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blancheludis · 3 years

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@whumptober2021 Day 3: Taunting, Insults

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Characters: Dorian Pavus, The Iron Bull Tags: Assault, Mage-Templar Conflict, Self-Worth Issues, Hurt Dorian, Holy Smite, Protective Iron Bull Words: 3.484

Summary: Dorian can count on one hand the times he was hit by a Smite and it was always during training, leaving him shaky and sick the rest of the day. This feels so much worse, done out of malice, meant to cripple instead of teach.

“You were saying, mage?”

- A few Templars attack Dorian in Skyhold. Bull comes to the rescue.

---

It has gotten late. Dinner is already over and while there is faint music to be heard from the Herald’s Rest, the rest of Skyhold is eerily deserted. Dorian curses himself silently as he hurries through the dark corridors. He lost track of time in the library, which should not come as a surprise, really, but he knows better than to walk alone after dark.

He is not afraid. Dangers lurk around every corner, but he trusts in his ability to defend himself. The thing is, that he is not certain whether he should defend himself. The Tevinter Mage far from home, shrouded in mystery. People do not trust him here, but the reasons are so laughably threadbare. He is neither a blood mage nor does he want to overthrow any kingdoms.

“Mage,” a voice calls out, harsh but slightly too loud for the late hour.

Dorian hastens his step. He knows the distaste in the tone intimately, even if it is only since he left Tevinter that he learned it paired just as well with mage as it does with slave or son.

He keeps his head up, makes it look like he is not running away. Running never helps. While most of the soldiers here are cowards, some do like to hunt, and Dorian knows better than to give them a reason to.

“I’m talking to you.”

And Dorian is trying his best not to hear him. One of these days, he is going to accidentally incinerate a hapless Templar trying to waylay him. The uproar that will cause. Perhaps that will still better than this cat-and-mouse game that he always, always loses.

A hand grabs Dorian all of a sudden, appearing out of nowhere in the dark. Dorian, who was concentrating on the yelling man in his back has not been paying attention to what is ahead of him.

Another Templar. Even out of uniform they are unmistakeable. That fanatic fire in their eyes that burns brightest when Dorian is near. They like to leave their hands hovering over their hips, even when they are not wearing their swords, constantly following that urge to be ready, to cut down a mage, no questions asked.

“Is there something wrong with your ears, mage?” the Templar in front of him asks, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. Alcohol clouds his breath, almost as potent as hate.

“Nothing at all,” Dorian answers brightly, trying to tone down the sharpness of his voice. “Nobody was calling my name, though.”

He bites his tongue. So much for holding back. It is high time to get out of here before the stragglers reach them. But no matter how much he twists his arm, the Templar’s hold remains strong. He could put the man on his back, but mages are not allowed to defend themselves and he does not want all of Skyhold’s guards to be called down on him because these guys are screaming murder.

“You bloody ‘Vints, always thinking you’re better than us good folks.”

Dorian barely manages to keep his face from scrunching up, but some of his contempt must have slipped through anyway because the man’s scowl deepens. Definitely time to get out.

“Well, I better relieve you of my presence then. Wouldn’t want to ruin your night,” Dorian says and calls fire to his hands, not enough to burn but to warm his fingers in warning. To his dismay, the Templar’s grip only tightens and he pulls Dorian closer.

“The Inquisitor should have never let you in,” he snarls, his foul breath warm on Dorian’s cheek. “We’re trying to save the world, not break it.”

Unable to help himself, Dorian laughs. “Did you read that in one of Master Tethras’ novels? Mighty impressive, I didn’t think they wasted the energy on teaching war dogs to read.”

Dorian should shut up. The drunk guy behind him is coming closer, leaning on a friend’s shoulder. Three on one are not odds Dorian would think twice about in the field. Things are different here. Even drunk and clearly hoping for a fight, people will listen more closely to these three than Dorian.

He is just a mage, barely a friend of the Inquisitor, neither trusted nor even a real asset because who would want a necromancer in their back when they could have him dead and buried, safely sealed away. It grates at Dorian’s pride, but he has practice in being not wanted and sneered at. He does not think it will ever stop hurting but that does not mean he will let them see.

Dorian twists his hand, determined to scare them off even if he does not dare to actually attack them. But before he can do much of anything, the Templar takes an abrupt step forward and shoves Dorian against the wall behind him. The force rattles his ribcage, upsetting a bruise he got while training with Bull. He does not let the pain show but raises a hand and lets a flame dance on his palm, bigger now and definitely a threat. Hopefully, the reminder that he could fling a fireball at their heads will be enough to get them to back off.

What Dorian does not expect is the wave of sudden coldness slamming into him, making him double over. The energy crackling under his skin, ready to be called forth, vanishes, drained by the Smite, leaving only nausea in its wake.

It is a terrible feeling, beyond words. Wielding magic is like breathing, but the Smite is more than a chokehold. It feels as if boiling silver is poured down his throat, charring his insides and leaving nothing but a barren wasteland and the painful memory of greatness.

He can count on one hand the times he was hit by a Smite and it was always during training, leaving him shaky and sick the rest of the day. This feels so much worse, done out of malice, meant to cripple instead of teach.

“You were saying, mage?”

The drunk guy sounds much more sober now if no less disdainful.

Panic unfurls in the pit of Dorian’s stomach as he realizes he is cornered. He cannot run, he can not access his magic. He is helpless in the middle of the Inquisition’s stronghold.

Perhaps they will be happy with simply roughing him up a little, with teaching him his place. The drunk guy is leering at him, but Dorian has gone to his knees under equally terrible circumstances before. If they want to kill him, though, there is little he can do. This is not how his story will end. It cannot be. And yet, Dorian has his hands full with staying upright.

He barely feels the first punch. It rattles his body but the pain is a mere echo, lost in the void that has suddenly opened in Dorian’s very core.

The men are still talking, all three of them now towering over Dorian, but he just hears the hate in their voices, no actual words.

A punch the face snaps him out of his stupor, the acute sharpness of it enough to penetrate the fog that has settled over his senses. With consciousness, though, comes more fear.

“You mage scum are good for one thing, though,” one of the Templars says. Dorian is far beyond being able to recognize faces, but his wide grin reveals a missing tooth. “And once we’re done, we’ll bury you outside in the snow, do a favour for all of us.”

Dorian hates the cold and he really, really does not want to die in it. He does not want to die at all, but the how has suddenly become a far greater concern then the when. He opens his mouth, not sure whether to say something or to just scream, but he does not get to do either because another hit to the head makes his vision swim and his thoughts scatter.

“What is going on here?” a new voice interrupts, making the three Templars jump.

The sudden lack of contact between them has Dorian slumping against the wall, his legs shaking too badly to keep him upright. His mind, however, whirs into a panicked chorus of denial. Three men are more than enough, he cannot have even more join the apparent free-for-all he has become this night.

Then, though, he sees the men back away, and when he looks at the newcomer, he finds too broad shoulders and horns and - Dorian has never been so glad to see Bull. It does not matter that he is a mage or a ‘Vint, Bull will not leave him to his fate.

“We were just having a friendly discussion,” one of the Templars says.

Dorian’s brain is slowly sorting itself out again as no new pain comes forth, and he scoffs. It tugs at a fresh bruise on his face.

“The Inquisitor is making a mistake trusting these abominations.”

Dorian is pretty sure that is the one who used the Smite. He shivers, pushes himself further against the wall. The Templars are no match against Bull, but they are still standing like a wall in front of Dorian.

“I suggest that you run,” Bull says, his voice vibrating with something dark. “And if you’re smart, you’ll leave Skyhold tonight and never look back.”

“We don’t take orders from beasts,” the gap-toothed one spats, no ounce of self-preservation.

Dorian has seen Bull on the battlefield, bloodied and hungry for a fight, an unstoppable force. Right in front of their eyes, Bull transforms into something worse than that. His back straightens, making him grow even taller, and his eyes gleam with that same battle madness, focused unflinchingly on these three, puny men.

“Run,” he bellows and takes a swing. Even armour would not have saved Gap-Tooth for Bull does not hold back. His fist slams into the Templar’s jaw with a sickening crunch, throwing him through the air as if he weighs nothing.

That is enough of a demonstration that they do not question Bull again but run, stumbling over their own feet in their hurry to get away. Dorian would laugh at their turned backs, relishing in how the situation was flipped on them, but he is still too busy with just breathing.

He closes his eyes and catalogues the pain. The throbbing, familiar ache of bruises is easier to deal with than the terrifying void inside of him. He reaches for his magic and nothing answers. His skin is just skin and not a conduit. His body is just blood and bones and nerves, full of pain and longing now, nothing greater.

“Are you all right, big guy?” Bull asks, sounding way too close.

When Dorian opens his eyes, Bull is crouching next to him, the madness replaced by blatant concern.

He will live. Nothing feels broken and there are potions against the pain. This is not his first rodeo.

“Of course,” Dorian lies. He is not sure he can stand up, much less make the way back to his quarters. He does not particularly want to be alone either – he has never been this weak before. Or, well, he was once, when his father – better not go there. This evening is ruined enough.

“You were assaulted –” Bull says but trails off when Dorian pushes to his feet.

Shaking legs or not, he is done cowering and he does not need Bull’s pity. Bad enough he had to be saved.

“Merely a misunderstanding,” Dorian says and puts in the effort to regain control over his expression. “Although I appreciate you stepping in.”

He has some experience with putting himself back together. And being alone in his room does not sound so bad if he thinks about it. There, at least, will be nobody to act tough for.

Bull nods but Dorian knows him well enough by now that this battle is not won. Coming another step closer, he his hand on the crook of Dorian’s elbow, never bothering to ask whether Dorian even wants help.

“How often does this happen?” Bull asks, his tone just conversational enough to almost hide the simmering anger beneath.

Deep down, Dorian is flattered that Bull would be upset on his behalf, but if he lets this happen it will only lead to more complications down the road. So, while he does not push off Bull’s hand, he takes care not to lean on him and begins walking towards his room. It is slow going, at first, because his body feels wrong, missing something vital, but he is walking.

“Do you think there’s someone waiting around every corner trying to trip me up?” Dorian says, falling back on his old friend sarcasm. That at least is familiar. “They were drunk.”

Drunk and ready to kill him. That is definitely a step up from mere insults and the occasional try to trip him in the hallways.

“And yet you don’t seem surprised.” Bull looks at him from the side, with an intensity in his eyes that reminds Dorian that bull is not just a formidable fighter but also a spy. “This actually explains quite a bit. You love your wine, but you never get drunk. You always leave the tavern early and never alone. You -”

Dorian pulls his arm away from Bull, very aware that people keep touching him. The momentum of that almost throws him off balance, but apart from the sheer wrongness of being without magic and the exhaustion weighing him down, Dorian almost feels like himself again. Half of himself, covered in bruises, but not a victim anymore.

“Are you done analysing me?” he snaps, knowing that his glare falls flat. “Nothing happened.”

Bull does not visibly react to Dorian refusing his help but looks decidedly unimpressed. “You’re shaking.” He does not move further away but somehow manages not to crowd Dorian either.

“Well, let someone cut one of your limbs off and see how you like it.” It feels like that, only that the loss is not located in just one limb but all of him at once. Magic is always there, waiting just for his call. His entire skin prickles with it, his lungs draw it in alongside the air to breathe. Without it, he barely feels human.

“A limb?” Bull asks, confusion interrupting his casual interrogation. Did they – oh. They took your magic?”

Bull’s realization does not sit right with Dorian. There is no malice on his face, no relief. One of his Chargers is a mage and Bull never gave the impression he minded Dorian using magic, on or off a battlefield. But Dorian is only too aware of how Qunari view mages. It is probably unfair, but he still cannot quite think clearly. And part of him will always be wary of Bull’s loyalty to the Qun.

“One used the Smite,” he says, trying for nonchalance, although it is hard to fool Bull even when he is not exhausted and in pain. “I’ll be right as rain in a minute.” Or a few hours, if he can only lock his door and lie down.

“Dorian.” Bull pulls him to a stop, just the briefest of touches before he lets his hand fall again. “This is not okay. You need to talk to Cullen about this.” It is a miracle, how he can sound so serious while saying something this ridiculous.

Dorian is already walking such a fine line with the Inquisition. It does not matter that he very much wants to rid the world of Corypheus and that he would keep hunting Venatori on his own, that he wants to reform his homeland until it is something to be proud of again. The Inquisitor likes him and trusts him not to betray them. The rest of the Skyhold’s inhabitants? Not so much.

Cullen is always civil to Dorian, the same way he is to foreign diplomats and nobles. Their conversations have gotten a bit warmer since they started playing chess together. That does not mean that Cullen would go against his own people for the sake of a mage telling tales.

“I most definitely do not,” Dorian says with a glare. “I can handle myself.” He has done so a thousand times before and likely will a thousand more.

“That’s what it looked like.”

It is not like Bull to mock him. About his clothes or the way he drinks his wine, yes. But about losing a fight? A minute ago, he called it assault but now the blame has shifted to Dorian. It always does. Time to go so he can lick his wounds in private.

“If you’re done insulting me, then –”

Bull reaches out and Dorian flinches instinctively. It gives them both halt, so much more telling about Dorian’s state than his threadbare lies.

“What about the other mages?” Bull then asks, his tone gentle, reasonable. “What if they’re going for someone a little less noticeable next? Who doesn’t play chess with the Commander and has his ear?”

Dorian has thought about that before. The other mages usually do not go out alone, too used to be wary of Templars. And he doubts anybody would dare to touch Vivienne or Solas.

“They hate me because I’m from Tevinter.” It is certainly true. And he is never quiet about his disdain of Ferelden either. The weather, the dogs, the food. He will not be forbidden to speak the truth.

But Bull does not seem to buy it. “Is that all?

Dorian stays silent. He is loud and flashy and unrepentant, so that is what might have drawn their gaze. There is little about him that does not offend people here. But that is not what their main issue is with him, but the fact that he commands a power they do not understand and never will because they cower from it.

