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elsewhereuniversity · 4 years

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Finding Joy

Her safename was Joy.

That worried people, when taken with her bubbly personality- the laughter that filled the heart, the smile that lit a room, blue eyes sparkling over freckled dimples. The silly hoodie, with huge blue ears that were taller than her head- “Easier to find me in a crowd, that way,” she’d said, and well, it’s not like she was wrong. More than once, the blue ear tips weaving through a sea of shoulders was the only way to find Joy, short as she was. The iron bell around her neck only helped a little- it’s ringing often swallowed by the noise.

Joy fit her, really.

And that was why they worried.

Her RA had spoken to her about it, of course. “Are you sure you want to go with Joy? You know the point is that they’re not supposed to fit, right?” And Joy had nodded in complete understanding, smiling brightly. “I read the introductory packet- if it starts to fit too well, I’ll change it, I promise! But I’m not too worried about that.” Another bright smile. A name, cautiously, added to the floor register. (Written in calligraphy, sprinkled with salt, locked in an iron drawer. Maybe Clip was paranoid, but she wasn’t losing any students that way ever again.)

The first meeting with the Gentry came a month in. Accidental, of course- she hadn’t been watching the trail they’d been following, locked in an animated conversation with her friend about the robotics project she’d been working on. “-so I’ve got it measuring soil conditions every three hours, now, and comparing it against the plants showing optimal growth, to match them- I think I can set up pre-programmed routines, with some more data, to keep soils on a prepared regime! The hard part will be getting the fertilizing-”

The rest of that sentence would never be heard. What was heard was a shout, crashing sounds, and a loud pair of dual thuds.

What was seen, was the gentleman who’d been crashed into and knocked to the ground, golden hair in disarray, blinking dazedly- and Joy, on top of him, where she’d crashed into the man, her papers scattered around her.

(Off to the side, her friend wasn’t sure whether to start filming or to grab Joy and run. She might have been too busy laughing, though.)

Joy had sprung away, then, like she’d been burned. “Oh my gosh, I am so- are you okay? Do you need to go to the nurse, did you hit your head? I should have been watching where I was going, my bad!” Snatching up her papers, she offered a hand down to the gentleman, who, still disoriented, took it, and pulled him to his lanky feet. Golden eyes blinked down at the girl, as he brushed dirt off his coat, clearing his throat.

“That will not be necessary, I assure you, miss…?”

“Oh! Right, Joy, you can call me Joy, I’m so- no, wait, I’m not supposed to say that, right, right.”

A gentle huff of laughter. A hand brushing dirt off a blue coated shoulder. “It suits you. No harm, no foul, as you children say. Run along, now.” A dazzling smile in return, as she ran off to catch up with her friend. Distantly, he could hear them chattering. “Dude! That was one of Them! Are you okay, you didn’t say anything you shouldn’t have, right?” “I’m fine! It’s fine, don’t worry about it, he wasn’t mad.” “You told him your name, though!” “Don’t be absurd. I told you, it doesn’t fit, that’s the whole point.”

Days passed. Her roommates watched her like a hawk. Weeks- caution started to ease. Months- and when October rolled around, it found the two girls sprawled out under a tree on the grounds.

“Coleslaw heard you crying the other night- what was that about?”

A shrug. Her stylus traced over her tablet, tracing out details. “Just a call from my godfather, no big deal.”

“You’re still homesick?”

“I guess. More than I thought, anyway.”

“Well, you know, fall break’s coming up soon. Maybe you can go visit?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

The conversation had turned, then. To the party coming up, a masquerade hosted by the drama majors- of course.

An idea took root.

Joy wasn’t much one for dancing- too small, she’d laughingly tell anyone who asked, “My partners would have to bend double to meet me!” It was an exaggeration- but not, to be fair, by that much. She contented herself, instead, drifting around the room, giddy in the face of her classmates happiness, and possibly the double-shot cookie-mocha she’d snagged from the snack bar.

It was because of her drifting that she saw the girl being led off by the golden haired gentleman, away from the courtyard, to the path leading to the Forest. Following wasn’t a decision- her legs moved almost of their own accord.

