them. To tell them that you didn't remember any life, any promises that involved her existence.

"I'm sorry…" Was all you could muster, pulling your hand away from her and taking a step back.

"No…no, no, no" Reaching up and grabbing handfuls of her hair, leaning forward and shaking her head.

"You're not doing this to me again!" She barked out, pouncing on you and forcing you onto the ground. Her hand aroud your throat. Her grip tight, enough to prevent any sound from you that wasn't wheezing. Desperately clawing at her arm to try and get them to let go.

"No! I have waited too long waiting on you to come to terms with what I am!" She screamed, her eyes beginning to water. A hissing sound could be heard from her as they fell from her eyes and onto your skin.

It burned. Like it was eating away at your skin.

"I can't- NO! I won't let you do this to me again…I love you, I loved you enough to abandon everything, the very cosmos that I called home is nothing but dust now!" She sobbed, her grip tightening and her voice growing softer.

"But…you never loved me, did you…?" She whispered before her form shifting in the black mass that she was.

"You only wanted to stop what I was doing! Be some hero to a universe that doesn't give a damn about you a-and you rather forget than come to terms with what you did." As if coming up with some resolve, she let out a sigh. Shaking her head, she stepped away. Her tentacles coiling around your throat and lifted you into the air.

"I…I can't let you leave. Even if you never loved me…you will, eventually." She smiled.

A searing pain shot through your body, looking down to see her tentacles had shot through your body. Ripping open the cavity to expose the beating heart.

"I gave you your freedom…I have waited and starved myself to wait for you to come back to me…and you chose to forget. To try and leave…this is for the best." Reaching a clawed hand out and grasped around the heart and ripped it out of your body with ease.

"You'll still be alive…connected to me. We will finally be together and you won't understand…not now but you will, so…just trust me, my stardust…my light, my only strand of sanity." Opening her mouth and devoured the heart. Reaching out and catching your limp body in her arms. Holding you close and sat on the ground.

"You’re body is just…a beautiful vessel but when your soul wakes up again, you will be apart of me…I love you, my world." She grinned, the last thing you see before your body dies in her arms.

#severed connections

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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 3 years

Text

part i, autonomy in your coherence | c.g

With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.

The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.

You’ve forgotten your feelings for Carl, because he didn’t feel the same.

You just wished you did a better job at it.

WARNINGS: mentions of death, suicide ideation

this is a continuation of watch you burn away and i recommend you read that, first! this is also part of a series, so here is the masterlist if you need it!

(cross-posted on ao3!)

Your father once told you he had a patient that died from heartbreak.

“Your heart can’t really break, though, right?” You’d said. A doctor for a father and a laboratory technician for a mother made you more than aware of things, seeing through the myths and pretty white lies of figures like Santa and the tooth fairy.

(They had gone through with it anyway, because although their child knew, it was a gateway to normality in such a busy home.)

Your father scratched his chin, unsure how to respond. “My patient had died from a broken heart, though the process wasn’t as simple as it’s term name. A broken heart — the nonliteral meaning — can be the cause and the domino toppling to many things that could lead to death.”

“Like what?” You’d said with little admission into the conversation, having been flicking through a novel you’d picked up a while back (which featured a one eyed pirate and his partner who’d ended up dying in the end — not that you knew, yet, at least.)

“I don’t know, er,” Your father swirled his coffee lightly, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “Mental health issues, for one. Erratic actions, depression, a lost sense of self. Obsession.”

“Huh,” You muttered, looking up at your father for the first time. “A lost sense of self? Really?”

“What is your father teaching you?” Your mother said, stepping into the kitchen with a questioning expression. The conversation ended there, without so much as a thought after.

You wish you pried your father for further answers. What you’d give to get the workaholic of a man to dump his duo psychology medical major thoughts unto you with little care.

The knowledge would be gold in your time of need, when pulling and pushing distance further between you was like venturing through a field of thorns.

(Perhaps you just missed your parents. But that couldn’t be it, right? They’d died and you had lived, their blood on your hands and the gun in your fingers, their glazed over eyes and your own that nearly matched, cold and willing without a drop of emotion.)

But you’d gotten through it for him— without him. Without anyone, quietly harboring scratches and bleeding from the field with little effort.

If someone asked, you would tell them with full and honest confidence that you harboured no more attachments. You were a naive teenager, running through your feet and over yourself for something that was just a crush.

Crushes are — in their whole singularity and purpose — temporary.

They are brief, and momentarily something that causes ripples and waves in your thoughts, just the slightest mention or faint sight makes you detour down a road of sickly sweet dreams and fantasies.

He was first love (like? You didn’t love him, no, it was a crush and it was something for the unattainable and the inappropriate — in which with full truth, he was.) so you poured the honey glazed remembrances and rose coloured lenses over your memories, because he was a first love, and you know that those were cracks in the heart, growing vines and constricting the part that was him — the part that’d always, always be there, without a doubt.

(However much you didn’t want it to be.)

The leaves and the venomous flowers that sprout in decaying grooves come with age, and you are older now.

You bear fresh scars that litter your entire being and wear newly buried bones of people who were once not just that, the dirt still sitting in the crevices of your nails, and you seem to forget their voices with each passing day.

More and more, the faces look like reference art rather than a taken from life picture, which was all telling them to sit still and watching their eyes crinkle at the edges when you show them the result, voices echoing and asking if they could have it.

Everyday, as it has become a peevish habit like biting your nails or obsessively reminding yourself your stove is off, you draw pictures of everyone.

If you are close enough with them, you ask the subject to sit and model for you, analyzing every breath and laugh they take when you crack a joke or engage them in meaningless conversation just to see how the light hits their brows when they raise, the shadows pooling in their aging lines.

Everyday, you wish and hope and even fucking pray that their portraits continue to be something of anxious routine, rather than trying to dump their image out of your head and onto paper so you can see their faces one more time.

His image seems to change with each moment he sits in for you, once a face with two piercing blues, then a patch and eyes that looked at the dusty wooden floor, and later, someone who looks at you straight, something that told you he was a survivor, who bore his battles proudly, the scar on the right of his face sitting ruggedly and bewitchingly.

You draw him, exactly the way you see him, and when you show him the picture, he laughs, and says “You made me look too pretty,” and you shake your head, “It’s exactly the way I see you.”

You do her, too, upon request. When she sits, you draw her almost like it was professional, drawing the curvature of her face with exact precision, intense shading, marking the features she holds. The dip in her nose, the straight of her hair.

(You often forget who you’re drawing in these moments, and when you step away from the canvas you’re hit with whiplash. It’s subconscious, the way you do these things to please him, wanting to see so clearly how his face spreads delicately with delight.)

It takes a little while for you to convince Ron. When you first propose the drawing, he gives you a confused face, before walking off to do shooting practice. He’s gotten better with the gun over the years, and doesn’t respond when you tell him you know why.

(His mother didn’t come out of it alive, and his brother didn’t come back without harm. The younger boy was alive, but would grow up with only his brother by his side and one less limb to account for.)

The second time, he makes a snide comment, albeit with no bite, about how ‘you must be a horrible artist, to ask me of all people to model for you.’

The third time, you’ve dragged him to the small office you makeshifted for the drawings in the garage. He studies every slit of paper you’ve ripped out of your book, the unfinished sketches or yet-to-be painted canvases piling up against the walls. Complete works sit proudly on your wall, displayed for the world to see.

His hands hover over the paints sitting on your desk, charcoal, dirt, sticks, paintbrushes, handmade dyes, wallpaper cut-outs.

“Why?” Ron says curiously.

“‘Why?’ what?” You echo, fiddling with a fork you grabbed from the kitchen, splaying out a thick lather combination of beet dye and cement onto your finger to check the consistency.

“Why do you draw these portraits? I get the others because,” He says, leaving the words “because they’re dead” hanging in the air between you two in mutual and regretful acknowledgement, “But you draw these everyday. You drag Carl and Enid off, or just sit on the benches and draw Maggie and Glenn knee-deep in the dirt.”

You sigh a dreadful breath, wiping the rest of the beet-cement mix onto the page with the pad of your fore-finger. “We’ll forget them one day.”

He looks at you, unblinking. The dead, the gone, and the soon to be long forgotten only existed in your memories, in your words, and when the time came that the world had moved on and stopped, they would cease. Their whole memory relied on the living, nothing about them able to reach and grasp life on their own. Memory was all that was left, and it was all you could do to wash away regret.

“And the rest?”

You bite your tongue hesitantly, your movements rigid, “You see their portraits. Everyday they get less and less coherent. When — when time comes , these drawings will be the only thing getting me by.” You whispered.

The ball had dropped. Coping and grief in it’s big and ugly form, preying on your conscious hungrily, taking shelter in your largest worries. Claws sunken in your flesh, the monster was a thing that felt like it would never go away, because it would loom right alongside death itself, watching and waiting for the moment they’d deemed someones time to have been enough.

(It would never be enough. Enough meant they’d pop in from next door and ask to borrow something, enough meant they’d swipe dirt across your face to make you angry — enough meant they would come in everyday and sit for their portrait once more.)

A creaking on the floorboard caught your attention, eyes watching as Ron’s feet walk to the corner of the room, before hopping onto the wooden seat with little effort.

“I’m not going. I never will. But — do it anyway. I’d… like to see how I look on paper.” He said cheekily, picking up a thin pencil off your desk and handing it out to you.

So you did. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes snowballed into hours in the dim lighting of the garage, asking the blond to turn his body, stretch his head and make different expressions, fulfilling and destroying the little worm of worry sitting in your head.

When you’re done with the charcoal, turning it around for Ron to see and to inspect, he asks, “What about you?”

“And what about me?” You say. His questions never make sense without further discussion, but the boy always has to wait for you to pry and ask him to elaborate.

“You don’t have any drawings of yourself. You’re the artist, the photographer, the one who makes these things that will stay longer than the memories and the words — so what about you?”

It’s rare that Ron delves into his emotions and the things he really means, but when he does, it’s something that stays, for a long while.

“I,” You didn’t have an answer for it. You weren’t one to do a self-portrait, it not being the same as having someone to sit and take from. “I don’t want to.” You finished simply, an ice cold realization coming to reality in you.

“Why?” He says the same words as before, but the words hold a heavy weight.

“I don’t know.”

You knew.

Maybe one day, you’d wished that you’d wash away like seafoam on the beach. You wouldn’t leave a single portrait behind of you, and the memories and the words were left mum behind his lips, because you knew how he got in a loss.

Quiet and unfeeling, it was so selfish of you that you’d counted on how he got in that state to leave you behind, neglecting you like the fruits of your memories you’d never get to bear.

Ron’s gaze bore into you like he knew exactly what you were thinking, telepathically taking in every thought you’d conveyed at your dispense.

“You should.” Is all he says, before stepping off the wooden stool and out the door.

What was wrong with you? You feel so… entirely foolish. Obsolete. Embarrassing.

You walked past the remnants of those who were gone everyday, obsessively creating canvas over canvas of them and the only thing you could think was that you’d wish to position yourself beside them?

This world was catching up to you, and fast, but you’d just have to run faster than it could.

#twd #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes #chandler riggs #angst #the walking dead #twd x reader #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead carl #carl grimes x you

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maxwell-grant · 3 years

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Having asked your thoughts on designing Frankenstein's daemon, might I now ask your thoughts on bringing Count Dracula from the written word into illustration? (I'm definitely in favour of the 'Hairy Old Mountain Man of Horror pretending he's people' look from the original novel; one of the small tests too many Draculas fail to pass is an absolutely tragic lack of the Evil Beard and/or Wicked Moustache explicitly described by Mr Stoker).

Unlike with Frankenstein, where I think the design needs to be painstakingly thought out in order to achieve the best balance of the creature's traits for horror and tragedy alike, I think with Dracula you can actually just take an approach of "whatever works". Because as I mentioned before, I think much of the appeal and longevity of Dracula is how the character's both a layered villain as well as a shapeshifting narrative force that can be tailored to whatever you want to do with. Granted, there are bad or dissappointing Dracula designs, of course there are, but in regards to the leeway you get for reinterpretation, you get a lot more of it with Dracula than with other literary icons.

Like with Frankenstein, I'm gonna bring up how I'd tackle a less grim, more comedy-centric Dracula first, one that's less a force of horror and more of a charismatic villain, and I think to that end I definitely agree that people are sleeping a lot on the hairy old man barely-passing-off-as-humanoid of the original story. Despite very much loving these performers, I'm actually not a fan of takes that mold Dracula too closely to people who've portrayed him, like Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee, partially because I think it's a waste of an opportunity to create your own Dracula design. Since I can't draw (yet), I'll do what I usually do and make a board of images to try and convey some of my thoughts on one way I'd design Dracula.

(Pictured: Kiwi's design for Dracula, Hotel Transylvania concept art, Nandor, Castlevania Dracula, Charles Dance in Dracula Untold, Vladislav, a Transylvanian rug)

I used the images in my other Dracula post and I’ll post it here again because I absolutely adore @kiwibyrd's designs for Dracula and it's main heroes, in particular I love the way it strikes a good balance at making sure Dracula looks distinctly separate from the humans, but not too much that he couldn't conceivably operate in society as just a harmless old man. I also adore the mustache and bushy eyebrows and pointy ears and I think these three are wonderful features to keep on any Dracula design. I'm also very partial to the Hotel Transylvania concept art, even if it makes me incredibly depressed to look at all the great designs they had for Dracula that they threw in the trash because they somehow decided making him look like Adam Sandler was the idea to go with.

I deeply adore What We Do In The Shadows, both the movie and the show, and Jemaine Clement's Vladislav is one of my favorite (maybe even my actual favorite) on-screen Draculas. But I also enjoy Nandor just as much, and I think it's really great that as a character he's completely different from Vlad while also being ostensibly a take on Dracula, and in particular I bring up his Jersey look because "Dracula in common clothing" is a criminally underrated concept for a joke.

As a character, I'm very partial to comedy takes on Dracula that play him up as a decadent aristocratic supervillain, the kind that can get away with talking in third person. I also have this idea for a version of Dracula who dresses ostentatiously in finely-broidered Romanian or Transylvanian patterns, maybe even wearing a rug as a cape, claiming that he's carrying the legacy of his people on his back. And of course he's lying, he's not Vlad Tepes and he's not even Romanian, he is just a parasite pretending to have a history to be proud of, but good luck getting him to admit that. And finally, I'd like this version to be played by Charles Dance, and I consider it a tremendous crime against humanity that he has yet to play Dracula proper even despite being in a film with the character's name on the title.

So that's kinda how I would design a take on Dracula for something more comedic or more based around him as this guest character and personality on-set. Now, if we're talking a more serious version, I think the possibilities increase, and I won't be getting into all of them because I may prefer to keep them to myself, but I'll elaborate a few ideas.

For example, the edition of Dracula I personally own comes with these really scratchy, really creepy B&W illustrations related to the story, that I can't find scanned online so I'm uploading them here so you can look at. They don't necessarily depict the scenes but rather some of the story's moments, like Van Helsing staking Lucy, Renfield in a straightjacket, Dracula as a coachman, and they are more focused on conveying the horror of the concepts at play.

Dracula never looks the same way in any of the illustrations, in fact you kinda have to piece him out of them by trying to find teeth or capes or eyes or bat-features to see where he's hiding this time. In the first, it's the half-man half-bat, in the 2nd, he's the shrieking bat silhouette next to Renfield, and in the latter, he's the gaping jaws and eerily humanoid eyes in the wolf. The effect to me almost feels like if you were to look at a bunch of tv static and then see a humanoid shape form for a split second before everything went back to normal, something like you'd get from Slender Man or other modern creepypastas, and I’ve argued before that Dracula’s form of horror is a very modern one.

In terms of illustrations of Dracula that keep up the original traits while still pulling off horror, I definitely have to hand it to the one at the left of the image above, drawn by regourso on Deviantart (account deleted at present). Going back to Castlevania’s many takes on Dracula, two in particular that stick out to me would be Castlevania: Judgment’s armored dress Dracula, who’s got this great twisted heart/rose motif going on in his outfit, and Dracula’s final form in SOTN where he just sits in his throne and his cape twists into all these monsters, particularly how it’s depicted by witnesstheabsurd’s depiction.

