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boxofbadaddiction · 3 years

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Build Me Up, Buttercup

George Weasley x Reader

Song Inspired

Warnings: Zilch. Pure Fluff.

Life at the Burrow can get pretty hectic. With so many people running in and out all of the time things can quickly get out of hand. So, fortunately for Mrs Weasley she had so many ready and willing children to lend a hand when necessary.

Okay, maybe 'ready and willing' is a stretch. It's more of a 'whether you like it or not' arrangement if we're being honest. But regardless it gets the jobs done.

Today being no exception, so while Molly and Arthur left for town to run some errands preparing for the new school year, there were a list of chores for her 'happy' helpers; Fred, George, Y/n, Ron, Harry and Ginny, to get done.

Ron and Harry were set the challenge of De-Gnoming the garden, Ginny had a chicken coop to clean, Fred - to his great pleasure - were on laundry duty (though last George saw there weren't much folding going on. More his brother were sprawled out dramatically over a pile of towels groaning loudly), Y/n meanwhile was on kitchen duty and so that left George the very taxing chore of cleaning the attic. Molly were sure to give he and Fred separate jobs knowing full well, left to their own devices, no work would get done - if anything she'd come home to a bigger mess.

George hated the attic, it were so cluttered and stuffy. Not to mention the Ghoul were no help with all the racket he liked to make banging one piece of junk against the other. Thankfully, however, he were nearly finished.

Placing the final box atop the others he'd organised George dusted his hands before resting them on his hips with a tired sigh.

He let his eyes roam the space - damn they had some junk. Although there were a notable improvement thanks to his efforts. All that remained was to dust the, many, cobwebs and sweep the floors.

Looking around the room he noticed the broom and dustpan were nowhere in sight - that's when he remembered y/n had been using them to clean the living room earlier. As he was sure she'd be finished using them by now, he turned to descend the staircase, ducking briefly to avoid an old pan the Ghoul threw in protest of the houses usual quietness, George made his way towards the sitting room.

Passing Fred, whom were not much better off than when he'd started - still groaning, but now upright and reluctantly folding, this brought an amused smile to his twins face until something piqued his curiosity. There were Muggle music coming from the bottom floor.

Y/n, being a half-blood, had introduced the Weasleys to some records from her home on her previous visit and must have put one on to listen to whilst she cleaned.

As he drew nearer the music grew louder and more recognisable. Her record of The Foundations was playing - a favourite of hers George had learned.

As he reached the bottom flight of stairs his eyes scanned the room - y/n had done an excellent job - unfortunately though the object he required were nowhere to be found. Turning to step off the landing George reddied to ask y/n if she were done using it, assuming she'd carried on her good work to the dining room, but he found himself halted by the sight before him.

Y/n were by the sink scrubbing this mornings dishes. But that's not what stopped him in his tracks. She were dancing and singing along to the record as she did so - quite passionately.

George leant against the nearby cabinet as he admired her while she 'performed', so obliviously happy wrapped up in her own little world. He watched the way her hips swayed in time with the beat, the slight bounce in her step as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. How her hair was flowing wildly with each silly head-bang and nod along. He could see the way her face lit up in joy by the faint reflection in the window. His favourite thing by far though was the way she used the scrubbing brush as a microphone as she sang along.

His smile grew as the next song began to play, which he knew she were very fond of, and her enthusiasm seemed to increase ten fold.

Her arms flailed about of their own accord as she danced, singing excitedly, "Why do you build me up, Buttercup, baby, just to let me down?"

It were moments like these George found himself falling for her harder - everytime. When she finally let her walls down and would let herself be truly happy and unashamedly expressive of her real - crazy - self. A side he wished she'd show more.

His relationship with y/n were complicated in a way. They've known each other for years. Grown up in the same small town and had been sorted into the same house at Hogwarts; so naturally she'd always been close with the Weasleys, especially the Twins, and over the years it became blatantly obvious to everyone, even y/n and George, that they'd developed feelings for each other.

They'd just never managed to act on them.

There'd been plenty of moments. Nights spent up late talking by the fire of the common room. Plenty of long walks by the Black Lake. Plenty of midnight snack runs to the kitchens and Butterbeers drank in Hogsmead. Plenty of moments, just never the right one.

A slight chuckle rolled from the back of Georges throat as he watched on and y/ns movements became more energetic and her voice began to carry more over the music

"...worst of all, you never call, baby. When you say you will. But I still-" y/n had spun in place only to be met with the realisation she were no longer alone and that her little concert had an on-looker.

George stood smugly, with arms folded as his tongue slowly came to wet his lips and a wide toothy smile graced his features.

Y/n was frozen like a deer in headlights. Her make shift microphone still held high. Her eyes left his as she drew a heavy breath but simply shrugged and carried on with her karaoke, only now it weren't a show for the dishes - she instead began to serenade George.

She smoothly tossed the scourer from one hand into the other, her dominant one now pointed dramatically at George as she sung,

"I need you! More than anyone, Darling." George raised his eyebrows in mock surprise as if to say 'oh, really?'

"You know I have from the start" her arm that'd been pointing at the redhead was then swiftly cast high into the air, her head falling back with it singing loudly "so, build me up!" George couldn't help the laugh that erupt from his chest at her theatrics watching as she put her hand over her heart, looking back to him with doey-love eyes, a slight shake to her head finishing the chorus' "don't break my heart" in a loving tone.

As the song continued y/n kept on with her awkward dance moves, beckoning for him to join her. He'd genuinely tried to resist - but he could never say no to her.

His hands found hers twisting in time with the music and twirling her just to hear the laugh it brought from her.

Y/n hadn't expected him to join her much less start singing himself but he did and she couldn't be happier.

"Baby, baby, try to find a little time and I'll make you happy" both were laughing loudly as their moves slowly became more comical. George was swaying her about the room, pushing her away in a twirl before pulling her back into his chest (all those lessons for the Yule ball really paying off right now) as he continued to sing y/n jokingly raised the brush for him to sing into as she had, which he did with as much energy and flare as he does anything.

"But I could be the boy you adore, if you'd just let me know...BA-DAH-DAH!" he yelled the last part particularly loud which nearly had y/n falling to her knees in laughter, but George had caught her.

Y/n snatched the 'microphone' back from him as the chorus came back round and sang sweetly to him once again;

"But I love you still. I need you, more than anyone, Darling. You know that I have since the start. So build me up, Buttercup. Baby, don't break my heart."

George didn't know what came over him. Maybe it were because of how unbelievably adorable she looked in this moment. The way hearing her say 'I love you' got his heart racing, beating harder than a drum. Or simply the build up of years of pointless pining for one another, when they both clearly wanted this - all that wasted time in which they could have been together. Whatever the reason; he knew there'd never be a more right moment than this.

Suddenly his hand was finding her waist and pulling her body tight against his while the other came to her cheek. His thumb delicately traced her bottom lip as his fingers slowly moved to caress and rest lovingly by the nape of her neck.

"I'd never" he'd whispered the words so tenderly, with eyes which seemed to hold more love than could be considered possible. Her body all but melted under his touch, eyes dancing frantically back and forth between his trying to anticipate his next move. But it was her word he was waiting for, he wasn't taking this any further unless he was sure she wanted it, and she did. Her gaze flicked briefly to his lips encouragingly.

Georges hand slowly glided across her soft skin, tracing the line of her jaw till reaching her chin, tilting her head up ever-so-slightly as they leaned towards one another. Their eyes fluttered close, lips only just meeting in a feather-light touch that had y/n inhaling shakily at the tingles which had erupted through her spine. Their lips were just about to connect-

A flash of green and loud crash from the fireplace sent them jumping from their skins. Lungs coughing copious amounts of soot which indicated the return of Mr and Mrs Weasley.

"My, the place looks marvellous" Molly beamed, admiring the dining and living areas. "Afternoon, Kids! Keeping busy then I hope?" Arthur greeted smilingly. "Yeah" George answered, "we're just finishing up the dishes." He grinned down to y/n who was determinately focusing on the two adults in attempt to control her nervousness. "Excellent, well don't let us mind you - we'll be out of your hair in a tick" his father spoke as both parents ascended the staircase fussing over the school supplies they'd purchased.

The teens turned their attention to the long since forgotten dishes in the sink. They worked in comfortable silence, y/n scrubbing as George dried. His eye was constantly being pulled to the girl beside him as he noticed how she were trying - and failing - to hide a smile. Playfully he bumped her hip with his own, which finally turned her attention to him once again. She was waiting for him to speak but he never did. Merely smirking down at her with a glance to her lips, a look that completely broke the girls composed facade as she focused back to the task at hand, biting her lip to suppress a giddy smile.

George did the same, but there were no hiding his own wide smile, not even if he wanted to.

#George weasley x reader #harry potter #george weasley #fred weasley #hp imagine #hp #harry potter fanfiction

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fishmongeringstudies · 3 years

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scene three: every road not taken takes itself, eventually, to the bar at the end of the lane

one: losing the rings. one was a gift from a friend and another was an old convenience store gimmick but the third was my grandmother's engagement ring. 'you're going to lose that ring', said my mom, stuffing alcohol wipes into a ziploc bag two weeks before my flight. 'i won't,' i replied. less than a month into the semester, it was gone.

two: leaving my vans at home. they're extra cool too, from the van gogh collection that dropped in the fall of 2019. i ran to the sneaker store after class the day they came out, my backpack tearing at my shoulders and my hands hot with excitement and even then there were only three sizes left in the style that i wanted (sad, sad self-portrait of a man with holes for eyes), none of them mine. they're way too big for me. they're awful for walking long distances. they're my favorite.

three: filling out my dorm preference form at four o'clock in the morning. i made a less-than sign with the dots, thinking it looked funny and that i might as well fuck around and find out since none of these names meant anything to me. it was true that none of those names meant anything to me but they really should've. i really should've been more of a student by then, one semester into the year, one semester away from the rest of the world.

four: not paying enough attention to the snow. it was gone by the time i looked up from the anxious fuck of my temporary, half-baked life, melted into the ground like blood seeping into the wet earth. in the second week of the semester i remember laughing while talking to a friend from washington over the phone. 'yeah i don't have any friends but at least this campus is fucking beautiful,' i said, kicking up a flurry of white with the toe of my boot. even then, i wasn't really looking.

five: taking a month to finish inception by christopher nolan. when i finally got around to those last fifteen minutes, netflix had taken it down. bye, saito, wherever the fuck you are.

six: kissing the wrong person. then kissing another person, thinking a plus and a minus would cancel each other out, and realizing i'd kissed two wrong persons. two mistakes. two bodies outlined in white chalk on the tarmac that hadn't done a thing for me, even when they were breathing.

seven: telling someone i'd invite them to my dog shower when i adopted a dog in the future and realizing, several weeks later, that i hated them.

eight: not telling him all my poems were about him before he stopped being the you i used to talk about sometimes, delirious with soft monarch daydreams, lying sleepless in bed with my fingers on the keyboard and my heart on a stake. hey, you. all those poems are yours. come get them, i don't want them anymore.

nine: not asking for help.

ten: not asking for more kindness.

eleven: believing in the fundamentally good nature of human beings so much that when you stepped all over my face it only occurred to me to cover my eyes with my hands and get up when the old wounds had healed and scars had formed in their place. this is a different you. this is at least five different you's, carrying six different versions of sin. no one's perfect. but only some of us are bastards.

eleven: i spend the afternoon scrolling through chatlogs with friends from home and working on the puzzles i once promised i'd finish with her. we don't talk anymore, but she was there when i dug the hole in the dirt and planted the idea, so in a way some part of her will always be here. you don't have to tell me i'm being dramatic. but everyone i've met in america has been twice as dramatic as me. they're all in love with the idea of promises, rich with textual detail and lacking in faith. they either want too much or too little so it's never enough, whatever you've laid out on the kitchen table, whatever you've scrounged together from the two suitcases you brought to this country. sure, there's amazon, but jeff bezos is going to die one day by the hands of someone sadder and angrier than me, and besides, there's something about objects that follow you across three planes and two oceans, and don't go missing.

twelve: i miss the idea of hope. not hope itself, which i still have plenty of. but the idea of something so lovely it has to bring out the best in everyone, of hands held around an indigo fire, of solace.

one: someone told me that in the first few weeks of the fall semester people would sit around on the grass with their food and talk, and because it was only the beginning of their long and virtuous college lives they hadn't formed those hard metallic cliques and groups that reflect light in a sharp hyperbolic arc yet, and you could sit down with any of them and be welcomed into the group with the kind of warmth usually reserved for a favorite niece or a long lost friend. i'm imagining the scene as i type this love letter to yesterday, the sun setting behind a girl's head as she laughs at a stranger's joke which wasn't all that funny, we're just nice to each other when we're afraid; each circle a loose connection of bodies, each shape liable to a moment's change. at first there's only polite conversation, what spaceships you've been building, what monsters you want to take on when you're thirty-five, but eventually the scaffolding falls away to reveal the genuine thing underneath, and then numbers are exchanged, words scrawled on whiteboards, plans made. these images haunt me. visions of a lawn full of possibility, faces which haven't yet closed themselves to the idea of the new and the bizarre. i try to paint myself into the picture, beside the guy with the green hair and the my chemical romance shirt and the person who's talking in a loud voice about metaphysics, but it never works. already, the sun has slipped beneath the trees and the conversation has faded to a blur. it's too late for another round of authenticity. everyone is going home.

0: it's not loneliness unless you actively choose to reject yourself. after all, you are company too. you are all that has endured through the years, in spite of the regret clawing at your ankles and the girls laughing at you in the trees. when the world eats itself for a couple of dollars and all the birds lie down in a heap at your feet, you have to stop and think to yourself: maybe this is enough.

0: one day it will be. one day i will be everything i told you i'd become, and you will stand on top of the hill they built this school on, your eyes glued to the ceiling of the sky, and when i crest that writhing blue mass of hope you will whisper, like someone who's been touched by an angel:

you're fucking beautiful.

05.23.2021

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vicunaburger · 4 years

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Admittedly, I’m Hard to See

Fandom: Beetlejuice the Musical Chapters: 12/? Pairing: Beetlejuice x OC (Holidae) The Players: Beetlejuice, Lydia Deetz, Holidae Bell Word Count: 1,668 Warnings: M for Suggestive Content and Language

Notes: The best laid plans blah blah blah...