The pair went into the trees.

Joy hesitated, for half a breath- then lifted her chin, eyes flashing steel, and marched in after them.

The gold eyed gentleman grinned at her, across the ring of mushrooms. His hands rested on the shoulders of the girl he’d taken, her eyes wide and watery as she stared at Joy.

“Give her back. She isn’t yours to take.”

Teeth showed behind the predatory grin. “She came willingly, little butterfly. Stepped into my arms, to save her guardian from himself, wouldn’t you know? A life for a life. Her life, to save his from the bottle.”

Of course she’d made a Deal. Well, two can play at that game. “I’ll barter for her.”

The grin turned sly. He leaned forward, resting his chin on the girl’s head. “And what would you have to offer me, bold little butterfly? I told you already- a life for a life. Are you so willing, to trade your freedom for a stranger?”

A breath of hesitation. His grin grew. “Perhaps I’ll be generous. I’ll take your godfather, then- unless you’d care to give me your true name, Joy?”

Joy led the shaking girl through the forest, plucking her iron butterfly clips from the trees they’d marked the way from as they passed. Their absence had been noticed, by now- Clip’s eyes lit up in relief to see both students emerging down the path, Joy’s shawl wrapped around the other girl, and one of the girl’s friends ran forward to greet them, nearly tackling her in a hug. Joy stepped back to let them have their reunion, moved over to her RA. Looking up at Clip, she smiled a bit, sheepishly.

“Is it too late to register to stay over break?”

“So what do you think? Are you really going to join the Knights?”

The student traced her pen over the lines of the sign-up sheet, tip drumming against the page. It was already most of the way filled out- the reasons, the class schedule, the dorm number- there was only one thing left to write down. The question got her gaze to lift, and she nodded.

“I think so, yeah. I mean, I’ve already rescued one classmate- imagine what I could do with some support.”

“You mean imagine what they could do, with a few more engineering majors.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. I’m definitely looking into the blacksmithing elective next semester, I’m gonna build us armor.”

A laugh answered that, and her friend reached across the table, shoving her playfully. “Well then what are you waiting for? Hurry up and go turn it in!”

The student formerly known as Joy laughed, a sound like bells, as she wrote her name into the final blank. “Alright, alright! Come on, come with me- maybe they’ll know where to pick up a sign-up sheet for the Scribes for you.”

“Alright, I’m coming, I’m coming.”

Blue ink glittered as it dried, Iris written in gentle swoops across the top of the page.

#shadow-daughter #stories #long post #ooh #the knights #joy #finding joy #alcoholism mention #submission

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peydawgz · 4 years

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Could you do Chucky, both original and Buddi, and any other slashers of your choosing, with a digital artist s/o? Specifically, them watching their s/o get frustrated when it crashes or gets accidentally deleted, corrupted files, that magic. Maybe even closing the window himself for attention, only to accidentally delete all of their progress?

(I’m sorry I’m super late on this one; I’ve been gone for quite a while huh? I’m gonna get through some of these requests because I’m feelin the slasher love with halloween season coming around the corner! So I’m back!! This ask is rlly inspiring me bc I’ve been going through this rn :( my BRAND NEW tablet keeps glitching and fucking up my art.)

Digital Artist x Various Slashers (Buddi! Chucky, 88′ Chucky, Michael Myers)