I’m not particularly a fan of how Dracula’s “final form” in these games is usually just some big demon, and part of what I like about his final form in SOTN instead is that, while it’s not a particularly challenging final boss, I do find it interesting the idea of us never actually getting to see what Dracula’s true final form looks like, only an ever-shifting pitch-black torrent of teeth and claws and bloody veins pouring out because that’s ultimately what Dracula is and brings to the world.

On the flip-side of the rotten old monster, we have the charming seductor Dracula, and while I’m really not a fan of how various adaptations have convinced people that “the point” of Dracula is that he’s a seductive force and an allegory for Victorian xenophobia and I’m reeeally even less of a fan of adaptations that make Dracula some misunderstood tragic hero (and I think I’ve made rather violently clear my feelings on interpretations that play up a romance between him and Mina), that the seductive force part exists is impossible to deny, so conversely, while on one hand we can have Dracula as the gargantuan whirlwind of predatory violence, we can also go for Dracula as the tantalizing lover.

I’ve seen a lot of opinions proclaiming Frank Langella as the best Dracula because he was the best at actually being seductive while still playing Dracula, although I haven’t yet seen his performances. If I had to point at one picture I look at and do buy for a second the idea of Dracula as a romantic character, it would be that particular still of Raul Julia in the left of the above image. And it’s strange for me to think of Raul Julia as attractive because I mainly associate him with his brilliant comedy performance of M.Bison (I know it’s far from the highlight of his career but, look, I grew up with Street Fighter, I can’t help it) but those eyes are definitely looking pretty convincing to me, if nothing else.

And I’ve included this still of Sebastian Stan in the right because, during a conversation between me, @krinsbez and @jcogginsa about who could be a good fit for Dracula, jcog suggested Sebastian Stan, partially because he’s Romanian, and I’ve learned recently that Stan was actually interested in playing the character in Blumhouse’s upcoming remake. And you’d think I’d hate this idea considering how much I don’t care for tragic anti-hero Draculas, but who says that’s what he’d have to play?

Do you have any idea how much actors, who are traditionally known for heroic or supporting roles, usually LOVE it when you give them a chance to cut loose as the main villain?

I’d want Sebastian Stan to put all of his charm, all of his talent, all of his good looks and etc, into playing the absolute most vicious, bloodthirsty and irredeemable Dracula put on screen. Someone who is exceedingly, eerily good at being a lovable protagonist, who’s all smiles and charming eyes and politeness mannerisms and maybe even a funny accent, and then it isn't as funny when he's flying through your window intent on kidnapping babies to feed to his brides, except he may take a moment or two to do so because he's feeling pretty hungry himself right now.

Now, admittedly this is kind of a lot to juggle in regards to a single character, which is why my answer for questions like these inevitably has to be “depends on what I’m going for”. That being said, if I was going to try and cast someone who I think could both look the part of Dracula, as well as respectively, play “cartoon aristocrat” Dracula, “mercurial embodiment of evil” Dracula, as well as realistically be an attractive, even seductive performer who can charm viewers even as the character descends into horrible villainy, and juggle these performances even?

I think I’d have to go with Mads Mikkelsen. Not specifically because of Hannibal (I actually haven’t watched it yet), although it’s definitely a factor, the thing that actually made me pick him specifically is, other than his looks, his voice, his reputation for playing sinister characters, the fact that he loves the role and wants to play it, or how many people are deeply in love with this man, or that people already joke that he looks like a vampire, was watching him in Another Round, and specifically that glorious final scene where he’s just dancing to his heart’s content and just, moving with such spring in his step and such joyful vitality even though he’s past his mid-fifties, and that was the moment where, in regards to how much you all love this man, I went

And now I am going to add “casting Mads Mikkelsen as a dancing Dracula” to The List of Reasons Why I Became a Filmmaker.

#replies tag #dracula #horror tag #bram stoker #charles dance #sebastian stan #mads mikkelsen #castlevania #raul julia #wwdits #what we do in the shadows #vladislav #nandor

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wolf-and-bard · 3 years

Text

Knowing Where My Glasses Went

-geraskier, ~950 words, rated T

Thank you @jaskierswolf for the idea for this!✨

---

When the door slams shut hard, Geralt looks up from his tablet. He is currently a hundred pages into proof-reading Jaskier’s newest manuscript, a romance novel his husband wants to publish under his penname Dandelion, and Roach is a golden pile of fur on his lap. A glance at the clock tells him it’s past three, not an irregular occurrence in Jaskier’s line of work, but Geralt worries nonetheless. And he always stays up, waiting for him to get home from whatever gig he’s been playing, no matter the time.

Jaskier stumbles down the hallway, past their living room without so much as a glance at Geralt.

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls out, turning off the tablet and putting aside the pen he’s been marking the novel up with – a thirst-fest of hard-packed muscle and glistening skin, tailored to the tastes of Dandelion’s masses of fans. Geralt tries to be constructive, but he gets distracted so easily. “Come now, girl, get down.” He gently nudges Roach and she glares at him, jumps down when he adds ‘pretty please’.

Geralt crosses the length of their living room, bare-footed and in nothing but sweatpants, the way he is most comfortable and Jaskier likes to be greeted. Usually that is. He pops his head through the door frame, just about seeing as Jaskier emerges from their bedroom with a fresh towel and one of Geralt’s shirts. A worn one. Geralt smiles, heart warming at the sight.

“How’d your show go, love?” he asks and Jaskier glances up at him, one hand on the bathroom door handle. His hair is mussed and his glasses hang askew on his nose which is reddened and runny.

“Shower first,” he mutters. “Talk later.” And disappears into the bathroom.

Which is worrying. Usually, Jaskier likes to hop onto Geralt’s lap when he comes home, likes to snuggle up to Geralt and tell him all about his gig. Then he has a shower while Geralt makes him a hot chocolate and they go to bed, Roach already sleep-drooling onto their comforter.

“Fuck,” Geralt says and debates whether to go after his husband. He glances back into the living room at Roach who glares reproachfully at him. “You’re right, you’re right.”

Geralt approaches the bathroom door and gives a slight knock. From inside, he can hear the shower going and steam’s already curling underneath the door. He can also hear Jaskier making some stifled noises. He doesn’t reply to Geralt’s knock though and Geralt sighs.

His shoulders sag as another sob sounds over the hiss of the water, and he slips out of his sweatpants and through the bathroom door, drawing it shut behind himself.

“Jask?”

“Go away.”

Which is how Geralt knows he shouldn’t leave Jaskier alone at all. He pulls back their daisy-patterned shower curtain and steps into the tub where Jaskier’s standing in the spray, motionless. His arms hang limply at his sides and his glasses are still crooked on his nose, fogged up and speckled with water. Underneath, his tears are made invisible.

“Jask,” Geralt says, biting down on his smile. He draws the curtain shut again and reaches out to tug at Jaskier’s glasses, then deposits them with their shampoo bottles. Jaskier’s eyes widen and Geralt melts inside. The poor thing didn’t even realize. “C’mere,” Geralt opens his arms wide for Jaskier to fall into.

“I’m such a mess,” Jaskier wails, hiccupping because he has to laugh and cry at the same time and he buries his face against Geralt’s neck, clawing at Geralt’s biceps.

“You’re my mess.” Geralt buries his nose in Jaskier’s sodden hair. It smells of smoke and sweat. “Bad crowd?”

“No, they were fine,” Jaskier says, kissing Geralt’s collarbone. It’s something he does to ground himself and to help with that, Geralt starts rubbing slow circles over Jaskier’s shoulder blades.

“Hmmm.” It’s an open-ended hum. Either Jaskier wants to talk about it or he doesn’t, Geralt knows to respect that. He kisses the top of Jaskier’s head and draws him even tighter and hopes to be the steady anchor Jaskier needs right now. Gradually, Jaskier’s mangled hiccups subside and he sighs softly.

“I wanted to play a new song,” Jaskier whispers. His grip on Geralt’s arms has loosened and he wraps his own around Geralt’s neck, drawing himself up.

That’s right, Geralt thinks, filled to the brim with pride and love and adoration for his husband. Use me for purchase, stand tall again.

“But I bailed. I wasn’t sure how it had come out and I fucking bailed. I’m so disappointed in myself.”

“You wanna sing it now?” Geralt asks, grinning as Jaskier pulls back a little to bump their noses together. His azure eyes are shot through with red, but a spot of sunshine has returned to them. He’s beautiful and messy and he’s Geralt’s. Geralt still can’t believe that on some days. “Sing it just for me?”

“My favourite audience,” Jaskier laughs. He looks at Geralt, nuzzles his cheek as he starts to hum softly under his breath, then gains confidence. The first verse is a little shaky as a few leftover sobs loosen in his chest. The second one comes out a little flat, the third is all Jaskier. Bursting with emotion and confidence and wit. He’s so witty, his husband, in a way Geralt could never be. By the time the refrain starts, Geralt’s kissing the words off Jaskier’s lips and he has to revert to humming once more. Geralt will listen to the rest of the lyrics later, right now he needs to show Jaskier how fucking much he loves him.

“Thank you,” Jaskier breathes when they part. “I needed this.”

---

not a tag list:

@littoraly-art

#the witcher #witcher #geralt #jaskier #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #modern au #established relationship #shower cuddles #fluff #comfort #some angst #singer!jaskier #husband of the year!geralt #maybe i'll remember to reblog with ao3 link this time #unlikely tho #you know what this is named after #queued

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stickyy · 3 years

Note

I loved what you wrote about student! college! aizawa,if it's not too much trouble,I would like to read a second part but it contains a sub!aizawa,dom!reader,mommy kink and pegging please. I have to take advantage of the fact that you are the first blog with dark content that I see that accepts pegging,an opportunity that I will not miss,but if it gets complicated for you oh you don't like it,you can reject my request.

DISCLAIMER: always ask for consent first!

warnings: DUBCON, sub!aizawa, edging, verbal abuse, bondage, pegging, gn!reader but light mommy kink is used in reference to, praise kink if you squint?, slightly unrealistic depictions of pegging, reader is fed up but that doesnt excuse their actions :P

word count: 3489

notes: sorry for the delay, i hope u like anon! :D there should always be more pegging fic out there

part 1 here

EXAM SEASON

Finals season is quickly approaching, sending the entire campus into a frenzy, students scrambling like displaced ants trying to finish last minute assignments, novel-esque essays, merciful extra credit projects. The workload takes its toll on everyone, even the star students. You found Aizawa in even worse moods more frequently; a schedule consisting of all nighters spent studying old material followed by early classes and a job on the side, he was absolutely exhausted. You sometimes sneak a peek over at him during class to see his head bobbing slightly, bloodshot eyes struggling to stay open as he fights sleep. A small part of you feels bad for him; he’s a diligent student, and you were sympathetic to his exhaustion.

You still hate the asshole, though.

You found yourself snagged in a twisted sort of arrangement with Aizawa after midterms. There was always a half-assed attempt at tutoring you before giving up and cramming his cock down your throat or deep inside your cunt, leaving you sore and dripping with his cum, all the while spewing insults targeted at your intelligence (or lack thereof). In exchange, he’d complete your assignments and allow you to copy his answers on exam days. Ignoring the situation is where you make peace with yourself; you feel used, but you also have no other option if you want to pass this class.

What you hate the most is the way you roll over and take it. You’re more than just a hole to fuck, you know that, but you’re helpless against his searing abuse and venomous scowls. Even when you try to be nice, it only makes him crueler, your soft pleas and offers of peace an invitation to tear you down and make you cry. You want to fight, to claw and tear into him out of spite. You don’t want to feel so weak anymore.

So, you decide to do something about it.

It’s late, campus illuminated by street lamps and headlights of cars passing by as you make your way into the dorms. After your first encounter, Aizawa began inviting you back to his room instead of the library, deciding to “study” in his personal space as opposed to possibly getting caught in the library with his cock down your throat. You didn’t complain, but it’s especially convenient today, with what you have planned. Knocking on the door softly, you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, anxious for what’s to come.

“Open,” he calls out from inside, prompting you to enter. You pass through the messy common room he shares with his roommate and enter his bedroom, opening the door quietly. Aizawa’s room is tidy compared to the outside, bed made, tousled only where he sits with his laptop, typing.

“You’re late,” he squints at you from behind the screen, shutting the device. “Not surprising.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, placing your book bag on the floor and taking out the very heavy law textbook (that you hadn’t bothered to open since midterms). You take your seat next to him and open to the most recent chapter you read over. He’s silent, only speaking to answer your questions as you focus on the text. You can tell he’s sleepy, his responses slurred and delayed, and you glance over to see him dozing off. Late study sessions and Aizawa’s recent exhaustion meant more often than not that he fell asleep before tormenting you. The first time was startling, but you learned that it was a regular occurrence.

You prefer Aizawa when he’s drowsy. His usually hard features were softened, quiet snores rumbling from his chest. His dark hair messily framing his face as he leans back against the headboard of his bed, arms folded over his chest. He’s good-looking, no doubt. If his personality matched, you could see yourself falling for him.

His eyes open, shooting you a questioning look, and you duck your head back into your textbook, embarrassed at being caught staring.

You keep quiet for another 20 or so minutes, waiting until he’s truthfully asleep and not just resting. You have to be careful not to wake him, as you aren’t keen on being reprimanded for what you're about to do.

Once you’ve deemed it safe, you stealthily open your bag and retrieve the small plastic bag stored inside. With the help of online shopping, you bought some handcuffs, lube, a dildo, and a harness. You aren’t all into pegging, but this was less about the sex and more about proving yourself, forcing him to respect you, in some perverse way. You retrieve the cuffs, gripping them carefully as to not make any sounds. This is the most crucial part; as long as you could get him restrained, you’d could dish out any revenge you desire. You slip off of the bed and tip-toe, almost comically, around the other side of the bed. You test the waters, snapping your fingers near Aizawa. He doesn’t stir, chest rising and falling with his deep breathing.

You steel yourself with a deep breath; this was your chance. You make quick work with the handcuffs, gently yet hastily clicking the metal around one wrist and looping the cuffs through the headboard before securing his other wrist. A grin spreads across your face; you’re thankful he’s such a deep sleeper.

Now that you had him where you wanted him, you were paralyzed by the sheer amount of possibilities. You climb over him apprehensively, hovering over the unconscious man, who only shifts minutely. The peaceful look on his face puts a small pit in your stomach; this was wrong… right? Technically, this was assault. You frown, a small chill running down your spine. Is this what you had become? It was almost enough to convince you to stop, but you force yourself to remember the first time Aizawa had his way with you, the way you choked and gagged and had to hide your face until you could find a bathroom to wipe off the dried cum that adhered to your skin.

This was his fault; he made you like this.

“Fuck it,” you say aloud, bracing yourself before grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking, hard. He awakes with a surprised gasp, wrenching his head away from the assault.

“The fuck?” He bites, eyes drowsily scouring the situation. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Just waking you up,” you smile, releasing your grip. “It’s kind of boring watching you sleep. I thought we were supposed to be studying.”

Aizawa gives you an agitated look, disoriented as he tries to move, only to find his range of motion limited. “You fucking handcuffed me?”

“Yeah, I can’t believe you didn’t wake up,” you chuckle, sliding your hands under his shirt and running your hands over his taut stomach. He keeps his eyes on you with an expectant expression, waiting for an explanation.

“You know, I like you so much more when you're asleep,” you continue, idly tracing patterns on the skin of his abdomen. “No insults, no curses, no glaring. You’re pretty handsome when you’re not being a total douchebag.”

“Let me go,” he ignores you, yanking the handcuffs. “This isn’t funny.”

“I think it’s pretty funny, actually. You’ve spent all semester treating me like shit, and for what? All I’ve done is be nice to you, even after you call me names and abuse me. It hurts my feelings, you know? It’s not like I’m trying to fail this class, I just needed a little extra help, and you take advantage of that every week. So I do think this is pretty fucking hilarious. Maybe you’ll see just how great I feel when you bully me.”

If looks could kill, your heart would have stopped right then and there. Rage burns behind his glare when he meets your eyes, still struggling to break the cuffs. You’d never seen him like this; at his worst, he seems moderately annoyed in your day to day. Despite being an insufferable asshole, he always manages to keep a cool air about him. Never giving anyone much of a reaction, he’s only nasty when he desires. Watching his face take a red tint and his eyes narrow in frustration send waves of satisfaction rippling through your chest.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he grits out, “If you let me go now, I’ll forget all about this. I promise that you don’t want what’s coming for you once I get out of these cuffs.”