Being a mage is not a choice, though. In most parts of Thedas, magic is treated as something to be contained and caged. Control is important, certainly, but magic is in everything and cutting it out means going through life half-blind.

Dorian turns and starts walking again. He is done with this conversation. People will always come after him and making him a fool of himself in front of the Commander of the Inquisition forces will not change that. In fact, he might just get another enemy out of this.

“I can talk to Cullen, if you’d prefer,” Bull offers, keeping up easily with him.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles,” Dorian bites out. He will have to talk to Fiona and perhaps Vivienne to make sure that the other mages are not harassed too. He can deal with it, has done so for as long as he remembers, even if the insults change wherever he goes. But Bull is right, he will not let other experience the same.

“Never said you weren’t capable,” Bull says, his placating tone falling on deaf ears. “Do you know who they were?”

Dorian has no ideas. If he remembered every face that looked at him with disgust, every person who spewed insults or spat at him, he would not be able to cram anything else into his brain. It was never that important.

He shakes his head. “Cullen trusts the Templars that came with him.” And, despite the progress Cullen has undoubtedly made, he does not trust mages.

Bull nods but argues anyway, “We’re getting more refugees every day. He doesn’t know all of them.”

And they will still be Templars while Dorian is just an enemy mage. But Bull is right. If they are going after a member of the Inquisition’s inner circle, the other mages are not safe.

“I’ll talk to him,” he promises grudgingly. That is not a conversation he is looking forward to. He can already imagine the questions. Are you sure you did nothing to provoke them?

“Good.” Bull smiles as if he never doubted he would win the argument. “Let me walk you back to your quarters.”

Dorian should protest. He is a grown man. But he is tired and shaken to the core, still empty inside where his magic used to reside. He still does not want to be alone, does not want to peer around every corner, waiting for the next attack. The shadows seem to retreat from Bull’s massive form and Dorian is glad for the company.

He does not say thank you, but the corner of Bull’s mouth ticks further up as if he hears it anyway.

“Next time, just find me at the tavern. If I’m not there, the boys will be just as happy to help.”

Dorian nods, even though he does not understand the offer. Bull does not owe him anything. But this is something he has been learning slowly, relying on others. Maybe he can allow himself to get used to it. He can dream, at least.

#whumptober2021 #no.3 #insults #dragon age #fanfiction #dorian pavus #iron bull #mage templar conflict #self worth issues #my writing

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the-blackholeus · 5 years

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You saved me, so I return the favor. (TMNT2016 Shredder X Reader) Part 2

(For all Krang lovers, I’m sorry^^. I love this slimy alien myself, and he is my favorite character next to Shredder in the TMNT series.)

Male:

Pain...insufferable pain...that was the only thing he felt right now. Every nerve in his body burned like he was on fire, and he felt like his blood was acid. Shredder moaned in pure agony as another syringe was interjected, and he felt the liquid mixing with his blood. Nausea rose in his stomach as he pressed his eyelids together, trying to ignore that cruel laugh that came from the creature before him.

Krang licked over his lips as he pulled the little needle back and let some drops fall to the floor. “Aw, what’s wrong, Shredder? Is the pain too much to bear?”, the brain-like warlord asked and wiped the saliva from his plump lip, letting it drop to the floor with a sickening sound, not really helping with the human’s nausea problem.

“Y-You bastard!”, he gasped out, trying his best to swallow the acid of his stomach that traveled up his throat. “W-When I get out of here, I will…”

The alien interrupted him with a harsh slap on his cheek, laughing cruelly as he did so. “You’re not going anywhere, puny little earthling. You are nothing more than my test-object, and even if you would manage to get free, you’re so full of substances, you won’t get far.”

Again, he licked his lips and patted his naked shoulder, before retracted himself into the robot-suit he has repaired, leaving the room, but before he closed the door, his voice echoed through the room one last time. “And I will be finished with you soon anyway, Oroku Saki!”

The human let out a week sounding growl, feeling how the burning liquid ran with his blood through his whole body and let him know where all veins he possessed were. His head fell back, hitting the hard surface of the wall, closing his eyes, trying to distract himself for the sake of his sanity. The first thing he could think of was Y/N, the man he saved from a rapist a while ago.

He didn’t know why he did it, but he was glad. The memory of the young man who talked to him like a person and not like a monster, the knowledge that someone accepted him as a man was good for his already twisted mind and helped him through that heartless torture that insane alien put him through.

A week after Krang had suffered a humiliating defeat, he had freed him and started to use him as a test subject for all those liquids in his laboratory, may it be healing potions or poison…everything was tested on him.

He had lost count of how many times he tried to force himself to throw up, but that twisted warlord had already foreseen that possibility and injected something that made it impossible.

On some days, it wasn’t so bad, but in others, it just burned like acid was thrown on and inside him…and today was one of them.

But if it was only that this insane thing was using him for. He, too, lost count of creatures he had already fought against.

Every time Krang wanted to know how what creatures he could use to take over planet earth, he let him fight against one of his “prizes” he got when he overthrew other dimensions. He survived but got plenty of new scars.

Hours of pure suffering passed until Krang finally returned, a grin on his slimy face. “Hello, my dear earthling”, he purred and forced him to look at him. “Did you have fun?”

“Y-You sick…l-little.”, the human tried to curse him, but his words got stuck in his throat. He had no strength left, he was trained, and his muscular body felt like he was just pushed into a fire that burned him alive. “What was that? I’m afraid I can’t hear you!”,

The warlord laughed…but it soon turned into a serious face.

Oh, no…what is coming now?

“I have run out of tests, Shredder. And you know what this means, do you?” He gave no response, and just glared at the brain-like creature before him, his eyes hard, his face impassive, but on the inside, he was practically melting with fear.

“No, of course not, your pathetic little creature! Don’t worry, I didn’t expect that much of you!”, Krang laughed and wrapped one of his tentacles around his neck, squeezing it just enough for him to cut off his airway.

“You’ve exhausted your usefulness to me, little human! I’ve got no reason to keep you now, and that means it’s time for me to take out the trash!”

The warlord laughed and released his neck, causing him to cough. Nausea grabbed him, and he gagged a few times before it finally stilled, wincing as his stomach cramped and stung like it was impaled with little knives.

“W-What a-are you going to do right now, you insane b-bubble gum!”, he rasped and spit blood out of his mouth, that an open lip has filled up. “K-Kill me? Then g-go on, if you thi-think I am scared of d-death, t-then you are w-wrong!”

The older male merely laughed at him and slapped his shoulders. “No, my dear Shredder, I’m not going to kill you, I’ve got to save my strength for other things. I rather thought about just dropping you in the middle of New York, bleeding, suffering and left to die. And with what you did, I doubt that anyone who finds you will save you.”

Krang, again, released a hoarse laugh and injected something in the human’s veins. In a few seconds, Shredder knew no more…

---

Pain…pain, so much pain. Everything on his body was on fire. Shredder groaned as he regained consciousness, slowly opening his eyes, but his vision was more than just blurry.

The only thing he knew was that he was somewhere barely lit. He tried to roll over, but he couldn’t even move, he could even barely breathe.

He coughed and tasted a familiar liquid on his tongue. Blood, and not a little. He felt as it ran out of his mouth and down his face, and his ears caught the sound of the drops hitting the surface he laid on.

He closed his eyes again and tried to relax, hoping that death or at least the comforting darkness would come soon to claim him.

But suddenly, he heard something…were those sounds steps? Yes, they were. Fast footsteps that seemed to approach him. Hope suddenly bloomed in his chest, but just as fast as it came, it disappeared, and Krangs words suddenly echoed through his mind. With a pang, he realized that the warlord was right. Who would help him?

Only people from his clan would, but he doubted that they would be there. They didn’t even know that he was alive. They were probably hiding somewhere and won’t come out until its safe. Damn cowards!! It was probably just some random man or woman who was walking by and has spotted his body on the floor.

The steps stopped, and the breathing of the person hitched, and it was that moment that he knew that they had recognized him and was probably going to call the police.

A few moments passed, and he only waited for their voice telling the cops that he was here, but there was only silence. Then, suddenly, the stranger started to walk again.

He felt a hand touching his shoulders and turn him to what he guessed could only be his direction and something soft wiped away the blood that was already starting to dry.

“Saki…”

That voice…

That beautiful voice…

Y/N, he thought, and his eyes opened. He stared at the blur that faced him and opened his mouth to call for help, but all that came out was blood and saliva. “N-No…don't talk. R-Rest. I-I will call someone…”The grip on his shoulder tightened and he saw how the blur, that was the one he saved a while ago, sat down next to him.

Shredder wanted to make a sound of protest, but he couldn’t, the only thing that he could do was to widen his eyes, but he was sure that the young man didn’t notice.

“Hello, Andrew!?”, he heard the soft voice. “Yeah, I know, it’s in the middle of the night, but I need you to do me a favor. Listen, I found a friend of mine here in the park near my house, and something’s wrong with him. He can’t move, can’t talk and coughs blood.

Five minutes? Good, bye. Oh, another thing…please don’t call the police! I’ll explain everything when he’s okay.”

The Ninja felt the warm hand slip up to his face, the blurry frame of the young man he had saved leaned over him, and he felt the warm breathing hitting his face. “My friend’s coming, he’s a doctor. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he won’t call the cops. You’re safe, trust me!”

Shredder just coughed, spitting blood, before closing his eyes, resting against the person that was now saving him. He said his friend was coming, and that he was a doctor, so a little rest until he arrived wouldn’t hurt…right?

---

“Is h....g...ng to b...al….t?”, he heard a voice ask as the darkness around him slowly faded and pulled him back into the world of awareness. “Y..”, came as just as blurry answer. He recognized a different voice, but he couldn’t make out more, he felt too exhausted. “H...n… a lot of r…”

He groaned as he slowly moved his right arm to his forehead and began to rub the sweated skin with his scarred fingers, trying his best to ease the burning headache. On his hardest, he tried to remember what happened. The last thing Shredder could recall was lying in the park, unable to move, chocking on his own blood.

Suddenly, warm fingers wrapped around his hands and began to massage his knuckles. Slowly, he began to open his eyes, staring at the beautiful face of the man…Y/N. A small smile came across his scarred lips as he did so. The kind human gave him one in return and whispered, “Good morning, Saki.”

His smile vanished as another man leaned over him and eyed him with a stern expression. Careful, he reached down and shone with some sort of flashlight right into his pupils, before retreating and walking away.

“His eyes show no abnormal activities, but I’ll keep an eye on him for the next few days just to be sure.” “When will I be able to get him home?”, he heard Y/N ask and looked over to the older man.

“Three or four days. We almost lost him yesterday after all.”, he answered and came into view again, holding a bandage. “Those need a change once a day, and you’ll have to help him to walk. He’s really weak.”

Shredder would have laughed if his whole body didn’t burn like he just bathed in acid. He could feel that he had barely the strength to hold himself awake, there’s no need to rub that into his face.

“He’ll probably sleep a lot, but don’t worry, that’s normal.” Y/N nodded and squeezed his hand before smiling down at him with a kindness that made his cold heart melt.

Never in his life had someone cared for him as much as the younger male did, not even his mother.

“Hey, Saki.”, the man he saved spoke in a soft tune and ran his fingers through his hair, which was still wet from sweat. He made a small noise in response and gave another weak smile.

“I’m glad you’re awake. We almost lost you yesterday, you know?”, he said, and again, traced his knuckles. “You’re probably tired, aren’t you?” Shredder nodded and gave a small groan as harsh pain shot through his neck.

“Well then, rest. I’ll be there when you wake up.” Without skipping a beat, Shredder listened and closed his eyes, falling asleep within a minute.

---

The days passed quicker than the man could have believed.

He was sitting in his room, a book that Y/N had brought him yesterday, in his hands. The door opened, and he turned his attention from the story to the young man, who entered, and smiled as he closed it behind him.

“Hello, Saki!”, he greeted and walked over to him, sitting down next to the bed. “Greetings Y/N.”, he chuckled, and laid the book down on his lab, getting into a more comfortable position. “I’ve already expected you to come.”

“So, tell me, how are you feeling today?” Saki chuckled, running his fingers through his hair. “Quite well, thank you. How about yourself?” The younger smiled. “Oh, I’m good.”

“Today is the day.”, the Shredder mumbled and sat up. “Today is the day I finally leave this goddamn place.” Y/N nodded, a wide smile on his face. “Yeah. I can imagine that you’re happy. Two days ago, you couldn’t even walk, and yesterday, you already ran through the gardens without any problems. It's really surprising how well and fast you're healing.”

Saki chuckled, the smile not leaving his scarred lips. “Yes, and that all thanks to you. If you hadn’t called your friend, I wouldn’t be alive now. You had the choice to let me die, and yet, you saved me and considering my past, I would have deserved to bleed out.”

“No.”, Y/N suddenly argued and grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand up to his face. Saki understood and took his cheek into his palm, stroking over the s/c skin. “You don’t. You might be the Shredder, but you’re not as bad as people say.” The older man’s eyes widened. “Y-You know?”, he asked, quite shocked that he was still sitting so calmly next to him.

“Yeah. The morning after you left, the TV reported that you broke free from prison. I was quite surprised and hoped to see you soon so that you could answer some questions, but as you didn’t come, I decided to search for you. You’re a criminal, so I figured that you would roam through the streets at night. When I found you in the park, I was shocked, and scared you wouldn’t make it.”

The younger man sighed and pressed his face even closer into his palm. “I was so glad that the doctor said that you were going to survive.” “You’re full of surprises.”, Saki whispered and stroked over the soft skin.

“So are you. You saved me, a stranger that had no use to you, from a disgusting guy like R/N and I returned the favor.” Saki couldn’t help but laugh heartily, pulling the smaller/taller man into a hug. “You’re an even kinder soul than I imagined.”

---

“Saki, I’m home!”, a soft voice called into the room, causing the ninja to turn his head to the direction of the source. A small smile came across his scarred lips as he spotted Y/N, who just closed the door that led to the kitchen behind him.