Buddi! Chucky

One hand on the keyboard, the other gripping your pen stylus tightly, you began to get frustrated with your current art piece. A mix of unmotivation, anger, and your tablet keeps crashing was all adding to your growing frustration. Your Buddi doll, on the other hand, was sitting patiently beside you up on your desk, watching you get angrier and angrier. Was your computer making you upset? You looked like you were on the verge of tears because of it! “When can we play again?” Chucky asked politely, a creepy little smile appearing on his face. “I- I don’t know, Chucky! Look, I’m kind of busy right now.” You exclaimed as your computer decided to erase your entire drawing once again. With your angry response, Chucky looked down sadly, folding his little hands in his lap. Your computer seemed to be making you very upset, and so he decided to take it into his own hands; you should stop drawing and pay attention to him! He usually makes you happy, right? Chucky was connected to all of your devices, including your Kaslan computer. He raised his finger, and with it, your computer did a hard shut down, turning off your tablet and your computer with it. That did not seem to make you happy like he thought. Not at all. Instead, you threw your hands up in anger and shoved your tablet onto your keyboard and put your head in your hands. “FUCK! I can’t do ANYTHING!” You yelled into your palms. Chucky crawled up into your lap, tugging at your shirt. “You can play with me?” He suggested innocently. “Chucky, did you...?” You started, looking from him to the computer. He looked down with guilt. “I thought it would make you happy...” He mumbled. You saw his intentions were at least good, even if they were interrupting your illustration. Maybe you did need to take a break. The files were deleted, but your progress didn’t come too far anyways. It was alright, you could restart. You were only on the sketch anyways. “Alright, Chucky, we can play now. I have to get back to work soon, though, okay? No more shutting my stuff down, please. You were lucky this time, but that’s very important to me.” You set him down and held his hand, leading him to your room to get dressed. You took him to get a new outfit from Zedmart and let him pick out a new accessory. In return, he suggested ice cream to cheer you up!

88′ Chucky

Chucky is very... forceful with his actions. As you sit there at your desk, fists clenched and jaw tightened, he couldn’t help but feel a little bad for you. Your art was quite important to you, and it didn’t seem to be going right at the moment. You were working on a commission, and couldn’t seem to be able to open up the file you saved from the day before. That was your lineart and base coloring- what the hell were you gonna do if you couldn’t get it open? You were too stubborn to just start over again. Chucky came up behind you. “Look, babe, if you can’t get it working then just let it go. Why don’t we do something else?” He said suggestively. “Maybe later. This is important.” You mumbled, turning away from him and violently clicking on the file, even though many messages popped up saying there was an error. “I’m just saying that if you-” Chucky started, trying to be calm but he was already beginning to get stubborn with you. “I said later.” You just grumbled, interrupting him. “Well, if you’re gonna be like that.” He said to himself, and pushed a chair to the edge of the desk. You were too sucked into your own issue that you didn’t notice him. Chucky walked over the desk and pressed the delete button, then closed the top laptop- facing you. “Look- I’ve tried to be patient, but you gotta chill out! Maybe some alone time with me...?” He leaned close, being very evocative. You pushed your palm into his face, pushing him back. “You just fucking deleted all of my shit!” You said, face red with anger. “Well, it wasn’t opening anyways! Just start over it’s not that hard, right? You’re an artist, it can’t be that fucking hard!” He raised his voice at you, and you flinched. “Chucky, it doesn’t work like that, I-” You looked down and spaced out, tears forming in your eyes. Chucky immediately felt bad about raising his voice at you. “Hey, babe, I’m sorry... I didn’t know...” You started crying. “Hey, hey, it’s gonna be alright.” He crawled into your lap and pushed your hair from your face. “You’re the best artist I know! I know ya can do it again, even better this time!” He said, giving you a gentle rub on the shoulder. “Maybe first, let’s take a break. I- We don’t gotta do anything like that, let’s just hang out and cuddle?” He suggested, knowing he hated it but trying to make you feel better nonetheless. You gave him a little smile. “I guess you’re right. Maybe I do need a break. But don’t try that funny shit again with me!” You glared at him, and your evening was full of comforting snuggles, and he even tried to make you tea/coffee afterwards while you draw!