He did have a point; you had no idea what you were doing. That wasn’t going to stop you, though.

“Aw, it’s not so fun now, isn’t it?” You coo at him in a demeaning tone, pouting dramatically. Your wandering hands slid to his crotch, where you could feel his length stirring curiously. You bark out a laugh.

Pulling down his sweats and boxers, your mouth waters at his hardening length. Normally, your stomach would drop at the sight in anticipation for physical abuse you were about to receive. But this? This was different; knowing that you’re the one in control is absolutely captivating. You take his cock in your hands, slowly working your hand up and down. He stays silent in defiance, steady in his glare in an attempt to intimidate you. It would work, usually, but with his hands bound there was nothing he could do to you. He’s betrayed by a pleased noise that slips from his throat.

“Don’t tell me you like this? You want to be taken advantage of, is that it?” you taunt, basking in his agitation as you speed your hand up, thumbing the pre gathering on the slit.

“Watch it,” is his only response, voice dangerously low. He keeps quiet, not willing to surrender to the reactions you’re trying to draw from him. It’s a challenge, if anything, and you weren’t going to back down..

He’s fully erect in no time- you’ve spent enough time as his cocksleeve to know exactly what he likes and responds to. His eyes fall shut as you squeeze tighter, hips canting up into your hand, chasing his own release. You keep it up until he gets a little louder, close to release, and you pull your hand away, watching his dick twitch helplessly.

“Fuck- why’d you stop?” he asks groggily, opening his eyes.

“You didn’t think that I was just going to let you cum that easily, did you? I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” you shuffle off of the bed, smiling over your shoulder as you hook your thumbs in the band of your leggings. You make a show of sliding the material down over your ass, purposefully leaning over and arching your back. You hear a pleased growl from the bed, causing you to giggle as you pull your underwear down as well.

“You could still let me go,” he offers, giving you a once over as you climb back over him, “I could forget about this if you let me fuck you.”

“Nice try, but I’ll be the one doing the fucking tonight,” you grab your bag from the floor, retrieving the lube but leaving the dildo and harness obscured in the bag. You squeeze a generous amount onto your fingers, causing Aizawa to give you a puzzled look.

“You don’t need lube, you’re always so wet for me,” it’s more of a question than an observation, since your previous trysts never included anything but his spit and your own juices. You just give him a smile before nudging his thighs open with your own, trailing your hand slowly beneath his balls, settling in between his ass and your lubed fingers circle the muscle there. The look on his face is priceless, absolutely shocked at the prospect of you inside of him. He thrashes in protest but you’re steadfast, pinning his hips down with your other hand.

“You can’t be serious,” his voice is alarmed, almost erring on the side of anxious, “you’re dumber than I thought if you think you’re just going to get away with any of this shit.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?” you sing-song, using your dry hand to tug playfully on the cuffs, “You’re a little tied up at the moment.”

“I’m going to beat your cunt up when I get out of these,” it’s a threat, and you ignore the way your stomach flutters at the words, eyes trained on his as you push two fingers inside.

He grunts, his face scrunching up, almost cutely, at the burn of the stretch. You expected him to be tight, but given how tense he is, it’s difficult to push all the way inside. You take it slow, savoring the pained expression on his face; it’s a stark contrast to his cocky demeanor when you’re being subjugated to his abuse. His chest is heaving, a lovely red flush spreading across his skin, eyebrows knit tight, lips bitten red- you’re obsessed. You move your fingers in and out slowly, scissoring just gently enough not to seriously hurt him, but enough to watch him writhe. His dick twitches despite (or maybe due to?) the pain, still red and dripping.

“This is priceless,” you laugh, “if you wanted to get fucked so badly, all you had to do was ask, you know? Mommy would’ve taken care of it for you.”

“Mommy?” he scoffs, rolling his eyes, “you’re insane.”

Any further insult is cut off with a sharp gasp, eyes shooting open in shock, and you know you’ve found it.

You stroke his prostate with a heavy hand, grinding your fingers into the spongy spot inside of him as he struggles to breathe, back arching deliciously. You can’t help but smirk; you kind of get it now. If this is how tormenting you makes Aizawa feel, then you understand why he was so cruel.

“Fuck,” he chokes on a whine that sends heat down your spine, . Your wrist is beginning to strain, but you can’t bring yourself to care. It’s cute; he’s writhing, his hips seeking the stimulation he was previously avoiding as he moans openly, loudly. His cock is an angry purple, pre pooling on his stomach from where it’s leaking. He looks like he’s close, eyes beginning to roll back when you pull your fingers out, laughing as you ruin his orgasm for the second time.

“Please,” he’s breathless, a betrayed look on his face as his hips rock on nothing, desperate to cum.

“Begging already? We haven’t even gotten started yet!”

You reach over into the plastic bag, pulling out the dildo and harness. You can clearly see the fear on his face this time as he moves to sit up, the fog of pleasure clearing quickly.

“Wait,” panic sets in his voice yet again. If you were him, you would be scared too; the toy is thicker than the two fingers you used, something you chose purposefully. You stand and slip on the harness, ignoring his attempts to reason with you.

“What’s wrong? I thought I didn’t know what I was doing?” you ask innocently, forcing your hips between his legs and drizzling some lube on the toy, warming it up with your palm.

“That’s the fucking problem, you idiot, you don’t,” he seethes, pulling on the restraints again, “It won’t fit, and you’re not sending me to the hospital.”

“Exactly, I won’t send you to the hospital. Mommy’s gonna take good care of you,” you coo, settling between his legs.

“Just let me go,” it’s the first genuine plea you’ve heard from him, the sincerity pulling your attention to his eyes where you see a look you can’t quite place. He looks… afraid? Remorseful? It’s enough to give you pause, equal parts consideration and schadenfreude. You settle for leaning forward and placing an uncharacteristically saccharine kiss on his forehead, your humanity getting the best of you.

“All you have to do is relax, okay?” you whisper, resting the tip of the toy against his entrance. He shuts his eyes in anticipation, resigned to his fate, and you push in gently, watching his hole swallow the silicone. The way Aizawa contorts, back bowed to scoot away from the pressure of the toy is salacious, drawing a moan from deep within your chest. He can’t get far due to the restraints, and he lets out a soft sob at the stretch of the toy, face scrunched tight. You push slowly until you bottom out, your hips pressed firmly against his, grinding in small circles to alleviate your own ache. He exhales shakily, unaware that he was holding his breath.

“See, it’s not so bad right?” you soothe, rubbing your thumb against his hip soothingly. “You should be grateful; I’m so much nicer than you are.”

“Fuck you,” it comes out weaker than intended, his voice strained as he tries to adjust to the girth of the toy.

You pull out slowly, experimentally, watching his stomach clench from the sensation of silicone caressing his insides. His dick gives an interested twitch, despite his demeanor, and that’s the invitation you need to start moving. It’s a little awkward at first, but your enthusiasm combined with the size of the toy more than makes up for your inexperience. He’s breathless, still uncomfortable, but you can see his body slowly relax as he tries to make sense of the sensations coursing through his body.

“You like this, don’t you?” you dig, eyes transfixed on his face, “Is that why you're so mean to me? You strut around like an asshole, just to hide the fact that you’re just a little bitch?”

You focus on angling your hips, searching for his prostate again, and when you find it, you commit to fucking him. He’s loud, stray tears sliding down his face as his body struggles to comprehend both the pain of the stretch and pleasure of the abuse.

“Fuck, you’re cute like this,” you sigh, “you’re meant for this, aren’t you? Meant to get your ass bred by your Mommy? You’d be so much more tolerable if you were sweet like this all of the time.”

His dick jerks violently but he shakes his head with a weak ‘no’, too lost in the sensation to retort any further. You’re soaked by now, the pressure of the toy on your end combined with the power trip pushing you to the edge. It takes all of your self-control, but you suddenly stop, unwilling to let yourself finish so quickly; there’s still unfinished business here.

“Tell me I’m pretty,” it comes out before you can even really think about it, but the words hang heavily in the air.

“Huh?”

“You’re never nice to me, so if you want me to even consider letting you cum, you better start kissing up.”

He hesitates, but when you shift slightly and the blunt head of the toy rubs against his prostate, he changes his tune very quickly.

“Fuck- you’re cute, ‘s the reason why I’m mean to you. So cute when you’re about to cry-” you give him a particularly hard slap on his ass and he winces, muttering a quick apology.

“You’re pretty even when I’m not fucking you, too,” is all you get, but it’s the first genuine compliment you’ve gotten out of the asshole since you’ve met him, and your heart soars. He’s awful and mean and evil but the simple statement is enough for you.

“I’ll let you cum if you beg for it,” you grunt, rutting your hips enthusiastically. You’re close, but you refuse to finish first. He’s needy, thanks to being edged twice, and he’s unable to resist your promise.

“Please, fuck, please let me cum,” he whimpers, voice wet and eyes watery.

“Please what?”

“Mommy! Fuck, please mommy, just let me cum, it hurts, fuck, please,” he babbles, and it’s enough for you. You wrap your hand around his cock and stroke it firmly, hips speeding up as you chase your own release. It’s quick- he finishes almost embarrassingly fast, and the whorish wail that rips from his throat sends you right over the edge, your vision blurring at the corners as you stay trained on his face, obscene and submissive.

It’s quiet after you stop, both of you catching your breath. You pull out slowly, watching the way his hole flutters and you giggle, your body and ego fully satiated. You look back to his face; he looks more fucked out than you’ve ever seen him, almost like he’s about to fall back asleep.

“Can we call it a truce?” You break the silence, grinning as he cracks open an eye to give you a scalding look.

“Fuck. You.”

455 notes · View notes

asmo-ds · 3 years

Note

i have another one! so the mc is really into fantasy fiction with demons and angels, gore, horror and spooky things in general and when they arrive instead of being scared they're like finally i'm in my element and are having fun and are excited because they hate how boring the human realm is. how would the bros (and the side characters if you feel like doing them) react to them? i love your headcanons so much btw!!

w/ Horror Fantasy Lover! MC

Warnings: mentions of spooky scary stuffs, CHAPTER 16 SPOILERS

Summary: How the Obey Me! Characters react to finding out MC has a particular interest in horror fantasy and feels more comfortable in the Devildom then they do in the human world aka where they aren’t surrounded by apex predators that want to eat their soul

- After explaining the entire situation to the clueless human who stood in the student council room he could see a sort of sparkle in their eye and they smiled widely before shouting “FINALLY! MY TIME HAS COME HAHAH!”

- His first thought is “oh they won’t last a day”.

- He gets a headache when he realizes he put them with Mammon of all people.

- He is glad that MC has an interest in such things seeing as they will be living among the strongest demons for the next year

- I feel like Lucifer loves horror fantasy novels, so if he and MC have read any similar ones they are sure to discuss and recommend to each other

- Lucifer enjoy when they come in to talk to him about things they saw that they had hear about before arriving at the Devildom because its cute to see the human so excited

- Overall finds it adorable how enthusiastic MC is about the subject

- But is also worried because they feel so comfortable around demons who can and will eat them

- BUT also glad you aren’t afraid of the demons because they can smell fear and it is overwhelming and easy to lose control when they smell it

- When MC wants to see his natural form ( bc I just know hey don’t stop at those half-human half-demon forms Solmare shows us) he worries he may scare them off, but shows them regardless and is relieved when their excited smile doesn’t falter

- When he is first showing MC around the Devildom he considers just thowing the human over his shoulder because they wont stop running towards dangerous stuff to observe it

- Like oh my Diavolo, does this human have a death wish why would they WANT to drink the potions that can and will kill them in a matter of seconds

- If his hair wasn’t already white he’d be getting white hairs from stress, like WHAT KIND OF EXCUSE IS “I’ve never drank a potion but I’ve always heard about them”?! PLEASE GIVE HIM A BREAK

- Mammon isn’t big on horror stuff so he hates when MC brings it up

- If he sees horror fantasy related stuff for sale or being bet in a gamble you can bet your ass he’s bringing it home for MC no matter what

- Sometimes when they walk around the Devildom, MC will point out creatures they’d only heard of in their stories and he loves the way their eyes light up as everything they’d read about for so long came to life

- Tolerates the subject to make MC happy, even if he can’t sleep at night because of it.

- A bit worried about the fact he has to babysit the human who is way too casual around violent predators that want to eat them

- If MC asks to see his natural form he gets flustered for a second, but then gets cocky and goes off about how “oF cOuRsE tHe HuMaN WaNtS tO sEe ThE GREAT MaMmOn iN aLL HiS GloRy”

- When MC walks into the House of Lamentation with Mammon and he introduces himself as Leviathan... their eyes light up

- They question him about all sorts of things they’d heard in old stories and if he could really turn into a giant sea monster

- After a while of knowing MC he finally promises that when they go to the beach next he will show them his natural form

- He summons Lotan when he’s mad at Mammon and when he turns to Lotan to command him to attack the avatar of greed he sees Lotan is preoccupied with the human who was giving him belly rubs and talking to the giant sea monster in a baby voice

- He like horror fantasy animes so he is 100% willing to discuss them with MC

- Whenever a new horror fantasy game or show comes out you won’t see MC and Levi for days because they’ll be holed up in his room on a mission to complete the anime or game

- He and MC like to cosplay as horror fantasy characters together as well just for fun

- Whenever he sees them look at a creature that may be normal around the Devildom but is very dangerous to interact with as a human he is immediately noping the heck out of there, dragging them away despite their cries of wanting to see the “little cute fluffy animal :(”

- When they show up and their eyes light up at the explanation that they’d been summoned to hell, he can’t help but laugh because he already knows this human is gonna be a trouble maker and cause a lot of problems for his dad Lucifer :^)

- One of his favorite genres of movies and books by far

- Loves to watch MC grow curious and fascinated by all the things in the Devildom that they never thought would be real

- He takes MC to see creatures at the Devildom zoo that you would NEVER see in the human world

- He could spend hours talking about the topic with MC and sometimes one of the brothers will walk in on them talking about scary fantasy stuff and just slowly back out bc they get SO INTO IT

- Is glad to help them learn more about creatures that reside in the Devildom

- By that I mean he hovers behind MC menacingly in demon form whenever a demon agrees to let the human examine and study them

- If MC wants to see his completely natural form he gets a bit blushy and a bit nervous as his form is the embodiment of wrath and meant to strike fear within humans

- After he finally transforms and they start to examine him enthusiastically without a shred of fear he thinks to himself “oh that’s right this is MC, my idiot human = who could crawl inside a demons mouth and still be unsettlingly happy”

- Nope nope nope

- He doesn’t like scary stuff unless he’s allowed to cling onto a cute person for comfort

- Really likes the look of excitement in MC’s eyes though as they see creatures they never thought they’d get to see because they get a sort of glimmer that just makes him go so soft for the human

- Glad they feel comfortable around demons because it means they will be more willing to come clubbing with him

- But is still sure to hover around them while they enthusiastically examine and question demons around them

- Makes flirty comments about wanting MC to examine his natural assets (aka his naked demon dick is what he wants to show them)

- In all seriousness he is very proud of his natural form and is very willing to let MC study him

- Still worried that MC is gonna get hurt by one of his brothers or another demon if MC asks to see their natural forms because he knows how easy it is to go feral and lose all reason in such forms

- He finds it cute how interested MC is in everything around the Devildom

- Very concerned about the easy going attitude around his brothers and every single being in the Devildom

- MC sometimes comes very close to eating foods that will make a human sick because they want to understand demons better and want to live just like one

- Sometimes forgets MC is only human because they just fit in so well with all the demons

- Shocked to learn how boring the human world has become as he always remembered it being exciting whenever Mammon would bring him, Belphie and Lilith down

- He’s a bit shy about his demon form because he knows a lot of humans are afraid of bugs

- But when MC so delicately yet enthusiastically examines his natural form he almost cries

- So soft for this human but so SO worried

- tries to warn them to be more cautious outside of the House of Lamentation, but knows that they aren’t gonna be because they get carried away with learning demon life

- When MC first came through the attic wall and was able to see him they made eye contact and were both like o.O

- Then MC’s face lit up as they started to talk about how cool magic was that it could hide a whole entire person and floor of a house and he is just confused, but he knows he can easily manipulate them due to their enthusiasm towards this type of stuff

- Was shocked they weren’t even afraid of Lucifer and were actually excited to see his demon form up close if they got caught

- While he is still covered in their blood and stuff after getting out and stuff the future MC comes downstairs and is just like OMG YOU KILLED ME SO EASILY

- MC gets dangerously close to him again asking questions about his claws and tail and powers etc.