“Hello, my love. How was your day?”, he greeted back, and walked up to him, lifting his hand to close it around his neck, pulling him into a quick kiss on the lips. “It was good, but a lot of work of course.”, was the response as he pulled back.

“What is that wonderful smell?” Saki hummed and smiled as he walked over to the food he cooked. “Well, the week’s over, and you’re finally home. I have taken this weekend off so we can finally spend some time together, starting with dinner.”

“Awesome!”, Y/N laughed and threw his jacket over one of the chairs, before sitting down on it. “What did you make?” “F/F (Favorite Food) of course.”, he bowed and opened the drawer to take two plates out of it when a stabbing pain suddenly ran through his body.

He hissed out as he shot up and grabbed his chest, rubbing the aching spot and felt how the bandages underneath his shirt moved with his fingers. “Saki! Are you alright?!”, the younger man cried out in shock and jumped off his seat. A few seconds passed before the expression of pain finally left his face.

Y/N hugged him, pressing his body tightly against his. “Yes. I’m okay. It’s just that blasted wound again.” He sighed in relief when the pain passed completely.

After a few weeks – in which they became lovers – he had left the hospital, he collapsed again. The doctors, who stayed silent after a grand payment coming from Karai, who had become Y/N’s best friend after she had heard that he had saved her master, found out, that his body had slowed aging. One year felt for his body felt like a half year and the process of that “slowing down” was incredibly painful.

After one year, it had become bearable for the ninja, but when he gets injured, as he had a week ago when he fought against a few people of his clan so that his muscles could claim the strength that they once had back, it would hurt far more.

The Food-Clans scientists said that the change was not yet complete, and wounds would hurt far more until it was. It would pass soon, they said. The young man wasn’t sure if he could trust them, but he kept his eyes on his lover anyway. He even moved into the ninja master’s personal quarters.

Saki pulled back, kissed Y/N’s forehead and patted his shoulders. “Don’t worry, I am alright. I just needed a second. And now sit down. I didn’t waste my whole afternoon for the dinner to get cold!”, he laughed, and pushed his lover towards the table, before bowing to the drawer yet again. This time, the pain decided to leave him alone.

He put the food onto the plates, and walked over to the table, setting it down in front of you before taking the seat himself, and they started to eat. Saki’s dark eyes stared at his lover’s face the whole time while said human literally devoured the food, a sign that he hadn’t eaten all day, a small smile on his scarred face. “Mmmh! This is so good!”, he shouted when he was done, and the older man couldn’t help but laugh at his behavior.

“Thank you, my love.”, he chuckled after he had swallowed the last bite. “You’re awesome!” Y/N grinned brightly at him and reached out for the scarred hand, to which he complied. “Same to you. Without you, I would not be here today and rotting away in a cell or in a grave instead.”

“Yeah, but you saved me too. How knows what R/N would have done to me if you didn’t show up. I don’t even want to think about it.” He lifted his hands to his scarred lips and kissed the back of it with his soft, warm lips.

“So, enough talking. I don’t want to darken the mood. Do you want a dessert?”, he asked, and a grin slowly formed on lips. He mirrored it. “It depends on what it is...or which dessert you mean?” He chuckled and rose his eyebrow. “And which one do you want?”, he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Y/N chuckled and stood up, walking over to the older man, his hand never leaving the other. “You know exactly which one, you bastard.”, he hissed before grabbing his strong shoulder and pulling the smaller/taller body up for a kiss. “Indeed I do.”, he mumbled against his lips.

They kissed yet again, much harder this time, their tongues fighting for dominance. What they failed to notice, however, was that Karai, who had a key to the private quarters and needed some sort of decision for something the young man didn’t want to be involved in, was standing in the doorframe, a surprised look on her face, which turned into a soft smile when after she watched them making out for a second.

Very slowly, she retreated, careful not make a sound. She didn’t want to disturb those two love birds. She turned, walked out of the quarters and along the halls, and when she was out of ear reach, she began to laugh.

Female:

“Y-You bastard!”, he gasped out, trying his best to swallow the acid of his stomach that traveled up his throat. “W-When I get out of here, I will…”

Again, he licked his lips and patted his naked shoulder before retracted himself into the robot-suit he has repaired, leaving the room, but before he closed the door, his voice echoed through the room one last time. “And I will be finished with you soon anyway, Oroku Saki!”

The human let out a week sounding growl, feeling how the burning liquid ran with his blood through his whole body and let him know where all veins he possessed were. His head fell back, hitting the hard surface of the wall, he closed his eyes, trying to distract himself for the sake of his sanity. The first thing he could think of was Y/N, the woman he saved from a rapist a while ago.

He didn’t know why he did it, but he was glad. The memory of the young woman who talked to him like a person and not like a monster, the knowledge that someone accepted him as a man was good for his already twisted mind and helped him through that heartless torture that insane alien put him through.

He had lost count of how many times he tried to force himself to throw up, but that twisted warlord had already foreseen that possibility and injected something that made it impossible.

On some days, it wasn’t so bad, but in others, it just burned like acid was thrown on and inside him…and today was one of them.

But if it was only that this insane thing was using him for. He, too, lost count of creatures he had already fought against.

Hours of pure suffering passed until Krang finally returned, a grin on his slimy face. “Hello, my dear earthling”, he purred and forced him to look at him. “Did you have fun?”

The warlord laughed…but it soon turned into a serious face.

Oh, no…what is coming now?

“You’ve exhausted your usefulness to me, little human! I’ve got no reason to keep you now, and that means it’s time for me to take out the trash!”

Krang, again, released a hoarse laugh and injected something in the human’s veins. In a few seconds, Shredder knew no more…

---

Pain…pain, so much pain. Everything on his body was on fire. Shredder groaned as he regained consciousness, slowly opening his eyes, but his vision was more than just blurry.

The only thing he knew was that he was somewhere barely lit. He tried to roll over, but he couldn’t even move, he could even barely breathe.

He closed his eyes again and tried to relax, hoping that death or at least the comforting darkness would come soon to claim him.

The steps stopped, and the breathing of the person hitched, and it was that moment that he knew that they had recognized him and was probably going to call the police.

A few moments passed, and he only waited for their voice telling the cops that he was here, but there was only silence. Then, suddenly, the stranger started to walk again.

He felt a hand touching his shoulders and turn him to what he guessed could only be his direction and something soft wiped away the blood that was already starting to dry.

“Saki…”

That voice…

That beautiful voice…

Shredder wanted to make a sound of protest, but he couldn’t, the only thing that he could do was to widen his eyes, but he was sure that the young woman didn’t notice.

Five minutes? Good, bye. Oh, another thing…please don’t call the police! I’ll explain everything when he’s okay.”

The Ninja felt the warm hand slip up to his face, the blurry frame of the young woman he had saved leaned over him, and he felt the warm breathing hitting his face. “My friend’s coming, he’s a doctor. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he won’t call the cops. You’re safe, trust me!”

Shredder just coughed, spitting blood, before closing his eyes, resting against the person that was now saving him. She said her friend was coming, and that he was a doctor, so a little rest until he arrived wouldn’t hurt…right?

---

Suddenly, warm fingers wrapped around his hands and began to massage his knuckles. Slowly, he began to open his eyes, staring at the beautiful face of the woman…Y/N. A small smile came across his scarred lips as he did so. The kind human gave him one in return and whispered, “Good morning, Saki.”

His smile vanished as another man leaned over him and eyed him with a stern expression. Carefully, he reached down and shone with some sort of flashlight right into his pupils, before retreating and walking away.

“He’ll probably sleep a lot, but don’t worry, that’s normal.” Y/N nodded and squeezed his hand before smiling down at him with a kindness that made his cold heart melt.

Never in his life had someone cared for him as much as the younger female did, not even his mother.

“Hey, Saki.”, the woman he saved spoke in a soft tune and ran her fingers through his hair, which was still wet from sweat. He made a small noise in response and gave another weak smile.

“I’m glad you’re awake. We almost lost you yesterday, you know?”, she said, and again, traced his knuckles. “You’re probably tired, aren’t you?” Shredder nodded and gave a small groan as harsh pain shot through his neck.

“Well then, rest. I’ll be there when you wake up.” Without skipping a beat, Shredder listened and closed his eyes, falling asleep within a minute.

---

The days passed quicker than the man could have believed.

He was sitting in his room, a book that Y/N had brought him yesterday, in his hands. The door opened, and he turned his attention from the story to the young woman who entered and smiled as she closed it behind her.

“Hello, Saki!”, she greeted and walked over to him, sitting down next to the bed. “Greetings Y/N.”, he chuckled, and laid the book down on his lab, getting into a more comfortable position. “I’ve already expected you to come.”

“So, tell me, how are you feeling today?” Saki chuckled, running his fingers through his hair. “Quite well, thank you. How about yourself?” The younger smiled. “Oh, I’m good.”

“Today is the day.”, the Shredder mumbled and sat up. “Today is the day I finally leave this goddamn place.” Y/N nodded, a wide smile on her face. “Yeah. I can imagine that you’re happy. Two days ago, you couldn’t even walk, and yesterday, you already ran through the gardens without any problems. It's really surprising how well and fast you're healing.”

“No.”, Y/N suddenly argued and grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand up to her face. Saki understood and took her cheek into his palm, stroking over the s/c skin. “You don’t. You might be the Shredder, but you’re not as bad as people say.” The older man’s eyes widened. “Y-You know?”, he asked, quite shocked that she was still sitting so calmly next to him.

The younger woman sighed and pressed her face even closer into his palm. “I was so glad that the doctor said that you were going to survive.” “You’re full of surprises.”, Saki whispered and stroked over the soft skin.

“So are you. You saved me, a stranger that had no use to you, from a disgusting guy like R/N and I returned the favor.” Saki couldn’t help but laugh heartily, pulling the smaller/taller woman into a hug. “You’re an even kinder soul than I imagined.”

---

“Hello, my love. How was your day?”, he greeted back, and walked up to her, lifting his hand to close it around her neck, pulling her into a quick kiss on the lips. “It was good, but a lot of work of course.”, was the response as she pulled back.

“Awesome!”, Y/N laughed and threw the jacket over one of the chairs, before sitting down on it. “What did you make?” “F/F (Favorite Food) of course.”, he bowed and opened the drawer to take two plates out of it when a stabbing pain suddenly ran through his body.

He hissed out as he shot up and grabbed his chest, rubbing the aching spot and felt how the bandages underneath his shirt moved with his fingers. “Saki! Are you alright?!”, the younger woman cried out in shock and jumped off her seat. A few seconds passed before the expression of pain finally left his face.

Y/N hugged him, pressing her body tightly against his. “Yes. I’m okay. It’s just that blasted wound again.” He sighed in relief when the pain passed completely.

After a few weeks – in which they became lovers – he had left the hospital, he collapsed again. The doctors, who stayed silent after a grand payment coming from Karai, who had become Y/N’s best friend after she had heard that she had saved her master, found out, that his body had slowed aging. One year felt for his body felt like a half year and the process of that “slowing down” was incredibly painful.

The Food-Clans scientists said that the change was not yet complete, and wounds would hurt far more until it was. It would pass soon, they said. The young woman wasn’t sure if she could trust them, but he kept her eyes on her lover anyway. She even moved into the ninja master’s personal quarters.

Saki pulled back, kissed Y/N’s forehead and patted her shoulders. “Don’t worry, I am alright. I just needed a second. And now sit down. I didn’t waste my whole afternoon for the dinner to get cold!”, he laughed, and pushed his lover towards the table, before bowing to the drawer yet again. This time, the pain decided to leave him alone.

He put the food onto the plates, and walked over to the table, setting it down in front of her before taking the seat himself, and they started to eat. Saki’s dark eyes stared at his lover’s face the whole time while said human literally devoured the food, a sign that she hadn’t eaten all day, a small smile on his scarred face. “Mmmh! This is so good!”, she shouted when she was done, and the older man couldn’t help but laugh at her behavior.

“Yeah, but you saved me too. How knows what R/N would have done to me if you didn’t show up. I don’t even want to think about it.” He lifted her hands to his scarred lips and kissed the back of it with his soft, warm lips.

“So, enough talking. I don’t want to darken the mood. Do you want a dessert?”, he asked, and a grin slowly formed on lips. She mirrored it. “It depends on what it is...or which dessert you mean?” He chuckled and rose his eyebrow. “And which one do you want?”, he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Y/N chuckled and stood up, walking over to the older man, her hand never leaving the other. “You know exactly which one, you bastard.”, she hissed before grabbing his strong shoulders and pulling the smaller/taller body up for a kiss. “Indeed I do.”, he mumbled against her lips.

Part 1

#tmnt 2016 #Brian Tee! Shredder #Shredder x reader #krang #male reader #female reader #tmnt out of the shadows

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trashpandaorigins · 5 years

Text

The Body Keeps the Score Chapter 3: Knowing

“You said it yourself bitch, we’re the Guardians of the Galaxy.” Gamora is finally a part of something. But the past always follows you, eats at you and she must come to grips with her deeds as she tries to build a future. Meanwhile Rocket has never cared much for anyone or anything. Together the two of them discover they are more alike than different and try to heal themselves by befriending the other.

*Content Warnings: Mentions of child/animal abuse, trauma, character death, physical torture/pain*

Title of this fic is taken from the book of the same title “The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma,” by Bessel van der Kolk

“She moves with shameless wonder

The perfect creature rarely seen

Since some lie I brought the thunder

When the land was godless and free

Her eyes look sharp and steady

Into the empty parts of me”

Foreigner's God - Hozier

“We’ll follow your lead, Star-Lord,” Gamora smiled happily, leaning against Peter’s chair. She forced a slow breath, feeling the bright Xandarian suns shining on her through the wide window of the ship. The light feeling in her chest rushing through her veins.