Michael Myers

Michael has no patience. He does everything on his own time and nobody gets in his way. So when he was in the mood for attention and you were doing something else; he was not going to have it. You sat there, angry that your computer kept crashing and restarting, causing your progress to be deleted each time. It was an old laptop, you probably needed a new one. You were trying to finish the sketch, but your laptop just wasn’t feeling up to it today whatsoever. Michael walked up behind you, and let out a huff of air, letting you know that he was home. “Hello, darling. I’m a little busy right now.” You murmured, getting upset again as you couldn’t open the application you draw on. Michael watched behind you inquisitively for a moment, catching onto what was making you angry. He placed his chin on top of your head, letting out another huff. “Hun, I’m not really in the mood.” You replied, and that made him upset. Not in the mood? You were his! You couldn’t just not be in the mood for giving him attention! He stood up straight and continued to hover around you, watching you for another five minutes, giving you the time to change your mind. When you continued, he decided to take it upon himself and press the power button on the computer-- right as you were finally getting it to work! You gasped, and looked up at him. “Michael! I was in the middle of something! Can’t you just wait?” You asked, obviously very upset. He just tilted his head at you, thinking you were very cute when you were upset with him. He didn’t feel a hint of regret, and instead hoisted you up and carried you off to your room, you were still upset but there was no use making a big fuss out of it. There was no fighting with Michael. He laid you down and sat beside you. He grabbed your hand and took off his mask, placing your hand on top of his head, nestled in his hair. You liked to pet his hair, he usually wouldn’t have it but he sort of enjoyed it. You just sighed and pet his hair, pulling him down to lay beside you whilst you continued to run your fingers through his locks. “Please don’t do that again. I appreciate the break, but please don’t. I give you your time when you go do the things you like? Let me have mine. I love you.” You sighed softly and kissed his cheek. He gave you a small huff in return and kissed your cheek back. Later on, when you were drawing again, he let you have your time and patiently sat beside you and watched. You showed him how you color, and let him pick one out for the background. He of course picked red.

#chucky #buddi chucky #slasher #slashers x reader #Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #buddi x reader #chucky x reader #buddi chucky x reader #slasher imagines

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vernonfielding · 4 years

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No pain no gain

Missing scene fic from Jimmy Jabs 2! This is shameless hurt/comfort (and some mild Jake/Amy Being Serious). Thank you to the lovely and super smart @fezzle and @feeisamarshmallow for the fantastic beta!! Title is more Bash Brothers (from Let’s Bash).

Read on AO3.

First, Amy runs up to Jake and throws her arms around his neck and kisses him soundly, right in front of the entire squad and the staff and the civilians mingling all around the bullpen. She kisses him until he’s breathless and she can feel the too-fast flutter of his pulse in his neck (which could be from the kiss or the adrenaline, impossible to know).

Second, Amy pulls back and grabs his hand and drags him up, arm circling his waist when he stumbles a little. She takes him straight down the garage, to their sensible and very boring Champagne-colored sedan, and drives him to the closest emergency room.

It’s busy for a weekday afternoon. Every seat is taken, mostly by people coughing behind surgical masks or clutching barf bags and sweating in a way that makes Amy’s own stomach turn a little. A woman in a chair just behind them is pressing a bloody towel into the palm of one hand. A little boy two chairs over has an icepack pressed to his nose and blood all over his white T-shirt.

The nurse at the registration desk glances up as Amy approaches with Jake. The nurse’s eyes flit down to the NYPD logo on their matching shirts and she says, “Injured in the line of duty?”

She’s holding a pen in one hand, poised over a clipboard, and Amy knows her answer now will determine the rest of their day: If Jake was hurt on duty they get a free pass back to the ER. If she says Jake was competing in the Nine-Nine’s version of American Gladiators-

“Yes,” Amy says. “My husband was on duty. He fell.” It’s not really a lie.

The nurse hits a buzzer, and five minutes later Jake’s in a bed, plastic wristband on one arm and blood pressure cuff on the other. The adrenaline’s fully kicked in and he’s gone all pale and sweaty, his blood pressure is alarmingly high, and he can’t stop fidgeting when the nurse tries to put an oximeter clip on one finger. Amy feels a twist of guilt in her gut and chews on a thumbnail.

+++

Amy loves Jake. Full stop. No reservations, no conditions, no exceptions. She loves every part of him -- his kind and generous heart, his ridiculous curls and goofball grin, his exceptional detective brain and his remarkably robust digestive system (given his eating habits). She loves his recent addiction to corn nuts, and she loves that his new favorite beverage is boba tea from the shop around the corner from their apartment. She loves that he didn’t learn the months of the year until he was 12 and that he activates his animatronic fish at least once a week, just to make sure it’s still “alive.”