- After that whole ~ordeal~ he grows protective over MC seeing how they trusted him so easily due to their enthusiasm because he knows there are people out there who still want to hurt the human

- He is surprised by the description Mc gives of the human world as he remembers it being so interesting, but he guesses that since it has been very long since he last went but is still sad to hear it’s less interesting’

- Can act like a brat whenever MC puts themselves in danger due to their curiosity

- If they ask to see his natural form he is a bit shy because he worried they might get scared by him seeing as how he killed them in only half demon form so how were they going to handle his whole entire self

- Seeing their eyes light up at his explanation as to where they were made his heart leap with joy

- He knew this year would go smoothly with such an enthusiastic human!

- He was wrong.

- It feels like every five seconds he will be getting a call from Lucifer about MC almost dying from getting too close to demons and other Devildom native creatures.

- Worried about the poor human but doesn’t want to ruin their fun so he scolds them very lightly and assigns familiars to protect them 24/7

- If MC wants to talk to him about any other creatures, rather than going to find them by themselves, he is glad to educate them on any false stories they’d heard

- When MC asks to see his final form he laughs it off at the time, afraid of hurting or frightening them

- But if MC insists enough he will show them and is rather shocked when they enthusiastically poke and prod at him while asking a bunch of questions.

- He knew MC would be like this as he was one of the main people to prepare for MC’s arrival

- He’d prepared a bunch of horror fantasy novels for the brothers to put in the human’s room

- Was a fan of reading those books as well, but mostly because he liked to see how the humans interpreted the existence of such creatures

- When Diavolo starts getting stressed about MC’s constant questioning to random demons who try to hurt them, Barbatos decides to entertain MC for a bit and offer them a crash course on demon foods so they could better understand the diets of the creatures around them

- Worries a bit for their safety as he knows Mammon isn’t the most reliable, but still decides to trust him for the sake of his own sanity

- If MC wants to see his natural form he hesitates for like a second before transforming

- Finds it cute how the human examines the big scary demon with so much enthusiasm

- As a fellow human he can understand the dissatisfaction with the human world and it’s lack of interesting events

- But he also worries because he is comfortable going up to demons casually because he knows how to use magic and demon pacts, but MC goes up to demons casually with no way to protect themselves

- He finds it a bit funny to watch the demon brothers freak out over MC talking to other demons and putting themselves in danger

- Teaches MC all the ways to safely interact with creatures in the Devildom by using spells to protect themselves

- Forces some of his 72 demons to let MC study them and learn more about them

- Finds their enthusiasm cute but concerning

- He gets very protective every time they go to the Devildom, y’know since MC has a habit of literally chasing demons down to ask questions about their demon forms, powers and other creatures they see

- He is a bit worried when he learns about the humans intense fascination with creatures such as himself and the demons that they are now surrounded by

- Is as protective over them as he normally is with Luke

- Like the way Luke chases demons to insult them while MC chases them to ask questions and study them makes him consider getting a leash

- If MC wants to see his complete angel form he is more than happy to show them since he is meant to bring comfort to humans as an angel

- Still finds them absolutely adorable when their eyes light up as they see things they never thought they’d get to witness irl

- Tries to teach them more about those creatures they want to examine without the danger of being attacked by demons and such

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juleswolverton-hyde · 3 years

Text

Not by the Moon | 08

Genre: Smut, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, Drama, Tragedy, Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU, Bookshop AU

Pairing: Bookshop keeper!/Werewolf!JB x Reader

Warnings: Mild swearing, eating disorder (personal experience, don’t be a bloody twat), heavy(?) angst, Werewolf!Jaebeom trying to be a normal boyfriend

Summary: Every story has a purpose or goal it is dedicated to, their authors at times going to great lengths to see the project they once started to completion. Nevertheless, the things the writers swore on to see their latest art piece to completion are static.

Unchanging.

None of them swore by the Moon nor Love because they can solely genuinely swear on all that changes like themselves.

And yet, a wolf in love foolishly swore by the moon.

That is when Time truly started ticking.

Author’s Note: This chapter is from Y/N’s POV.

I am seeing a trend starting to develop where every chapter turns into a behemoth that makes me not want to edit it at all. Nevertheless, I pulled through on this one despite being in the middle of a 32-hour work week and being absolutely exhausted.

Summer holidays, you said? I only see extra shifts and little me-time nor writing time and inspiration. That said, though, be prepared for some heavy worldbuilding because the plot thickens.

Also, and this has been edited in the previous chapter, a new special someone makes his debut in this chapter. Is this also a hint about whose story is next?

Who knows?

I don’t know.

Previous Chapter / Next chapter

Masterlist

“Jaebeom? Jay!” I nudge the big man’s shoulder to signal for him to step aside so I can turn the stove off before the burned pancake catches fire. “That’s the third one in a row.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters quietly. “I- I have a... I can’t focus.”

“Is it because of this morning?” If so, then that makes two of us. However, I tried to forget as best I could by working with timed productivity sprints instead of writing the article on Bruges in one go. It worked fairly well until lunch time came around.

That’s when I, too, couldn’t escape the claw mark.

The image of it flashes before my eyes once more, joining my thoughts with his if his blank look is anything to go by.

How did it get there? What did you do?

“Yeah. Morning. I... I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, this should be a nice evening. A cozy night in. You deserve my attention, for me to,” his breath tapers as he finishes the sentence, “be here.”

The quiver in his lips makes the roof of my mouth dry up and my mind empty save for gut-stirring concern, unable to think of a proper response. Nevertheless, I look for words to say what seems best. Like I did this morning when I went to get his medication. “How about I take it from here and bake the pancakes? You already made the batter and I can’t let you do all the work.”

“I like cooking for you.”

“I know you do, but it’s fine. Really,” I gesture at the couch by the living room window, which provides a glimpse of the small balcony, “sit down. I’ll call you once dinner’s ready.”

“Y/N,” he reaches out for my hand yet only dares to hold my fingertips, “I’m sorry I can’t be more.”

The crack in his voice breaks my heart. But its the vulnerability written across his normally stoic face which tears me apart at the seams. Whatever he means, it’s nothing to do with this morning. Rather, it’s about him as a person, the wonderful man he is.

Throat blocked by something I can’t swallow, I scan his attitude for any hint about what he truly means. “What’re you on about?”

Let’s just forget about it for a little while and be a normal couple. I promise I won’t run away despite what happened.

Unfortunately, Jaebeom dismisses the question to make a point I wish he didn’t. “We both know what’s ahead. But, sometimes it’s as if you’re avoiding the inevitable.”

I let out a deep sigh, caught red-handed. “I’m not, because I know or, rather, can guess where this is going. I just don’t know how to respond at times. And I don’t want you to feel bad so I try to keep the mood high as best I can. To, well, keep us both happy.”

“Is your avoidance of food also part of that?” he asks, carefully formulating the question while keeping a close eye on any change in my demeanour.

“Yes.”

“I hate it when you don’t eat.”

“I know, but if you knew the reasons behind it, you’d understand why it’s difficult for me. Although, I want you to know that I’m trying to keep my promise to you and eat when you tell me to.” I cup his cheek, lovingly swiping my thumb to and fro over the tanned skin. “It’s really hard to escape your determination. You’re very insistent on things.”

“Too much?” Eyes dim and glistening with withheld tears, he nuzzles my palm.

“Sometimes.” I kiss the tip of his nose and smile, a sign of happiness that’s only half a lie. “It doesn’t make me love you any less. Now, let me be a proper girlfriend and cook for you.”

Regardless of the wonderful sight of Jaebeom wearing an apron and being absorbed in his element in the kitchen, it’s equally as wonderful to have something to eat tonight. Secretly, I would rather have made a healthier and less calorie-rich dish, but we both need a bit of a reprieve from last night. Thus, for the sake of us both, I’ve decided to let go of my rules for a little while.

To enjoy something sweet.

As wholesome as the sight of the wolf man seated on the couch, knees pulled up with round gold-rimmed glasses balancing on the bridge of his nose as he reads the novel he apparently borrowed from my bookshelves. I should write a little note on the title page and give it to him as a present so he’ll have one of my books like I have his.

They’ll be on his shelves for as long as we’re here.

Be there even after he’s gone.

Then they will return to me yet still be his.

He will still be with me.

The pages filled with his love.

It’s everything that will be left of him.

His legacy.

His remains.

The thought leaving me filled with bittersweet affection, I cut the fruit to put on top of the pancakes while gradually using up all the batter. Were it not for the move to the cottage at the end of the month, I could easily be content here if he’d ask me to move in. Wherever we are, evenings like these might become a common occurrence, a splendid reward at the end of a long day at the office.

They could turn any place into our home.

The long road of the lone wolf would finally come to an end.

Because as long as he’s there, I’m home.

“Mind your head.” Despite the warning, Jaebeom nevertheless puts a hand on my head while he opens the cupboard above to grab two plates.

“I was just about to say dinner’s ready.” I let out a breathless laugh, hardly hiding the sobs at the thought of one day having to live without his touch. “Talk about timing.”

For a second, a curious expression treks across his face. It passes by too fast to properly describe it, but it seemed to be triggered by the meaningless remark about his return to the kitchen.

When a dangerously short and sharp breath escapes me, he swallows it with a kiss. Perhaps it’s the sorrow of knowing a storm lies on the horizon that makes me delusional, but a soft whine rises in his throat each time he kisses a stray tear away as he peppers my face in small pecks.

Satisfied he has taken the sadness more or less away, the corners of his mouth curl into a lop-sided smile as if nothing happened. Notwithstanding, it isn’t hard to figure the blissful ignorance is merely feigned. “Right. Timing.”

Our gazes lock and neither of us says a word until he perks up and motions for me to step back. “Fork and knife.”

Discombobulated by the shared confusion, I indeed set a step backwards so he can open the drawer. In the meanwhile, as Jay sets the dinnerware down, I put the final pancake on the stack and set it down in the middle of the table.

Chest puffed out, I clap my hands. “Dig in.”

Like yesterday, Jaebeom insists on doing the dishes while I settle down for the night. However, whereas I gladly did before, I now do with an uneasy mind. Arms wrapped around my knees, my thoughts run down a familiar dark path.

I ate too much. Maybe I should go home and do a workout. Then again, I really don’t want to even though I have to.

“Y/N?” The faint though surprising mention of my name breaks the imaginary stones weighing down my shoulders. I snap my head to the side, almost headbutting the wolf man who has appeared at my side. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Lips pulled into a wistful smile, I scratch him under the chin in hopes of distracting him to the degree he won’t be able to ask further questions. “I’m tired, that's all.”

Unfortunately, Jaebeom is like a guardian who somehow notices a lot despite his absent-minded demeanour. Henceforth, the topic is all but abandoned.

Without warning, and as effortless as if he were picking up a book, he lifts me up from the couch to hold me in his arms. Instinctively, I clutch his loose black shirt to have a grip of something in case I fall. It’s an ungrounded fear since his arms are sturdy, but it’s comforting nonetheless to have something to hold on to.

My haphazard action elicits a low chuckle that makes my heart skip a beat, although it almost thumps out of my chest again as he rests his forehead against mine. “Let’s go to bed.”

“It’s only eight o’clock,” I sputter, chest tight and no breath sufficient enough to lift the sensation. “Besides, I- I don’t have any fresh change of clothes or toiletries or a pyjama.”

Did he turn the central heating up?

“Doesn’t matter. Can borrow. You. No, that’s not right. You… you can. You can borrow clothes from me. Also, I think I have a spare toothbrush somewhere around here.”

“Jay,’’ As best I can, I try to keep my tone steady though the words come out too fast and uneven regardless, ‘’I think I should go home.”

If I don’t and I won’t get in some more exercise, I’ll gain weight and slowly go back to how I was.

And I’ll lose him.

Back to square one.

Loveless.

Despite the effort, I can’t prevent the crack in my voice as I weakly tug at his shirt. ‘’Let me go.’’

“No.’’ The gentle kindness has malformed into rough sternness, translated in a sound similar to a growl. ‘’You need to calm down.”

“I am calm!” I retort, more ferocious and sharper than intended though the equal harshness might help to drive the point home.

For a split second, he snarls and bares his teeth. Simultaneously, a flicker of a second personality passes across his mismatched eyes.

The calm ocean warps into a watery grave with high waves on a stormy night.

The hazelnut cracks to set that which it contains free.

His lashes abruptly flutter shut, as he lets out a pained gasp. Beneath my fingertips, his chest caves as if an imaginary fist has dealt him a blow in the guts.

And in mine as well.

Rippling flesh.

There’s… there’s no… Jay, what is happening to you?

I hold on tighter to the fabric, hyperventilating while trying to refrain from bursting out in tears.

There has to be something I can do! But what? What do I do? How can I make this stop?

How do I get you back?

Withal, shivering lips parted to beg for guidance, are interrupted by a shake of the head hanging low. Slowly, Jaebeom looks up, a light layer of sweat on his skin. Our gazes lock, but whereas the wolf man’s was filled with savage chaos, it’s now returned to the stern tranquility it held before the attack. Nonetheless, an uncomprehending whimper betrays the fact that whatever happened wasn’t experienced consciously.

The rage was beyond him.

Outside him.

Another’s.

Still breathless, he scoffs, the sound gruff and overtly disagreeing. “Let’s watch the moon and stars.”

There is no chance to ask any questions about the swift changes in demeanour since he promptly moves to the hallway and up the stairs towards his bedroom. The bedframe of the two-person bed also functions as a bookshelf which takes up the entire right wall, the shelves stacked with second-hand paperbacks in various conditions. An empty picture frame is placed on his side of the bed, a pair of glasses next to it.

Jaebeom puts me down on the navy wool blanket on the edge of the bed and leans in to steal a kiss, which is easy to do considering I’m too shaken to offer any protest. Nor do I feel the comfort of his lips. “Take your clothes off. I’ll go find you pyjamas.”

A tad reluctant, mind occupied by guilt and terror, I start to undress as he rummages through the wardrobe on the other end of the room.

Left only in my underwear, I sit down on the edge of the bed. Although he’s seen me naked once, I still wrap my arms around myself to hide my body. A shield to protect a fragile ego housed in equally as vulnerable body flesh.

Afraid of what might happen when those ripples grow out of control.

Terrified of who he will become.

Of who he is.

“Don’t.” Jaebeom turns around with a black hoodie and grey sweatpants in his hands, eyebrows drawn together. He closes the drawer, throws the clothes on the bed, kneels, and firmly yet gently grabs my wrists to break the walls I put up. And I let him. “Don’t hide from me.”

Not understanding where the shame originates from, he grows still as he scrutinizes my face for clues. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Instead of giving an answer, I change into the makeshift pyjamas. The hoodie is oversized yet comfortably baggy while the sweatpants hang disconcertingly low on my hips. Fortunately, any skin it reveals is covered up by the top.

Continuing to avoid his gaze without saying a word, I crawl under the sheets. Face turned to the window, I pull up the blanket he drapes over me and bury my nose in it.

A wild forest and cologne with a musty hint of pages.

It’s undeniably him.

I don’t know what else to do or say. So, I let the silence speak for itself.

A language he is fluent in too despite his oftentimes loud demeanour.

The mattress dips under his weight when he lies down and rearranges the sheets to cover us both. An arm wrapped around my waist and legs tangled, Jaebeom pulls me flush against him, his chest warm against my back.

A sob rises in my throat when I feel his lips place a kiss on my crown with a sigh of contentment.

I don’t deserve this.

Us.

Him.

The fear of losing him to whatever is happening inside.

Then again, Life isn’t fair. It deals everyone the same awful hand and leaves it up to the player to make the best of it.

I guess we’re both dealt a crappier hand than others. That, or we play them wrong.

Can we win at all?

“Talk to me.” As loving and happy as the casual intimacy of the embrace is, as forgetful it could make me if only I’d manage to fall asleep, Jaebeom’s oddly sweet cooing keeps me awake.

Staring at the moon.

A woman as fickle as me.

And infinitely more beautiful.

Funny how I, too, am jealous of a celestial body.

In love with the heavens.

He continues when he notices I won’t be the one to break the silence, his intonation laced by a whiny undertone like a dog wanting something yet being denied what it wants. “You know what I’m dealing with. But...” he digs his fingers deeper into my hips, the grip iron-like without being painful, “I hope this is okay to ask, but what is it with you and food?”