“Bit of both,” Peter decided, swinging the ship upward away from the surface of the planet, away from the Nova Corps. The only thing louder than the bumping music was Drax’s laughter. Let yourself have this, she thought sitting down and strapping herself in. You deserve this. The Benatar leapt through the jump point and her hair went flying into her face playfully as the ship evened out. Gamora looked from Peter to Rocket regarding the latter with sympathy, it hadn’t occurred to her until just now, he’d lost Groot. She tilted her head carefully to look at him and...there was a pot in his lap, and in that pot ...Impossible. No, not totally, she remembered slicing Groot’s arm off not four days ago. The sharp sound of her sword hacking through his bark. The same bark that had wrapped around her, to save her...despite all she’d done to him. Mutilated him and then virtually ignored him. Noxious guilt writhed in her chest. The little twig in its container stared back at her with wide, innocent eyes.

“Is that….?”

“Groot!” Peter gasped, he shifted the Benatar into auto-pilot and jumped out of his seat, looming over the tiny twig.

“Don’t crowd him!” Rocket hissed, waving Peter’s hand away. The little sapling only blinked up at them. Something’s not right, the realization of it dawned on her slowly. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but the way Groot looked at her was, off.

Rocket unclasped his seat belt and slid off the chair, holding Groot’s container in one arm and baring his teeth as Peter reached out a helpful hand.

“Don’t touch him.”

“Easy man I’m just trying to help,” Peter held his arms out and open. Gamora only watched the raccoonoid settle Groot down on the nearby table.

“Groot! My wooden compatriot, I am glad you have regrown! You are smaller than me now, and quite puny. I am fond of you.” Drax gushed with such sincerity Gamora had to laugh. Groot only reached out his arms and flailed in joy.

“Well team, I think this is cause for celebration! I think we should treat ourselves,” Peter placed his hands on his hips triumphantly looking down at Groot. “We deserve some R and R!”

“R and R?” Drax’s face squinted in confusion, “R is a letter in the English Human tongue. How can we have two of a letter?”

“It means rest and relaxation!” Rocket grumbled. At least he didn’t attach an insult to the remark Gamora observed thankfully.

“What do you guys say? We could go to Ertrbra or Wvonta, I know some great bars on Presscoa but if the bartender at Ikva asks I am definitely not the same guy who stole their top shelf Hrania bourbon.” Gamora shook her head in amusement, ever optimistic Peter. Peter who could brush off his past with humor.

“Let us go to this planet of libation!” Drax prompted, “and we will toast to Groot for his sacrifice and his return!”

His return, Gamora watched Rocket ignore the conversation and run off to fetch something. He returned moments later with a jar of water and carefully let it pour over the soil at the saplings thin roots. Groot gurgled in a high-pitched squeak as the water soaked in. The vague feeling of uncertainty persisted in her gut. She swallowed it and punched in the coordinates for Presscoa.

---

“Ohh, looking fancy,” Peter leaned against the doorway of her room. She turned, the black cloak stirring with her movement. “What’s the occasion?” She fashioned the strings of the garment pulling it tight against her collar and tie it in a knot.

“The occasion is Nebula is still out there, she’s gone back to Thanos no doubt. We are not his only children,” she fixed Peter with a look. “Once she goes to him she will tell him of my betrayal. It is only a matter of time before they come searching.” Peter’s face softened with comprehension.

“We won’t let that happen,” he tried to reassure her. “And if he or his goons try anything we’ll take them on. And we’re protected by the Nova Corps.”

Protected, that’s one way of putting it. She met him in the doorway, looking over that face still so full of hope and wanton foolery.

“Rocket was right,” she recalled. “I have a reputation.” How did he know her before they clashed on Xandar? Where did he hear of her? What else did he know? She’d ponder these questions later no doubt, later that night when everyone else was asleep. Peter’s hand raised slowly, aiming for her cheek but stopped short, dropping to her shoulder.

“Let’s just go out, have fun, we’ll be back on the ship before long and if you want to leave at any point. We leave. Okay?” She looked at him. “If we’re going to work together you might try trusting me.” Trust. She nodded, pulling the hood of the cloak over her head.

---

“I like this bar you have selected!” Drax hoisted his drink into the air, sending a good portion of it spilling onto the table. The five of them crowded into a booth in the dimly lit dive. Gamora had already located two exits and another possible exit point on the ceiling if it came to that. The couple at the end of bar across from their table seemed kindly enough. But the woman had looked over her shoulder four times since the Guardians entered. Gamora took note and switched her gaze to the booth directly in front of them, over Drax’s head. Two oprevien men, neither of whom appeared to be armed. But the booth behind her, the woman sitting there…

“Right Gamora? Gamora?” Peter’s voice called her back.

“Um right,” she mumbled.

“See! I knew it! Drink!” Drax muttered something but downed his glass of ale in three single gulps. On the table Groot struggled to reach for the empty shot glass beside his container.

“Let us toast! To Groot! Who gave his life for his friends and is now living again! We are most glad!” A sad smile lifted on Gamora’s face as she clinked her drink against those of the others. The yekkelian mixed drink was bitter and purple, but oddly tasty. Drax hoisted his third drink towards Groot’s pot and let the clear liquid seep into the dirt much to the saplings delight.

“Drax no!” Rocket was on the bottle in a moment, knocking it away from the Groot. “Don’t give him that!” Gamora nodded approvingly. “Give him this!” Her appreciation instantly turned to concern as the raccoonoid swiped the bottle of Hyerlian Liquor he and Peter had split and tipped it into Groot’s pot. “Don’t give him that cheap shit, top shelf only!” Drax and even Peter, five drinks gone at this point erupted in erroneous laughter. The sapling only laughed and hiccuped, swaying happily. Gamora reached for the water beside her own drink and allowed Groot to drink it in. He gazed up at her, those large brown eyes...too innocent. Too loving. Groot would never look at me that way, kind as he was. I only ever tried to hurt him. Her nostrils flared, taking a long breath out as the uncertainty now revealed itself. She looked at Rocket, who drank from a glass the size of his face. He laughed and slid one paw around Groot’s pot, bringing him closer.

That is not Groot.

---

“See! We had a great time and we didn’t even have to fake our own deaths or steal a ship!” Peter’s arm weighed heavy across her shoulders as she helped him back to the ship.

He is right, no one made a stir. No one tried to kill us. But they still could have noticed me. She forced that thought to the back of her mind and concentrated on getting Peter to his room. Behind them, Rocket was sitting a top Drax’s shoulders with Groot hoisted even higher still in the raccoonoid’s arms above his head. A risky move especially as Gamora watched the destroyer stumble forward. Pick and choose your battles. Groot’s safety is…. the little flora giggled, eyes half closed. Let it be. She led Peter into his room and helped him down to sit on his bed. He ran a hand over his face, flushed with the alcohol and smiled.

“Say it,” he prompted, leaning forward. “Say you had a good time.”

“I had a good time,” she responded honestly. His smile widened and he tilted his head forward. Instinctively she drew back. Then waited in the tense silence, whatever it was between them pressed against her at all sides. Suffocating. She tensed, even as his lips missed their target and his head instead rested on her shoulder.

“Good! I think this is going to be the start of something great for us.” Us? Which us? You and I or all of us? She knew the answer to that and nodded, harboring a secret hope that he could be right. “Nova let you leave,” he continued happily.

“Not sure why,” she speculated. Peter waved a dismissive hand.

“Because you’re….” he caught himself. “You’re cool, you're with us, the Guardians!” She smirked.

“Goodnight Peter,” she sat up, his head falling onto the pillows.

“G’night!” His snoring sounded in her ears before she even made it to the hall.

Alone at last. She made her way through the metallic halls of the ship. Listening to the thrum of the engines. The darkness was serene, the darkness was how she moved, she knew how to navigate it. An empty slate to think on. Think. Groot is not himself. Well he is A Groot, but not our Groot. She tip-toed up the steps to the main deck. Not Rocket’s Groot. Whether or not to tell him. The scales tipped in either direction. She tried to measure as she walked, pausing every now and then to admire the stars out the wide windows. Better to live a horrible truth than a sweet lie. That’s what I am after all. A daughter of Thanos. A lie. She sighed, running her hand along the cool metal piping of the ship. Down passed the common area, through the storage chambers. Toward the engine room. She summoned her courage, putting on the face. The imperial, unfeeling veneer of unflinching honest without emotion. One of the many skills Thanos had taught her.

“Rocket….”

“I’m glad your back buddy,” she stopped short of the metal door to the engine room. Rocket’s slurred voice echoing against the corridor. “Don’t ever do that to me again. I thought...thought I lost yah. Okay?” Groot did not reply. “I mean it man. I know I called you an idiot and all...and...I feel really lousy about it.”

Gamora peeked forward, Rocket sat on his work bench. Groot’s little pot on the table. The sapling was most definitely down for the count. His head flung back, mouth agape. Yet Rocket’s arms wound around the base of the pot. “You gotta hurry up and grow bud. Or at least say something.” He punctuated the sentiment with a belch and hugged the pot close to him, resting his snout in the dirt. “Your the only thing I got man….I’m...I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner.” Gamora watched the tears in Rocket’s eyes fall into the soil at Groot’s roots. She backed away, down the hall. Leaving Rocket in sickly sweet inebriated denial.

---

The straps dug into her wrist with a biting ache. The table hard beneath her. She shut her eyes against the blinding lights.

“Daughter,” that voice. It held no face but she knew. “You are doing well my child. But there is always room for improvement.” Gamora made to struggle, arching against the straps but her body lay immobile. Thrash! Kick! Find the lock on the straps it’s to the right just under the...Ebony Maw came to her side, beady eyes gleaming.

“Full facial enhancement then?”

“Yes.”

No! Kick damnit! Kick! Bite him! Why aren’t you…? The needle pressed to her skin, at her left temple just against the metal webbing. Something hot and burning entered her flesh. Gamora screamed, trying to move but her body would not obey.

“Ease yourself daughter.”

I...am...n...not...y..your...daught...ter!

More agony, spreading through her insides, burning the metal inside her.

Ahhhhh!!!!

“Gamora!”

“N...not...your...d...daughter!”

“Gamora!”

Peter?!

Her eyes flashed open in a wicked sensation of falling. She gasped for breath, her heart hitching. Sweat slicked against her face.

“P...peter?!”

“What, no!”

Gamora rubbed her eyes, must have fallen asleep in the common area. She realized, gazing up at Peter’s large movie poster for The Goonies. Whatever that is.

“Rocket,” she swallowed. His disgruntled face nodded.

“Will you keep it down? Groot’s trying’ to sleep.”

His words barely registered, she nodded numbly putting a hand to her chest to steady her pounding heart. He looked at her with irritation and resolve? She could read most aliens in the galaxy very well. It’s what had led to her “success” as a lackey for Thanos. No matter how many eyes or appendages they had. Gamora was skilled at reading intentions but Rocket ….those red pupiless eyes. They glowed in the dark of the ship, the hairs on the back of her neck rising with the unfamiliarity. Rocket folded his arms in a huff and flicked his tail turning towards the hall. Gamora stood, crossing the room to the kitchen area and fumbled for a glass of water, watching him leave.

“Gotta drink more next time,” he whispered.

“What?”

Rocket halted, back to her.

“Drink more next time,” he repeated. “It keeps the nightmares away ...at least that’s what I tell myself.”

Gamora narrowed her eyes, in the dark she could see him open his mouth to speak once more, then shut it, sniffed, and scurried down the hall out of sight.

#gotg #my writing #groot #baby groot #Guardians of the Galaxy #gamora #starmora #peter quill #drax the destroyer #rocket raccoon #the body keeps the score fic

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theclaravoyant · 7 years

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Sparks - Ch.4 - [Simmorse]

Jemma Anne Simmons is a renowned writer. When one of her book readings is attacked, she is assigned a bodyguard - none other than Bobbi Morse, a real life former secret agent. It's a reluctant partnership at first... but not for long.

AN ~ this chapter is much fluffier than the last, a bit of bonding between our two leading ladies. Enjoy!

Read on AO3

Sparks - Ch. 4

After that initial hitch, Bobbi found her new position to be, in fact, quite satisfying. She ate better, slept better, and started walking a few miles every morning before meeting Jemma at a local gym. There, she did her stretches under Jemma’s watchful eye, and then added a few extra drills of her own accord and eventually, decided to teach Jemma some basic defensive moves.

“No one’s going to attack you with a knife, Jemma,” Bobbi scoffed.

“You don’t know that.”

Which was true. She didn’t. It couldn’t hurt to be prepared - and to be honest, it gave her an excuse to get closer to Jemma than she otherwise would, and she wasn’t about to say no to that.

Jemma, too, found the arrangement beneficial. Holding a grudge was a waste of time, especially when it had introduced her to someone like Bobbi. Bright, strong, and undeniably attractive, she sensed chemistry as well as brilliance. She wasn’t usually one for consequentialism, but in these circumstances the outcome did certainly help her move past the act. That, in turn, allowed her to shift her focus to the real problem that needed solving: rampant negative news. Now that she was no longer mad at Coulson (not that she intended to let Coulson know just how un-mad she had become) she could leverage him more effectively, and argue for the chance to speak for herself. Now that she had protection, as promised, he would have to let her try, right?

Apparently not.

Jemma groaned out loud, and shut her phone off. Bobbi smirked a little over her water bottle, at Jemma’s aggressively exasperated expression.

“What?” Bobbi prodded, a little teasing. “Coulson!” Jemma cried. Bobbi made a pantomime show of feigning surprise and Jemma rolled her eyes.

“He’s set me up some interviews,” she conceded, “but they’re all with fan media.”

“That’s important, though, right?” Bobbi pointed out. “Your fans would probably be the ones most hurt by the possibility that you supported… something like that.”

“True, I suppose. But these sites already like me. Most of that fanbase is loyal. It’s always nice to reassure them, of course, but it’s not going to make this go away. I need to face the critics head-on. Call a press conference or something and just say what I have to say, and let the pieces fall.”

She made a sweeping gesture. Bobbi frowned in sympathy, and Jemma sighed.