Chapter 12 - In Which Phrasing is Key

According to the pitch-black darkness outside, it was late.

Holidae stared at herself in the mirror, fidgeting around and trying to psych herself up for what she was about to do. She was happy that Lydia had gone to bed hours ago, satisfied that she would be too deep into slumber to be awoken by any clandestine conversations. It had been several days since their heart to heart in the attic, and neither of them had been the first to summon back their resident ghost. An unspoken stalemate between the two women, not out of anger, but out of reluctance.

“Okay, Holli, you can do this. You can be firm and fair. Just… tell him…” She pointed sternly at her reflection, as though giving herself a lecture. “You look into those gold-yellow. Gross yellow. Eyes and you tell him that you want to take things easy. Ease into things. Take it slow and steady. Not getting crazy. Keeping our wits about us.”

Leaning forward, she tapped on the mirror glass, “You are a grown ass woman, how hard can this be?”

After a beat, she slumped over on the vanity, groaning in frustration, “…who are you kidding, Holidae? You’re going to crumble like a ruin.”

Holidae stood upright, beginning to pace the room, tugging at the end of her nightshirt. There was no point in delaying it anymore, was there? The longer she put off the conversation, the more her overall resolve would weaken until there would be no conversation to be had.

Taking a breath, she spoke into the empty air, “Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice… Beetlejuice?”

There was no crash of lightning or billowing smoke as she had expected; he just materialized in the middle of her bedroom, taking a few steps before realizing the scenery had changed. Beetlejuice had been tearing around the Neitherworld; angry that he was so helpless in situations like this. There was no way for him to appear in the mortal realm without a summons, and the only two people in the world who could see him had been refusing to bring him back.

His entire form was stained red as he took note of his surroundings, whirling around to spot Holidae staring at him quietly. She looked so small in that moment, not buried under layers of intentionally baggy clothing, dressed in a ragged shirt and long pants; her hands picking at the stray thread at the hem.

“Where’s Lyds?” Beej finally asked, brushing something off his sleeve.

“Sleeping.” Holidae shifted her weight back slightly.

He chuckled, “Oooh, sneaking around and summoning ghosts behind her back? Shady. I love it.”

Beetlejuice brushed past her, going over to examine the objects around the room, making a point of ignoring her completely. One particular object caught his attention, his clawed fingers dragging across the familiar pages, taking note of the bookmarked passages.

“How did you get the book open? Got another dead guy hanging around?” Beetlejuice turned glanced at her, tempted to shut the Handbook in spite. “Trying to find a way to get rid of me for good?”

“Recently Deceased is a really vague term once you think about it. One of the houseplants died and she pried it open with one of the stems.” Holidae explained, crossing the room to join him. “They really should take at a look at phrasing once in a while and revise that Handbook. There are so many loopholes. Lawyer’s dream text.”

Beetlejuice abruptly moved away before she could get too close to his back, spinning on his heels to face her head on, his hand covering part of his chest, “I take it you’ve done a little light readin’, Jolly Holiday? Did we find out anything interesting? Exorcisms? Seances? You could have just asked me about stuff like that, you know. A genuine denizen of the Neitherworld.”

“I don’t want to exorcise anyone! If it’s anything like the movie, I want no part of it. No sir. Too sticky and gross and ugghhh…” Holidae made a face, trying to hold back the involuntary dry heave as she recalled the film. “Nevermind. Listen. We need to have a serious discussion.”

“A serious discussion? Oh… well, in that case, we need to be in a serious mood.” He nodded, “But we can’t be serious like this. This calls for a more adult theme.”

With a snap of his fingers, he transported the two of them onto Holidae’s bed. Beej was settled against the headboard, and Holidae was facing him while straddled over his lap. His hands were holding onto her waist; fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt to keep her balanced. Holidae tried to pry herself out of his grip, or at least move his hand so it wasn’t pressing against her green-yellow bruises.

“Hey, I mean it when I say it’s serious, Lawrence.” She thought the use of his proper name would get her point across. “Lydia and I were talking when you left…”

No longer covered in his angry red hue, his tone was turning more azure by the moment, “Yeah? And what, pray tell, does that have to do with my beautiful self?”

Falling silent, she tried to think of the best way to speak her peace without upsetting him, staring at his necktie as if it held all the answers she required, “Is it true you’re promiscuous?”

Not the most tactful way to phrase the question, but it was the only thing that sprang to mind. The ghost blinked at her slowly… once, twice… before wetting his lips with a noticeably long tongue. Holidae caught the last bit of he before it went back into his mouth, momentarily distracted by the appendage. Her resolve was already failing and they hadn’t even started talking.

“Loaded question, babes.” Beetlejuice’s voice was low, and he pulled her in a bit closer. “What brought up my sexual history?”

“It… may or may not have been implied that you are prone to sleeping around for fun.” Holidae’s pulse jumped, already regretting her whole plan. “Which… is something I’m not… I mean. It’s fine, do what you want, I’m not going to judge. I’m not your keeper. I just… it’s not something… wait, that’s not going to sound right. I-I-I don’t know what… how… to do this.”

“Whoa whoa… hey now, take a breath. That’s something breathers need to do. It’s in your name.” He let go of her waist, bringing his hands to the sides of her face. “Whew, you’re a little toasty there. I think you’re circuits are frying, ya know? I’ve seen spontaneous combustion and it is not pretty. Chunks everywhere. Don’t do that.”

Taking a few hiccuping breaths, Holidae tried to get her mind back on track, “I don’t sleep around!”

“Why are you so fixated on this- wait. Wait wait wait. Let me take a wild stab in the dark and say that my bestest best friend just happened to let slip my sex life after she happened to catch us together? Even though we weren’t even doing anything fun yet. Trust me, you’ll know when the good stuff happens.” He ran a hand through his fluff of hair, the color shifting from blue to deep green in moments. “What did she say?”

Holidae was picking at his necktie now, rolling the fabric between her fingers, “…that you’ve never talked about the same partner twice.”

He rolled his eyes, knocking his skull against the headboard, “Ugggh. Wow. Could she have picked the worst phrasing or what? I just tell her that kinda stuff to gross her out. It’s fun. If she wouldn’t get all squidgy about it, I would find something else to talk about. Do you like hearing about your friend’s sex lives in graphic detail? …wait, if you do, that is actually a very attractive quality and I would like to know more.”

She shook her head vehemently, “No no, that stuff isn’t my business.”

“Annnnnnd that is why it’s so fun to annoy Lyds with my sordid sexual conquests. She gets all weird and throws stuff at me, it’s hilarious.” Beej’s hands settled on her thighs this time, his claws tapping lightly in random patterns. “So you got the impression that I was just gonna pull the old money’s on the dresser routine with you?”

Nodding, Holidae was still fiddling with his tie, keeping usually focused and quiet.

“Did you summon me here with the intention of telling me we shouldn’t fuck if that’s all I wanted?” He pinched her leg, trying to get her attention.

“Ow,” She dropped the tie, rubbing her sore skin. “I would have said it more politely, but yeah.”

With a toothy grin, Beetlejuice tossed her on the bed next to him, rolling over her and pinning her to the mattress. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, feeling her pulse flutter underneath the skin, nipping along the vein with his teeth.

“There are plenty of other things we could do, ya know. Why jump to the main course without savoring the appetizers?” He laughed, sticking his hand under her shirt, gliding along until he could feel the slightly raised bruises. “Could give you another one of these as a little treat, hm?”

“N-no, that’s not… what I meant.” Holidae panted softly, trying to gather up the will to stop herself from giving up too easy.

“I know.” He ran his tongue along her collar bone, dipping below the fabric of her shirt. “You’re adorable, you know that? I can hear that brain of yours firing on all cylinders wondering how you can get it through to me. But don’t you see, Holidae, you don’t need to. I know exactly what you’re afraid of, and surprise surprise, I’m not that kinda demon. You gotta trust me, babes.”

Holidae slipped her hand into his hair, gently pulling him away from her neck, watching as his eyes turned darker and his head leaned into her touch. He seemed sincere through his words; his deep, gravely voice somehow soothing her fears like a balm.

“Lydia’s going into town for the weekend, some photography camp out in the woods.” Holidae whispered, lightly scratching his scalp with her nails.

He let out a sound that reminded her of a large animal purring deep in its chest, “It’s a date.”

Writing Tags: @mr-geuse @paxenera @leiasolo77 @go-commander-kim @ashemspirit @asriells

#beetlejuice broadway #beetlejuice fanfiction #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice x oc #beetlejuice x self insert #writing time

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maxineswritingcenter · 5 years

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Take it on the Run- Dean Winchester x reader part 4

Read part 3 here!

Warnings: None? Language maybe?

Summary: After a month long, whirl-wind romance with the new guy in town (Dean), he ghosts, as if he never existed. You are devastated, eating plenty of ice cream, your friend decides to take you out for drinks and karaoke. Maybe something happens who knows ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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Four Days Later - Dean's Point of View

I sat with my back against the headboard of a motel bed. The beer bottle was slack in my fingers as I did what I had done since I'd gotten there. Drink. Bottle after bottle. My grip tightened as anger rushed through me. I pulled the bottle to my mouth and knocked back the remaining drops in it. It was the last bottle. I doubted Sammy would go out and feed into this.

'Its my own damn fault,' I thought to myself. I was full of self-hatred and malice for what I did. I kept thinking over and over how I could have done things differently. How I could have changed it. It all came to a heart crushing reality when I looked down at the necklace in my other hand. It was (Y/N)'s. The story was (Y/N) had found it after a tornado ripped through the town some odd years ago. It was in the wreckage by an old cider mill. It was old then. But the pendant on the chain shined so brightly that rescuers were able to find a family trapped in their cellar underneath rock and rumble. (Y/N) said it was a sign of hope. Said I could use some hope.

- Four Days Earlier-

I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be doing this again. But I have to go. I have to keep (Y/N) safe. I was packing my bag of clothes and other essentials in the motel when the door opened. My whole body went stiff. Like I could hear (Y/N)'s heart breaking.

"What the hell is this, Dean?" (Y/N) didn't sound mad, didn't sound happy either. Almost scared. I closed my eyes and turned to face the person that loved me. Me, the most dangerous son of a bitch alive. And was I ever a son of a bitch now. When I opened my eyes, I couldn't meet the person standing across from me.

"It's-" I began to explain. I didn't know how I could explain this away.

"It's not what it looks like?" (Y/N) finished my sentence for me, tears falling on a face that was turning red, "Well then tell me, Dean. Tell me what it doesn't look like. Tell me you're not leaving again."

I knew I couldn't say a word. Not a goddamn word. Because that face said it all. Everything I feared. Everything I knew I was doing in the name of keeping (Y/N) safe. But was this all worth it. Lying, leaving, again?

(Y/N) came closer to me and shoved my shoulder, "Go on! Tell me! You sick son of a bitch, tell me!"

"Oh yeah?" I shouted back, "And what would you like me to say? Sam found a case, I have to go." I zipped up my bag.

"I want you to tell me that you were going to leave again like some goddamn magic act! I want you to tell me that if I would have come ten minutes later you would be gone!" (Y/N) grabbed my phone that was on the nightstand next to the motel bed, "I want you to tell me that if I would have called this phone I wouldn't get an answer because it would be disconnected again..." The voice that was once so strong slowly turned into a whisper, a sob ending the sentence and made my stomach create knots.

"You said you loved me..." It wasn't a question for me. But it deserved an answer. I wanted to stop all of this. To drop everything and apologize and live in this rinky dink town for the rest of my life. But I couldn't. Life wouldn't allow that. But I didn't. And it was something I was going to regret. I grabbed my bag and walked out, grabbing the phone on the way out.

"Dean!" (Y/N) called, following me out the door of the now empty motel room. I got into the driver's side of the Impala and tossed my bag into the back seat.

"Dean, please!" (Y/N)'s voiced was wracked with sobs. Little hiccups forming between breaths. I started the car and pulled out of the parking on and began to drive away.

"DEAN!" I heard the faint shout as I pulled away. I looking into the dash mirror and watched (Y/M)'s figure disappear as I drove further and further away.

HEY! OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR!" I was jolted forward by the loud banging and shouting coming from the door. I would have thought some crazy neighbors but the voice sounded all too familiar. I opened the door and was shoved aside by a very frazzled looking (Y/F/N) with a ball of grey and brown trotting behind them on a red lead.

"I told you I'd find you. Now where is (Y/N)?" They said, looking around, "You can come out now!"

"What? What do you mean?" I asked, my head still foggy from my bender.

(Y/F/N) scoffed, hands on their hips, "Don't act stupid with me, Dean. I called, I texted, I went to the motel, the apartment, the office, the diner, the bar, nothing. So I will ask again, where the hell is (Y/N)?" I looked from (Y/F/N) to the ball of fluff on the floor. This cat, Fuzzybritches, was said to be wise. And her little beady eyes seemed to be staring into my soul. It was then that the full gravity of what they said hit me.

"You can't find (Y/N)?" I asked.

"Um. Yeah. Duh, have you been listening to anything I've been saying?" They sat on a chair by the window, Fuzzybritches jumping nimbly on their lap.

"(Y/F/N), (Y/N)'s not here..." I said slowly, not even seeming true to myself.

"Oh my God..." Their voice started as a whisper but got higher, "Oh my God, oh my God? Oh Jesus, (Y/N)'s been kidnapped! Oh God people started going missing again after you left, I should have been there!"

Just as I was about to ask to clarify, Sam walked in, looking over the situation, especially the cat.

"We have a problem." He said.

"My best friend has been kidnapped and probably going to end up dead because I assumed you were the answer!" They vaguely pointed toward me.

"How long has (Y/N) been gone?" Sam asked, handing them a glass of water.

"Last text I got was four days ago. The night you left. Again." They paused, then sighed, "I got a text saying: With Dean, TTYL. But I just thought it was really strange since (Y/N) doesn't usually use text lingo. But I figured everything was fine." I looked at Sam who was thinking the same thing I was. There were two of them. And this time it was personal it seemed.

Sam got up, patting (Y/F/N) on the back, "Thank you."

"For what? What the hell is going on?" They asked, holding the cat close.