The encouraging squeeze in my side almost has me bursting out in tears again. There has to be a price to pay somewhere in the shadows, the overwhelming sensation of being genuinely loved and protected must turn out to be as two-sided as the silver goddess in the sky. After all, Life is bittersweet.

“It’s only fair I tell you.” Especially after how open he’s been. Besides, there’s no opportunity to avoid the topic since we’d arrive at it sooner or later. And he deserves to know. In fact, I don’t want him to forget my brokenness the moment I tell him about it.

We both want each other to remember our own missing pieces.

So I sigh, turn over and bald my hands into fists to rest against the warm skin of his bare chest. As I speak up, I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. “I used to be quite a fat kid, to the degree the GP advised my parents to put me on a diet. Queue high school and social pressure which led me to perhaps work out more than is healthy and left me bordering on the edge of anorexia. There are still foods I won’t eat and days I’ll worry about my calorie intake, especially on the days I don’t work out.”

I can’t help the mirthless chuckle which turns into a rueful smile. “It’s the good old cliché. Just another soul broken for the shallow enjoyment and acceptance of others.”

Lips pulled into a stern line, the wolf man remains silent. Notwithstanding, his eyes speak volumes when I dare to look up at him, the ocean and hazelwood alight with a watery sheen. Perhaps it’s the comfort of his nearness or the familiarity of those one of a kind eyes, but he inspires a confession which I never thought I’d make. “Nevertheless, I’m getting better and it’s partially thanks to you.”

Morgan spamming me with ‘Have you eaten?’ texts and Bam making sure I finish my plate whenever we go out for food either here or abroad help a lot too. Nonetheless, it’s mostly the bookish wolf who makes me want to try.

And be a little better than before.

“What do they feel like, those days?”

“The bad ones?” Jaebeom nods. “They’re ridden with guilt and self-loathing.”

He leans in, leaving only a few centimetres of distance between our faces. His breath is warm on my skin as he bumps his nose against mine. “You’re feeling that way now.”

“I am.”

“Don’t.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re still you. Beautiful as always. And I’ll love you regardless of how you look. I like your mind, which is as weird as mine. The way you hold my hand, as if you’re afraid I’ll walk away. How you unconsciously squeeze it when you need my protection more. How you feel in my arms, soft and warm as a bunny.” He hooks his finger under my chin and tilts it upward to run his tongue over my lips and nose. “Love you. A lot.”

“I love you too.” I turn my head to nuzzle his palm, my face perfectly fitting into it.

Please, no ripples. Let us have this moment. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. Let me have him, just him as he is. At least tonight.

The secure affection of the touch transforms into something else when he glides the back of his hand over my cheek and folds his fingers over my throat. Testing the waters, eyes boring into mine to stop at the slightest sign of discomfort, he slowly closes off my access to air.

It’s funny how the body and mind react to certain situations. Whereas I normally would flinch and run in the direction of safety, there is no urge to run. In fact, the tingling in my chest travels down to rekindle a familiar heat between my thighs while my adrenaline-infused system aches for the wolfish lover. Henceforth, instead of jumping up from the bed, I spread my legs so Jaebeom can comfortably nestle between them.

“Let me prove it. Let me mate you.” The calloused fingertip journeying across the collarbone to the crook of the neck sends a pleasant shiver down the spine. Another electric shock follows at the coarse prickly sensation of his moustache rubbing against my skin as his soft lips kisses and nips at it. “It will only sting a bit, I promise. Please, the mark will look pretty.”

“No biting, Jay.” Reminded of our agreement this morning and the movement beneath his skin when his emotions seem to get the better of him, I pull him against my chest. Before he can protest I scratch his jaw exactly in the way he likes it, thus subduing his great ability to argue. “Not today.”

“It’s not... hm, k- keep go- What do- Bit higher. There. Like, hm, mhm, there. But... what normal-’’ Arms wrapped around my waist again and letting out a content hum, dark lashes flutter shut. For a moment, it seems he’s fallen asleep. However, his drowsy murmurs, while growing incomprehensible, still haven’t finished. “It’s not what couples do.”

“You’re learning,” I giggle, amused by the remark which sounds like a student recalling a piece of knowledge during a test and repeating it for himself.

Without understanding the knowledge completely. “What do they do?”

Staring at the ceiling, I run my fingers through his long dark manes as I try to come up with ideas about what we can do next. “Well, you’ve already given me your clothes. We could try jewelry next, maybe a promise ring. It’s an old-fashioned idea, but people who are promised to each other wear matching rings.

‘’What mean? Promised?’’

I say nothing of the faulty grammar of his question. After all, speaking becomes harder once exhaustion overtakes the body and mind. I have yet to find a sleeper being able to form comprehensible sentences. ‘’They’re sort of similar to engagement rings, but without the immediate implication of getting married soon.”

“Let’s get en- enga- enge-’’ Jaebeom lets out a groan, frustrated by his lack of speech. Nevertheless, it doesn’t perturb him enough to completely give up on the effort to properly pronounce the word he’s struggling with. “En. Gage. Ment. Engagement rings instead.”

I let out a breathless chuckle, amused both by his determination and the absurd proposal. “It’s definitely too early for that.”

“It’s not!” He barks, shooting up with a pinched expression on his face.

Scratching him like before, I manage to calm him down enough to make him lie down on my chest again. Nonetheless, his discontent shines through in the gruff scoff he lets out. “It is.”

“What if...” Prompted by the idea in his mind, Jay scrambles upright to face me once more. Lips parted, the feral sharpness in his mismatched eyes is replaced by a twinkle of barely contained excitement. However, the enthusiasm dims with a shake of the head and a low self-deprecating chuckle that ignites my curiosity. At the same time, it also tugs at the strings of my heart. “No, it’s wrong of me to ask.”

“What is?”

What were you about to say? Don’t keep it to yourself. Tell me!

“Never mind.” He lies down again, nuzzling my breasts as he snuggles up into me.

Then, he slips his hand under mine to lift and compare it to his. “Cute paw.”

Fine. Keep your secrets, you big burly bastard.

“Go to sleep.” I push him off of me, earning myself a disappointed noise which resembles a yelp. “On the other side of the bed, please and thank you.”

In the days that follow, the movement like water set astir under his skin continues to haunt my mind. In fact, it does to the extent that even the keys beneath my fingers seem to flow rather than be pushed down, causing me to flinch for the third time in a row.

For the past hour I’ve been trying to type out the notes on an interview with a chocolatier in Bruges and compose them into a coherent article. An otherwise simple task my mind won’t allow me to complete despite the attempts to remember the good moments we had recently. The video calls right before bed, the cuddle session a few days ago when we gazed at the moon, his enthusiastic texts about and photos of new recipes Jaebeom tried. None of it prevents the likely imagined terrible from destroying our happiness.

I’m going insane. He’s a normal person. Somewhat. I was jet-lagged and therefore not thinking clearly.

That’s why I thought I felt his skin move. I was delusional.

Drunk on him.

A buzz pulls me out of my reverie, the screen of my phone lighting up with a message.

Morgan: Starving! Found a new café thanks to a friend.

Y/N: Let me guess. I have no choice but to come along.

Morgan: There wasn’t a choice to begin with :)

Y/N: Of course not. What am I talking about, eh? See you in five.

Chuckling at the woman’s classic brashness, I shake my head, pack my belongings and head to the elevators.

Outside, regardless of the November chill, it’s pleasant. The sun shines brightly and the wind blows the little bundles of fallen leaves at the roots of the birch trees lining the street into motion, scattering them over the neatly swept pavement.

Winter is around the corner. God, I hate the cold. Hopefully, there won’t be snow any time soon.

I sit down on the bench under one of the birch trees, its branches already bare.

Autumn is truly ending now. Shame. I haven’t even had a pumpkin spice latte and cinnamon roll yet. Maybe I should ask Jay out and find a nice coffee shop where we can get them. After all, if he’s there, we can share the pastry. He’ll be happy and I won’t have to eat the whole thing. A win-win situation.

Enjoying watching the people pass by, each stranger essentially a book with a unique story that is yet not entirely different from someone else’s. Withal, the world feels colder without him, the missing part embodied in the unoccupied spot next to mine.

A delighted sigh on the right makes me snap my head around, alarmed at the notion someone has appeared out of the blue on the empty seat.

A woman clad in a white suit and matching fur-lined coat with pale skin and brown hair glowing copper in direct light stares contentedly up at the clouds. She’s in her very early twenties, although the freckles dusting her cheekbones and rosy cheeks might simply make her look younger than she is.

For a moment, taken aback and speechless, I cannot help but blatantly gape at the otherworldly stranger.

Wow, she’s like a goddess.

A stone sinks to the bottom of my stomach as a dark thought intrudes my mind. My throat dried up, I twist my wrists, the muscles stiff beneath my fingers.

Would Jaebeom like her? If he saw her on the street, would he... would he stop and stare? Prefer her over me or even try and give it a shot by introducing himself?

“It’s a bit chillier than I’d like, but at least it’s better than rain or snow.” The woman turns to face me, her features soft. “I hope spring will come again soon, though.”

I don’t get the chance to respond because a familiar voice calls out. Not that I would be able to form a proper reply otherwise. “You’re here already?”

“I happened to be nearby,” the stranger turns away to answer as Morgan comes to a halt in front of us, a puzzled expression on her face.

“I texted you fifteen minutes ago and you said you had to clean up. I thought you’d join us later.”

“The birth and after birth went faster than I thought so here I am.”

“I’m sorry, but what is going on?” More than a little lost, I look from one to the other in hopes of being given an explanation. “I didn’t know we’d head out with the three of us.”

“Right, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Brigid.” The dark-haired woman holds out her pale hand in greeting. “I work at the hospital as an obstetrician.”

“I’m Y/N,’’ I reply, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Lass,” wonder turned to a darker version of itself yet not saying anything, Morgan shifts her attention to me, “you look famished. Come on, let’s go.”

Offering a few muttered words of agreement, I get up and sheepishly tag along with the other women. As we walk out the street and round a corner, following the signs leading to the artist district nearby the university, I’m occasionally tempted to join the conversation. However, as soon as a short silence falls, I don’t chip in, unsure how to contribute to the small talk they seem to deliberately keep up in order to avoid a topic neither is keen to discuss. Thus I walk in urban loneliness, my train of thought displaced on my face as I let the ghosts of Jaebeom’s skin freely haunt my mind.

Right before the descent into the darkness of the rabbit hole, strong long fingers wrap around my wrist and hold it in an iron grip. The slightly painful squeeze interrupts my reverie.

Jaebeom?

I snap my head to the side to find Morgan standing there, leaning in a bit and her voice low. “We’re here.”

I don’t know how I’ve managed to ignore the bustle of students looking for a free spot on one of the terraces and loud conversations accompanied by the rustle of the paper bags hailing from the shops owned by self-employed artists. It’s also miraculous that I haven’t bumped into anyone by accident.

“Oh,” is all I say, looking at the café we’ve stopped in front of.

Wolf’s is spelled out in a modern font on the sign outside and above the door. A big window provides visitors with a view of the plaza. The interior is simple yet cosy, the white furniture warmed up by oak accents and the bare walls decorated with various art pieces, centered around wolves and various flowers. By the looks of it, they were all made by a single artist who likes to experiment with style every now and then. A few plants are dotted around the place as well to add a hint of free nature to the underlying strangely forest-like aesthetic.

A tall broad-shouldered man with short curly chocolate brown hair partially covering up the scar running over his left eye, strong dark eyebrows and a big koala-like nose stands behind the counter. Both of his arms and hands are decorated with various intricately designed tattoos. Whereas Jay is muscled yet lean, the tanned barista looks like a man who knows how to fight yet is a warrior in a society without combat.

As soon as we walk in, his lifts his head and turns to us. Playful lights illuminate the milky white of his left and raven dark of his right eye. A meadow of snow, its glimmer reflecting off of the smooth feathers of a wise bird. “Hi, welcome. Brigid, long time no see.”

Nobody seems to notice it, but his female colleague, a short woman with long flowy caramel brown hair tied into a ponytail who has her back turned to us and is busy extracting a shot, cringes at the merry mention of the woman’s name. Slowly, she steals a glance at us, hazel eyes sharpening when they fall on the woman in white. Nevertheless, she remains silent and quickly returns her attention to preparing someone’s coffee.

Looks like I’m not the only one envying her.

It is wrong to hate a woman for her beauty. Nonetheless, although it’s shameful, part of me refuses to associate with Morgan’s acquaintance out of a toxic mixture of spite and jealousy.

Such is the female nightmare.

“So this is what you’ve been up to,” Brigid muses, nodding appreciatively while inspecting the coffee shop. “You’ve got a nice thing going on here, Rome.”

“Please don’t call me that anymore. It’s Christian now. Chris or Ian for short.’’ Muscled arms crossed, he grimaces and shakes his head while looking down. Notwithstanding, the stern attitude melts into casual friendliness as a bright smile forms on his lips. ‘’But I do, don’t I? However, it’s not just me running the place. I’ve had some help.”

He turns around and motions for his colleague to come over. For a second she doesn’t move, darting glances to each of us like an alarmed cat checking for danger. Notwithstanding, though clearly tense, she warily approaches and halts at the man’s side.

Her eyes nearly pop out of her head when Christian places a hand on her shoulder. “In fact, Gráinne here still helps me out every day. She’s basically the second owner.”

“I- I’m not,” she sputters in a soft Ulster accent, fumbling with her fingers and her cheeks flushed, “I just work here some days.”

“You’re a bit more than a colleague,” her co-worker remarks, shoulders lowered and his tone holding more affection than would be the case when talking to a friend. A warm glow seems to form around him, ignited by the fondness he harbours for her.

Funny, Jaebeom wears that same expression when he’s with me.

“I’m not.” Gráinne stiffens, each word dripping with venom as she steps away, grabs a serving tray and puts the order she was preparing before being called over on it. “Get back to work.”

Lips parted, Ian watches her as she moves past us as fast and agile like a hunting cat without any further acknowledgement of our presence. I hadn’t noticed before, but beneath her apron, she is dressed in clothes reminiscent of the Victorian era. “I know she can be harsh and isn’t easy to get along with, but I’ve never seen her act like this.”

“Och, let it pass. She has every right to be pissed with you since you put her on the spot like that,” Morgan jokes though nobody goes along with it.

She likes him yet doesn’t see it’s mutual. Should I say something? Then again, this is their business, not mine. Furthermore, why would they believe me, a stranger?

So I remain silent.

And leave this to blossom however it is meant to in Fate’s hands.

The icy glare Gráinne gives Brigid behind her back sends a chill down my spine. Evidently, she is a woman not cross paths with once angered. Withal, as the fair beauty looks over her shoulder, the other woman restores her professional composure.

“You okay?” Christian asks as he watches her retreat into the kitchen, done serving for now.

“I’m fine,” she says thickly, the next breath hitching in her throat. Her focus shifts to the moon-shaped amethyst pendant around his neck. The ghost of a rueful smile forms on her lips, but it fades as fast as it appeared. “It’s not like I’m having a vision or something. Help them.”

She waves her hand dismissively when he doesn’t move, lips parted to say something yet at a loss for words. Notwithstanding, although I can’t see his expression clearly, it’s evident her feigned nonchalance is hurting him. “Go on.”

He clears his throat and forces himself into a rigid posture, frowning as he shifts his attention back to us. Finger hovering over the tablet functioning as a till, he stares at the display with an empty and distant gaze, which is as dull as the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. “What can I get you?”

We place our order and settle down at the table by the window, neither of us offering a word of solace or dedicated to his colleague’s behaviour.

After a while, Christian comes up to us to serve the food and beverages. As he puts the plates with our sandwiches down, he and Brigid exchange looks like siblings telepathically conversing. Whatever it is they mentally discussed, it only leaves the barista a slight bit less worried though the grave expression plaguing him remains as he returns to the counter.

An expression which must be similar to mine since it prompts Morgan to speak up regardless of having her teeth sunk into sourdough bread, looking equally as somber. “What’s on your mind, lass?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and stir my cappuccino with the vintage silver spoon next to the porcelain cup, smiling at my own silly assumptions of what happened now four days ago. “Everything’s fine.”