She loves that he’s going to be the father of her child. She knows he’ll be incredible -- she feels it in her heart and her bones and her blood and and her brain and all the spaces in between.

(And she still really, really loves his butt.)

But damnit if the man isn’t absolutely infuriating sometimes.

“So, what happened here?” says the doctor, pushing aside the curtain at the foot of Jake’s bed. The doctor is very tall and her hair is pulled into a tight braid that falls halfway down her back. Amy’s glad she prepared for this moment.

“My husband fell out of a ceiling,” she says, throwing just the right amount of sheepishness into her tone. “Also, I used an EpiPen on him.”

The thing is, this is almost too easy, striking the right balance between telling the truth and fudging the embarrassing details in these situations. Amy smiles pleasantly at the doctor when she raises a questioning eyebrow.

“What is he allergic to?” the doctor says, looking between Amy and Jake.

“Bees,” Amy says, “but he wasn’t stung. I had to give him the adrenaline so he could break down a door.”

“I see,” the doctor says, though clearly she doesn’t. But she refrains from asking follow-up questions, which is all that matters. “You know that’s not really how EpiPens work.”

Amy does not tell the doctor that, in fact, the EpiPen worked exactly as they’d hoped. Instead she shrugs and says, “We didn’t have a lot of other options.”

“Well.” The doctor frowns and looks Jake up and down, and makes a note on the tablet she’s carried in with her. “Let’s take a look.”

The nurse who got him settled took off Jake’s sweatshirt, but he’s otherwise still in his tactical uniform, boots and all. Amy notices there’s a bruise blossoming along his jawline and another high up on his forehead. It’s amazing that he didn’t get any cuts or badly broken bones when he fell, but she suspects his ribs are bruised, at least. She hopes it’s nothing more serious, and she recalls one morning years ago, when he came to work the day after hurting himself so badly after chasing a perp through traffic and falling through the open sunroof of a car. He’d insisted to everyone that he was fine, when he clearly wasn’t; at the time, Amy had brushed it off as typical Jake: brash, impulsive, foolish and still weirdly endearing.

She would have said earlier today that Jake wasn’t like that anymore -- that he wouldn’t participate in the Jimmy Jabs, of all things, if he was truly injured. But after everything that he’s said and done today, she’s not sure that’s the case. And anyway, she was pushing him, telling him they couldn’t lose their ridiculous (boring) car to a ridiculous bet in a ridiculous game.

Jake hisses when the doctor bends over and prods gently at his left side. She lifts his T-shirt and Amy winces at the mottled blue and purple bruising. His shoulder is similarly bruised, and swollen, and Jake can’t reach his arm up over his head when the doctor asks.

“I’d like to get some X-rays,” the doctor says. “How’s your head?”

“Hurts,” Jake says. He’s gritting his teeth and has wrapped an arm around his middle.

“Did you hit it in the fall?” the doctor says, taking a penlight out of her coat pocket.

“I don’t think so,” Jake says. The doctor shines the light in his eyes and Jake frowns but endures it. She asks his name, if he knows where he is and what year it is -- all the usual stuff.

“The headache is probably from the EpiPen,” the doctor says. “But we’ll keep an eye on it.”

+++

The doctor leaves and a nurse returns with a gown and offers to help Jake change. Amy says she’s got it.

“You’re a mess,” she says, quietly, as she takes off his shoes.

She helps him strip off his pants and they both pause to look over the bruised bumps on his legs. A particularly angry-looking lump the size of a baseball is forming on his right thigh, and when Amy brushes the spot with a finger the skin feels hot. Her eyes fill with tears and she blinks and looks away, tugging the pants off his feet when they get stuck.

“I’m sorry,” Jake says, so soft she hardly catches it.

Amy sighs and helps him sit up. She peels off the blood pressure cuff, and slides his T-shirt as carefully as she can over his stiff arms, up and over his head. She unfolds the gown the nurse left them and helps him pull it on, then takes a seat on the bed, at his hip.

“I’m not mad at you for getting hurt,” she says.