I put my hands on either of their shoulders, looking them straight in the eye, "We're going to go. Stay here. Do not leave this room. I need you to trust me." I watched them nod, "And do not open that door unless we have (Y/N) with us. Nobody. Not even me."

"Okay..." They squeaked out. I grabbed the keys and left the room, making sure it was locked behind me. Sam and I started on the road.

"Got the silver?" I asked, gripping onto the wheel.

"Yeah." He answered, looking at the necklace still tightly held in my hand.

Four Days Earlier - (Y/N)

I decided to eat away my sorrows at the diner, but only settled on coffee. I didn't see Darlene inside so I could avoid the topic for a little while at least. Maybe I would just never come here again. I would avoid this diner and all of its employees for the rest of my natural life. I told him everything. My deepest thoughts and feelings. Parts of my life that my own parents didn't even know about. I was a fool. I was an idiot. (Y/F/N) was right. I shouldn't have rushed back into it. But God was it hard when his eyes sparkles in that special way when he told me he loved me. But then I remembered back to my first thoughts about him. He had given that look to plenty of women before. He had probably given that love speech to plenty of women before. I sighed and looked around. It was just about closing time here. The evening waitress was sweeping away. She stopped by my table, giving me a small smile.

"We're closing, sweetie. Do you want me to call someone for you?" She was just being nice. She could probably feel just the utter sadness pouring out of my pores at this point.

"No, thank you though." I left ten dollars on the counter, more than enough for the single coffee I had. I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and walked out. Summer was ending, bringing the cold weather that was just as frigid as my heart and soul felt. I walked around the corner to the side parking lot where I had parked when I stopped. Darlene's blonde curls shined in the flickering light of the lamp post. She turned to face me as I approached, a strange golden glare in her eyes. But it was probably the light plying tricks.

"Aw there you are, darlin!" She said, her accent seemed a lot more twangy than usual.

"I heard through the grapevine 'bout yer boyfrand. How 'bout I drive ya home? You jus' look so tired." She asked.

I shook my head, looking down as I unlocked my door with my keys.

"That's alright, Darlene. I can manage." As I unlocked the door I heard this wet and loud thud hit the pavement behind me. I looked in the reflection of the mirror and no longer saw Darlene, but Dean.

"You sure about that, sweetheart?" He slammed down an object on my head, smashing my face into my window and forcing me to the ground where everything faded to black.

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

Betcha didn't see that comin! Or maybe you did I don't know how predictable I am.

Reblogs and likes if you liked it!

My requests are open so shoot me an ask, I have fandoms listed in my bio.

Read part 5 here!

Tag list:

(Send me an ask if you want to be on the taglist!)

@happy-little-marvel

@hobby27

@lsrgekwhtvr

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean x reader #dean winchester #supernatural #supernatural imagine #supernatural reader insert #supernatural creatures

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rjzimmerman · 5 years

Link

I’ve had plenty of days this spring in the desert on which I was awed, primarily because I was witnessing an explosion of life in the desert resulting from a wet winter and early spring. The colors, their vibrancy, the variety, the depth and breadth of the carpets of color and the odors all snatched me into a state of awe, so that nothing else much mattered at that moment. I could hike further and over obstacles, stoop down and kneel to experience the sight from the perspective of the wildlife and take a photo of that, all without thinking about the body weariness or the ache in my knees. I had one of those days yesterday, reflected in the photos I posted earlier today. I was awed by the colors and the shapes and how the contrasting and complementing colors were playing tricks with my head. I wanted to embrace it all and share it, even though I knew that was stupid and impossible and irrational. That’s what nature can do.

Excerpt from this article from Sierra Club:

Scientifically speaking, the storm brought me into a state of awe, an emotion that, psychologists are coming to understand, can have profoundly positive effects on people. It happens when people encounter a vast and unexpected stimulus, something that makes them feel small and forces them to revise their mental models of what’s possible in the world. In its wake, people act more generously and ethically, think more critically when encountering persuasive stimuli, like arguments or advertisements, and often feel a deeper connection to others and the world in general. Awe prompts people to redirect concern away from the self and toward everything else. And about three-quarters of the time, it’s elicited by nature.

It was only 11 years ago that psychologists Dacher Keltner of the University of California, Berkeley, and Jonathan Haidt, then at the University of Virginia, proposed awe as an emotion worth studying. “In the upper reaches of pleasure and on the boundary of fear,” they wrote in the journal Cognition and Emotion in 2003, “awe is felt about diverse events and objects, from waterfalls to childbirth to scenes of devastation. . .Fleeting and rare, experiences of awe can change the course of a life in profound and permanent ways.”

Over twenty studies later, the picture of awe is clearer and more detailed. “In various studies we’ve asked people, ‘What’s running through your mind when you feel awe?’” Keltner said, “and they’ll say things like ‘I want to make the world better,’ or ‘I just feel like being quiet,’ or ‘I feel like purifying things.’ It makes you humble. It makes you curious about the world.” To awe, Keltner attributes both the faith of Krishna, who, according to myth, on being shown the secrets of the universe through a third eye, was suddenly ready to do God’s work; and the desire of John Muir to protect the environment, which was brought about by his life-altering experiences in the Sierra. Throughout his writings, Muir described quintessential awe experiences. Take this moment, when he feels pleasurably energized by the massive and threatening Mt. Hood: “There stood Mount Hood in all the glory of the alpenglow, looming immensely high, beaming with intelligence, and so impressive that one was overawed as if suddenly brought before some superior being newly arrived from the sky.”

#awe #nature #outdoors

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merryfortune · 5 years

Text

Little Glowy Friend

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Vrains

Word Count: 1.4

Additional Info: Resolved Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post Canon, Domestic

And that night, the first night, Spectre did something uncharacteristic of himself. He let himself be small and he let himself be comfortable. Whole. He went to bed, his head gently shifting against his pillow whilst he detached his Duel Disc and under the sheets, he did not sleep like a log but rather curled up, a foetal position around his most prized possession. No, that is incorrect. His most prized companion, the creature which inhabited his Duel Disc.

Spectre had never been one of those children. They type of child who had to cling to something soft to sleep, to soothe and to comfort them in the darkness and against uneasy rest. It was just another way all his peculiarities and eccentricities manifested but, in this moment, he could almost feel his six-year-old self resurface within his late adolescent body and reclaim a comfort that Spectre had always denied himself. He found it strangely freeing, completing, to relish such a late-coming acceptance.

The Lieutenants – before they had even been Lieutenants at all, when they were still just assistants to Dr Kogami – had found it interesting that Spectre actively – or inactively – resisted normalcy. When Ryoken had brought him home, they had been terrified at first. After all, the image of his torture had been seared unto their brains, even though he had revelled in the electrocution and starvation. And, once they got to know him a bit better, they came to adore all his quirks.

Though, it was difficult to tell if they fawned over him because they wanted to atone or because he amused them. He still wonders that; if some part of them still had him detached from their selves to save them the guilt and consciousness. Spectre didn’t mind. He liked all the ways that they played with him; even conducting experiments. One such experiment he recalled them conducting on him was a Harlow experiment.

They were fascinated by how he perceived comfort and what he took comfort in. His concept of a Mother Tree over a human mother was novel to them, so one day, they tested him not unlike Harlow and his baby monkeys. They set up a similar experiment; food or comfort. And Spectre, as a child, hadn’t understood why there were two fake mothers for him to cling to.

He had chosen food over comfort, not even once switching between them. He would consistently pick food. The idea of the experiment was to time how long Spectre, their test subject, spent with both objects but Spectre rebelled, innocently, against such a measure to find what was important. That’s not how Spectre saw it; it is still not how he sees it, either. He liked the ‘metal mother’ who gave him treats when he opened her up at his whim and took the chocolate and other candies from her. He never once touched the towelled ‘mother’ who was supposed to offer him comfort.

Upon being asked why, he simply replied that the comfort item they had chosen for him didn’t appeal to him. It wasn’t evocative of a mother’s love for him. Instead, he saw more of his Tree Mother in the ‘metal mother’ who cast strange shadows when the light which streamed in from the window hit her right. Spectre found that such a thing, as cold to the touch as it was, was more evocative of the dappled sunshine and streaky moonlight he had experienced beneath the caring and tender branches of his Mother Tree all those years ago. Dr Kogami’s assistants marvelled at such a reply.

Yet, right now, as Spectre curled up on his bed with his hand trailing along the rim of his Duel Disc, a finger encircling it and imagining petting Earth and his other hand, close to his chest and his thumb adjacent to his mouth, he felt how he had grown as a person. Especially as he reflected on those numb, childhood memories of what familial love – what love in general – had once been to him. But, right now, he revelled in the change and was embracing the domesticity of it with a full and open heart for his heart was no longer in disrepair, there was no longer than incessant hole in it. A hole born of his longing for true companionship, for true love, and for true comfort.

He had seen it in plenty of other children. Those who sought the comfort of security blankets and toys to help them get to sleep. He had not been one of those children. Not when the anchor of all his securities couldn’t be brought it inside into the den of the human-made. After all, the matrons of the orphanage would never let him sleep with even a pot plant nearby to help quell any anxieties of the night that he had as a child; as a cruel, yet still vulnerable child.

But as Spectre rested his head, he felt the flutter of a strange comfort in his heart. It was a warm feeling that he savoured, cherished, and it was all because he had been reunited with the creature born of how he had duelled in that white room, alone, all those years ago. It had been a long, long time since he had experienced such serenity.

Spectre sighed contentedly to himself. His muted noise piqued Earth’s interest. With weary, blue eyes, Earth slowly peeked out of the Disc, over its orange-and-black edges and watched as his Origin tried to sleep but was unable to succumb to slumber. There was a childlike giddiness in his pale teal eyes. Yet, Earth couldn’t discern what Spectre was thinking from his expression; it was happy yet dearly bittersweet.

So, he dared to ask, and he dared to inch closer, crawling out of the safe haven that Spectre wanted to make out of him. Earth’s hands, large amongst the Ignis but surprisingly small to someone as gargantuan to the creatures as a human, especially one as tall as Spectre. Earth’s finger traced along Spectre’s face; it was too close. His cheeks were wet, yet Earth couldn’t swab away any truly fallen teardrops.

“What are you thinking of?” Earth asked.

“That I love you.” Spectre confessed, his brows creased deeply upon his malleable face and his eyes watered. His voice as sincere as the tolling of cathedral bells.

Earth smiled an Ignis smile: a pleasant and placid emotion which caused the glitter in his eyes to swirl and the shape of them distort, like a squished balloon but it was cute. Very cute. Spectre liked to see Earth smile, he discovered in the quiet moment following his reply.

“I-I’m glad.” Earth elected to reply.

Spectre gently placed his hand on his Duel Disc. His fingers tracing the edges of the device. He half-smiled, eyes fluttering closed tiredly.

“You’re very bright.” Spectre told his Ignis. “Almost like a night-light or lamp.”

“O-Oh? Am I?” Earth stammered, a touch embarrassed. He sank slightly back and into the digital depths of the Duel Disc.

“I don’t mind, I’ll get used to it.” Spectre replied and he was thrilled by the possibility of getting used to such a thing. “But I would like to sleep, I’ll just need to adjust with you being nearby.”

“No, it’s fine…” Earth murmured, and he sank further and further into the Duel Disc, transforming into an eyeball upon its surface. “Humans prefer to sleep in darkness, yes?”

“Mhm.” Spectre mumbled to himself and he drew in his legs closer still to his chest.

His hand remained curled along the edges of the Duel Disc and he let his forehead fall closer to it. He just wanted to touch and keep touching it, touching Earth. He wanted to be sure that this was true; that there was no illusion. This was the first night. The first night of many nights. They could be together at last. No more fighting, no more wishing the other dead, simply atoning for the way that fate had previously divided them and enjoying the ensuing partnership.

Finally, at long last, Spectre felt whole. Complete. As though he were exactly as he always had meant to be, despite the life that he had lived. He had no regrets, his devotion to Ryoken would never falter, but there was something intrinsically and satisfyingly right about how he felt right now, in this moment by the cover of darkness and the cover his bedding with his dear and beloved Ignis.

#yugioh vrains #vrains #yugioh #spectre (vrains)#earth (vrains)#writing tag #this is intended as ship but no one who interacts with my spectre/earth fics ever acknowledges it as ship #so i'm not going to bother tagging it as ship #but i wrote this like a month ago and today's the day #mothereartshipping

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wtnvwritings · 5 years

Text

Ranking

AO3 Version

Ship: Kevin/Reader

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Implied/outright sexual harassment and non-graphic murder of an unnamed Strex employee

Wordcount: 1.8k

Summary: In Strexcorp, ranks are a very important factor in understanding the hierarchy of employees, supervisors and managers. It's generally understood that someone of low rank has no authority over someone of higher rank, and the numbers are always worn on the employee badges mandated by Strexcorp.

You have to deal with people of higher ranks all the time while working in the Desert Bluffs Community Radio Station, and sometimes they try to abuse that.

But Kevin?

He doesn't ever wear a badge.

You can’t breathe.

Though there is plenty of air around you--a fair surplus of it in fact--you simply can’t draw in the breath to get it into your lungs. The thoughts needed to do so are elsewhere in your brain, lost to the chaos of the moment that made the entire world feel as if time has stopped completely. Your muscles feel tight and your eyes are wide, hands shaking as you clutch so tight to the clipboard between your fingers, the object held up against your chest like some sort of pitiful shield.

“You know, I’ve seen you around a lot,” Comes the voice of a snake, spilling from the lips of what otherwise looks like a man. “You’re Kevin’s little pet, right? Always running around the studio like some sort of lost puppy.”

He has the face of a man and the eyes of a man and every other piece of what you may assume belong to a human, a male human, though he’s anything but--his eyes are hallow and lifeless and yet they still. feel. so. cold. He stares down at you in a way that makes you feel disgusted, makes you feel vulnerable and week.

And you can’t do a damn thing about it.

There’s a badge on the man’s chest, one that reflects just enough light so that you can see what’s written upon it: Rank 13.

Your own badge? Rank 5.

Though they are but numbers, what’s written on his badge makes you want to cry or scream (though neither is honestly an option). It means that you can’t get angry at him. You can’t tell him to leave you alone. You can’t do anything but stand there, a smile forced over your lips and your voice dripping with a facsimile of light-heartedness that the very sound of it makes you sick to your own stomach.