“It wouldn’t normally be a problem,” she acknowledged. “With the 24 hour news cycle there’s always some other drama happening someplace. Usually we’d just wait it out, but with the book only just beginning its publicity cycle, we can’t afford to go dark. We just also can’t afford to have me questioned as a potential animal-torturing psychopath in every interview from now ‘til eternity. I know Coulson thinks he’s doing what’s best by me, with this whole Ten Point Plan and what have you, but I think he sometimes tends to see me as this bushy-tailed young author - not as a top-tier forensic analyst who started writing on the side of sticking my hands into dead peoples’ chests on a daily basis. I can take it, you know?”

Bobbi nodded, as if she understood, although she hadn’t been seen as a bushy-tailed anything by anyone in a long time. If people made the mistake of underestimating her, they didn’t usually last long.

“And,” Jemma continued emphatically, “I think, if I say my piece, frankly and in front of the critics, I’ll have the high ground after that. All other speculation will be unavoidably tabloid trash. I can work with that. But people who use their hearts and minds to really feel, really mean it – who really care - thinking I did those things? That, I can’t bear… professionally or personally.”

“I know what you mean,” Bobbi agreed stiffly. She’d been hunted down and almost killed over an admittedly contentious decision. Maybe understanding why she’d done what she’d done wouldn’t have healed many souls, but she liked to think she wouldn’t have had her knee shot out if she’d had a chance to explain herself a little earlier in the game. Fortunately though, Jemma and Coulson clearly had a lot of love between them. Nobody was going to be bamboo-splinting anybody anytime soon. So Bobbi decided to keep her nose out of the politics of it and instead, help where she could.

“You know what you need?” she offered. “You gotta learn how to hit stuff.”

Bobbi set down her water bottle and beckoned for Jemma to follow. Curious – and undeniably excited, for all she’d insist otherwise – Jemma obliged, and followed Bobbi to the boxing ring at the back of the gym. She looked up at it, suddenly finding it somewhat daunting.

“I really don’t know about this,” she said.

“Trust me,” Bobbi insisted. “Hold out your hands.”

She showed Jemma how to wrap her hands, and demonstrated a few basic moves. Jemma repeated them back to her.

“Fast learner,” Bobbi praised with a smirk. Jemma blushed, and blurted:

“I graduated summa cum laude twice.”

She blushed harder at that, and in her embarrassment, almost didn’t notice the amusement in Bobbi’s eyes.

“And how many summa cum laudes do you know who can break a jaw with their right hook?”

Bobbi raised an eyebrow, and Jemma guessed.

“One?”

“Soon to be two, I’m sure,” Bobbi promised. “Now come on up here and let’s go again. Practice makes perfect.”

And so they carried on. Bobbi did not want to risk sparring just yet, as she still had to mind her knee, but over the next few days, Jemma took to hand-to-hand combat like a fish to water. Bobbi was struggling to think of challenges she could teach and match properly with her knee as it was when one morning, late – as if that was not unusual enough – a tiny hurricane that vaguely resembled one Jemma Anne Simmons fumed into the ring.

Bobbi swung up after her, and though she gritted her teeth at the uncomfortable angle, she took a moment of pride in the fact that her knee held and she could raise herself to standing without reaching for the ropes. Then, she snapped her attention back to Jemma and raised the mitts. Jemma unleashed a flurry of fists at them, and even threw in a roundhouse kick – though admittedly not her neatest one – before finally settling to catch her breath.

“Rough morning?” Bobbi speculated. Jemma rolled her eyes.

“Apparently,” she explained, her voice crisp and over-enunciated, despite her heaving shoulders. “I’m ‘aloof’ and ‘out of touch’ for hiring a bodyguard. ‘Who does Jemma Simmons think she is?’ seems to be the trend. Started with one rag article and now Twitter’s got a hold of it.”

“Ouch.”

Jemma punched it out for a few more reps, and then added sardonically:

“At least book sales are up. It seems, amongst all this mudslinging, people are getting curious.”

Bobbi smirked, feeling a swell of pride.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure with all these new combat skills the amazing Agent Carter is picking up, the curiosity will only continue to rise,” she suggested, cajoling Jemma with a brag in her tone. She eyed Jemma’s gloves, and Jemma blushed and shrugged her off abashedly.

“Oh, no, she has Agent Bennet for that,” Jemma protested, unconvincing. “Skye is the muscle of the team. Carter is primarily the brains.”

Bobbi shrugged.

“Doesn’t mean she can’t pick up a few things.”

“That would make an interesting development arc,” Jemma admitted. Bobbi tried not to grin too much as she inched toward victory… and toward Jemma.

“Plus, I mean, somebody has to kick Aida’s robot ass into the nth dimension in the sequel, right?” Bobbi suggested. “And that somebody has got to be Carter. Surely.”

Jemma snorted. She was pressed up against the ropes now, both literally and figuratively, and her face was starting to feel hot. Bobbi was unflappable, and beaming with enthusiasm. Jemma’s heart leapt wildly in her chest, but she kept smiling.

“I take offense at your assumption that being primarily the brains means not kicking robot ass,” she objected, and both of them snickered a little at her vulgarity. “I’ll have you know I was planning a bomb or a trap or… something. I haven’t quite got to that part yet.”

“Oh, sure, that would be very exciting,” Bobbi agreed. “But wouldn’t it be satisfying to have Carter just sucker punch that bitch?”

Jemma scoffed, practicality and protectiveness of her story winning for a moment over the dizzying feeling of her pounding heart and the enchanting sparkle in Bobbi’s eyes.

“She’s an evil killer robot, Bobbi,” Jemma insisted. “She’s not going to bat an eyelid at a punch in the face.”

“Shoot her then!” Bobbi cried. “No, I’m serious, imagine it! Aida thinks she’s got them cornered, and so do we - like, the reader’s all ‘oh no, what are we going to do?’ – and Carter marches into the room all Cool Girls Don’t Look At Explosions and just BOOM BOOM BOOM. Shoots her. Straight in the stomach. Or the head, or wherever, you’re the writer.”

“But I’ve already established –“

“I know!” Bobbi pointed out, raising a finger. “I wasn’t done. Because by this point your crazy fans are probably thinking exactly the same thing like, what the hell is Carter doing? ‘We all know Aida’s bulletproof, it said so on page 12 of book 1!’ And so then Aida turns to her like ‘muah ha ha, puny mortal, I am an evil killer robot! Resistance is futile! Your very fast steel means nothing to me!’ and Carter’s already got her trap in motion, see, but Aida doesn’t know that, but Carter does – obviously - so then she gets to say something cool and one-liner-y like: I know, I just always wanted to do that.”

Jemma’s fingers tightened around the ropes as Bobbi acted out the theatrics going on inside her own head. Her confidence and bravado were alluring enough, let alone her pose; an imaginary gun on her hip and a smouldering glare in her eyes, biceps flexed. On top of that, the idea that someone as tall and smart and sexy as Bobbi was playing a character that Jemma had based on herself… well, that was just a dream come true. More than one type of dream, probably.

She blinked like a deer in the headlights, and Bobbi smiled at her. It was a soft, sincerely amused smile, and Jemma was sure she’d been caught out as Bobbi dropped her pose and stepped in closer.

Closer.

Jemma’s breath hitched and her eyes fluttered closed and she imagined, just for a second, that Bobbi had closed the distance between them.

She hadn’t.

And the music in Jemma’s ears was her phone, buzzing away in her bag on the floor nearby. She bit her lip and hung her head, and she felt like saying of course that happens now, but instead she said;

“I should… get that.”

#simmorse #aospositivitynet #aosfemslash #aos fic #jemma simmons #bobbi morse #clara's fic tag

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videogamelover99 · 7 years

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Waking Days Ch1 - Enter Bill Cipher

A/N: Helllooo and thank you for being so patient with me. I know, I know, with that little joke I had it coming, but look, I’ve finally delivered!

I took a long while with figuring out a title for the long fic, and I may change it later, but this is what I’ve got for now, so feedback is appreciated. (And yes, the chapter title is literally the same one as from Flat Dreams. I am a nerd.) Enjoy, you guys. :3

Warning: Implied substance abuse.

AU by @doodledrawsthings. Based on Flat Dreams by @pengychan.

“He that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache.”

W. Shakespeare, Cymbeline.

Ever since he took that deal, he’d been regretting it.

Looking back now, he would take a million years in that stone tomb over what that giant salamander had subjected him to. He hadn’t expected on getting his power back, not really, but the least that jerk could do was give him a proper form. Hell, or at least keep him a triangle. But he’d never expected this. He’d been thrown into this form with no directions, no explanation except “You must absolve your crime.”

Yeah, great, what the hell did that even mean.

He hated it. He hated everything about this stupid body, about this weak pitiful meat sack that frilly asshole decided to shove him in. He had nothing, no power, no immortality, no means of escape. And if that wasn't enough, he was slowly dying. He could even feel it. The slow, painful way each cell was loosing its energy. In just a few decades he would degrade, grow cold and end up feeding worms before he knew it, if this sack of flesh didn't give up on him even sooner. After watching humans for so long, he'd seen just how easily they could die, hell he'd even been the cause of a lot of them. He'd found it funny, how easily they can break.

He didn't now.

He hated this. He was Bill Cipher, bringer of nightmare, All-Seeing Eye, not some...some puny mortal who couldn't tie his own shoelaces. Stuff like that was just annoying. There was no point in knowing what humans did with their shoes, so he hadn't bothered looking. Now he could barely tie a knot, not until Shooting Star had shown him.

Mabel Pines was the easiest to deal with. Innocent and trusting, the kid was the easiest to get on his side. Was it manipulation? Sure. No surprise there. That didn’t mean he didn’t like the kid, though the whole defeating him part did put a damper on things. Because that spray paint had hurt, damn it.

Still, out of all the Pines, Shooting Star was the most agreeable one, no doubt about that. Neither Fez not Sixer would try anything, not with the kid involved. Security measure, in a way.

That's what he told himself most times when the brat decided to insert herself into his day like some kind of annoying dandelion that suddenly sprang on the lawn. Not needed, and obnoxious to boot.

The chess game had been easy, and Bill had been pretty bored anyway. Making fun of one of the Pines and getting something out of it was almost too good of a deal to pass up, even if that something was just a lousy sweater. Still, the kid knew how to make him look good, even in yarn.

The chess thing...Whatever it was, continued, as did the numerous sweaters the kid somehow managed to conjure in record time. And, okay, Bill had to admit it was fun. Shooting Star was nowhere near the most impressive opponent he'd played against, but boy if she wasn't interesting. The kid seemed to find the most ridiculous ways to lose, including chasing off his knight with her king back to his side of the board. Of course, that had been pretty much suicide, but Star satisfied herself with a really stupid loss, and Bill wasn't exactly complaining, not while her sweaters were so damn soft.

Huh, that was a weird thing to like. Must be a human thing.

…

“Watcha doing?”

Bill opened his eyes, but didn’t bother getting up when Mabel sat down next to him, letting her legs dangle from the edge of the roof. “Contemplating your pointless existence.”

“Rude.” The kid swung her legs a bit, before crawling over to sit next to him, the wood creaking under her weight. “Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m slowly dying.” He hadn’t meant that to come out as easily as it did. Mortality was making him lose his grip.

“Well, yeah, that’s kind of a thing humans do, y’know?” Bill closed his eyes again. He didn’t want to have this conversation, not with Shooting Star of all people. “Though we usually ignore it.”

“How?” No, stop. Ignoring what this body did to him would be almost the same as giving up. Which was ridiculous. He was going to find a way out, he knew it, he just needed to-

“Well, stop thinking about it, first of all.” The lighthearted tone meant that the kid was teasing him. Mabel Pines. Laughing at him. “You’re not going anywhere right now, so relax! It’s not like whining about it will help, ya big nerd.”

Bill didn’t respond, choosing to ignore the little girl and hopefully preserve any dignity he had left. Even if her laugh made him wanna throw her off the roof.

“Aw, don’t be like that.” No response. “Come on, is Silly Billy sulking again? I know what he needs: a sticker, that’s what!” With a small ‘boop’, Bill felt her stick something on his nose. He tore the sticker off, crumbing it and tossing it her way.

“Didn’t I tell you not to do that?”

Mabel grinned, looking pleased at finally getting a reaction out of the demon. “Do what?”

“You’re thirteen, but you act like a five year old.”

The girl’s grin fell, telling that the quip had met its mark. “You’re the one to talk.” She grumbled, poking him in the side, hard. The demon yelped, not expecting that, his body giving a spasm, forcing him to finally sit up and wrap his arms around his sides. Completely on impulse. Sometimes, human instincts were just really, really inconvenient.

Mabel blinked, looking from Bill to her hand and then back to Bill. Her face slowly stretched into a wide grin. “So you’re ticklish even out of my brother’s body.”

“Mabel Pines, I swear if you-No! No-AHAHAHA!” The kid pounced, digging her fingers into his sides, making the demon erupt with uncontrollable laughter. Aren’t people supposed to laugh at what goes their way? This was torture. The demon was hyper-aware of every sensation, of every finger that managed to dig in-between his ribs. His arms flailed around, trying to throw the kid off, but she was too damn persistent. In what felt like centuries Star finally relented, letting the demon push her away and laying down next to him, giggling as well. Bill collapsed into a boneless heap, trying to catch his breath. He was supposed to be angry, livid even, for letting any mortal touch him. Yet he couldn’t even fight off the grin that was left on his face. “I hate you.”

“Aw, don’t be like that! I was just trying to make you feel better.”

“How the hell was that supposed t-” Bill frowned, cutting himself off. Despite the heat on his face and the way his body still heaved for oxygen, there was something different about it. It was like out of all the 630 newtons gravity had dumped on him, half of that was thrown off. He did feel better, though that made no sense. “Hold on, how did you do that?”

Mabel shrugged. “I think it’s like, hormones and stuff? I don’t know, you’re the all-knowing demon. But it’s a human thing. Laughing just makes us feel better.”

Bill stared at her for a long time. Of course, laughing had made him feel better too, back when he was still all-powerful and all that jazz, but-

Liar.

He winced, ignoring the voice.