“I know I was being reckless-”

“Jake, last month you climbed onto an overturned wastebasket on top of a skateboard so you could hang the new curtains in our bedroom,” Amy says. “And you know what my first thought was, when I saw you up there like two seconds from falling through the window?”

“That you married a moron?” Jake says glumly.

“No -- I thought you were right, that the teal stripes match our bedspread really well,” Amy says. “Don’t get me wrong, I also wondered why you hadn’t just climbed on a chair like a normal person. But I wasn’t mad about it, and I’m not mad about this now.”

Jake looks so relieved, his face going soft and smiley, that she almost feels bad when she takes his hand in hers and adds, “But I’m still pretty pissed that you bet the car. Our car.”

+++

Amy hated Jake for the first two weeks after she started at the Nine-Nine. After everything she’d been through at the Six-Four, Jake came across as just another fucking bro-cop, with his dumb, disarming smile and flirting with witnesses and constant boasting about his detective skillz-with-a-Z. He never crossed any lines with her, but she didn’t peg him as an ally, either.

Then he’d said something, something that should have been totally ordinary but wasn’t.

A man in a suit had walked up to Jake’s desk in the middle of a quiet afternoon, just Jake and Amy and Rosa in the bullpen, and he’d said, “What’s up with all the chicks working here, dude?”

Jake, who’d been leaning far back in his chair, feet up on his desk, eating a microwave burrito for lunch, had said without pause, “Dude, they’re women, and they’re detectives. Now go away.”

They’d never found out if the man was a witness or a lawyer or there to report a crime -- he’d just stared at Jake for a moment, cheeks turned bright red, and walked right out. After that, everything sort of tilted a few degrees for Amy. Jake was still immature and boorish and flaky, but he also became someone she thought she could trust.

In the emergency room, Jake’s palm in her hand is clammy, and when she presses her thumb into his wrist she can feel his pulse still racing from the adrenaline shot, but maybe also because she’s made him anxious.

“I know, the bet was dumb,” Jake says, but Amy can tell by the edge of exasperation in his tone that he’s thinking they’ve been through this already and he thought they were good.

“Yeah, but you know what really pissed me off?” Amy says. “Hitchcock.”

“Hitchcock? You’re mad about Hitchcock?” Jake says. “But he’s always an ass.”

Amy sighs and pulls Jake’s hand into her lap. “I know, but this time you were kind of an ass too, babe. He was so dismissive toward me, and whatever, it’s Hitchcock. But you went right along with it, and that hurt. It really sucked.”

She can feel Jake’s gaze on her face, and Amy looks up to find him wide-eyed and appalled. She debated all day whether she should say something about how that had felt, because honestly, Jake is good. She doesn’t believe he needs to be reminded that women -- and especially his own wife -- should be treated with respect. But at the same time, she thinks he’d be pissed if he knew she was annoyed and not telling him.

It’s obvious that this particular hit has landed. He looks away from Amy and bites his lower lip, and she knows he’s feeling devastated. Literally nothing wounds Jake more than knowing he’s hurt or let down someone he cares about.

“Jake-”

“I am so sorry, Ames,” he says, eyes locked on the hand that Amy isn’t holding. “God, I’m such a jerk.”

“You’re not,” Amy says, and when Jake shakes his head, she adds, “I mean, okay, you were jerk-ish. But look, you were freaking out a little and not thinking clearly and it probably didn’t even occur to you how rude that whole conversation was.”

“That just makes it worse!” Jake says.

Amy frowns to herself, because- yeah, it kind of does. “Fine. You were a jerk.”

“And then you had to spend the whole day helping me win,” Jake says, “when you totally could’ve won the whole thing.”

“Well, obviously,” Amy says. “It should be noted that I had fun today, babe. I don’t get to goof around like that as much as I used to, and you know how much I love a competition.

“It’s just- I would have preferred to skip the Jimmy Jabs entirely and go to my seminar.”

Jake winces. “Yeah, I’m the worst.”

Amy laughs at that, because it’s so far from the truth. “Jake, I love you, so much. But you’re not perfect. You’re allowed to make mistakes, even kind of shitty ones.”