“You know how it is!” You force the words from your lips, hoping that he catches the venom behind them. “He’s always got a job for me to do! Printing out scripts and collecting research and-”

“You know, you could have a better boss than him.”

The man speaks casually but his words sound as if he’s not even listening to you. As if he doesn’t even care. You suppress a shiver and try to meet his eyes, try not to let the dangerous look in his expression make you cower, no matter how terrified you feel.

“I don’t...know what you mean,” You say smoothly, stepping back just a hair when it feels like he’s pressing too close to you. The man, without breaking eye contact, takes another step closer.

“He can’t protect you,” the words sound like poison on the air, like venom and layers of distinct danger that you want to stay far, far away from. “A cute little thing like you will be torn apart in Strexcorp--I can get you lots of nice things, if you quit your position and work with me over in the marketing department.”

He reaches out and wraps a hand around one of your arms. The grip is so tight that it’s almost painful.

“Wouldn’t you like that? Extra minutes and maybe even a day off--” He takes another step closer to you, getting too close, way too close, you can feel his breath and his stare on your skin. “No reason someone like you should be stuck here with a man like him. I mean, all you’d have to do is be a good little pet for me and-”

He stops. All of a sudden, the man just stops speaking. You look up at him after a moment, fear and confusion mixing in your expression to find that he’s not even looking at you anymore, but to something a few steps down the hall to the side.

With a held breath, you risk a glance in the same direction.

The sight of a familiar face, scars and pitch-black eyes and too-wide smile, cause you to lose yourself for a moment with a faint sob, quickly muffled behind a hand to try and hide that you simply can’t keep a smile on your face anymore. You can’t, not when tears are starting to distort your vision.

Kevin merely looks at the scene in front of him, smile wide and cold and dangerous. You’ve only ever seen that look on him twice before, and neither time it had ended well for the person who earned that look from him.

“I was wondering where you had gone off to!” Kevin says as he looks to you, his words a touch too hard for the fake joy to sound even mildly honest. “And here I thought the printer was acting up again.”

The man takes a step back from you at last, his focus entirely on the other man, the air growing tense.

“I’m so sorry for keeping your assistant,” he said, so gently and measured for having made you so uncomfortable. “We were just having a little talk, can’t help but tell some jokes to my coworkers in the radio department!”

Kevin’s look doesn’t fade, doesn’t fall, does’t change. His smile is static, which looks all the more disturbing to someone who isn’t around him often. Scars are not an uncommon sight upon Strexcorp employees (especially the oldest ones) but Kevin’s are...well. The stuff of nightmares at the worst of times, and it doesn’t help that his clothes, his hands--they always look bloodstained.

“A joke?” The question is forced and hard and sharp. The radio host takes a step closer, his face looking momentarily under one of the lights of the hallway and--

Well. There was a reason he had a voice for radio than a face for TV.

Kevin’s lips finally move into a wide, sharp, open-mouth grin, hands settling on his hips. Every movement of his body is tense. Sharp.

Restrained.

“You should tell me the joke,” he says at last, and it’s only then that you have the sense to look at his chest, only now noting that Kevin...doesn’t wear a badge at all. He simply has a name tag of some sort, pinned to the front of his shirt. “I always love the excuse for a little laughter during the work day, after all.”

There is a moment of silence, an obvious parsing of thoughts before the man finally fumbles over his own words. He glances to you, then back to Kevin, then tries to save what’s left of the situation with a sheepish, fake chuckle.

“Oh, I dunno, it’s a pretty stupid one.”

Kevin takes another step closer.

“Tell me the joke.”

Your offender tries to speak, perhaps another excuse or a way around the subject, but it’s only then that the radio host looks at you, really looks over you, keeping your tear-filled gaze for several seconds--

And the smile drops. Only for a moment, a split-second flash of something dark and red-filtered, and Kevin’s lifeless eyes turn back to the man.

“I noticed that my pet isn’t smiling.”

Kevin’s eyes get a little wider, his smile a little sharper, his jaw muscles a bit tenser. The air feels so hellishly cold, like the warmth has been sucked right out of the hallway, like you’ve been dropped right into the arctic.

Oh no.

“I uh--of course! I saw that too,” the man looks hopeless now, a mere fragment of the self-confidence he had when he had you against the wall mere minutes before. “So I decided to talk, you know, to put a smile on-”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence as Kevin abruptly steps forward, throwing an arm around the other’s shoulders and neck.

“How thoughtful of you!” He says sharply, pulling the man towards him. “You know, it’s moments like this that make it so worth working here at the radio station--all these wonderful relationships we have.”

Kevin ignores the protests of the man tucked in his iron-tight grip, his smile getting wider, so wide that you have to wince in pain for him from how it tugs at the stitches at the corners of his mutilated mouth.

“...and it makes me especially happy to do this.”

But that’s when you have to look away, dropping the clipboard with a loud noise and raise your hands up and over your eyes.

But you can still hear it.

A scream, though that noise is shortened, cut-off by the sudden sound of ripping, rending flesh. It's wet and disgusting, broken only briefly by the sound of bones snapping and muscles tearing--then, finally, two dull thuds on the laminated floor.

You stand there shaking, hands still over your eyes and mind still trying to filter through all of the emotions that linger from when the man had you against the wall. You can still feel his breath and eyes and hand on your skin, the sound of his disgusting voice saying disgusting things, and the tears start spilling down your cheeks.

Before you can let out the first soft, small sob of noise there are hands gently grabbing your wrists, pulling them down so that the light of the hallway blinds your eyes for a moment, so that you can glance up and see the entirety of Kevin’s face taking up your vision.

There’s blood splattered over his jaw, fresh ruby stains on the front of his shirt, but he’s smiling again and this time it’s at least mildly genuine of a look on his face.

“It’s alright, dearest,” He says gently, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “He won’t be a bother to you anymore. Let’s go back to the editing room together and I’ll call someone to clean this...mess...up, hm?”

All you can do is nod, leaving Kevin to kiss you again on the forehead, then carefully on either of your cheeks; you can feel his tongue lick away the tears that had fallen in warm, wet rivulets down your face.

Though the cold fury is gone, there is still a tension to the man’s body.

“I’ve got you,” Kevin whispers, slowly leading you down the hallway, his voice beside your ear. “Don’t fear for a moment, dearest--I’ll never let anyone put a frown on that pretty face again.”

And that was all that was said about that man, unnamed and unimportant in the grand scheme of StrexCorp. You never did see what Kevin had done to him, and the radio host was certainly never reprimanded of whatever had happened. It was simply as if that man had never existed, wiped clean from the memory of the station.

It was so weird, so strange considering that man’s rank, considering your own rank as well. It just...was a mystery, one that you didn’t and still don’t have the care or curiosity to ask about.

You know, you never did learn what Kevin’s own rank is, considering you’d later realize that he actually doesn’t wear a badge on his chest.

Well.

Maybe you don’t need to know.

#wtnv #welcome to night vale #kevin's assistant au #kevin #wtnv kevin #readershot #kevin readershot #sfw #sfw readershot #writing

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the-revisionist · 6 years

Note

Well, reading those was already a journey... hm, but how bout 1 or 19. Or, you know, BOTH.

Okay then, BOTH! And also harkening back to @ylizam‘s request for 19 as well. (For reference, list of prompts here.)

LTiH, Gillian/Caroline, post series 4-ish.

Note: the film that Gillian describes at length is acomplete fabrication; Night of the Lepus,I’m afraid, is the real deal.

the most important three seconds in the imaginary history of cinema

Not unlike a great musician merging with an instrument, thetelly remote has, to Caroline’s strangely aroused dismay, become a mightyextension of Gillian’s hand. She points it with thrilling command, like D’Artagnanfacing Cardinal Richelieu in a battle for the soul of France; then throttles itviolently while cursing her son and his infernal Xbox, which she believes to bethe rightful cause of the nonfunctioning black screen that mocks them.

“That b-bloody stupid pillock, always messing about with thesetup—” Gillian snarls and gives the remote another useless shake, demonstratingthe same impatient, childlike rage at insensate objects that Caroline haswitnessed in her granddaughter, who delights in twisting and slamming arounddolls with unrepentant, rugby-player-on-steroids glee.

As Caroline waits for the temper tantrum to subside,questions as to her romantic suitability with this exquisite maniac once againarise. She notes for perhaps the thousandth time that there is no such thing asthe perfect partner and her expectations have always been loftily, unrealisticallyhigh whilst at the same time acknowledging that shagging one’s stepsister onthe side is perhaps not a personal best and more suited to a troubled but minorheadline in Woman’s Weekly. So she hasopted not to think of Gillian as Gillian per se, but rather My Nice-SmellingIllicit Secret Girlfriend Who Can Change the Oil in my Jeep But if My MotherFinds Out She Will Kill Us Both and Have a Stroke Maybe at the Same Time. Itmakes for unexpected headaches, complicated secrecy, and increased whiskeyconsumption, each aspect of the conundrum feeding off of and prompting theother.

Courtesy of family members who have actual lives, who goplaces and do things and aren’t grumpily absorbed into demanding,time-consuming jobs, they are alone for an entire weekend. It’s Saturdayevening and the day has passed in a happy hedonistic blur of shagging, eating,drinking, and going for a long walk. Over dinner Gillian proposed watching afilm afterward and Caroline agreed, thinking that after Round 2 (or 3, shewasn’t certain how to classify those ten minutes in the barn except to acknowledgeher culpability in startling a lamb), she was more than sexually sated for thetime being and she could endure whatever third-rate monster movie or Tarantinoretrospective thrown her way. But while cleaning up Gillian bent over toretrieve a napkin that had fallen on the floor and as far as Caroline’s criticalfaculties could discern those three seconds of glorious, blue-jeaned ass were acinematic masterpiece rivaling the complete oeuvre of Hitchcock and Kurosawaand Truffaut and any other pretentious fucker with a fancy name and Carolinedecided then and there she really didn’t need to see another movie perhaps fora long time but most certainly, definitely not tonight because with renewedvigor she was now chomping at the erotic bit for Round 3 (or 4).

Alas she finds herself in a tangled sprawl with Gillian onthe sofa as a prelude to movie-watching, her chin forlornly propped against Gillian’supper arm while the latter growls “fuckity fuck fuck fuck” at the remote, andthen Caroline arrives at the momentous decision that intervention—in the formof a long, deep, heated kiss—is required. The first time they kissed like that,Gillian dropped trou faster than the closing curtain at the last performance ofa Carrie musical revival. So sheseizes a handful of plaid shirt, pulling the startled Gillian closer, andkisses her just so. While Gillian makes the same girlish whimpering noise nowthat she did then, she does not merrily surrender all clothing as her passportto ecstasy and instead breaks off the kiss to glower again at the unresponsivetelevision.

Caroline has never been so deeply disheartened at a displayof focused willpower in her entire life.

“I know I DVR’edthis,” Gillian says, arm ramrod straight as she once again thrusts the clickerat the dead screen while furiously jabbing random buttons with her thumb.

Caroline waits for a light saber to come shooting out of theremote. When it doesn’t, she tugs at Gillian’s shirt again, engaging them inanother wet, lingering kiss. “What’s it again?” she mutters around theconfluence of the kiss.

“It’s a—psychological—suspense—thriller,” Gillian breathesinto her mouth.

“So—” Caroline initiates another kiss. “—total—shit—horror—movie.”

“No,” Gillian replies with a kiss of her own. “It’s.”Another kiss. “Not.” This time with an added nip. “It’s more than that.” Thistime longer, gentler, sweeter. “I want you to see it. It’s really good.”

Caroline shifts tactics and goes for the vulnerableerogenous zone of the ear while slipping a hand under Gillian’s shirt. “What’sit about?”

“About t-this guy, he, he gets stranded in Hungary—”

Caroline puts her moves on hold. “What kind of knobhead getsstranded in Hungary?” Quietly she curses her natural curiosity and advocacy of rational,well-planned behavior, even in fictitious characters from all parts of theworld, including Hungary. “There are maps, trains, buses—”

“People get stranded in Hungary, where is it written thatpeople don’t get stranded in Hungary and I know what you’re up to, stop trying to undo my bra.”

Defeated, Caroline withdraws her hand. “Kissing still allright?”

Gillian pauses before uttering “proceed” in her bestJean-Luc Picard tone.

“Okay,” Caroline mumbles into Gillian’s neck as shebrilliantly conducts kissing, nibbling, and licking with the exactitude of aMozart string quartet, but then thinks maybe it’s not brilliant because she’snot getting any reaction—until she notices Gillian’s breathing has gottenawfully shallow. “So. Idiot stranded in Hungary—“

“H-he meets this mysterious family who live in a castle—”

“Vampires,” Caroline supplies confidently.

“No, not vampires. Don’t be so clichéd.”

“Werewolves.”

“Cliché.”

“Writers for the DailyMail?”

“Fuck sakes, Caz.”

“All right, sorry—so what—?”

“Satanists.”

Abruptly Caroline rears back. “That’s not clichéd?”

“They’re like a cult,” Gillian says haughtily, as if highlyorganized secretive Satanists somehow merited originality and legitimaterespect rather than the garden-variety kind of devil worshippers one mightencounter after midnight at Tesco buying candles and snacks and bottles of hotsauce for phony pentagram and animal sacrifice rituals to alarm their elderlyand easily freaked-out neighbors. “See, the whole setup, it’s kind of a modernHungarian version of The Masque of theRed Death except without dwarves or black plague or Vincent Price.”

“Well I simply cannot commit to a film without dwarves orblack plague or Vincent Price, so perhaps we should give this a pass.”

“There’s also a psychedelic mini-musical when the countessmarries Satan. They sing ‘Kiss Them for Me’ by Siouxsie and the Banshees,messing with the lyrics—‘it’s all for me/at Satan’s gift registry.’ Wonder theydidn’t get sued. Actually, maybe they did. I should google—” Gillian lookslongingly at her mobile, which is far away on the coffee table.

Caroline sighs. “You do realize that by tomorrow morning ourentire families are going to converge on this house and we probably won’t haveanother opportunity to be completely alone until Flora and Calamity go touniversity.”