“Except it’s not.” The raven-haired woman cocks an eyebrow, far from willing to dismiss my worries. “Now tell me. Or, well, us.”

“It’s something to do with your lover, isn’t it?” Brigid remarks, head tilted to the side as she assesses me while sipping at her Irish Breakfast Tea. Her features soften when she notices she has hit a sensitive snare, evidently meaning no harm.

I pull back in my seat as I take a sip of my coffee, flustered and cursing myself for being an open book. There is no way out of this conversation since the current company is like-minded in their refusal to simply let the topic pass before it has been discussed.

I swallow, put the cup on the dish again and clear my throat. Fumbling with the spoon and eyes cast on the cappuccino’s silky milk foam, I tell them of what I think happened. The story sounds strange to my own ears, like a terrible fairy tale told by a chaotic storyteller who can’t tell it in a manner that makes sense regardless of how he manipulates the plot.

Afraid of their reaction, unable to fathom the slightest bit of sympathy and empathy, I look from one to the other. Fortunately, my silence can be excused by drinking the remainder of the coffee although it’s futile since the thirst has nothing to do with bodily needs.

“Sounds familiar.” The woman in white scrunches her nose in disgust as she glares at Morgan.

“He was different,” Morgan sneers through gritted teeth, jaw clenched.

“In essence, he was similar to her lover.’’ Brigid points at me though she remains focused on my best friend, her voice dripping with venom. ‘’Or should I say, is similar?”

“Since when does it matter what he is?” Thin lips painted plum purple curl into a mirthless smile, onyx locks shaking in discontent. “How hypocritical you’ve become. Forgetful of the past.”

“A past worth forgetting. It’s never too late to change your political opinions, Morgan.”

Great, now I’m the one to open Pandora’s box. I should have kept my mouth shut, changed the topic.

Desperate for help yet knowing he cannot do anything, I look for Christian among the other customers. Expression stern and standing as rigid as a statue, he watches our table from behind the counter. It appears he, too, feels the sense of danger increasing as the conversation carries on. Notwithstanding, as becomes clear from the apologetic shake of the head when our eyes meet, he also knows his hands are tied at the moment.

We are on the same boat, waiting to see how the situation will develop.

Playthings of Chance and Fate.

“We’re not here to talk politics,’’ the woman in question answers, covering her mouth with her hands while chewing on a bite of goat cheese and pomegranate seeds, ‘’but to have lunch like civilized and amiable women. To help our friend.”

“You’re right,” Brigid concludes. Nonchalantly, she pierces a piece of egg in her salmon salad and puts its on the bread provided with it, a bread called St Michael’s Bannock according to the menu. Then, she points her fork at me. “But the best thing you can do is leave him while you still can.”

“L- Leave?” Utterly confused, I look at the woman calmly eating her lunch. “Why would I do that?”

Who is she? What’s more, who is she to tell me to leave Jaebeom after what I told her? He needs help and support, regardless of what may or may not be there beneath his skin.

Unless she is on to something I am not and judging by the current circumstances, I won’t get an answer even if I dare to ask. Henceforth, if only not to snap, I clear my throat and swallow the vile words dancing on the tip of my tongue.

“Morgan can tell you why. All I can say is that it’s better to avoid men like your lover in the first place.” She coughs and takes a sip of tea to wash down the salad leaf stuck in her throat while the woman with hair as black as night chuckles darkly. Luckily, it is only loud enough for me to hear and Brigid is too busy preventing herself from choking.

“Sétan-, I- I mean Seán was the one to leave me, not the other way around. And we mutually agreed to part ways in favour of our own well-being.”

“Sure you did. Totally didn’t resort to throwing plates and other pieces of furniture because he rejected you.”

Morgan growls something under her breath, glaring at the woman seated next to me. However, Brigid doesn’t seem to notice the reaction she has provoked or is indifferent to it. “Or washed clothes at the ford where he so ‘happened’ to pass by. Funny how he died soon after.”

Ford? There are quite a few in Ireland, so where and most importantly, when was this? Then again, what are these two on about? Washing clothes in a ford, people dying, politics, lovers to leave. They’re like arguing voices from ancient times.

Moreover, there is the question of Seán’s life. Is he alive or dead? One moment she speaks of him as if he’s still here, but then why would Brigid remark he’s dead?

“You shut your whoremouth, traitor!” With a loud bang, Morgan slams her fists on the table. She stands up with an expression that makes me cower in fear despite not being the target of her wrath.

Behind the counter, Christian slowly comes into motion, carefully moving with the likely intent to inconspicuously circle our table and jump in if necessary. He flinches as Gráinne places a hand on his arm, holding him hard enough for her knuckles to turn white when he tries to escape from her grip in order to prevent the worst from happening. Notwithstanding, whatever the plan was, it goes to waste since he decides to listen to what his colleague tells him. Sighing deeply, he stands down although he continues to observe us.

Gráinne follows his gaze, which seems to be directed at the brown-haired woman in white, her personal target of envy. Her wolfishly fierce expression falters, growing as bleak as the ash of a great bonfire.

This time he doesn’t see how she comes apart at the seams.

Brigid calmly finishes her tea, daps her mouth on the napkin and stands up too. “Get over your crush. There’s no future for you with him. As for you, Y/N,” eyes oddly alight with motherly affection, she turns her attention to me, “and as a piece of advice from a friend, end this relationship while you still can. There’s only heartbreak ahead.”

“Thank you, but,” a wistful smile forms on my lips regardless of the urge to give into the savage nagging inside, “I can’t leave him because I made a promise to stay.”

“I see. Perhaps you’ll prove me wrong and the flowers will bloom in spring.”

And with those final cryptic words, she leaves the café after waving at the tattooed barista.

Or so Brigid intends, but her way is cut off by his colleague.

While clumsily taking off her apron she storms outside, clenching it hard and shivering as if she’s on the brink of tears.

“Gráinne? Gráinne!” Christian runs after his colleague, pale and eyes wide with worry as he comes to a halt in the doorway. “Where are you going? Gráinne!”

Brigid places a hand on his shoulder, giving it a consoling squeeze. After giving him an encouraging slap on the back she sets off, leaving the man standing there like a defeated soldier.

“Poor lass,” Morgan whispers as she watches the female barista pass the window. Something in her tone hints at a level of familiarity between the two.

“You know her?” I ask, frowning.

“I don’t think she remembers me.” She glances at Chris, who has retreated behind the counter. He has his head bowed, smooth black locks hiding his face from the customers. Trembling fingers entwined to conceal his distress as best as possible, he resembles a man of religion fervently praying for forgiveness. “And neither does he. I saw him and his close friend, Finn, once in the woods. No, it was his brother, Jor… was it? When he came to the island. Was that… who was that?’’

A mist clouds her ocean blue eyes, lost in thoughts far removed from this world and time. ‘’He was there. As for Gráinne, we met… somewhere. There was smoke, a burning body. It was- It was at… where? Fuck, I can’t recall. I think it was at his fu-’’ she abruptly cuts herself short to correct herself with a strange undertone in her voice, “not long after I... saw them.”

‘’Morgan, are you alright? You’re looking awfully pale.’’

Instead of breaking free from the spell that has taken hold of her, the reverie only seems to deepen. Rocking side to side, she clutches her arms to her chest. Her skin, although naturally pale, grows sickly like a walking corpse.

‘’I- I’m supposed to remember. I’m one of the few that do. No, he and I are the only ones left that do. I can’t forget. If I do, everyone will. I can’t… I can’t!’’

‘’Morgan!’’ I stand up from my seat to rush to her side. Rubbing her arms, I try with all my might to bring her back to reality from the depths of deliria. ‘’It’s all right, Morgan, nobody is going to forget. Please listen to me and follow my voice, use it as a guide back to me from wherever it is you are. Please, come back to me.’’

‘’May I?’’ Christian has appeared with a glass of water, which he sets on the table before crouching down at the woman’s side as well.

Gently he grabs one of her hands and holds it, talking in a voice that is surprisingly steady and soothing in spite of what happened mere moments ago. It’s rougher and more gruff, making it hard to distinguish one word from another if you are not well-acquainted with the speaker.

In fact, it belongs to a completely different person. ‘’Morgan, as long as there are people who remember, there is nothing to fear. The past has taught us that what might seem like the end isn’t necessarily truly the end. We are still here. We remember because you do and you remember because we do. You’re safe and sound. Instead, return and help me make her remember.’’

‘’Why, of everyone, did you have to fall for her?’’ Gaze blinded by her mind, Morgan reaches out to tenderly run her fingers through the barista’s hair. ‘’What makes her special?’’

‘’She understands.’’ A similar fog veils the misty white and dark eyes, Chris or, rather, the stranger pulled into the same realm of consciousness as my friend. ‘’She broke the chains that bound me and doesn’t allow me to slip into the shadows of what I once was.’’

‘’You’re all the same, aren’t you?’’

‘’It’s rare to find understanding and acceptance in a world naturally turned against you. So, please help me. Help me find her.’’ His voice breaks, the begging words coming out high-pitched like a whining wolf. ‘’Help me find my reason to stay in this world and not forget nor be forgotten.’’

The veil lifts, the spell broken with the whimpered plea.

Christian falls back, but manages to catch himself before his head hits the tiles. Refusing every helping hand from the customers hurrying over, he scrambles to his feet. Fortunately, he accepts the chair I offer him when his dangerous swaying almost causes him to hit his head against the wall.

‘’Are you okay?’’

‘’Yeah, I’m only dizzy.’’ The hiss he lets out flows over into a sound akin to a growl. ‘’And a splitting headache.’’

Morgan has a better return to reality, completely fine aside from a dazed mind. ‘’What happened?’’

‘’You tell me.’’ I search her face for clues, a sliver of the knowledge she is lying. However, I find none.

She is telling the truth.

‘’I… I don’t know. It’s the first time.’’ She clears her throat, brow furrowed. As if having heard a noise, she snaps her head to the side. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Drink your tea, eat a sandwich and go home early from work.”

She hands the glass of water to Christian. ‘’And you, you drink this and stay seated for at least five more minutes until the dizziness has faded. Are you nauseous?’’

‘’No. Although,’’ he dry heaves, ‘’never mind.’’

‘’Make it ten. You look as pale as a banshee.’’

‘’Speak for yourself.’’

‘’You’d make a pretty one, though,’’ Morgan muses when she returns her attention to me. ‘’Beauty makes suffering leading to death easier.’’

Apparently, her return to reality has left her as mad as a hatter so perhaps it wasn’t as good as I initially thought.

“Why on earth would you say that? Besides, what kind of comparison is that, us and a banshee?”

“One based on truth. Now,” she shoves the remainder of her goat cheese and pomegranate sandwich to me, “eat, rest up and get cracking again. We’ll be in touch and visit the new café I found yesterday later, alright?”

“Hey, not so fast. Where are you headed off to?’’

She can’t be serious. There is no way she is unaffected by what happened.

“Attagirl,’’ Morgan says as if I promised to heed her words, ignoring what I actually said. ‘’By the way, ignore what Brigid said and stay with your man. It’s plain to see how he makes you feel.”

“It is?”

“You’re glowing and you come alive when you speak of him. It reminds me of how I was with Seán.” She starts as if awakened from a dream, but tries to hide her awkwardness behind a sheepish smile. “Well, then, take care.”

“You too.’’ The two simple words, otherwise casual, are now carefully chosen in order to not to trigger another ‘attack’.

My gut tight and skin prickling thanks to her inhuman behaviour, I watch the raven-haired woman leave. I hold my wrist, my pulse too rapid to be healthy beneath my thumb.

Like I am at death’s door.

The next morning, there’s an article in the newspaper. A man’s been found dead at the edge of the bogs near town. The cause of his demise is unknown, but there are witness accounts who said they heard a high screech late the night before. In the days that follow, their names show up one by one in funerary advertisements.

A week later, none of the witnesses are alive. Moreover, nobody has heard the screeching since, though everyone remembers the description of the sound.

It was like the howl of a banshee.

#JB #Jaebeom #Im Jaebeom #GOT7 #GOT7 smut #Jaebeom fanfiction #GOT7 Werewolf AU #GOT7 x Reader #Jaebeom x Reader #Jaebeom smut #Werewolf!Jaebeom #Werewolf AU #Werewolf!JB #Not by the Moon

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ckret2 · 3 years

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Alright let’s talk GVK spoilers!!!

My reactions as best I can remember them!

- love how Kong is humanized from the very first scene, like every time he shows up he’s humanized so much more than other titans are. If that was at the expense of other titans being made likable I wouldn’t enjoy it so much, but like, Godzilla is made pretty lovable over the course of Monsterverse, Mothra is too, and all the titans featured for long are given recognizable emotions that let us see them as more intelligent and feeling than “just” animals; so all of them are made understandable/likable/sympathetic. But of them all, Kong is the only one really humanized. Which makes sense, because like, big monkey! Basically our distant cousin!

- And they kept playing, like, normal songs for him, which cracked me up.

- I really appreciated how you could SEE the titans in this movie. After all the weather effects to hide the titans in KOTM, there was such a clear difference in this one from the very start. Kong in the daylight! Godzilla makes his first attack at night, and even then you can see him much more clearly than you can for most of KOTM! Nice!

- after the Iwi were portrayed as silent stoic witnesses in Skull Island, I really appreciated that they took an Iwi character, made her a main character, and gave her dialogue and a real role to play in the story while also keeping her deaf/mute. I think that was a good way to improve on the way that the Iwi got got sidelined in the last movie while still maintaining the worldbuilding!

- I didn’t appreciate so much that, y’know, they murdered the rest of her people off-screen in order to do it. Couldn’t they have gone “her parents died so she got adopted by a Monarch agent that was close to her family, but like, the rest of her tribe is fine”? Or at the very least “their island got fucked up so they had to be evacuated but like they’re settling in somewhere else”? “They’re living under this island dome with Kong and they know what’s up and Monarch’s keeping them in the loop and they decided they’re chill with their new dome home, but this one girl likes to go on adventures with Monarch”? Something? Did we have to kill them all off? Y’all make up an entire fictional indigenous culture and then murder them off-screen when you don’t need them? Just let them live.

- a few minutes in I was like “hold on, we’ve got two characters that speak sign language, we’ve got a giant gorilla, gorillas learn sign language, is there any reason they can’t teach Kong?” and then later I was like “OOOOOH!!” Humans and titans learning how to communicate with each other has been one of my favorite themes to explore in Monsterverse fanfic so I was absolutely tickled to see it getting explored in canon, too.

- That said I think it’s hilarious that the girl managed to teach Kong to sign without, like... anybody seeing. Kong’s hands are above the tree line and there are cameras everywhere, how did NOBODY with Monarch see him signing.

- Bernie’s weaponized being an annoying coworker to such a degree it can only be called an art, and I really appreciated it.

- Godzilla’s extra chonky in this movie and I dig it. Roomie noted he was extra crocodilian and I dig that too.

- “There’s been no confirmed titan sightings in three years” I don’t buy that for a minute. They’re BIG. Rodan NESTS IN VOLCANOES. They found a MOTHRA EGG. Humans have A SCARILY WELL-FUNDED ORGANIZATION DEDICATED SOLELY TO FOLLOWING TITANS AROUND. Like, most of the lore in GVK that I don’t personally like, I can be like “eh... I can tweak it just a little bit with headcanons to make it work for me...” but NO confirmed titan sightings? You expect me to believe ALL of them moved underground when we’d previously seen them all prefer to live above ground? You expect me to believe that now that they’re all AWAKE, they learned how to HIDE?? Uh-uh. And at the end of KOTM there was stuff in the credits about using titan droppings as biofuel, obviously they’re still walking around up top! Can’t take that from me. Nope.

- Who the FUCK is Ren Serizawa and how is he related to Ishiro Serizawa? IS he related? Maybe they just dropped the surname as another “yeah this is a Godzilla movie for Godzilla fans” easter egg but I have a hard time believing that he can’t be somehow related to the other character with the Very Important Last Name who was so important in the last two Godzilla movies. If he is related I’m sure it’s been explained in a tie-in comic or the novelization or something, I’ll look it up later.

- I had to look up how much weight huge battleships can carry while writing a KOTM fic where Ghidorah hitches a ride on one, and y’all, I had to pull weird gravity-negating magic to get him to ride on that boat. Godzilla and Kong woulda sunk that boat like a rock. All I could think during that scene is “this wouldn’t work and I know that because I DID THE RESEARCH and I wasn’t even getting PAID.” I’ll choose to believe that Monarch gets special heavy duty ships designed to carry titans but nobody mentioned it because it wasn’t relevant to Kong’s journey.