“Hey, don’t get all nihilistic on me again! And I was being such a good therapist.” The girl crossed her arms over her chest when she saw Bill’s questioning stare. “What, I know some complicated words! Someone has to understand what my nerdy bro is saying.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Mabel bristled. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

Bill grinned at her, folding his arms behind his head. “Oh, ya know...starting to wonder which one of you is the smart pines twin after all.”

Star didn’t respond, so Bill pushed on. “I mean, for all the brains you claim Pine Tree has, he was a heck of alot easier to swindle. Don’t get me wrong, you handed that rift to me on a silver platter,” a wince, “But I had to put on a whole other meat suit for ya to fall for it. Ol’ Dipping Sauce took the bait without me even bothering with all that. And! You still figured out a way to stop me. Hinder me. Whatever.” Couldn’t give her too much credit there, the third dimension was kinda out of his veil of expertise at the time. “From what it looks like, you’re the one with the brains around here.” Bill finished, looking up at the kid. She was staring back blankly at him “Uh, Shooting Star?”

Despite the fact that he knew he was laying it on thick, the demon had to admit, the kid was perceptive, sometimes even more than all the other Pines smashed together. That was what he should have watched out for.

“That’s what you said to Grunkle Ford as well, huh?”

Bill froze, before giving himself a mental kick in the head. He was playing it up too much. Of course...

Mabel smiled, the smile too sad to be her own. “You said all that nice stuff about him being ‘special’ and ‘smart’ and he believed you.” She got up. “And I thought- no that’s stupid. Dipper was right, I shouldn’t have bothered.” the girl turned to leave when a hand suddenly grabbed her wrist, clutching it a little too tightly.

“Don’t.” he hated how his own voice sounded, almost pleading, and it was stupid, because who said he really needed this kid? So his original plan to get her on his side crashed and burned, so what? She was just a stepping stone, a way for him to finally get out of this body, and then he wouldn’t need her anymore. Bill Cipher didn’t need anyone.

It’s just that being left alone on the roof all the sudden seemed like the worst thing that could possibly happen.

Mabel shook his hand off, but didn’t leave, turning back to him. Then she suddenly reached to wipe her face with her sleeve, and Bill’s chest constricted. It was like something inside of it was taken into a cold, vice grip, and he couldn’t shake it away. What was that? Why can’t I-

You know exactly what it is.

The girl sniffed, finally letting her arm fall back by her side, her face a little redder than normal. “I don’t...I don’t want to be fake friends with you.” she looked away, her face scrunched up. “If you don’t want to be my friend that’s fine, just don’t- don’t fake it.”

Bill scowled, and turned away from Star’s snot-covered face. It was really annoying, for some reason. Her leaking.

Mabel slowly came to sit next to him, tossing her legs over the edge and wiping off the stray wetness with her sleeve. “I wanna help you,” she said after a while, both of them staring straight ahead, at the last stray rays of the darkening sky. “But I don’t know if-”

“Why?”

The girl shrugged a bit to Bill’s question. “I’m Mabel Pines. It’s what I do.”

The demon grimaced, feeling angry at that statement. “It’s not gonna do ya any favors.”

Star shrugged again, letting her head fall on his shoulder. “That’s okay.”

He didn’t push her off.

...

"Just who does she think she is?!" Bill threw the scissors across the room, smashing them into the far wall and making a severely satisfying dent in the wood. Would probably get him in a big one with Fez later, but at the moment he was too livid to care. How dare she? How dare she!? "I did everything she wanted and she- and-" You did not. Bill scowled, his hands clenching at his sides. Get lost. You invoked me. How many times do I have to tell you to leave? As many as you think will satisfy you. Bill's eyes shot to the water tank in the corner. Small, pink creature met his gaze. He was almost tempted to pick up the scissors and throw them at the tank instead, but that would definitely not go well with Fez, and he wasn't exactly eager to sleep outside tonight. You are lying to yourself. Bill bristled. What the hell do you know about- What do you think she wanted? A better world! I made that happen! There was a light ticking sound. That bastard was laughing at him. Not everyone shares your definition of "better".

No. No no no. He was sure he's made it-

“Make it worth something.”

He had. If she couldn't see that, then that was her problem. They ruined everything, and after all they did to her, she still-

Liar.

“I don’t CARE!” Bill rezched up to pull viciously on his hair, but the sharp stab of pain did nothing to block out that voice. “You act like you know everything. Well, YOU DON’T KNOW A GODDAMN THING! SHE DOESN’T KNOW A GODDAMN THING! And if you THINK you can TELL ME WHAT TO DO, WELL, you’re even MORE OF AN IDIOT THAN I THOUGHT. Now get the FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD.”

There was no answer. Bill breathed heavily, surrounded by silence.

...

The kid had the scissors. She'd taken them long before Fordsy could even lay eyes on them, and that was probably for the better. He needed them. And by a stroke of luck, they were just within his reach.

Bill tripped over a ball of loose yarn, shaking off the string and cursing under his breath. The kid was fast asleep, curled up in her make-shift nest of stuffed animals whose soulless, button eyes were definitely following him around. Probably cursed. Man, he had to get one of those someday.

There was no risk of waking up Star, the kid slept like a dead rock most of the time. The one he didn’t want to wake was Pine Tree, because no doubt the brat would go running to Sixer as soon as he saw Bill doing something “suspicious”. Not that this was the most inconspicuous thing he’d do, but one paranoid wreck he could deal with. Two was pushing the limit

Bill finally shook off the clingy pink thread around his ankles, kneeling next to Mabel’s supplies drawer to shuffle through its contents. Stickers, glitter glue, googly eyes all covered his hands, but no scissors were found. Where were the damn things?

Bill cast a look back at the ball of yarn he’d stepped in, and at the plastic bag next to it it had apparently rolled out of. He knelt and rummaged through the bag, careful with the crinkling plastic. Finally he’d found them, sticking out of another fluffy ball of yarn. It was just like the kid to use a reality-altering gadget as actual scissors. The demon freed them from their tangled prison, turning to leave the room. He cast one last look at Shooting Star, still sound asleep, breath whistling through her teeth. Then he left, not bothering to close the door behind him.

He didn’t notice as Mabel suddenly sat up, staring at the now empty hallway.

…

Liam closes the book he was reading, letting his eye fall shut. “Alright, that’s it. Now you have to go to bed.”

“Whaaat? But that one was short! Tell me another!”

“Billy…”

“I brought you candy! So you have to!” Bill scoots closer to him, staring into his brother’s eye eagerly, until Liam has not choice but to cave in, giving a small laugh.

“Alright, alright. A short one.”

The younger brother beams at him, eye crinkling. “Do the one about the pirates, I love that one.”

“I know, I’ve read it to you like ten times already.”

“Then make it the eleventh.”

Liam puts down the book he was holding, grabbing another one from the shelf before settling down into the pillow. Bill scoots next to him, burying them both under the blankets and leaning on the other’s side. The bigger triangle opens the cover, his palm hesitating on the first page. Why isn’t he reading?

“You can’t keep doing this, Billy.”

Bill freezes, shuddering. It was suddenly cold. No, not cold. It was really hot. There was something very, very wrong…

“What do you-”

“You’ve slept for so long. Maybe it’s time to wake up.”

No. No no- “No. No, don’t- I don’t want-” The boy’s tumbling phrases die in his throat as he looks up at the other, and his eye shrinks into a pinprick at the sight.

Liam’s shape is crumbling, burning away like singed paper, the edges of the triangle darkening and curling inward.

And it was like Liam didn’t even notice. He just stared at him with that sad, regretful eye. Like he didn’t notice he was- “Wake up, Billy.”

“NO!” Bill made a grab for him, for whatever was left of his brother, but it was too late. There was nothing but ashes. “No, no, no, make it stop, please, I-”

Wake up, Billy.

The bedsheets caught on fire, angry red flames dancing on the covers. It burned, it burned more than Bill ever thought it would. “Come back! I didn’t mean to!”

There was nothing but that unbearable heat, eating him inside out, turning his thoughts to dust, just like they did to-

Wake up!

Bill screamed.

…

And promptly fell on the floor.

The demon lay there for awhile, rubbing his now bruised side. He didn’t remember what that nightmare was about, except that it was gonna keep him awake for the rest of the night. Which means he slept a total of- Bill unburied his face from the blanket, casing a bleary look at the cuckoo clock mounted on the wall. Four hours. Not bad, but hardly enough for this stupid body to be satisfied with.

Sleep was one of the most annoying things this body had him dealing with. The absurd amount of time humans spent unconscious (eight to nine hours, seriously? Most other beings could live off of four) used to be extremely handy. After all, what was a dream demon without dreams to infiltrate? Every time someone fell asleep, it was practically an open invitation for him to sneak in and rummage through their brain without consequence.

And he hated being on the receiving end of it. It was like the universe itself was setting up some big joke. Bill Cipher in need of sleep. Ha ha, hilarious.

He loathed every time he got put under. Bill of all knew how vulnerable humans were when asleep. It was what got him the upper hand, but now, it was unnerving. He had no idea of what was going on around him, and that was the least of it. The nights when he didn’t dream of anything were probably the most bearable.

Because when he did, they were always nightmares.

Aaand there was the punchline. Bill Cipher, harebringer of nightmares was suddenly on the receiving end of them. Pure irony at its finest. He’d appreciate the humor more if he didn’t wake up screaming every night.

It’d been so long since he knew what nightmares were like, anyway, long before he’d-

The long forgotten screams echoed in his head, and Bill pushed them away, deep enough that he wouldn’t have to hear them anymore. He got up, his side still aching from the fall, tossing the flimsy blanket aside on the floor. There was no point in going back to sleep. He couldn’t even if he’d tried, and besides, who knew if that nightmare came back again? Bill would take the horrible weight of exhaustion over that any day.

The demon stumbled into the kitchen, shuffling through the shelves in search of enough caffeine to make that unexplainable pressure on the back of his head go away for at least a few hours. He cracked open one of the top cabinets, and froze. Huh. So that’s where Fez keeps all his poison. There sure is a lot of it.

It felt like he’d stood there forever, starting them, the dark glass glinting under the dim lighting. The flickering light of bright blue flame still danced behind his eyes.

Bill reached for the bottle.

…

“Cipher? What the hell are ya- Oh jeez, what a mess. You know I’m charging ya for the booze, right?”

…

The bottles were gone, and he was on the couch again, the blanket he’d kicked away tossed over him.

At least the splitting headache chased away the voices.

…

“I wanna see him.”

The ancient one lifted his tale, revealing a small, grey triangle underneath. Bill Cipher looked more awake than he had all this time, not looking at the Axolotl, but rather somewhere beyond, into the dull void that stretched out for eternity. The boy’s eye was narrowed, hiding whatever emotion he didn’t want the other to see. Of course, the ancient one could still tell.

“You- you said if I wake up, I’ll get to see him.” It was a question, despite not sounding like one, carrying something almost akin to hope. “That I’ll find out where he is.”

“You will. In time.”

The boy finally looked at him, the single wide eye not muddled anymore by sleep. “So if I leave, then-”

“If you leave, you will gain a new form. Absolve your crime, and you shall see your brother again.”

Bill turned away, looking unsure. But he was ready. This was the first time that he ever talked about leaving this bubble without denial or anger, but as a possibility. But that possibility was all that was needed for the bubble to crack, and the illusion to shatter. If Cipher truly wanted to leave, that meant that the dream wasn’t enough anymore to satisfy him. That did not mean that his denial would end, but it was cracking, just like the bubble.

“Ok.” The voice was small, but the weight it carried could not be compared to anything else found in the void. “Deal.”

...

Bill Cipher woke up.

#bill cipher #gravity falls #fanfiction #mabel pines #stanley pines #the axolotl #liam cipher #jheselbraum (mentioned)#stanford pines (mentioned)#a different form a different time #human bill au #doodledrawsthings #pengychan #flat dreams #dipper pines (mentioned)#alcohol abuse

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perspectives-otherwise · 5 years

Text

A Skeptic’s Certainty: How is He Certain of His Beliefs?

The first time I witnessed my father cry, he was standing at death’s door.

I have been raised on the bread and butter of a political household. For the many years that I sat in front of the television, forced to flip to the news channel, dear, my father has appeared behind the tempered glass screen more times than I could count as my age today. Not once did he ever waver in his conviction, nor his voice. His chocolate brown eyes held a steadfast – our family would call it hard – look that could shoot an eagle dead; once his eyes became glazed over in that way, all of us knew there could be no persuasion and negotiation entertained.

I inherited this very look from my father. Eyes that, at first glance, are colored a boring dark chocolate brown, but then one notices them to be a clear, soft almond as the light hits my face at the right angle. When defiant, I could bore holes into another’s pair of eyes. Most of the time, my parents were on the receiving end of it. Though I had never actually went out of my way to stand in theirs.

Everyone at school knew me as ‘the kid with a scary but famous dad’. This was, admittedly, an extremely helpful deterrent for those who loved picking on the timid, puny ones along the corridor – not that I was a shrimp, but small nonetheless. Acquaintances greeted me by my family name, but close friends call me Jo. My real name is Jean, but who likes to be named after an item of clothing?

The memory of books crowds my mind whenever I reminisced about childhood. The four walls of my father’s study room were lined with heavy bookshelves made of oak: each lacquered slab of wood that groaned under the weight of hardbound, leather-bound books had handwritten labels stuck on carefully with tape. Most of the spaces on the shelves had been filled even before I was born, but when I turned 7 and read as much as I breathed, my father called me into his room one day and faced me to the shelf closest to the French windows. He looked at me and said:

“This belongs to you now. Fill it with the knowledge you truly wish to have.”

Together, we began removing the books long untouched by human hands, and the air soon became choked with dust.

As a child, I devoured fairy tales and fictional stories. As a middle and high school student, my teachers unearthed and enthusiastically cultivated in me the love of nature and science. This naturally led me on to pursue environmental studies later in university, which also spelt disaster for the relationship between my father and me. In the years leading up to the falling out, however, I relished the joy in collecting books on geography and philosophy, amongst various classic literature novels that only encouraged my idealism and naivety.