“Aw bless, I love how optimistic you are. ’Cause you knowCalam is going to be a druglord. That’s how she’s going to support me in mydotage.”

“Great, so you’ll have plenty of time in your ‘dotage’ towatch bad horror films.” She tries to pry the remote from Gillian’s hand, anexercise in futility, she knows, recalling a time she tried to reclaim analmost-empty bottle of really excellent cabernet sauvignon from Gillian anddiscovered that the woman has the iron grip of an Olympic weightlifter. Thenthe mask of her own stubborn idiocy falls away when she sees a flash of realdisappointment on Gillian’s face. “You really want to see this, don’t you?”

“More like—“ Gillian shrugs self-consciously. “I, well, justwanted to share it. Wanted you to see it.”

Caroline’s guilty conscience finally asserts itself. Shegives the remote a gentle tug. “May I?”

Curious, Gillian hands it over. Caroline sits up, pops openthe back of the remote, pulls batteries out of her pants pocket, quicklyinserts them into the empty chamber from whence they came, snaps the cover backinto place, and guiltily awaits judgment.

Gillian’s reaction is, of course, better than any movie,including the imaginary Warholian masterpiece of three seconds of denim-coveredass: Her face encompasses a rollercoaster of reactions beginning with unbridledshock and fury, detouring through astonished admiration and reluctantamusement, and back again to hostile, narrow-eyed territory. “You. Fucking.Evil. Bitch.”

“I’m sorry. Really, I am. Really, really sorry. I was goingto make a go of watching a movie, honest, but after dinner you bent over andyou know I’m weak—”

“You sex fiend.” Gillian enunciates it with the same puritanprecision that Celia employs in saying lesbian.

“Oh, I’m a sexfiend, Great Slapper of Halifax?”

“Shut up, I so rarely get a chance to be judgmental likethis and I’d like to bloody well enjoy it.”

“It reflects very well on you, though. Or on your ass, atthe very least.”

“Piss off.” Resolute, Gillian folds her arms; glaring defiantlyat the telly screen, she sulks for an agonizingly long minute. “Despite your f-flatteryand, and okay, your evilness is weirdlyturning me on, we are watching this fucking movie. All right?”

“All right,” Caroline agrees dreamily as she watches Gillianget up and stomp to the kitchen. The things we do for—love? Lust? The perfectass, the secret girlfriend? At the present moment it��s more than she’s willingto contemplate and so she sets it aside; not out of denial, but rather sherealizes that what exists between them should remain safe, thriving until itcan withstand the glare and scrutiny of the world at large. At last, and forreasons unknown to her at the moment, she finally sees potential in what theyare.

“I might make you watch Nightof the Lepus as well,” Gillian threatens from the kitchen.

“Surely there are more pleasurable ways of punishing me?”

This salacious salvo is ignored. “Shut up, I’m makingpopcorn.”

Caroline slumps deeper into the sofa, looks at the remote.With a few button presses she’s in the DVR menu and, cheeks burning withpleasure, smiles at what she sees listed there. “Oh ho ho. Somebody has DVR’ed University Challenge for me.”

Gillian slams a pan on the stove. “Who says it’s for you?”

“Who else in this household would watch it?”

“Raff.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Don’t read anything into it.”

“I’m totally reading everything into it,” Caroline trillstriumphantly—even though it’s completely wrong to gloat after so much badbehavior on her part. “You are smitten.”

“You are delusional.”

“Mad about me.”

“You’re mad, period.”

“You absolutely adore me.”

The tell-tale silence ends with Gillian’s softly gruntedadmission: “Maybe.”

Caroline grins.

“But you’re still a bitch.”

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supercitycarnival · 7 years

Link

Notes:

This chapter is much too short!

Thankfully, the next three are outlined and I can't for all of them. Squee!

Despite the lack of words, I hope you enjoy this chap. I mean, out of the 2,500 words, like 2,100 are making out, so it can't be that bad.

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

The sound of blaster fire rang out through the open space of Cat's office. The entire bullpen floor was empty and quiet, save for the noise coming from this one room. An intense scene played across the wall of screens, though it went ignored.

The lighting in the office was dim, making the flicker from a few candles in the center of the coffee table stand out even brighter. Two plates of take out were left half eaten on the table. Crumpled paper napkins were tossed haphazardly around the food. Next to one of the abandoned plates, Cat's phone buzzed an unnoticed alert.

On the floor, a pair of high heels was discarded nearby, along with a pair of flats. Kara's glasses were… somewhere, as was her hair clip.

On the sofa, two bodies moved seamlessly as they explored. They forewent the action on the screen, more than satisfied with the action happening on the couch.

Kara was stretched out on her back. One of her legs, bent at the knee, was curled around Cat, holding her in place. The skirt of Cat's dress was struggling to stay put against the movement between them. Strong hands roamed languidly over the curves of Cat's back as she sprawled over Kara. Kara was taking her time, allowing her hands to memorize every dip and definition of the lithe body on top of her.

Propped on her elbows, Cat's fingers played with the length of Kara's hair. She untangled the fingers of one hand, shifting her weight to her other arm, bringing her free hand to splay over Kara's soft cheek. She'd been kissing her way back and forth along Kara's jawline for several content minutes, occasionally shifting to gently bring their lips together.

Kara tilted her chin upward, pushing her head into the sofa cushion, inviting Cat to take her conquesting to a new place. Quickly taking the hint, Cat lips wandered down. She adjusted her legs, tucking her knees in and shifting her weight back, giving relief to her fatiguing shoulders. The move further pulled up her skirt. Her lips dragged down the slope of Kara's neck, the tip of her tongue making contact with Kara's skin on the way back up.

The momentary wet sensation caused a sharp inhalation and a barely audible, “Ahh,” from Kara's throat.

Parting her lips, Cat applied pressure to Kara's pulse point with her velvety tongue, sucking at the sensitive spot for a brief moment before kissing Kara's mouth again. Kara moaned softly into the kiss, her fingers scratching lightly across the back of Cat's exposed thighs.

They'd been stealing much too short moments of affection for two weeks now, both too busy and their budding relationship still too secret to kiss in the open like they wanted to. Since the last time Cat and Kara had watched Star Wars, they couldn't seem to stay away from each other. With the veil of Kara's identity finally lifted, there were no more barriers between them. Long felt attractions were no longer a hovering question.

The full breadth of their feelings for each other had been properly confessed during twenty minute lunches on the balcony and late night phone calls. Deep kisses were shared behind the closed door of Kara's obscure office. Cat had even allowed herself to be exposed to the dinginess of a stairwell so she could be wrapped in Kara's arms and feel Kara lips on hers.

Unable to take the clandestine meetings any longer, Kara came to Cat's office that evening unannounced with two bags of takeout, a DVD, and blindingly hopeful smile. Cat was powerless against it.

They'd been making out on the sofa since the Millennium Falcon landed at Cloud City. It was blissful, the relaxed connection they had each been craving. They didn't rush, nor did they care about the time.

Cat and Kara kissed and kissed without fear of being discovered. The sound of soft moans and sharp inhalations filled Cat's ears. Even though the volume of the movie was louder, she hardly heard it, focused on every tiny noise Kara made.

Cat's heart thudded in her chest each time Kara reacted out loud to her touch. She tried to remember what she'd done to elicit the sound, then she would come back a moment later, making the same move, wanting to know if the same reaction would come.

Cat was learning Kara. She was learning what touches made her moan, where to kiss her neck to make her flush, and precisely how to sweep her tongue over Kara's bottom lip when she wanted to deepen a kiss.

It was exhilarating. Cat's pulse surged each time she found a new spot. Being with Kara like this was unlike anything she'd ever felt. There was no quid pro quo, no giving and taking, no expectations. Kara only wanted to be with her for the sheer pleasure of being with her. She was the first person that wanted Cat for Cat, completely as she was, flaws and all. It made Cat want her all the more.

Pulling back from her nibbling at Kara's collar bone, Cat sat back on her heels. With a tug on Kara's arm, Cat silently asked her to sit up. Meeting Cat's gaze, Kara complied, her hands coming to cup Cat's face. Unable to stop the momentum gathering between them, the two women immediately started kissing again.

The tender pulling and pressing of Kara's lips against hers was soothing and exciting all at once. Cat wanted more, needed more. Finally being able to touch Kara like this had ignited a long dormant fire inside Cat and she had no intention of quenching it. Every subtle brush of Kara's fingers across her breasts, through the fabric of her dress, was fresh wind that fanned the flames. Each little suck at Cat's neck threatened to break her resolve to not push too far on this first make out session. Kara's trust meant everything and Cat would be damned if her current teenage inclinations pressed Kara farther than she wanted to go.

Gently separating, Cat settled her forehead against Kara's and her hands rested on broad shoulders. She quietly asked, a little breathless, “Is all this okay?”

“Are you kidding?” Kara's hands slipped around to Cat's back, pulling her in. “I've dreamt this.”

Kara brought their lips back together in a searing kiss. Finally, it was Cat who couldn't control the groan that came from deep inside. Her head was swimming. Kissing Kara like this made Cat realize how her perceptions of Kara had changed so drastically.

From her timid, wide-eyed assistant to an unsure hero, Kara had morphed into a confident and capable woman before her eyes. After almost a year apart, Cat was still catching up with the strong willed and stubborn person Kara was becoming. She liked it. She liked the way Kara challenged her, and how Kara forced her to be a better person, whether she wanted to or not. She liked that Kara didn't take her bullshit and expected more of Cat than anyone else dared. And she definitely liked the forceful nature of Kara's kisses.

Kara was the only person in Cat's vast sphere that interested her. No, captivated her. With all she'd been through, Kara had managed to remain kind, sweet even, giving to a fault, trustworthy, and so caring. How Cat had won this woman's heart was beyond her understanding, but she sure as hell wasn't letting it go.

Cat poured herself into their kisses. The cells inside her body hummed, brought more to life with every tingle Kara lips left in their wake. The strings of her heart strummed harder with every compliment Kara whispered in her ear.

She couldn't help herself. Needing more, Cat's hands began to move. One came to the back of Kara's neck, drawing her in, while the other slipped under the crisp fabric of her pinstripe button down. Feeling the smooth skin of Kara's chest, Cat splayed her hand at the top Kara's breastbone, gently pressing her into the back of the sofa.

In a quick move, Cat hiked her shirt up and straddled Kara's lap. The superhero’s breathing hitched as she gripped under Cat's thighs, pulling her closer. Their eyes met and it was clear that Kara enjoyed Cat towering over her like this. Cat stored the information away in a mental file marked, ‘things that set Kara off.’

With a smirk, Cat leaned in to place feather light kisses over Kara's face while her fingers sought out the top button of her shirt. Cat's confident look faltered when she pulled back to find Kara's gaze again. Bright pools of blue were staring back, reflecting much more than simple longing. Kara had always worn her heart on her sleeve, but this look was entirely different. It was reserved for Cat in moments like this, moments of intimacy when they drew strength from one another. It was the look that told Cat just how much Kara needed her without using a single word. It was the look that pulled Cat in until she was no longer aware of anything besides the two of them.

Giving Kara plenty of time to raise an objection, Cat slowly released the top button of Kara's shirt. Her eyes flitted down to see the gentle dip of cleavage now exposed and Cat's mouth went dry. She didn't understand why everything about this woman felt so different. Cat's hands began to tremble as she slipped another button free.

“I can hear your heart beating,” Kara said, voice low.

Cat paused at the statement, knowing the mad thumping in her chest was giving away her excitement. In the past, Cat had always tried to hold on to the upper hand, make her partners think they wanted her much more than she wanted them. It was a game of cat and mouse and Cat was always the predator.

For the first time, Cat couldn't hide her desire. The crazy part was that she didn't mind in the slightest. There was no threat in Kara knowing her yearning. There was no self consciousness at being so vulnerable.

One side of Cat's perfectly contoured lips quirked up. She whispered, “What does it sound like, darling?”

Kara's breaths deepened. “Like a high speed freight train, and I'm standing on the tracks while you hurtle toward me.”

Cat's hands stopped shaking. Newly bolstered at Kara's expert analogy, she resumed working the buttons on Kara's shirt, holding her sapphire gaze.

“An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object,” Cat elaborated. Kara could only nod. Nimble fingers pulled the shirt free from Kara's slacks. Opening the last two buttons, Cat husked, “What happens when we collide?”

Lips parting at the question, Kara surged forward. Their mouths slammed together passionately. The second their tongues touched, warmth spread through Cat's body, burning her skin with want. She pushed Kara's shirt off her shoulders, freeing the superhero's arms to wrap fully around Cat.

The feeling of Kara's skin was overwhelming. Still straddling Kara's lap, Cat pulled her in. She groaned as a warm tongue and silken lips ravaged her neck. Cat's hands ran everywhere while she melted under Kara's mouth.

She mentally cursed the dress she was wearing. A blouse would have been so much easier to remove and Cat craved skin on skin contact. Kara must've had the same thought because she shifted under Cat. Strong hands came under Cat's thighs. Kara lifted her like she was a pillow sitting in her lap.

Kara lowered Cat roughly onto the sofa, her hand slipping up Cat's leg and under her skirt. Adjusting to give Kara more access, Cat pressed her shoulder back into the cushion.

Just then, the mood changed when Cat's shoulders pushed against something hard and uncomfortable. She let out a hushed, “Ouch,” at the same time that the volume on the televisions rose exponentially, startling both women.

Shooting to a sitting position, Cat bumped the object off the sofa. The system's remote fell to the floor. Kara scrambled to retrieve it, the sound, no doubt, deafening to her sensitive ears.

Dropping to the floor, Kara reached under the coffee table and grabbed the remote. She quickly aimed it at the televisions, turning the volume down. From her knees on the floor, she turned to Cat with a surprised expression that Cat was already mirroring.

They stared at each other, shaken from their passion by the interruption. Slow smiles formed on each set of lips until both women burst into laughter.

Kara crawled back onto the sofa and into Cat's waiting embrace. Cat was still chuckling, arms loosely draped around Kara's shoulders.

“I think we were at a good stopping point anyway.” Cat pulled away with a light kiss to Kara's lips.

“Hmm,” Kara hummed, happily kissing Cat again. “We were getting a little-,”

“Carried away,” Cat finished for her. She fished Kara's shirt from where it had gotten stuffed in the cushions.