- The bit where they could see where Godzilla was swimming because he’d got half a ship hooked to him that was bobbing around on the surface, didn’t Jaws do something like that with a buoy? It’s been ages since I’ve seen Jaws. Anyway good reference.

- Insert “they’re gonna need a bigger boat” joke

- I LOVED the part where they shut down all the ships to get Godzilla to leave. Both because, one, it’s a spectacular callback to KOTM’s “turn off all the guns so he knows we’re not a threat” that makes it seem like now that’s just what Monarch knows what to do to get G to chill out, and two... we know that Godzilla backs off either when he’s killed his enemy or when his enemy has yielded to him. At the end of KOTM—and the end of GVK—the act of yielding is presented as very ceremonial and uniform across species: everyone lowers anything they’ve got that could be dangerous (claws, fangs, beaks, axes) and bows to show Godzilla they’re not gonna fight. Battleships, obviously, can’t bow, but even without being inducted into whatever secret titan cultural intricacies might be going on, humans have figured out their own way to “bow” to Godzilla: cut all the power, so their ships can’t move and can’t use weapons. I know the movie presented it as “playing dead,” but c’mon, if Godzilla could hear MechaG power up from halfway around the planet then he could hear that Kong’s heart was still beating, and he’s been around enough boats to know humans can turn them off and on when they want. The humans bowed to Godzilla. He accepted that they yielded and left.

- Mark Russell looked like such a dad in this movie, like he’s retired 100% from being a rugged action hero and now he’s just Pure Dad. I like him better when he’s a dad, it’s a good development for him. He got like 3 lines and I’m like “I appreciate this character development.”

- Despite all my qualms about how conspiracy theories and extremist groups are handled in Monsterverse (and WHICH conspiracy theories they decide to reference), I really love Madison and Bernie’s dynamic. The adult man who’s the excitable wide-eyed believer in every BS conspiracy you can possibly imagine; and then the serious, severe Teenage Girl On A Mission who’s hypercompetent because she was raised for five years by a friggin doomsday cult militia; and despite having wildly different personalities they’re just, in total agreement about everything. Handled just a BIT differently (like, leaving out the more gross IRL conspiracies) they would be a wildly fun comedic duo—especially with Josh the Only Sane Man coming along as the hapless sidekick. And they all play off of each other so well! Both in a comedic sense, and in more serious moments—when Bernie talked about his wife, there was a real moment of empathy between him and Madison with very little said. I’d watch an entire movie just about the three of them. I’d watch a TV show.

- On the one hand I wasn’t too much of a fan of KOTM’s “all titans... are inherently In Tune With Nature... nature has a Balance, because that’s a Real Thing and not an anthropocentric concept to describe how we like nature to act, and they automatically restore it... because they’re like, some kinda borderline divinities or something... we should probably be worshipping them...” thing; but, now that it was totally absent in GVK, I sorta miss it. Like I feel like there needs to be a balance, a few humans who are like “i lowkey worship these dudes?” and a few others who are like “they’re cool but like, that’s a lil extreme” and that neither side be presented as Right in how they regard titans’ relationship with nature.

- “All titans come from THE HOLLOW EARTH” nah I don’t buy that it’s silly. Basically, what I object to is the idea that all titans have some sort of intrinsic similarity (they all come from the same hitherto-unknown location; they all are part of the same pack that has the same alpha; they all are fueled/fed by the same energy source; etc) rather than letting them be SEPARATE species whose only unifying traits are “they’re all big enough to fuck everything up everywhere they go” and “they’re big enough that the typically-insurmountable barriers between different biomes (mountain ranges, valleys, long distances with terrible weather) aren’t insurmountable for them, so even if they’re specialized in different environments they still all have to deal with each other pretty often.” I’ll make some exceptions for convergent evolution (i.e., claiming multiple titans developed similar traits that are relatively easy to spontaneously evolve and a prerequisite for a creature to survive at such a large size). But I can’t buy “this big gorilla has more biologically in common with this big crocodile-iguana than he does with, say, gorillas,” or most of the other “all these titans have THIS IN COMMON” claims that Monsterverse makes, including “everyone’s from hollow earth.” So I’m tossing that out the window and substituting my own headcanons. Some might’ve evolved there but some evolved on the surface. Maybe a majority of them like ducking in and out of the hollow earth like some kind of titan shortcut system. Kong’s species, I can buy, IS native to hollow earth, considering that they built a whole-ass society down there with tools and architecture.

- I’m SO curious about the little underground Kong home, the Godzilla motif in the floor, and the axe that appeared to be made with a Godzilla scute. What’s the story there??? We know Godzilla’s species and Kong’s species are ancient rivals. Is it because Kong’s species hunted Godzilla’s to steal their scutes to make weapons, seeing them as a valuable resource the way, like, early humans considered woolly mammoths a valuable resource—thus making that Godzilla on the floor equivalent to cave art of mammoths made by people who hunted them—until the Godzillas got pissed and started fighting back en masse? Or were Godzillas and Kongs already enemies when Kongs decided to start making weapons out of their corpses? Did they use to be allies, fighting together, with Godzillas voluntarily offering shed scutes and/or bones of their deceased members to Kongs, and that place used to be a shared home until they started fighting?

- What about that power source, is it something that was already there that both Kongs and Godzillas started to deliberately harvest for technology/atomic breath? Or did Godzillas automatically channel that stuff and Kongs exploited/borrowed/traded with Godzillas to utilize it too? Or is the power from Godzillas who collaboratively poured a bunch of power into the place thus that Kongs were able to use it too? I doubt Godzilla’s species CREATED all that weird energy but the question remains of whether, like, they channel it FROM underground, or naturally produce the same thing in their own bodies, or what.

- Godzilla using his atomic breath to dig a hole STRAIGHT TO KONG just to KICK HIS ASS is hilarious. How lucky that Hong Kong just HAPPENS to be straight over Kong’s house! Were all the tunnels to the hollow earth made by pissed off Godzillas who wanted to kick monkey ass??

- I loved the aesthetic of the battle scene in Hong Kong, with the brightly colored neon building outlines, VERY cool look. The choreography of the battle scene was great too, especially

- we literally broke into applause when Kong shoved the axe handle in Godzilla’s mouth. Love it, perfect callback, that was the ONE thing from the original King Kong Vs Godzilla I was hoping to see referenced and there it was.

- You could really see a difference in how Kong and Godzilla fought—Kong doing a better job at using tools and the environment, Godzilla fighting more like a reptile. They seemed to emphasize Godzilla’s more animalistic behaviors in this movie to accomplish that contrast—he was down on all fours and moving like a crocodile more often, he was clawing at Kong’s chest—but even though it seemed a bit different of a combat technique it also didn’t seem out of place compared to how he fought in prior movies. And we’ve already seen that if Godzilla’s involved in a fight and one of the combatants knows how to use the environment, it’s typically not gonna be Godzilla. (See: Ghidorah using the reflection in a building’s windows to see what’s behind him, and recognizing a nearby power source and biting it to juice himself up.)

- So many of Godzilla’s enemies seem to have specialized in negating his atomic breath in order to combat him! The MUTOs directly suppress his ability to use it—and it makes sense that that’s an inborn ability they have, since they evolved to use Godzilla’s species as prey. Kong has a weapon that both acts as a shield to absorb the breath and turn it back against Godzilla’s species—they didn’t evolve to counter Godzilla, but they developed tools once a rivalry happened. Ghidorah’s the exception—which makes sense, since he came from space—but even at that we see him using tactics specifically to take into account Godzilla’s most powerful weapon (such as keeping one head on lookout for when he starts glowing so that they know when they need to dodge).

- LOVED the reveal that MechaG was based off of Ghidorah’s brain, it has vibes of both the Kiryu Saga and the way that Heisei MechaG is based off of Mecha-King Ghidorah. Not the most surprising plot twist, since we’d theorized that they might use San to make MechaG, but I wasn’t 100% sure they were gonna go with it until they finally did. Even when I was going “huh, the mecha pilot’s chamber looks weirdly organic” I didn’t make the connection to WHY until the reveal, lol.

- “Ghidorah’s necks are so long that the heads have to communicate with each other telepathically” that’s COMPLETELY WILD but I love it, it follows very well from their prior portrayal as telepathic empaths in Heisei, it lines up with their emphasis on electricity (because BRAINWAVES AND ELECTRICITY, hey ho movie monster pseudo science!), and it very much compliments my own private headcanon that they’ve got some psychic/mind control abilities.

- The movie ended with both “Godzilla won, technically” but also “since they teamed up as equals, the ending doesn’t FEEL like ‘Godzilla wins, Kong loses’ but rather ‘they both won against a common foe’” and since I’m on both Team Godzilla and Team They Should Be Friends, I’m happy with this outcome. Plus since the last time they fought, the Japanese movie company graciously let the American monster win, so it’s only polite that the American movie company graciously let the Japanese monster win.

- There were just a few too many humans in this movie. I was intrigued by Ren but we didn’t get much out of him, but like I guess somebody had to be in the pilot’s seat other than the Apex CEO. Didn’t care for the author of the hollow earth book, I feel like his role was superfluous. Didn’t need the Apex CEO’s daughter there at all, coulda done without her. How about this, combine all three roles. Instead of having a whole-ass author who knows about the hollow earth, just casually reference that Rick from KOTM wrote a book about it since he was the expert, and (since he wasn’t in this movie) say that he tragically died going to explore the hollow earth himself, and that way we’ve got the book with the “titans are from there” theory AND an excuse to share the “humans die when they go underground” info. Now, have Ren be working for Apex as a pilot for Mechagodzilla, but have him be MechaG’s pilot because he’s also a good pilot in general, and can fly those HEAV things. Have Apex send him to Monarch to be like “hey, you guys trust me right, since I’m Ishiro Serizawa’s relative? We at Apex have heard all about your failed hollow earth expedition, and due to Ishiro I’ve got some past ties to Monarch so I’ve got high clearance with y’all, so I could bring over this useful Apex tech that’d let you go underground and use what I know about hollow earth from my past time at Monarch to help guide things.” Once they’ve got the little chunk of energy stuff and go topside, he hustles it straight to Apex and straps into his seat to run MechaG. Bam, you’ve combined “person who knows enough about hollow earth to help the expedition,” “person who represents Apex’s interests and gets the energy,” and “person who pilots MechaG” into one character, in a way that takes three flat/underdeveloped characters and turns them into a single interesting character with a lot going on and some intriguing ties to the rest of the cast.

I think that’s everything?? Hoo.

#gvk #godzilla vs kong #gvk spoilers #godzilla vs kong spoilers #godzilla #meta

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hes-writer · 4 years

Text

Reign (3)

Summary: harry sees something he's supposed to have

Warnings: angst in the beginning, angst in the middle, angst near the end

Word Count: 4881 words

A/N: @devilinbetweenthesheet-s : dont cheat and don’t do drugs, kids

Tarnish (1) . Halo (2) . Reign (3) . Trial (4) .

Errors (5) . Ruin (6) . Crumble (7)

Error Taglist

____

A writer that cannot write is dead.

When one loses the ability to tell their stories and anecdotes through the mere action of swirling words together to create an imaginable atmosphere of real-world fantasy; they are dead. A writer recovering from the mundane and mediocre way of penning experiences to bounce back into what they used to be is difficult. It is easier to free fall and drown in the depths of despair. The moment thoughts and rumination fog up to form a blurry image of conviction is a warning sign, blaring at the back of their minds and sometimes even in their faces.

Harry is a writer--or, he was. Picking up the pen to style the words lingering in his head used to be as easy as blinking; quick and natural. Now, the words claw at the swell of his throat, trying to spit an adjective to describe the way he felt. It was at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be lathed into existence. It did not matter if his cognition was mingled with various chemicals aimed to be able to feel happiness.

He was sober but he had trouble placing his finger on why it was so strenuous to narrate his feelings throughout the breakup. Being high or drunk was never the answer for him. Weed made him tired and made him have a case of cottonmouth. Harry learned from a young age that he should only ever engage with alcohol if he was in a mindset and setting that catered to increase existing good vibes. He thought that maybe he was in an odd phase of perceiving the opposite, and so he intoxicated himself enough to understand that it didn’t matter if he was soaked head-to-toe in sobriety or whizzed out of his mind by the amber liquid swirling in the glass in his hand. But that wasn’t the circumstance. It also didn’t matter if he was grasping his favourite pen to write--because it was comfortable--or tapping his calloused thumbs against his phone keypad. Hell, it didn’t make a difference when he sat down and prepared his typewriter to indulge in a headspace of vintage songwriting. Maybe that would help.

It didn’t.

He had stories to tell. Everything was laid out in misty overcast yet Harry’s great ideas morphed into gentle mistakes, harsh mistakes and discoveries that had him almost ripping his hair out of the roots of his scalp. When he felt the wave of his ocean-thoughts rise and peek where the sand shifted, his fingers were ready to move and discern for the eyes to see. But with each fritter, he couldn’t seem to get even two paragraphs in to decide that it was utter shit.

Harry was old enough to understand that slumping on the wet sand was a part of life. Sometimes picking up a fistful of grains and throwing them back to the sea was a great way to release frustration. But it seemed like this plunge of his ability to write was a hole of quicksand. He was trying his hardest to displace himself as swiftly as possible but it only made his scenario worse. The muddy sand clung unto his legs like sticky glue, heftier with each effort to leave. He wanted to move on. He wanted to forget everything that occurred in the past four years. Harry wanted to erase Y/N from his life because she wasn’t around anymore to bring those memories back to sparkly existence.

What he needed to do was nestle himself into a certain depth, calmly, in order to pull a limb out and ensure that his progress on the so-called ‘moving on’ did not have any drawbacks. Until then, he cannot possibly create songs that he was well-known for if he wasn’t patient enough.

He wanted so badly to tell his side of the story. Harry craved to think as clearly as he did when he told Y/N about his plan for their future. Admitting to his feelings was a hard route. Sure, he can be vulnerable but it took a great deal of convincing on his part to immerse himself in the deepest parts of his brain to understand why he felt the way he did. He usually had the means of songwriting to help him out but that obviously wasn’t working out that good for him.

___

Harry was packing the rest of Y/N’s things in boxes to be picked up later in the afternoon. He was annoyed at first at how she depended on him to fold her clothes properly instead of doing the bundle of the work herself. But he guessed that she didn’t want to be around him for longer than she had to. To be frank, he also did not want to indulge in what might turn into an argument if they spoke about the reason for their breakup. It was just a bit confusing because he had an urge to still want her around despite their less than likely situation.

Torture. If Harry had one chance to describe the way he felt right now; it was torture. With every nook of Y/N’s side of the closet emptying into brown, cardboard boxes--he physically how much she had integrated her life with his. How much space she took up in his life. How his clothes and her clothes were so interchanged between them that he couldn’t decide if the gray pull-over was actually his or hers. And in a moment of selfishness did he tuck it away for his safe-keeping despite seeing the tag imprinted on the inside; a shop that he hadn’t set foot in so it was a guarantee that it was hers.

Her scent embedded in the thin threads of each fabric wafted to his nose; each with a new wave of memories engulfing his senses as if each piece garnered a specific scent tailored to a specific event. Like her sunflower sundress--it smelled of fresh flowers as if the print was a scratch and sniff that released a fragrance. Or their DIY-ed tie-dye shirt of pastel blue and cotton candy pink. It was a matching piece made out of the cheap dye and a simple white tee but it was theirs. Things like these made Harry want to yell in frustration because every time he thought that he was completely over her-- Y/N appears out of visibly nowhere and towers over him.

Seeing her for the first time in days was a breath of relief. She looked fine. Glowing even, and Harry did not know what to make of it. As sadistic as it sounded, he was expecting dry-stained tears and a birds’ nest of hair trampling her head. Instead, Y/N was dressed for comfort in her baggy jeans and an even looser sweater covering her body. Her lips were drawn in a thin line, giving him a nod in greeting as he gestured to the boxes littering the floor.

Harry offered to help--it was the least he could do. And somehow, silence protruded from the tense atmosphere, begging to be cut by a knife yielded through their voices nipping at each others’ emotions.

“Let go of my damn hand,” Y/N stated, her hard stare could turn Harry into stone. He just wanted her to listen before she left.