“Excuse me, Ms. Brooks, I think the textbook is wrong…and I don’t understand this paragraph.”

It was in the middle of my favorite 6th grade lesson when I pointed out an error in our still crisp, plastic-wrapped textbooks.[i] At home, I had read a little about climate change – something about rising sea levels and melting glaciers – that these were the effects of human activities, such as industrialization and carbon emissions. However, the school textbook printed vague, ambiguous statements that eventually led to the conclusion that climate change is natural, and not at all caused by mankind.

Being the nitpicky student that I am, my hand shot up in the air during quiet reading time.

“Nonsense, Jean, the textbook is never wrong! Just follow the arguments and you’ll understand.”

Being the determined individual that I am, I went home and consulted my father on the matter.

“Jean…your teacher is right. Do as she says and you’ll do well in school. Anyway, you should stop reading whatever it is that is getting you all confused. Trust me, it will bring you no good – because they are WRONG. For every day that I am at the office and campaigns, all I hear about is the same damn thing: that climate change is truly happening and that we are the cause of it, blah blah blah. My colleagues and I are up to our eyeballs in work trying to rebuke these claims and keep the higher-ups happy, so the money continues rolling in for us. Please don’t be an additional worry on my mind, girl!”

I left the room in much greater confusion.

Politics never used to interest me at all. Since the textbook incident, however, I began paying more attention to environmental campaigns broadcasted on the news and searched the web for old speeches by my father. Amidst the name-calling and dramatic pauses, I realized the shocking mindsets many politicians had towards climate change, and how deeply rooted their beliefs are.

To them, climate change is a lie.

Besides accusing the activists of hurting the economy in their efforts to reduce carbon emissions, the ‘conservative’ politicians refused to make any further comment or argument by concluding that “I’m not a scientist”, and this statement effectively renders them immune to any scientific discussion or opinion requested.[ii] On the surface level, they claim to have no scientific and thus, expert knowledge on the issue of climate change, but in reality, they simply wish to avoid getting their hands dirty and putting America’s economy on hold. Evidently, they are much more concerned with earning profit than saving the Earth, though they would rather die than admit so.

As an amateur holding a Bachelor’s degree in environmental studies, I could still understand and empathize with some of the senior politicians and the general public; the phenomenon of climate change can be bizarre and its technicalities difficult to grasp, such that even the world’s leading experts are still racking their brains over finding a solution.[iii] If even the scientists are uncertain about the whole issue, then perhaps the average individual should be allowed to entertain a little skepticism!

Total skepticism is pushing it a little too far, however. The research I did online was baffling: one in four Americans were completely skeptical of climate change, and they believed that it is a natural process that humans had nothing to do with.[iv] Most of the time, the skeptical politicians had monetary backing from corporations vested in economic interest, such as the fossil fuel and oil industries. With a cap on carbon emissions, these corporations would face much loss in business and thus, revenue; with profit as the ultimate goal, these companies were little inclined to agree to such restrictions.[v]

Following the campaigns sickened me to the stomach, but I continued to do so in order to be updated on the progress of climate change mitigation. Little was achieved.

“You have no right as a daughter to lecture me!”

2009. That year, my father and I contested against each other at the 15th Conference of the Parties. At that point in time, I was considered one of the most established experts on the field of environmental science, global warming in particular. To everyone, I was greeted as Dr. Ernie, and my name was well-respected worldwide, but spat on by climate change skeptics.

My father was one of them.

Our relationship had steadily soured ever since I decided to throw his advice out the window and follow my instincts. Rationality kicked in as I dug deeper into the underworld of politics and environmental science, and I forced myself to stay level-headed whenever my father’s face drifted to mind, his threatening voice commanding me to leave the entire matter alone. Counter-intuitively, as I grew knowledgeable of the subject, his inability to understand my most beloved passion only encouraged my inability to understand the inner workings of his mind.

I worked through years with a single motivation: to persuade my father that climate change is, and has been ongoing for decades. Personal scientific reports were painstakingly simplified and rewritten countless times, complicated models reduced to layman diagrams drawn by hand in order to illustrate the very reality of it all.[vi] Every single time I handed him the papers, he tore them up into shreds before chucking them at my feet.

We had just returned home from the conference before I walked out of his house for the last time. He had ripped every single beloved book of mine from the shelves and set them on fire in the backyard.

2015.

I was about to leave my home for a jog when the telephone shrilled through my briefcase. A frantic female voice asked for my name, and I answered yes, speaking. It turned out to be my mother.

She told me that my father was dying.

“Hi, Dad.”

The house had remained its exact, spotless appearance. The midday sun illuminated his bedroom, washing it down with clean and golden-yellow warmth.

Blanketed and cushioned by stark white, sterile cotton sheets and pillows on his bed, he wheezed heavily and paused often to catch big gulps of air. My father beckoned me feebly nearer to his side.

Some formal exchanges on how are you, what have you been doing, before we lapsed into an awkward contest of staring each other down. Then he spoke.

My father lamented on the years wasted on preserving his own pride and self-image, instead of embracing new knowledge and making up for his lack of education. Something about cognitive dissonance theory, he waved his hand impatiently. To put it simply, denying climate change completely was the easier choice compared to conceding that his commitment in opinion is flawed; with scientific authorities directly challenging his belief system, the unconscious psychological inclination was to react negatively towards the rejected option, or reduce its initial appeal. In this case, my father was faced with the dilemma between altering his entire belief system on climate change to allow the appropriate decisions in mitigation, or to condemn the scientific consensus as a pack of lies and continue his anti-campaigns.[vii] Also, there was growing economic pressure from the corporations to deliver results and ensure that carbon emissions levels are not restricted.

As an uneducated and conservative man, he could only invest faith in human innovation and technological advancements to reduce the effects of climate change, rather than swallow the overwhelming scientific evidence that condemned everything he supported. Naturally, he sought discord with the latter and picked at any uncertainty that the scientists reluctantly revealed; this he did so especially with climate modeling, which are far from accurate and complete in their analysis and prediction of our climate.[viii]

“I’ve watched the world gradually progress into the technological age, a complete makeover that occurred over a few mere decades. There is so much more potential for the future, and I so believed in humans to conquer anything that stood in our way.[ix] Climate change, to many of us, was just another trivial matter that the government and certain goody-two shoes fussed over in order to gain more funding and support from policy makers. We didn’t want to relinquish any monetary control to them…[x]

Your growing passion in environmental science did nothing to persuade me in changing my mind. I had secretly admired your fierce determination in not letting the matter rest, but this old man of yours was never going to admit to his daughter that he is wrong about something he had devoted his life to fighting against. And I wish to apologize for that now.”

Never once did he let go of my right hand – clasped tightly in his icy cold own, I could only interpret this long abandoned gesture as his final way of expressing affection and regret, perhaps mingled with a little pride. There was no hardness this time, only a single tear clinging on desperately to the corner of his right eye.

Endnotes

[i] See Singer, Merrill. "Anthropology and Climate Change." AnthropologyNews.

[ii] Atkin, Emily. "‘I’m Not A Scientist': A Complete Guide To Politicians Who Plead Ignorance On Climate Change." ThinkProgress RSS. October 3, 2014. Accessed March 8, 2015.

[iii] Dunlap, R. E. "Climate Change Skepticism and Denial: An Introduction." American Behavioral Scientist 56, no. 6 (2013): 691-98. 691.

[iv] Saad, Lydia. "One in Four in U.S. Are Solidly Skeptical of Global Warming." One in Four in U.S. Are Solidly Skeptical of Global Warming. April 22, 2014. Accessed March 8, 2015.

[v] Dunlap. “Climate Change Skepticism and Denial: An Introduction”, 692-694.

[vi] Dunlap. “Climate Change Skepticism and Denial: An Introduction”, 691. Refer also to Atkin, Paragraph 3.

[vii] Gelfert, Axel, “Climate Scepticism, Epistemic Dissonance, and the Ethics of Uncertainty,” Philosophy and Public Issues (New Series), Vol. 3, No. 1 (2013), 167-208, edited by S. Maffettone, G. Pellegrino and M. Bocchiola. 189-194.

[viii] Gelfert. “Climate Scepticism, Epistemic Dissonance, and the Ethics of Uncertainty,” 179-181.

[ix] Gelfert. “Climate Scepticism, Epistemic Dissonance, and the Ethics of Uncertainty,” 183-184.

[x] Dunlap. “Climate Change Skepticism and Denial: An Introduction”, 694.

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datingadviceonreddit · 6 years

Link

IT’S NOT ABOUT YOUR LOOKSI work with a lot of guys who are self conscious about their looks, so I thought I’d throw this in here to reiterate what has already been disproven over and over again. Looks do not matter. Can they help? Absolutely! But if you’re good looking and you’re still insecure, you can bet your pretty little face you won’t be getting lucky tonight. I guarantee it. Some of my clients are above average in looks, yet still have difficulty attracting girls they want and desire.Women experience attraction differently than we do. Their attraction dials go up and down depending on how you act. Yours, as a man, remains static. She’s either hot, or she isn’t.Guys. I’ve seen some of the HOTTEST women with the sleeziest, turdy-looking, head-turning-cause-he’s-so-puny, sons of bitches. It’s amazing what confidence can do, and I feel unbelievably blessed to have been born a man.You should be glad, too.Point taken: Looks don’t matter for shit.EMOTIONAL ARMORIf feeling safe is one of the strongest precursors to confidently entering a world of complete muck, then get ready to put a fat, smirky smile on your face.Anxiety is a bitch. This is not a new concept. A pretty and perky woman can can tear apart even the strongest, most masculine-looking mother*cker, and anxiety is all to blame.If you put on some armor and a sword and shield…you’d be able dive in head first into the world knowing you’d be just fine. Instead of providing a physical analogy for you, understand it is necessary to equip yourself with emotional armor.At first, you do this by diving in without any of that.Don’t worry. A little kick in the ass won’t hurt, right? Wrong! It’s might hurt a little...at first. It’s the emotional equivalent of going into military bootcamp, and the endurance of pain is in a man’s prerogative, meaning it is a masculine thing to do. Women practically melt at the thought of a man being able to endure endless amounts of searing, white-hot pain.Once you finish with this stage (it’s always the hardest, but here comes the good part), the second stage is more of a realization. All of that pain you just went through? Look at your body now. Your face. The metal in your hand. You’re completely covered in armor now, and you’re holding a sword and shield in your hands. You feel powerful. Hardened. The most important thing you’re protecting, however, isn’t your body.It’s your heart.If you know you’ll do anything to protect your integrity and emotions, you won’t be worrying about anything. You will no longer be afraid of hurting others. Why? Because self defense is justifiable. Your physical and emotional wellbeing is always a priority unless you’re protecting someone you deeply care about (girlfriend/wife, family, kids, etc). This means you won’t be going out and actively hurting others. Growing a set of teeth that you’re willing to use exudes your capacity to hurt others. But choosing not to use them is extremely honorable. It’s the equivalent of a military flexing its prowess in front of another country. It communicates, “We come in peace, but if you screw with us, get ready to get your head blown off.” The response you receive is respect, admiration, and in the context of women…attraction.Ever hear of the phrase: “You learn to fight so you don’t have to” ?It’s self explanatory. You learn to fight in order NOT to fight. Your unwavering confidence alone will be enough to deter your enemies. This is why overly aggressive males aren’t seen as attractive (and sometimes scary) to women; they’re clearly hiding their own insecurities. By contrast, however, truly confident males capable of steering away enemies will be highly, highly confident and relaxed.Point taken: Go into the world knowing your heart will always be protected by you when threatened, then paradoxically, you won’t have to. Women will find the underlying confidence attractive as hell.TRUSTHave you ever gone about your day and asked someone for the time? What about asking someone to pass you the ketchup? Or asking someone to do a favor for you?Anything that requires skill (socializing) requires a set amount of trust. The only way to build trust that you’re not going to get burned (rejected) is by doing something small, then working your way up to something bigger (getting laid).As stated before, ask the time to an elderly person. They can’t hurt you. They’re weak and frail, have fake teeth, and probably walk around in a diaper. They’re harmless. Ask them for the time. There. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?Now go up to the cute cashier and ask her for the time. It’s okay. She’s there because she has to be. It’s her job. No issues there. She told you the time yet? Excellent! You had a quick exchange, and it didn’t hurt you. So far, so good. Now keep going.Go and say hello to the cute girl standing in line at Starbucks. Just a “hello, how are you?”. No conversation. Just hello as you stand next to her in line. See? That wasn’t hard at all.Now go say hello to the good looking cougar across from you at the gym. No worries. This time you can say “Hey. Good workout?” with a smile. No conversation. Just let her talk and answer the question.Before you know it, she’ll be babbling away about how great or bad her day was, and your natural replies to the conversation will start flowing. Beautiful. Excellent. 10/10. Great job.But hold on a second. Where’s the pain? No pain this time. And all we did was start off by asking that cute little old lady what the time was.Point taken: Start off small. Build your way up.FEELING GOOD ALL THE TIMEWhether you know it or not, whether you believe it or not, your positive emotions are heavily affected by the food you eat. How can you expect to get out of the house when your brain has all of its neurotransmitters crapped out? I’m not going to get into all of the complicated science behind depression, but I guarantee your life is being ruined by all the crap you might be eating. Bad, addictive foods are literally drugs. Sugar is a drug similar to cocaine (That’s no joke. Look it up). Gluten severely spikes up inflammation in the body. And both substances cause long term, severe depression and anxiety in otherwise healthy individuals, both of which affect socializing DIRECTLY. Though slower in their negative effects toward your health, they are no different than doing actual drugs such as meth, cocain, or heroine (users report high anxiety and depression after using…not a coincidence in relation to food).I can’t emphasize this portion enough. It’s about the neurochemicals that directly affect your behavior on a daily basis. Individuals overlook what they put into their bodies, yet expect some kind of magic pill (or article) to fix all their problems. In my opinion, diet alone can fix all these problems, like anxiety, and even approach anxiety. Big changes in your neurochemical activity take place. Women are attracted to men for their brains and not their looks, so why would a woman, from a biological standpoint, want to reproduce with a guy with an unhealthy brain? She wouldn’t, just as a female lion wouldn’t reproduce with a weaker male who can’t protect her children. On men, instead of muscles, their greatest weapon is right inside their skull.Do some research on the ketogenic diet. It completely changed my life with women, and it can change yours, too. Increases dopamine sensitivity so you'll want to socialize with people. No more feeling like its a chore. Serotonin and GABA, both responsible for feelings of confidence and calmness, are also increased/regulated. All thanks to ketones.Point taken: The shit you eat, matters.FAITH – WHAT IT REALLY IS, AND HOW TO GET ITThis is the most important point I will make in this post. Get ready to have your brain probed a little.Faith does not require religion. I repeat – faith does not require religion. You don’t have to believe in religion at all. In fact, if you think of doubt as a negative version of faith, then you more clearly understand what it is you’re doing in your head on a minute-by-minute basis. Approach anxiety, for example, is doubt. You might be imagining going up to a hot, sexy, beautiful girl in a purple dress and heels. You might imagine the girl throwing acid in your face in order to brush you off, or you think you’re as ugly as Steve Buschemi after getting run over in the face. Regardless of the matter, the scenario is negative. There is an imaginative, creative mind at work. Unfortunately, this mind is working against you, and you’re doing it unconsciously.The good news, however, is you can flip it through the power of conscious choice until it becomes ingrained in your mind. The following is a process I outlined on how we create our reality.Thought -> Faith -> Belief -> RealityAs you can see, faith is the bridge between thought and belief. Once a belief kicks in through REPETITION (this is the key, because you’re starting to create neuronal connections that exhibit confident behavior), you’ll begin to notice the world around you changing. Instead of conforming to the world and all its whims, the world will eventually conform to you through your unconscious behavior.Pay close attention:The most important thing in this world, regardless of all the content out there, is our human need for unconditional love. You cannot, under any circumstances, function at your best emotionally if you feel you do not matter. Sure, you can imagine an approach scenario going well (such as the girl in the purple dress), but if the root of all your issues with socializing/flirting stem from this one need, then we can focus on creating a reality where you feel unconditionally loved, not necessarily from one person or thing, but just to feel it. Some people may consider this madness.But if we as humans are nothing but our beliefs, then we are mad from the moment we are born?Thought, faith, belief, and reality are the keys to extreme and unwavering confidence.How to: Close your eyes. Get very relaxed, drowsy. Imagine yourself being loved by everyone and everything around you. Repeat voraciously for desired results.And that’s all there is to it, gentlemen. via /r/dating_advice