Just then, the electric crack of light sabers came through the speakers. Cat watched Kara's head snap to the screens. Realizing their make out session really was over, Cat lifted the shirt around Kara's shoulders. Eyes glued to the screen, Kara absentmindedly snaked her arms into it and began buttoning it up.

Their fingers touched as Kara moved to fasten the top button, but Cat beat her to it. Kara smiled at her and Cat's stomach flipped. It thrilled Cat to no end, seeing how happy Kara was around her.

“This is it!” Kara said, excited.

Cat let out a surprised, “Oh,” as Kara scooped her up effortlessly, tucking Cat into her side, arm around her.

Kara snatched up a cold pot sticker. She popped it into her mouth as the two women settled into the sofa. Cat rest her head on a steady shoulder, more content than she'd been in a long time.

A pivotal scene played. They both grimaced as Luke's hand was severed from his arm in dramatic fashion. Luke cried out in agony.

“I always thought it was fortunate that the light saber cauterized the wound,” Cat noted nonchalantly.

Kara looked at her quizzically, like she'd said something completely out of order. “Who thinks of that?”

Cat chuckled, but it was cut short at the next bit of dialogue. She and Kara both held out a hand toward the screens, imitating Darth Vader’s motion as he attempted to sway Luke to the dark side.

The iconic line was spoken, and Cat and Kara both quoted together expressively, “I am your father.”

With a happy laugh, they shifted closer to one another. As the final scenes of the movie played, Cat was already thinking ahead to their next viewing. Her heart quickened as she worked up the courage to ask.

Taking a sideways glance at Kara, Cat rested a hand on her thigh to get her attention. When Kara looked to her, Cat quietly said, “I was thinking for Episode six…”

Kara prodded, eagerly. “Yeah?”

“Maybe you could come over and watch it,” Cat suggested. “It's Carter's favorite one. I think he likes the ewoks.”

Kara lifted at an eyebrow. “You…” She glanced away with a shy grin. When she looked back, both sets of eyes were sparkling. “You mean, all of us watch it together?”

“Yeah,” Cat whispered with a small nod.

“I'd really like that,” Kara answered quickly.

Giving her a full smile, Cat leaned in, pressing her lips to Kara's in a gentle kiss. She spoke tenderly against the corner of Kara's mouth, “You make me so happy, Kara.”

Kara's content expression morphed to desire once again. Cat watched bright blue eyes dart down to fixate on her lips. One light tug on the crisp collar of her shirt had Kara pushing her open mouth to Cat's.

Cat's blood ran hot again at the searing contact. She allowed herself to once more be lowered back against the sofa cushions. Passion came back to their encounter as make out session number two began under the sound of the movie’s end credits.

#supercat #kara x cat #supergirl #fan fiction #movie night

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taubc · 6 years

Text

LITTLE CHARACTER THINGS. fill in the below categories with 3-5 things that your character can be identified by.

tagged: @white-reaper tagging: @episentre, @daturida / @fletschte, @hiemals, @batoushoujo, @zroday, @bureaubitch, @ you, steal it & you can tag me ( if you want to! )

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS.

Stoical, focused. Seemingly perpetually. Hardly anything is done with half of her attention and effort. Infected with inquisitiveness.

Confident, proud. Her public name is an elite one, an ace in her hand, giving such power and reach within their worlds of the CCG and ghoul-hunting families. And it all reflects in her ways.

Calm, quiet. Mature, almost at peace from a quick glance, but an eerie aura consumes all the same. ‘What is it about those Washū even when they’re not talking that make it hard to breathe..’

Critical. Of herself, of particular aspects that affect particular things and especially of those who behave improperly or have simply struck a nerve with her at the wrong time.

Melancholy, in droplets. Unbeknownst to the world behind her door.

GREETINGS.

Austere formalism at it’s finest with those she works with or is introduced to in a professional setting. A polite yet rigid bow to others if the situation calls or a hand extended if the customs different. A courteous nod or mannerly words if it’s appropriate; cadence that is chillingly soothing soon follows. She doesn’t lack these skills that are imperative to maintain face and dignity. Anything less than is disgraceful.

Quite haunting and cold towards those she does not share any unique relationship with, on the other hand. Still mannered and mindful but when she speaks can be like frostbite to those who aren’t expecting. She’s rarely in the company those she does not have some connection to; she doesn’t randomly socialize often if she can help it - so in these instances where she’s in the presence of strangers, her head is high but her mind is elsewhere for the time being.

More or less, winter’s cruelest days are similar to how she may be towards those she has no fondness for, whatsoever. Sometimes something could be said, something sharp, like ice; it can burn and sting, too, like ice. But her eyes do most of the work, a hard stare tells of buried cruelty and judgment in God’s likeness.

While members of her clan are prestigious individuals in their fields of expertise, there is little familial-love, or elementary love at all. Their system has been corrupted for many and far few attempt to create an illusion of normalcy. Offering formal words as per protocol but it’s all a shallow farce, a plastic masquerade. Few are given something more, something open and tender - like. Her father, for example, can receive little, dead Mizuumi’s embrace, the one that lasts a little longer and her hold just a little tighter. He isn’t perfect, but to her, she’s more willing to relax her shoulders. And if it can’t be helped, a laugh - a giggle as if things are alright.

Friends are few and far between for good reason. However, she greets who she thinks of as such well. It may not always be a shy smile, and soft eyes that compliment a little wave, but there’s a chance.

COLORS.

White. Sterile, bright and clean. Lab walls, floors, her coats, she’s surrounded by it in every place. It’s death’s best color; the one that many, including she, look best in.

Black. Class, elegance, professionalism, duality. The two shades, black and white, counterbalance one another. A checkerboard, a chess board with all the pieces, symbolism and meanings it comes with it.

Shades of grey. Morality-based than an actual preference.

Beige. Earthy-tones are nice to her heart and kind to her eyes; warm or cool, she enjoys the champagnes to deep, rich oak tones in her clothing and furniture.

Reds. From the dark hues in her veins to rosy tints that belongs on cheeks and petals alike.

SCENTS.

Petrichor, muted and awash.

As fresh as her work permits; strong perfumes are not encouraged.

Sometimes the lingering scented cleaning agents unapologetically adhere to her garb. Can disturb others if they’re sensitive.

Said perfumes are reserved for her days at home or wandering about; they vary from woodsy - florals, sugary and vanillas, some are old lady - like but greatly valued for their quality and brand.

Just.. Different. There’s something peculiar about it. That even the most acute noses have trouble identifying the more bizarre aspects of her scent.

CLOTHING.

Nicely tailored pea coats and blazers with all different types of embellishments ranging in a number of colors, fabrics and patterns. Although hardly any in her closet are wildly loud and bright.

Polished attire all around -- dress shirts, ties, pencils skirts and tights / stockings. She sticks primarily to a monochromatic theme with her daily wardrobe. Many - if not all - came with a heavy price-tag.

Her casual wear is rather chic. Slim pants, loose blouses or fitted, sleeveless ones, a few dresses that accentuate her shape and the necessary-heavy sweater, or two. Still as simple as her business apparel, her choices are neither boisterous in design nor color. Unless she’s in the privacy of her own quarters, then her style of is a`bit less; the neckline can be plunging or she may opt for just that sweater to lounge in and nothing else. The less there is on her, the more she feels more freeing and comfortable.

Lingerie is something that isn’t as limiting, surprisingly, in comparison to her typical pieces. Some are basic, the every-day set of solid colors to match her outfit, some are not. Some are thin, lacy, frilly; some are silk and satin and romantically designed with bows and intricacy. Push-up bras and bralettes alike share a home. Few cute baby-dolls and garter-belts with matching thigh-highs for herself, also do too. Although, during busier days and evenings, they aren’t her initial choice - too time consuming. More something to choose when she has downtime to be alone.

While stilettos ( 120 - 200mm ) aren’t an option that would be the most suitable for work, she owns a few pairs. Conservative heels, kittens, however, are the more sensible option for meetings and tasks outside the laboratory division. Flat, closed-toe sneakers are kept in her office as her pair to wear when she’s in the labs. Nothing else is apt. Boots also range in height and length: ankles, mid-calf to thigh-highs.

OBJECTS.

Her pens, notebooks, piles of papers and drawing boards for blueprints, notes and calculations. Anatomy books, psychology books, chemistry -- the works all shelved or opened with countless tags and scribbled notes beside its text.

Instruments and commonplace tools in her laboratories that are kept always stocked: scalpels, syringes and vials.

A passport when she travels abroad.

Photo albums. Something she keeps in her desk, surprisingly. Plenty full of both the serious, graduation ceremonies and meetings, and not-so-serious times, including baby pictures of Matsuri, Yoshitoki’s more youthful days and her mother.

Long, sterile corridors that instill an eerie sense of dread the longer you continue to look down. The inverted can be applied too - dark, poorly-lit corridors, the same ones mentioned, now with less lighting and more echoes.

VICES / BAD HABITS.

Arrogance. Her confidence can be and is perceived as haughty behavior, akin to high hubris. Contempt for others beneath her typically comes in discussions regarding other ghouls, in particular.

Bias. A bias attitude towards herself and others. She upholds at face-value the traditional discriminatory mentality.

Deceitfulness. Hiding in plain sight, she is a liar; they’re all liars. A ghoul in humanskin parading about, condemning those like them ( but not ) through manipulation of the worst degree.

Hypocrisy. As noted in the previous points, she’s lying. She’s bias against her own and arrogant, publicly standing by the notion equality but unequal equality. She’s a ghoul, taught to think high and stand tall above the rest. ‘The lion does not concern itself with the opinions of sheep.’ However, more often in the privacy of her own space, she finds herself identifying with other ghouls - the ones brought in after a confrontation from stronger investigators. She wears her mask well, but inside, there are moments of hesitation. But those moments are almost always squandered to save face.

Self-destruction. Willing to destroy her sense of self, physically / mentally / psychologically, for the feeling of strength in a “familial” system built to discourage that.

BODY LANGUAGE.

Spine erect, shoulders straight. She has good posture, visibly calm and in control.

Hands in her coat pockets. Something casual, not a frequent occurrence though it happens in the labs more often. Can be seen as being reserved.

Elbows propped on a table, finger-tenting or steeple-hands. She’s listening during meetings while maintaining the appearance of superiority.

Closed eyes. While patiently standing, waiting, listening too.

Spinning pens through her fingers. Bored or pondering.

AESTHETICS.

Rain. Heavy rain, stormy weather, wet skin / wet hair and blooming umbrellas beneath grey skies.

Blood. Dripping down limbs, lips, and walls; blood stored within vials and behind teeth. In droplets or trails.

Tall windows / scenic, modern cityscape views. Be it ominous or beautifully captivating.

Loneliness. Commonly alone in her ventures, walking down hallways or working.

Heavy, thick, classic architecture. Traditional construction, inspired by past eras and places around the world.

SONGS.

Porter Robinson & Madeon’s Shelter

BoA’s Eat You Up

Garry Schyman & Paul Gorman’s Cocytus.

Dark Matter’s Creature Called Human

Kammarheit’s The Poignant

#iv. heavy rain‚ reigning.#( tried not to repeat myself when it came to aesthetics / scents / clothes &#other things?? like the songs. I know I've said before her music tends to be more #in the genre of classical #so i changed it up. 2 pop songs & 3 creepy/dark songs also #so I tried to expand on her character some more #&& linked my pinterest board of koko's aesthetics ey )

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honeylikewords · 7 years

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4:57 PM. Like clockwork, his eyes wandered to the door. The coffeeshop was decently populated, given the area of town that it was in. But by all means, it was fine: He knew exactly who he was looking for. When his phone displayed 5:10 PM, he began to get a little nervous. Maybe she wasn’t coming? He almost shook his head to himself.

No, she had to be. It was a Thursday. She always came around this time on Thursdays. … Okay, it was creepy to know at least that part of her schedule, and it caused a hint of disgust within him. And yet, he tried to muddle it: Nothing was going to beat him down. Not today.

And, as if his newfound determination were the key, the familiar ring of the door hitting the bell sounded. In she walked, eyes focused in her bag as she shuffled items inside of it around. By the time she reached the counter, she’d retrieved her wallet. And, all the while, he watched her from his usual spot by the window. He tried not to appear too obvious, making sure to flicker his eyes downward to his current novel. But he’d been reading the same sentence over and over again since the window of time when she would arrive had opened. And how could he not pay attention to her today? The pastel yellow sweater with a honeybee on the collar was simply too adorable for him to ignore!

“Hi,” she greeted, flashing the cashier a smile that made his heart stop even at a distance. “Can I please have one hot chocolate with a pumpkin muffin, please?”

He fought the urge to mouth her order in sync. It was bad enough that he knew when she would most likely come to the little coffeehouse; no need to make it worse by knowing her favorite order as well.

But, oh, he couldn’t help himself. How was anyone expected to not pay attention to such a wondrous sight? How was it that he was apparently the only one to notice her? Could they not see the way her hair curled at the nape of her neck? The way the sun kissed her profile, creating a halo about her subtly spoken divinity? How even her courteous smiles directed at the coffeehouse staff glowed with so much love and respect for the human serving her as they gave her her order? … But perhaps it was for the best that only he noticed: Any competition and he would have outright given up the already dwindling hope that he had.

At that thought, resurfacing as it did many times previous, he could feel his heart quiver with nerves. Really, there was no way for him to know for certain that there wasn’t any competition. He only knew of her from the times she came by the shop; he didn’t know about her life beyond the quaint little nook. She might have already had a significant other but that was unlikely; he never accompanied her. Maybe something long distance? Unlikely, as she always appeared to be doing work or flat out reading instead of Skyping or video chatting as many others brazenly did in public. She probably had plenty of admirers from her classes who were just as nervous as he was to approach her.

He’d believe it.

But to assume was to make an ass out of “u” and “me.” He had to take that risk. Just had to. His heart could no longer bear it: He took a swig of his “drink of courage” (an artfully-made mocha frappe), scooted his chair out, and began to make a beeline to the object of his admiration. Granted, it was a slow, somewhat jittery path he walked as his heart’s increasingly rapid palpitations shook him down to his lower limbs. By the time he’d finally reached her line of sight, his mouth was dry enough to suggest that he’d actually traversed a desert rather than walk halfway across a humble, little coffeeshop.