He shook his head in denial of her request, tightening his grip further. “No. Listen to me, Y/N,”

“What do you possibly have to say that will change anything between us?”

And maybe it was her fault for assuming that he wanted to fix things. The sliver of hope thinly dressed behind closed lids enabled her to think that maybe he was going to say that he wanted to make things work again. That he had broken up with Camille and he realized what a stupid he had done throwing away everything they built up to for the past four years for an affair that couldn’t quench the thirst of his desire to have a family.

Harry sighed, a shadow of mischievous smirk painted on his lips. But maybe it was Y/N’s sight in deception because she could never see Harry as anything other than sweet and kind Harry incapable of hurting a fly.

“What? I don’t intend to. We’re broken. We’re beyond fixing,”

The hitch in her breath was as sharp as the stare he was searing her with. Forcing her to please understand that this would be their last conversation--if time and fate were on their side. “You’re not something I would take the time to handle,”

“Stop saying shit you don’t mean, Harry” Y/N rolled her eyes in annoyance. His macho act was barely an act and more like a stage curtain easily pushed with a flick of a wrist.

“Things I don’t mean?”

“You heard me,” She crossed her arms over his chest in defence, leaning against the closed trunk. “Say what you will but our love was real. Don’t make me seem like I’m crazy. Don’t tell me that I’m a mistake,” Her voice was filled with confidence because she knew the affection that Harry diffused.

The cradles of his palm at the small of her back when they had to walk past a crowd. The subtle graze of the back of his fingers caressing the bare skin of her arm. Kisses pressed to her temple as she read a novel and swirling fingertips twirling her hair. These were acts of love that happened nearly every day in their relationship. A routine that felt different if it wasn’t done to or with each other.

Exasperatedly, Harry felt the same itching crawling up his spine. His ego ballooning into a delicate size and one more word from Y/N’s lush lips would have him on his hands and knees, begging for her back.

“This, us, was a fuckin’ mistake,” Harry’s accent thunked heavily in her cochlea, practically spitting the words out of his mouth as if they were poisonous. Ringed fingers gesticulated the space between them to emphasize how much of a misunderstanding they truly were. “I should’ve known the second things went further than planned,”

Y/N felt her heart drop to her full stomach. The feeling so nauseating that she instinctively palmed her belly over the fabric to protect her little baby from his harsh words. Even though they weren’t directed towards anyone but Y/N. She didn’t think that their unborn child deserved scrutiny from their own father.

“You don’t mean that, Harry.”

Because how could he? Not when he emulated sincerity through his syrupy voice. Not when he spent hours loving on her tummy and spoke to it like he would if she were pregnant. Especially not when every kiss from him felt like a buzz of electricity coursing through her veins because he was the main distributor of her happiness.

Harry truly was an asshole for making her hope and wonder of what the future held when he was unsure himself. He did want a family. That was a statement in all its truthfulness. What he wasn’t sure about was if he wanted a family with Y/N. He could have a family; kids of his own in his own time. But Y/N didn’t have to necessarily be the mother. So was he besotted with the concept of family and marriage regardless of who it was with?

“But I do,”

The rain started drizzling in frequent spurts, planting a fat droplet on her cheek that could be argued as a tear escaping Y/N’s eye. It hurt a lot to hear that from him. The man of her dreams blatantly denying each sugary word because his plans had changed.

“You’re a goddamn mistake is what you are,’

“Why are you. . .saying all these things to me? Are you trying to hurt me?” The shakiness of Y/N’s tone had Harry swallowing his words down his strep throat.

He shook his head in disagreement, “No, I’m not. ‘M just tryna make you see my side. So you can understand,” His head dipped to the side, softening his tone yet stern as though he was speaking to a child.

And that was one of the reasons why Y/N didn’t believe his all-too stoic demeanour about her. Harry was great at making others see his side regardless of how much in the wrong he was.

So why was he struggling?

___

Needless to say, he wasn’t very respectful towards Y/N any other time afterwards. He had unblocked her number months after blocking it at one point and demanded answers that he didn’t have the right to know. In retrospect, Harry was embarrassed by the way he acted. He did cheat on her and suddenly he was a saint because she moved on quicker than he thought she would? Unbelievable.

In his defence, the night he became the drunk caller was the same night he fought with Camille about having children; having a family they can call their own. Ever since that discussion did Harry notice a dispatch in their relationship. It was like they were aware of a missing link that had disappeared in their connection, but neither one of them wanted to be the one to bring it up. Harry supposed that now that Camille knew what he wanted (and vice versa)--she was feeling the pressure of giving in to him. Don’t get him wrong, Harry absolutely wanted a family and he thought that Camille was the right partner to build it with. However, he couldn’t help the voice at the back of his mind slyly whispering that he had forced her to give him what he wanted for the sake of saving their failing relationship.

___

It had been two and a half years since he mildly and miserably accepted that his dream family was being erased like a pencil on paper.

The first year; Harry still clung to the obscure hope that Camille might change her mind of having kids. Many fights sprouted between the two of them concluding in them sleeping at different places for weeks on end until they eventually crawled back to each other like an invisible string. The second-year; Harry brought up the idea of adoption. It was a hard choice for him as he desperately wanted kids of his own. A boy that looked like him and his love or a little girl that smiled at him with deep dimples mirroring his own.

And Harry liked to think that he was just on the edge of convincing Camille to consider the option when his tour was scheduled a few months after. A new dealbreaker was that Harry wasn’t going to be around much to watch and nurture the little bub they might’ve adopted. It was a sudden intrusion to think about since Harry was good with kids. He knew that. That was why he had three godchildren of his own. But what hit him the most was how sure Camille sounded when she yelled at him about leaving for months at a time and returning for a bit, only to leave again. Now, Harry hadn’t considered that part. But surely he will be ready to choose between a family and his career, right? When the time comes, he thought.

___

It pained Harry to admit that his relationship with Camille was dwindling down the drain. The knowledge that there was no future--the one that Harry envisioned--for them was getting more and more real each passing day.

A late-night grocery trip was one of the many examples that had Harry rethinking his actions for the past couple of years. It was the time period where night owls arose and barely any customers littered the aisles. Still, Harry made sure to keep his hoodie up to shield his face.

Camille had an early flight to Milan in just a few hours later that day and she wanted to purchase some things to bring with her; in case they weren’t available in the country. So here they were at three in the morning.

As Camille walked ahead of him in her sweatpants and a plain tee, Harry couldn’t help but let his eyes flicker to the clothing section to his right The first-floor space was decorated with pastel blues and pinks; a stroller was displayed with a price would not make a dent in Harry’s bank account.

“‘M just gonna grab somethin’ over here, Cam,” Harry muttered as he pointed a thumb behind him. She nodded, “Meet me at the produce? Need to get you some fruits,”

Harry felt guilt thudding his chest because although he was losing feelings he thought were written in stone, Camille appeared to care for him the same way she always had.

He walked to the brightly lit area, puffing his cheek as a cute onesie caught his eye, “You’re so golden” with the word ‘golden’ printed in a shiny, yellow glimmer. He smiled at the thought of baby angel cooing at him as he tickled her tummy. Harry passed by the shoes next, picking up a pair barely the size of his palm. His mind flashed back to a conversation with Y/N years ago,

___

“I’m just saying,” Y/N took a bite of a pickle she held on her left hand, “Baby shoes have no business being that expensive,”

Harry chuckled from his place across the counter, “Babies need shoes too, love,’

She grabbed her fork and stabbed a piece of strawberry from her bowl, “I didn’t say the don’t need shoes. For tiny things, they could at least be a bit cheaper,”

Harry watched as she munched on a pickle on her left and took a bite of a strawberry on the other. His tongue poked out in a gag at the odd combination, resorting in glare and a huff from Y/N.

“You should try it instead of judging me,’

“No, thank you. Watching you eat it is enough for me,’

___

Harry craned his head at each aisle, hoping to find Camille and to distract himself from the endless Y/N related thoughts that somehow returned to his brain. He needed his girlfriend to remind him that he cannot just knock on Y/N’s door and ask her about the baby she has. If he could hold them for a bit because his baby fever was through the roof.

Locating the produce section, Harry whistled mindlessly as he searched for a blonde head of hair, failing to notice that there was a basket in front of his feet. He had kicked it, jolting him out of his thoughts in a hurry.

A man with brown hair sporting an outfit similar to his (sweats and a hoodie), chuckled at him as Harry leaned down to retrieve the gray basket filled with a jar of pickles.

“Sorry man,” Harry muttered, holding the handles up for the man to carry.

“It’s alright, it happens,” The guy had not seen his face yet, too busy inspecting the carton of strawberries.

He decided to continue the conversation, “Strawberries and pickles? Odd combo, huh,” Harry was briefly reminded of Y/N’s obsession with the two rival products.

“Yeah, m’lady loves ‘em. Had a craving in the middle of the night. She’s in the car right now with our lil bubba,”

Harry’s heart fluttered at the mention of a baby. He needed to get his rails in check. He cannot keep having his heart bursting with adoration at the mere mention of a baby.

“I’m Connor,” He said, finally facing Harry after choosing the best carton.

“I'm--,”

“Harry!” Both men turned their heads towards Camille carrying a basket full fruits and green veggies, “Got you some stuff to blend for your smoothies,”

Connor squinted his eyes at the couple and Harry internally screamed because he knew that he and Camille had been recognized. “Harry. Yeah, I know you,” The sudden hostility made Harry confused as Connor grasped his basket from him in a harsh manner, heading towards the checkout.

The rest of the time inside the store was filled with curiosities as Harry carried the paper bags towards the car, barely recognizing Connor’s figure heading towards his own vehicle. Luckily, Harry has parked only a few slots away and could inconspicuously watch Connor and his so-called ‘lady’.

Except, Camille was ushering him to hurry up as she still had a few things to pack at home.

___

On most days, Harry was used to waking up alone. Used to feeling the shiver crawling up his side, used to seeing the indent left by Camille’s body instead of her. He had grown familiar with the sudden cast of loneliness blanketing him thicker than the duvet on top of his body.

The early morning trip to the store had tired him out, paired with the overthinking of the man named ‘Connor’ that flipped his attitude towards him quicker than he could kick the grey basket with his feet. He flopped back to the mattress after washing his face and brushing his teeth. It was noon when he jolted out of bed again at the sound of his front door opening, voices filling the empty space that had Harry running towards the foyer in case there was an intruder.

His tense shoulders sagged in relief when he caught sight of his mum and Gemma, “Oh, s’just you guys,”

Both women looked up at him at the top of the stairs, “You forgot we were coming over for the weekend, didn’t you?” Gemma teased as she headed to the living room. Harry followed, walking down the stairs.

He scratched the nape of his neck nervously, “No. . . “

“Can you help me reach this, H?” Anne called out from the kitchen.

His mum gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, “Yes, you did, by the way. Slept through the whole morning. Good thing Camille let us in before she left,”

At the sound of a bag crumpling and squeals echoing the hollow house, Harry scrunched his nose in curiosity, briskly walking where Gemm was currently holding up tiny baby clothes in front of her. “Who’s that for?” He thought of any possible friends that had had a baby recently but couldn’t recall any.

She immediately stuffed the clothing into the bag, nervously placing a hand on her chest, “Gosh, Harry, you scared me,” Her brows went high on her forehead in alarm, sharing a look with her mum trailing behind Harry.

“Well? Did I miss something?”

“Oh, it’s for one of my friends,”

Harry contemplated on his next words, “D-did you know that Y/N had a baby?” It couldn’t be right if his sister and mum knew about his exes baby and not him, right? That’s just plain odd to still be in touch with an ex's family. His brows furrowed in suspicion as both of them declined his question.

“What? Nooo,”

Awkward silence filtered through the air as Anne sipped water from her mug and Harry was slowly putting the pieces together. Gemme dove to the centre of the couch where her phone was when it rang suddenly, surprising all three of them. Harry was quicker, eyeing his mum and sister and inspecting the emoji substituting as a name before sliding his thumb to answer it.

"Hey, Gems! Are you coming to the park? We're waiting for you,”

Harry felt his heart drop to his stomach just as the phone nearly slipped from his clutch. That voice. He could recognize it from everywhere having spent nearly every morning for the four years that they were together hearing it lulling him out of sleep. It was Y/N’s voice calling his sister who was looking extremely anxious.

He tapped on the ‘mute’ button, “What does she mean ‘we’?”

“Nothing! Give me my phone back,” Gemma tried to reach for the device but Harry held it high beyond her reach.

“I saw the picture you sent me. I told you that you and Anne didn’t have to get me anything,” Harry felt dizzy. “Connor and I got some things a few weeks ago. But that skirt is so adorable!”

One part of him was glad to hear her voice. In fact, Harry found himself smiling too, despite what he just heard. Connor. “Harry, won’t be there right? Hello? Have I been talking to myself this whole time,” Y/N laughed a little; she had a habit of talking endlessly when she was excited. It made Harry more sombre, letting his guards down and his arm in reach for Gemma to grasp.

“Hey! I'm just organizing the clothes, see you soon!" Gemma jammed her finger on the red end call, anxiously glancing at her brother, piecing everything together.

“Who's Connor?" Could it be that the Connor he met last night was the same as Y/N’s? The one who bought pickles and strawberries--one of Y/N favourite food combinations? He mentioned that he had a little girl and Y/N just called to meet his sister and his mum at the park. And baby clothes?

Anne and Gemma looked at each other, quickly deciding that for the benefit of Harry that they should tell him at least a little bit. He was looking as if he was going insane, especially with his bed head pointing his hair out in different directions.

“He’s Y/N’s partner”

Harry gulped, reeling his thoughts to a halt, “Partner? And the baby is...?” The last bit of confirmation was all he needed to lash his feelings out.

“Is... waiting for us at the park! Sorry H gotta go,” Gemma was swift enough to gather all the bags without having Harry chase after her. His state of confusion and shock was enough to render him partially speechless and immobile.

“Hey wait!”

Anne garnered his attention, “Oh, Mrs. Q from next door wants me over for dinner. I’m sure wants to see us both. Why don’t you get ready, Harry?” Anne tugged his arm in the direction of the staircase pushing him to stumble up a couple of steps.

Harry was confused. He made the sounds of his footsteps creeping up the wooden stairs, hearing his mum quietly talking to Gemma on the phone, “Elmsway Park, you said? How long till you're home? I’m not sure how long I can keep him occupied,”

With that being said, Harry was out of his house, silently unlocking and locking the door. He was dressed in some basketball shorts and a graphic tee, slipping on the first pair of sneakers he had tossed aside. Harry jogged to his car, typing in the name of the park on his phones’ GPS. The route was only a few minutes away so he decided to take his time, gathering his scattered thoughts along the way.

He parked just beside the playground scouting the trees around the premises. Harry decided that it was the perfect day. The sun was out. It wasn’t too humid and the birds were chirping on the branches. He could see why the playground was full of children running around in delight. The green patches of grass were partially filled with picnic blankets and food to be shared. Families laughed with each other as one in particular caught his eye.

It made him smile at first, seeing just how adorable the couple was with their baby. He exited the car, making sure to lock the vehicle. With his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his shorts, Harry could feel the tethered grass rubbing against his legs. As he got closer, he couldn’t help the twinge of familiarity spark in his chest, recognizing that what he was staring at was Connor playfully chasing a little girl of about two-years-old as she squealed at how close he was getting to tagging her.

Harry stood by a tree, shielding him away from view. He tried to appear invisible without seeming too creepy. He knew that it was only a matter of seconds before his eyes found the woman he had been missing, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Connor picked up the little girl in his arms, dotting pecks all over the girls’ cheeks, causing her to giggle and push his face away with a tiny palm. And there she was standing outside the raised platform of the playground, coming up to the both of them with a juice box in hand to hydrate the little angel. Connor turned his attention to Y/N, planting the most adoring kiss on her lips that made her smile so wide and the baby cover her eyes. They laughed together, looking like a picture-perfect family.

Gemma sat on the bench, flickering her gaze to the precious family in front of her and to the figure of her brother walking away from the scene. Her heart broke for Harry, and it cracked, even more, when he turned back. This time, watching Connor and Y/N cheer on baby angel to go down the slide. Both of them clapped their hands in enthusiasm as the girl hesitantly slid down the plastic slide. The smile on her face was infectious.

It almost made Harry smile, too.

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