#dating #dating advice #reddit

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libraryoferana · 7 years

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Welcome to Lana Campbell

#vampires #redemption #paranormalromance

*Please tell us about your publications. I’ve published three books so far in my Forever and a Night vampire series. These are not your typical vampire romances. For instance in my first book Forever and a Night my heroine is 42 with three grown girls who become my heroines in subsequent books. In book one devout Christian Mia Peebles falls for billionaire vampire Nathan Davenport.

Nathan Davenport is being stalked by Isabella Ravini, the feral vampire who stole his human life over a hundred and sixty years ago. She made him her fledging, a slave for her dark, evil purposes—hunting humans. After a few years, she released him, and Nathan reluctantly learned to accept the cursed life she’d foisted upon him.Over time he amassed a great fortune, which today has made him famous worldwide. Isabella decides she wants to be a part of this world of fame and fortune Nathan created for himself. She’s determined to marry him, and love has nothing to do with it. His money is her primary target, and the fame and prestige attached to being the wife of one of the richest men in the world wouldn’t be so bad either.

In an effort to evade her until he can figure out how to stop her, he hides at a safe house he owns in New Orleans. One Saturday evening in NOLA, he decides to have dinner in the city. He chooses a quiet little Italian bistro, never imagining this night will change his life forever. The human woman who delivers his order isn’t a server, but the restaurant’s sous chef, a beautiful ethnic woman possessing the most delicious blood scent he’s ever encountered. The moment Mia Peebles arrives at his table with his plate, tasting her becomes an obsession. Mia wants nothing to do with him because of Nathan’s reputation as a playboy. So Nathan enchants her, feeds from her, but his lusts for her blood and body play havoc with his thinking.

Nathan finds a way to bring her into his life as his personal chef and quickly falls in love with her. The trouble is Mia has no idea he’s a vampire because, during the enchanting episodes, Nathan blocked her memories of those sensual encounters. How will Nathan tell her the truth without losing her and keep Isabella from finding him? Or worst yet, will Isabella discover how much Mia has come to mean to him?

Book two Dark Experiments is about Tiffany Peebles and OB/GYN vampire Dr Christian LaMond. On the cusp of their romance, an angel of death begins poisoning Christian’s pregnant vampire patients. Tiffany is also poisoned.

Christian is the exception to Tiffany’s rule that all males are louses. For years Tiffany has lusted after Christian and of late she can’t help but wonder what it might be like to have a brief fling with him. The opportunity to explore her secret fantasy appears when Christian offers her a job as the IT person for his practice, the V clinic. She knows if he gives her the green light, she’s going to have a romp with her sexy vampire. When the night finally arrives and she and Christian have sex, the experience is so overwhelmingly powerful, Tiffany backpedals and tries to turn down the heat between them. She’s human. He’s a vampire. She can’t afford to fall in love with him.

Christian has other ideas. During their sexual encounter, he discovers Tiffany is his life mate and he vows to change her thinking. His intentions are put on hold when he gets caught up in an angel of death’s vicious plan to chemically terminate V clinic patients’ pregnancies. Tiffany herself falls victim to a lethal dose of arsenic and Christian can only save her by turning her into a vampire. She’s furious when she wakes from her turning and discovers what Christian has done. She wants nothing to do with him ever again, but when she’s kidnapped by this angel of death and used as a guinea pig for deadly experiments she only has Christian to turn to save her life.

In book three Deadly Secrets, Chelsie Peebles discovers she’s dying of an incurable brain tumor. No form of treatment will save her but one. She must turn into a vampire.

When Dr Chelsie Peebles, an OB/GYN for vampires discovers she’s dying from a stage four glioblastoma she learns there is only one sure cure that can save her life. She must turn into a vampire. Chelsie is the member of a big extended family of vampires. In fact, she is the only human left in her entire clan. Headaches have been plaguing her for months and when she’s diagnosed with an incurable brain tumor, Chelsie chooses to keep the horrific news from her family to spare them hurt until she can figure out viable treatments or a cure.

Researching her options for survival lead her to the inevitable conclusion she is going to die no matter what treatments she chooses unless she turns into a vampire. Chelsie’s desperate. She blackmails the partners of her vampire OB/GYN clinic into aiding her in this life altering transformation.

Asa Bradley, one of her partners thinks Chelsie’s crazy for wanting to turn because the reasons she gives are flakey. He has no idea she’s dying. He is however bewitched by the little human doctor and wants to know what has her so hellbent on wanting to become a vampire. So one night when he’s invited to a bar where Chelsie moonlights as a country/western singer, he goes and is stunned to discover she has the voice of an angel and the body of a seductress since all he’s ever seen her wear is a lab coat. Asa is smitten with the surprising Dr. Peebles.

Trouble is Chelsie has an ex named Chad who she sings with in the band and he thinks Chelsie belongs to him. Chad’s dangerously possessive and threatens to hurt Chelsie if Asa doesn’t leave her alone. Asa isn’t going to be thwarted by a puny human. He romances Chelsie and gains her trust and affection which inevitably leads him to discover Chelsie’s deadly secret.

Can Asa keep Chelsie safe from her maniacal ex and get her this transformation she needs before cancer or her villainess ex claims her life?

What first prompted you to publish your work? Back when Twilight was becoming popular my teenage girls at the time were so into the series. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about so I read the books. I enjoyed them, loved the vampire aspect, but I wanted to read vampire stories with older protagonists and more human like vampires. So I set about creating a story with a 42-year-old female protagonist and an older vampire hero who lived longer than most humans but was mortal. In my stories, vampires can eat and they can have children because they are a sub-species of humans, evolved from humans due to a blood disease.

What have you found the most challenging part of the process? Getting published. All three of my books were published with a small press publisher.

Are you a ‘pantser’ or a ‘plotter’? Definitely a pantser. I know the general plot and story of the book I’m writing, but as I write it I let the story evolve on its own. I can’t say why but it works for me.

What piece of advice do you wish you’d had when you started your publishing journey? My first book was published by a vanity press. I wish I’d known no author should have to pay to have their book published. If your work is good enough you will find someone to publish your book and they won’t charge and you’ll make money.

What are your views on authors offering free books? Do you believe, as some do, that it demeans an author and his or her work? I’ve tried this and I see no benefit in it. It didn’t help me achieve more book sales nor did it garner me any reviews. I don’t think I’d do it again.

What are your views on authors commenting on reviews? An author commenting on reviews should only thank the reviewer I think. The worse thing one could do is argue the review with the reviewer. To me, it’s demeaning to the author.

How do you deal with bad reviews? I get bummed for a bit, then I let it go and concentrate on the good reviews. I realize not everyone is going to love my work, but others will. I think this goes for every book ever written. Not everyone is going to have the same opinion. But if I could add one thing to say to readers, please leave reviews on the books you read. This is so important to the author and so appreciated.

Sort these into the order of importance:

Good plot– This is second. A good plot should be fast moving and should keep the reader engaged.

Great characters– I think this is first. If your characters pop off the pages, you’ll snag your reader into your story.

Awesome world-building– This would be last. It’s certainly important, but if an author goes overboard with description it can slow the plot.

Technically perfect– People hate reading books with grammatical difficulties, but most are forgiving so I’d have to put this at number three. Still it’s important to edit, edit, edit and don’t rely solely on an editor to clean up your work. Do it yourself and do it well.

How much research do you do for your work? What’s the wildest subject you’ve looked at? All I can say is thank God for Google. I research constantly as I go along. I’d have to say the wildest subject I researched which is in book one, Forever and a Night would be the grave of Marie LaVue. My protagonists were touring the cemetery and ran across her grave. I brought into the scene some of the wild information about her intriguing life.

What’s the best advice you’ve received about writing/publishing? As far as writing, to write every day and to do so with passion. A person either has a passion for writing or they don’t. If you do you’ll write every spare moment you have.

If you could be any fantasy/mythical or legendary person/creature what would you be and why? I would like to be one of my vampires. In my books, they age very slowly and live for six or seven hundred years. They have psychic and telekinetic abilities as well as strength and speed ten times that of a human. Who wouldn’t want those abilities?

Which authors have influenced you the most? Nora Roberts, Christine Feehan

What is your writing space like? It must be neat. I clean my space before I begin. No noise. I can’t write if the TV is on or if there’s music or any annoying noise going on.

Tell us about your latest piece? I just finished a vampire romance called Alabama Rain. In this story, Alabama Rain is a born vampire whose father is a villainous drug dealer. He’s a much more powerful vampire than Alabama. He forces Alabama to steal drugs for him from his rival drug lord which of course places Alabama in danger. Early into the story, she has a run in with Nate Davenport when she’s trying to do a drug theft for her father. When Nate discovers she deals drugs, he’s determined to catch her in the act and bring her to justice. He just doesn’t plan on falling in love with her in the process.

What’s your next writing adventure? I’m writing book six in my series right now. It’s about Alabama Rain’s brother Ganja Elisha Holden. He used to be a thief of drugs for his father Ken Holden an evil and powerful vampire who is also a drug lord. In the book previous, Alabama Rain, he has been planted in his father’s rival drug cartel, Manny Cordova’s, in order to report back to his father about when drug deals are going down in the Cordova cartel. When Cordova discovers Ganja has been an intricate part in the theft of his drugs, he puts a hit out on him. Ganja flees to the midwest to a small Arkansas town called Eureka Springs. There he makes a life for himself as a small business owner of a jewellery and antiques store. One day all of that is threatened when the daughter of Manny Cordova appears in his store. Lydia Cordova has always bewitched Gan. She presents a clear danger to Gan but he can’t help but want her even though she could lead her father who wants him dead straight to him.

Is this the age of the e-book? Are bricks and mortar bookshops in decline?It definitely is the age of e-books. More and more people are loving reading their favorite stories on their devices. I’m one of them. But there are still lots of people who would much rather hold a real book in their hands, but not as many as there used to be. Sadly bookshops are in decline. Some major retailers have closed their doors. I think this is bad news for authors because we make more money on physical book sales than we do off e-books.

With the influx of indie authors do you think this is the future of storytelling? Yes, thanks to Amazon more and more indie authors publish every day. I definitely think this is the future of storytelling.

Are indie/self-published authors viewed with scepticism or wariness by readers? Why is this? I don’t think so. If a reader likes the sound of your book, I think they’d buy it no matter the publisher. On the other hand, some self-published books are terribly written with horrible grammatical errors. I’ve read my fair share. This could detour some readers from buying a book without a publishing house behind it.

Is there a message in your books? Yes, there is. I have a Christian message in each of my books, a message of redemption from a higher power. It by no means overwhelms the book, it’s just there as a facet of my character’s character. I’ve gotten mixed reviews on it, but most people are amazed that I can successfully weave a redemption message into a vampire story. It certainly hasn’t hurt my sales, rather the opposite.

How important is writing to you? I live it, breathe it, sleep it. I love to write and would no matter if I sold books or not. Unfortunately, it is more of a hobby than a career. I truly hope to change that some day.

Links

Forever night

Dark Experiments

Deadly Secrets

Bio

I’m the author of the Forever and a Night vampire romance series. The first book in my series is Forever and a Night. My second book Dark Experiments just came out 5/21/16. BTP has just recently bought my third book Deadly Secrets. I love writing paranormal romance and I’m an avid reader of it too. I live in Avoca AR with my husband, oldest daughter and a cat named Felix

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