She didn’t notice him, not at first. Her eyes were too busy devouring the pages of a book in front of her. She looked so content in this state, and the idea of separating her from her enjoyment guilted him.

This was a mistake, he thought to himself. Just go already. Try again another time.

But what is there isn’t another time!? another part of his mind cried. He could feel his already tense body find another level to crank up to his tongue frantically trying to wet his dry mouth. Great. Just what he needed: For two parts of his brain to duke it out while he stood there looking like a looney.

You’re only gonna bother her! No, I won’t, I just need to – You need to back off! Shut up, just please give me some time to compose myse –

The argument of the self ultimately went uncompleted as, under the influence of his nerves, he took a step backwards. The sound of silverware rattling against dishes caused his heart to drop and his form to become wobbly.

“Whoop! Behind you, sorry!” he heard. In his jitteriness, he managed to take a glance back and realize that a staff member had been carrying an empty trey of used dishes back to the kitchen for cleaning.

“O-oh! I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed sheepishly, offering his hands up.

“Nah, you’re fine, hun,” the faculty insisted, weaving her way around the taller man. His face burned as he realized the commotion he might have caused, releasing a deepened sigh of awkwardness. It caught in his throat about midway, however, as his embarrassed glance downward allowed him to catch sight of those eyes. Those eyes! Those eyes of which he’d thought way too often about, those eyes wherein he’d always hoped would glance his way for even a second of their mortal time… . Well, those same exact eyes were looking at him right this very second, and they weren’t under the more romantic or meet cute circumstances that he’d hoped for.

He became like a nearly six-foot-tall goldfish, his mouth opening slightly but offering no words.

“D… Uh …” Crap! he panicked. Her pink lips pressed together softly.

“Are you okay?” she asked. At the sound of her voice, a slight tingle rippled up his spine. Even when catching him being a fool, it was so wonderful …!

Say something, you idiot! his mind screamed.

“D – I’m just – disoriented,” he spewed out, raising a hand to rub the back of his thick, black hair. Smooth.

“Oh …” she responded. There was a short beat of silence. “Well … Do you need to sit down, or …?

“Hm? No! I mean – I just – ” Why was talking to hard right now? He was such a talker in regular life, why couldn’t he talk now? Were the many times of rehearsing in his head just not enough?!

A small puff of air escaped her exhale as she offered a hint of a smile.

“I think you should sit down. Just for a second, at least.” She raised her hand to display the free seat across from her at the small little table she’d staked her claim upon. It was almost as if he’d forgotten how to function. How could he forget to pull out a chair? His hand felt so sweaty as it gripped the back of the furniture, his body suddenly feeling far larger than what it actually was as his mind yelled instructions to him about how to goddamn sit.

If he was not aware of his own nerves, he would have assumed the shaking going on was the chair threatening to collapse under him.

“Comfy?” she joked, her smile quirking a fraction further. He tried to return a grin of equal humor, but his self-consciousness took a hold of him. It probably looked all wrong, with his lips clinging against his teeth due to dryness.

“I … I mean …” What did he mean? He had no hint of an idea! It was as he went without furthering his sentence that he watched her place a bookmark into her literature before closing it. A small, barely noticeable breeze fluttered in his face as she turned the book into a makeshift fan.

“This place and get a little warm …” was all she offered as she continued to fan him. All he could manage was a nod (though he honestly couldn’t care less – she was pampering him!!). It was between the up-and-down motions of the paperback that he was able to make a head and tail of the title: The School for Good & Evil by Soman Chainani. The artwork was fantastical, suggesting it belonged in the young adult section and not in the hands of a university student.

He hadn’t meant to regard the images and title for as long as he did, but clearly she had noticed his eyes tracking the book’s movement. At this, she stopped and brought it closer to her chest. A sheepish expression overtaking her face.

“O-oh,” she muttered weakly. “Don’t judge, okay? I know it looks weird but – ”

“Oh, no, it doesn’t,” he found himself blurting out. And, as a fact, he didn’t think it was weird at all. In fact, he was curious. Mainly curious as to what about the book fascinated his crush.

“It’s just that I wanted to do a report for my soc class and this just kinda seemed to fit all the grounds I wanted to cover and –” She babbled nervously, her eyes dodging his own. Embarrassed that she’d been caught reading a youngster’s book, no doubt. He felt a desperate need to console her.

“Ah, soc,” he said. “’S’it a study on how fairytales reflect the human condition?” He nodded at the book. To his delight, her shoulders unbunched – only by a fraction, but just enough to ease his worries that he’d eased her own.

“Not quite,” she began. “I’ve read it a couple of times before and I always enjoyed how the story, without necessarily intending to, raises questions about the concept of what good and evil is, and how they tend to impact gender roles in many traditional fantasies. Because for good, women are just expected to be sit pretty and be princesses while the men go out and do all the fighting but for evil, nobody cares and the women often get to get their hands dirty just as much as the men and –” She stopped herself, her face blooming with heat. He decided that he loved that, even though he didn’t quite like that it was coming from her returning embarrassment.

“S-sorry,” she uttered. “I’m babbling again. I kinda have a bad habit of doing that …”

“No, please, don’t stop on my account,” he insisted, genuinely interested in what she had to say. Apparently, he was one of the only ones to ever express as much: Her brows raised with surprise as her head cocked cutely to the side.

“You … Are you serious, or …?”

“Seriously,” he stated, daring to look her dead in the eye. His stare was unwavering but his heart was berserking about in his chest. He couldn’t stop himself. “The concept of gender roles in fantasy is a fascinating subject to me and I’d like to hear it. Besides, it might be good to bounce some ideas off of somebody.” Too cocky!! His steady stare faltered as he remembered who he was and to whom he was speaking. In a split second, his initial nervousness returned. “I – I mean, if you want.” He could feel his ears begin to run red.

Her cheeks began to heat up as well, but the action was far cuter on her. Mainly because her face now held hints of excitement.

“Holy crap!” she exclaimed. A smile, more radiant than the courtesy ones she’d given the staff, and larger than the one she’d given him just moments earlier, glowed upon her face. “Thank you so much!” He didn’t offer her the appropriate response of “you’re welcome.” He was too busy being stuck in a state of simultaneously being frozen from adoration and on fire from the blush overwhelming his body. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh, I forgot: My name’s Elissa,” she offered him her hand. He had to blink frantically to chip away at the ice encompassing his body just enough to take her hand into his and shake it. It was small, soft, and warm in his larger, calloused ones. Just as he imagined, and yet superbly better.

“Thomas,” he introduced through a crooked, nervous smile.

******

“ – but the rule for going alone to the dance is only eased for Ever boys. Ever girls, on the other hand, are required to attend the ball with a date or else they fail and – ”

“And they’ll be turned into an animal. Or a pumpkin. Or worse,” Thomas finished. He wasn’t trying to be condescending, however: He was genuinely invested in Elissa’s explanations. So invested, in fact, that neither he nor she noticed just how much time had actually passed as she went on about her thoughts of her choice of literature. At least two hours wound up going by, riding on the backs of her explanations of characters and actions and concepts, with either side diverging from the main subject to talk about other things about their own lives or thoughts before digressing.

And throughout it all, he held on to every word, every crevice of every letter she spoke as he leaned forward with complete interest. Thankfully, Elissa seemed to be very aware of this. She nodded, confirming his words, and continued.

“Meanwhile – while the Never kids don’t have dances, it says, like, a lot considering that the structure of the stories they’re meant to represent are built upon traditional fairytales. Even though Never children are always picking on one another, it’s never based off of sex, it’s just competition to be a better villain than the rest. And since their classes aren’t divided by gender, this means they all go through the same stuff, right? So, in general, progressive women are evil while the more passive girls in Ever territory are considered good despite only focusing on tasks like wishing and waiting for somebody else to save them and just looking pretty and – ”

Once again, Elissa stopped. She’d done this many times throughout her lecture of sorts, always accompanied by her demeanor becoming sheepish as she leaned back in her chair stiffly. It never bothered Thomas, really. Rather, it concerned him. Elissa clearly felt a lot for the subject material – she’d even mentioned the various other essays she wanted to write about the book besides taking it from a gender studies POV. But based on how coy she’d become whenever she felt she was rambling, someone before hadn’t quite viewed it in the same way. But Thomas wasn’t that person. And he wanted to prove that.

“And what?” he pushed, trying not to break the intrigue that he’d had earlier.

“And … there was a lot more I could say but it kinda … relies heavily on the second book,” Elissa muttered, though with less struggle as the previous times this had occurred. Progress, at least for Thomas. For now.

“How so?” Thomas asked. At this, Elissa’s features curled slightly.

“I can’t tell you that,” she insisted. “You’d have to read the first book!”

“Well, then I guess I’ll do that,” Thomas smirked.

“I’ve already told you so much, though!”

“That’s okay; the way you describe it and how much you seem to love it have me sold.”

At this, Elissa grew quiet once more.

Uh-oh, Thomas thought, his smirk faltering. Did that sound weird? Of course it sounded weird! Why must you be so weird –

“If you read it, I expect a review of your own,” Elissa said. It was quiet, but just enough to break Thomas out of his worrying reverie. And thankfully so: Outside of his mind, he was able to witness that slip of a smile returning to her lips. Licking his own top lip, Thomas nearly stumbled over his own words.

“You’d better believe I would,” he spoke softly.

They wound up not leaving until the shop was beginning to close. It was nearing 10 PM at that point, but as soon as they said their goodbyes and parted ways, Thomas nearly sped off in his car in search of a bookstore that was still open.

******

4:57 PM. Like clockwork, Thomas’ eyes wandered to the door. The coffeeshop was, once again, decently populated, but by all means he still knew for whom he was looking. By the time his phone displayed 5:15 PM, he’d become admittedly nervous. More nervous than he’d been around this time a week ago; he didn’t even know that as a possibility!

But the moment he saw her walk through the door, his nerves were quelled.

Today’s outfit: A light blue long-sleeved shirt with a pink, smiling jellyfish and a bubbly font reading “Jelly Belly.” Perfection.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting,” Elissa panted as she briskly walked over to his table. “The prof went on a bit longer than usual.”

“I wasn’t waiting, no trouble at all,” Thomas lied. As the young woman began to take her seat across from him, he asked how her paper went.

“Oh, I have no clue,” she admitted. “Grading’s gonna take a few weeks, so …”

Thomas smiled. “I bet you did perfectly fine.”

“Lies!” Elissa cried jokingly. “I was fine at first but then around the midway point – blah!” This prompted a chuckle from her speaking partner.

“Well, I’m sure whatever ‘blah’ was, it was a tastefully-written blah.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Indeed.” He readjusted himself in his seat, taking on a comedically cocky posture as he leaned on the table. “So: How would you like to hear my report?” Elissa blinked quizzically.

“Your report?” she echoed. Thomas nodded. “What report?”

“The one you told me to do if I ever read the second part to The School for Good & Evil.”

“Oh,” Elissa replied. A beat of silence later and her eyes popped. “Wait, you went and read it anyway!?”

“Well, yeah. I finished the first part and had to know what happened next, so –”

More eye-popping!

“Wait, you read both!? But – but don’t you have a life or something!?” Thomas gently scoffed.

“’F course I do!” he replied before growing quieter. “I just spent it reading two books aimed for young adults but pushed on me by a young lady. In the span of a week.” Saying it out loud made Thomas realize how odd it truly was. Maybe even obsessive. Especially since he had to go and throw in that “young lady” bit. Maybe there was a way to throw down the sugar packets at the table like a smoke bomb and sneak out undetected.

Just as Thomas had begun to mentally calculate how many sugar packs it would take to cloud the air, however, Elissa perched her elbows on the table and cradled her head in her hands.

“Well,” she said, “I’m listening.” The way her hands held her head puffed up her cheeks so adorably. How could Thomas resist? In short, he couldn’t.

*******

This time, it was Elissa’s turn to lean in close. This time, Thomas was the one speaking so animatedly. Both diverged from the original subject, threw in their own ideas, and digressed. Both didn’t notice time passing until the shop began to close.

“You know …” Elissa began as they walked down the sidewalk of the lamppost-lit street. “I think that with all your knowledge of the human condition, you’d make a great professor.”

Thomas laughed. “A professor? Me? That’s a reach.”

“I’m serious,” Elissa giggled.

“I know. That’s what makes it so crazy, I mean …” He shrugged. “Sociology and psychology aren’t even my thing. History, though? I like that enough. ‘Specially the Revolutionary War.”

Elissa hummed. “Then why not a history professor?”

“Neh,” Thomas rejected. “I’d rather teach high schoolers.” Elissa hummed again with understanding.

And then … nothing. Just the sounds of their shoes’ soles hitting the pavement. Where were they headed anyway? There wasn’t much else open around this time, after all. Probably best to go home.

“Hey,” Elissa suddenly said. “You haven’t read the third book yet, have you?”

“Unfortunately, not yet,” Thomas admitted. “I ordered it on Amazon but they sent me the wrong book so now I gotta wait until that little fiasco’s sorted out.”

In the dim lighting, Elissa bit her lip. “Well … I mean, I’ve got the third one – ”

“No kidding?”

“Nope. And I also haven’t had the time to read it until recently. Would you …? I dunno, turn this down if it’s too weird, but would you like to read it together? That way we’d be on the same page for once – literally. Instead of, you know, having one be ahead of the other …” Her voice trailed until it came to a complete, awkward quiet. Thomas stopped walking at about the same time, as well. This, in turn, caused Elissa’s heart to plummet. She screwed things up, didn’t she!?

“I-I mean – ” she stammered nervously. “I’m sorry, that was weird of me, I –”

“No,” Thomas said. It was quiet. But Elissa’s realization of it made it loud enough to stop her motormouth. “No. I’d actually … I’d really like that.” And he truly did.

******

It was one of the warmer days of autumn. Just warm enough for Thomas and Elissa to walk to the park together (so that neither one could start reading ahead of the other), take up a bench along the path, across from the playground, and read. Every so often, a small breeze would pass, rattling the leaves from the trees. But neither person ever seemed to acknowledge a chill. Not with Elissa’s legs lain across Thomas’ lap, nor with the kiss to his jawline she gave him every time she wanted the page to turn. Nor when his warm, heavy arm wrapped around her shoulder to pull her in closer, or when he eased her head into the crook of his neck.

Perfection.

***________________________________________***

Eddie blinked his eyes tightly before opening them back up. The words still read what he’d thought, never changing. And the images they induced upon his already overactive imagination were still there, only changing when the motions repeated their loop. The warmth in his face became the warmth his character, Thomas, experienced whenever Elissa kissed his jaw. And the cinnamon smells of the doughnut before him became the autumnal bouquet of the park the happy couple sat in.

“Isn’t that adorable?” he heard. As Eddie looked up from the phone he’d been reading everything on, (Y/N) came into view, taking her seat across from him. He’d initially come to her trailer (as he often did) to watch a few episodes of Slings & Arrows. But as they waited for the pirated website to stop buffering, she’d asked him how he felt about fanfiction. He personally had few reserves about it, mostly viewing it as a harmless way to express one’s creativity. He should have known from the devilish smile alone that (Y/N) intended to show him something he wouldn’t have expected.

At this moment, the smile she gave him wasn’t mischievous, but amused. It made Eddie think of the kisses her likeness would give his own likeness.

“You should be thankful,” she said, taking a sip of the hot chocolate she’d prepared for herself. “That’s one of the innocent ones, Edward. Lotta smutty things about ole Tom and Ellie.”

At the idea of Thomas and Elissa – two people whom they looked like – being caught in the throes of passion (modern day or period appropriate), Eddie nearly keeled over into his own cup of hot chocolate.

Eddie coughed himself to sensibility.

“It’s, uh … It’s definitely something. A few suggestions for editing but …” That was all he could offer. He placed (Y/N)’s phone down, not wanting her to notice how his hands were trembling as butterflies pelted against them from the inside. (Y/N) clicked her tongue.

“Oh, Eddie,” she whined. “Can’t you see it from a non-teacher point-of-view?”

Eddie could only offer her a weak smile and shrug. It was the best he could do to keep her from knowing that he’d been reading it from the point-of-view of a man with a complete infatuation – both as Thomas, and as himself.

it’s a quiet moment on set and eddie pulls out his phone. he opens his browser and goes to the page saved in his bookmarks.

“welcome HistoryBuff1776,” says the login screen. he clicks on “continue reading” and taps the first listing.

“Thomas takes Elissa’s hand, his free one quivering as it clutches the ring.

“Elissa,” he begins, suddenly shy, his big ears burning-””

eddie’s hand gravitates to his own ears. had people noticed? oh, well. he doesn’t care- it’s almost time for the proposal. his heart is racing, his face blushing and his body quivering with excitment. he’s shaking, and part of him is embarrassed, but more of him is dying to find out if she says yes. and if she does, what comes next?

just as he’s getting to the good part, he feels a warm, soft hand on his shoulder, and he leaps, fumbling his phone. it drops facedown on the ground, and his co-star giggles.

“didn’t mean to scare you, eddie!”

“y-you didn’t! you just surprised me! that’s all!”

“good to know,” she smiles, sitting down next to him. she, in a strange moment of intimacy, lays her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes, sighing.

“i hate the fight scenes,” she mumbles. “i get so jumpy around the cannons. still haven’t gotten used to them.”

she snuggles in closer as eddie leaves his phone unattended. he deosn’t care about it right now. he cares about staying perfectly still so that she doesn’t run off, like a doe in the woods, a cat perched on a lap.

he shrugs his shoulders a little and she just pushes closer, eddie’s head resting on hers, too, and he manages to speak.

“if the cannons bother you, you can always, um, come to me.”

“i will. thank you.”

and in that moment, his life is better than any fantasy could ever be.

#submission #long post ///#fave #mega fave #SUPER DUPER MEGA FAVE #SUPER SPECIAL TAG #YAY #mr. mccarthy

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kingsofchaos · 7 years

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Outside the relevant video footage there are a few particular photos of the FAHC that the media likes to use whenever they are discussing one of the crew's attacks on the news; between citizen’s snapshots and professional photojournalists there’s certainly no shortage of available images but a select handful have become somewhat iconic. There are favourites for each individual, at least of the main public-facing portion of the crew, even ideal shots of near every little combination of members, but it’s the big group photos that really bring in the money. The favoured images are all action shots including all the key members of the crew, rare and hard to capture but spectacular when managed, the candid photos looking more like promo stills for a Hollywood blockbuster than anything based in reality. Tales of the crew’s latest acts of bloody ruthlessness are often accompanied by a snap taken by a long-focus lens through a chain-link fence of the Fake’s waiting for pickup outside a warehouse. Pattillo’s on the phone, Ramsey has his head in one hand as he gestures towards where Jones is tipping off balance with Dooley in a headlock, who in turn has one hand fisted in the Vagabond’s jacket as Free looks on, apparently cleaning his nails with a knife. The group ranges from a light smattering to utterly drenched but not one has entirely escaped the spray of blood, and every single one of them is laughing. When instead the topic of discussion is the FAHC’s opulent irreverence the image of choice is one showing the key six in various stages of undress, swimmers and cocktails all around as they lounge about the spa and deck of the mayor’s yacht. Then there’s the photo that never fails to come up whenever the media is focussing on the FAHC’s ability to do the unbelievable, taken during one of the Fake’s more ludicrous heists. An overbearing titan dwarfs the scene right outside Maze Bank, cartoonishly large magnet swinging heavily below it at the aircraft absconds with an entire safe. Two figures are standing atop the safe as it is lifted, one in a suit and the other in a skull mask, both clinging to the chain as they lean out to shoot towards those still on the ground. Below a hotly pursued chrome car is fishtailing around the corner even as two bikes are caught mid-flight, launching through the air over a police barricade, the drivers – one decked out in all gold and the other a mess of purple and orange – reaching out to bump gloved fists. A grainy mobile camera shot that is largely ignored by mainstream media nonetheless makes the rounds on the internet, quickly going viral as people express their fascination with the image of Los Santos’ most infamous villains after a night at the bar. Walking down a quiet street Ramsey and Pattillo are out in front, the boss laughing and gesticulating wildly while the second shoves him away, grin mostly hidden as she looks back at the others following behind. Free’s arm is hooked around Jones’ neck, a careless piggyback that matches the sloppy edge of their grins, his other arm thrust forward like he’s directing a charge despite the way the Vagabond is clearly towing them both with one hand. The other hand is busy keeping Dooley from slumping to the ground, limp body slung over the Vagabonds shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and even masked its clear the mercenary is looking skyward in exasperation. It’s an oddly humanising image, the familiarity of drunken camaraderie regardless of the nature of the people involved, and, feeling safe and brazen behind the anonymity of the internet, the picture is quickly utilised in a dozen different ridiculous memes. Despite all that, the most commonly used image of the crew by far, and easily the most obnoxiously arrogant of the lot, comes from the memorable day the FAHC decided to make a show of finally wiping out their key rivals, an example to the city and a huge payday all rolled into one extravagant affair. While there are still plenty missing the imagine contains nearly every identifiable member of the FAHC, including a sizable chunk of support, all dressed in matching suits - visibly expensive, personally tailored and entirely unnecessary, each with their own little flairs of green; a tie, a handkerchief, a necklace, a vest. The crew is walking in a V-formation, with Ramsey front and centre and the rest flared back around him, loose limbed and laughing like they’re not all armed to the teeth. Like there isn’t a burnt out plane behind them or a building pouring smoke and flame. Like this photo didn’t catch them moments after securing the most horrifically high body-count the crew has to their name. It’s used because of how many members are visible, because of how clearly it displays the callous cruelty of the crew, the violent destruction at the heart of their existence. The Fake’s just love how insufferably grandiose it is, from the accidental formation of their walk to the silly last second decision to suit up and wreck shop like caricature gangsters, all picked apart and interpreted as intention, calculated self-importance and immaculate organisation. There is however, a single photo in circulation that the Fake’s draw no pleasure from no matter how many times its shown. It’s the kind of image prime time news always precedes with a warning; disturbing, graphic, might offend some viewers, proceed at your own risk. It was taken by a particularly reckless journalist in the middle of a shootout that stayed in the headlines for weeks, the stormy night that almost spelled the end of the FAHC and cost many officers their lives in the process. The image embodies every inch of that grim reality, almost washed out by the red and blue lights reflecting back off every surface from pale faces to the wet shine of the road, and the whole photo couldn’t have been framed better if it had been staged. There are lumps scattered across the scene; rubble, cartridges, crashed vehicles and indistinguishable bodies in blue and black Kevlar. In the foreground there is a shock of green hair against the pavement, Dooley's prone form blocked almost entirely by Ramsey crouching over him, usual jacket abandoned to reveal a tattered shirt, stark and ghostly white against the harsh black metal of the machine gun braced against his shoulder. Slightly further back, ducked low and braced against a wall Pattillo and the Vagabond press together, bodies inadvertently angled towards the photographer. The Vagabond is caught mid-reload, skull askew as his head twists back to look behind even as Pattillo keeps him pinned, gun slung across her back and her own shirt ripping between her teeth as she ties it around the masked man's thigh. Furthest away and almost perfectly centred Jones has his back to the camera, the distinctive snarl of the wolf stamped across his spine just visible as he stands square between his crew and the advancing line of officers, outline lit by the bright flare of his muzzle flash. Nearby a slighter figure echoes his position, taking aim from the hood of an abandoned police car, though one of Free's arms hangs wet and useless to his side, face turned just far enough to reveal blood streaked skin and bared teeth. Out of focus but distinct even in the background the LSPD advances, a solid mass interspaced by flashing lights and flaring weapons. The photo even captured a glimpse of the Firebird’s chopper arriving, the deciding factor that finally swung the fight back into the FAHC's favour, just visible emerging around the hulking silhouette of a building. The photo is, in all objectivity, an artistic masterpiece. The Fake’s hate it. Any media loop of a job gone bad is a pretty miserable time, and there is certainly enough footage of that night to go around, but something about that image is particularly grating. It’s hardly the worst photo of them out there, isn’t embarrassing or overly revealing, the few visible faces not even reflecting the desperate terror they’d all felt by the end, but it’s still too much. Too painful, too human, far too close, so each and every time it surfaces again it never fails to tip somebody into a bad mood. The annoyance is aimed at the media really, not the individual who’d snapped the shot; no matter how many claimed the man should have his identity protected for safety the Fake’s simply weren’t interested. Which isn’t to say they didn’t notice when that damned image won a prestigious award, oh no. For all their collective indifference there’s just no way the photographer was ever going to keep that prize long, his apartment broken into within a week without any obvious signs of forced entry, the culprits only identifiable by the message they left behind in their wake, bright green paint splashed across the wall where the shiny new plaque had hung in pride of place; Get our good side next time, xoxo FAHC

#FAHC #good grief #this all came from me laughing at a particular photo #that the news keeps using every night #+there just has to be so many photos #someone was going to be pulling Gavin from the car #because honestly kid way to make yourself a target #but Lad rage over hurt J won out #i default Jeremy to green hair #Legal and Illegal Have Nothing To Do With Right or Wrong #Loaded Guns and Sharp Teeth

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abiliflying · 5 years

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‘I sat there, suddenly transported into my 11 year old self’s eyes. Nothing had been innocent for a very long time. As a child, we believe we are the most mature we can be. I believed I had seen everything. The light of the room was faint, only illuminated by the yellow lamp, with the flowers on the lampshade, that my stepfather had kept lit. I was curled on the loveseat, iPhone 4 held in my hands, I was staring into the distance, eyes vaguely locked on the fireplace. No one had spoken for a very long time. I didn’t want to be alive. On my notes app on the clunky phone, I had just finished writing a song that would end with my crying into the microphone if it was sung. It never was. It was meant to be played with soft piano, and the lyrics were laced with absolute, desolate, want to give up. It spoke of what happened when people forgot how to breathe. When the breath catches in your chest because it hurts too much to breathe out. It was too much. It was all too much. My father was fresh out of his mortality. He had exited, in one sweeping blow, leaving me to exist with unresolved hate, and pain, and coldness, for years. I needed to shower. So I did. I sat down. I cried. I hated showering. My stepfather asked why I hated showering. I said it was because I hated getting my hair wet. My mother warned me not to ask for anything from him, because he would get it. But in the following years, I learned it was only objects. He filled our lives with material needs. When I asked for acceptance, when I asked for support and nothing more, he twisted my heart by using the name that made me vomit. His alcohol-tainted breath warned me I wasn’t welcome in his home. I never was, I only desperately wanted to be. I idolized beginnings. I idolized father figures, seeing my mother happy, laughing late at night.

But I was 11 years old, and I knew none of this. All I knew is that if I went one more night with this stone in my stomach, I would die whether I wanted to or not. I was curled in the loveseat. The room was illuminated with yellow light. I had school the next day. It hurt too bad to cry. I thought about my friends. I was so desperate for any stability, I convinced myself they would stay the same. I did not think about the after-death or life. I did not think about who would go on if I went. All I knew was the most carnal, instinctual habit of human need. That I could not stand pain.

And in some twisted, cruel way, it was preparation. I only live now, because I have had plenty of practice. Because for years it has been like this. The pain is chronic, will always be, and would definitely knock others out cold, but at a point it is not even numb anymore. It is obsolete. It is dulled by white tablets, it is dulled by distraction, it is dulled by jokes no one finds funny, it is dulled by food or starvation, it is dulled by 17 hours of sleep or none. It is dulled by loving so hard breath comes in raggedy takes. It is dulled by slicing open my own arms because I deserve it, or convincing myself I deserve the world.

And when obsoletion, when the dulling is tainted, it ends with blood filling the sink, it ends with vomit the following morning, it ends with off-white walls and hospital beds, and this will happen many times, happen often, and this is how it will always be till I go too far.

I carry on my father’s legacy like this, and maybe it is good he’s so shit at watching over me, because it means I continue what he was. I continue what I am.

The song with the unadulterated despair, the unrestrained urge to give up, is reflected and cast though fragments now, but it remains the same, a world in which only the arms of those who I love give me meaningful distraction. I can be on top of the world, and know this still. Maybe I will die in midsummer.’

-g.e.brebner

#writing #my writing

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casiehgf53664-blog · 6 years

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Egypt, Canaan, And Israel In Ancient Times (9780691000862).

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