“Ames-”

“Also,” she says, talking over him, “I stabbed you with an EpiPen so you could win the world’s dumbest obstacle race. I think that makes us even.”

Which is exactly when their nurse reappears.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that,” she says, and helps Jake into a wheelchair to take him for X-rays.

+++

Nothing is broken, and Jake’s head is fine.

The doctor makes them wait around awhile anyway, and after five hours in the ER the adrenaline is finally wearing off and the pain pills are kicking in and Jake is dozing. Amy sits in a chair one of the orderlies brought in, filling out crosswords, and secretly she’s loving all of the uninterrupted downtime.

It’s long past dark by the time they’re free. Jake shuffles to the car and it’s obvious he’s still in a lot of pain despite the Norco. He grunts as he falls into the passenger seat and Amy helps him with the seatbelt when he struggles to reach across his own chest.

Amy sends him straight to bed, and while the soup is heating up she texts Terry that Jake won’t be in the next day. She thinks he’ll be okay at home alone, but wonders if she should use a sick day too. Except they really should be saving those up now.

Jake’s passed out again when she carries dinner to the bedroom. She sets the bowl of soup and the glass of orange soda on his bedside table and nudges him awake. He’s still pale and his eyes are red with exhaustion, blinking up at her slowly, and she swears more bruises have bloomed on his face in the 15 minutes since she saw him.

“I’m a mess,” Jake says, and she thinks he’s deliberately echoing her words from earlier. He sounds tired and pathetic.

She sits beside him on the bed and runs a hand through his hair, nails scratching a little against his scalp. Jake’s eyes flutter closed, and she leans forward and kisses each eyebrow, and the outer corners of his eyes, and the tip of his nose. She kisses him on the mouth. His lips are chapped and the stubble on his cheeks tickles her own smooth skin.

Amy pulls back and Jake opens his eyes, looking up at her with something like wonder.

“You are,” she says. “But you’re my mess. And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

#b99 fic #missing scene #jimmy jabs 2 #jake peralta #amy santiago #jake/amy #hurt/comfort

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ohwereusingourmadeupnames · 4 years

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all of who does what for Thunderstruck Starker

Wah, nonnie - this made my day! Thunderstruck is one of my favorite verses. If you haven’t read it, head over to AO3 to catch up with the entire series.

For those of us that are lazy, the general gist is this: they are mechanics in a soulmate verse where pairs can hear the music their other half is listening to in their head. Peter is deaf, so it takes an alternate listening method for them to find each other. Life together ensues.

Send me a ship & a prompt/au situation/idea and I’ll tell you who does what -

Who accidentally pushes a door instead of pulling/vice versa: Tony is perpetually distracted. There are always designs in his head, or the song lyrics to the last song he heard on the radio. Since he’s so used to being in his own shop where everything does exactly what he wants it to, he doesn’t bother looking at a door when he comes to an unfamiliar one. It takes him walking into several before he thinks that maybe he should take his head out of his ass and be present. The fact that Peter doesn’t tell him before he walks into said doors is a sore spot for the two of them - though, it’s easy for Tony to laugh when he sees the sheer delight on Peter’s face. Both of them are very familiar with the sign for jackass for a reason.

Who doodles little hearts all over the desk with their initials inside them: It starts to happen unconsciously. Peter is so distracted in class one day, he lets his mind focus on the music he can hear there, Tony obviously in the shop working, the AC/DC blaring a sure fire sign of that. He’s missing half the lecture, but that never seems to matter - his note taker is thorough and they haven’t touched a topic he doesn’t know thoroughly, yet. When everyone starts to get up at the end of class, he sees the hearts and they’re initials all locked together - the doodles mixing in with the song lyrics he hears over the course of the hour. At the end of the semester, his notebook is filled more with doodles and the many ways he figures out how to put Mr. Peter Stark down on paper - bubble letters and all.

Who starts the tickle fights: A lot of times, neither of them plan to start the tickle wars that have been known to go on for days. There is a lot of finger spelling going on in bed, neither man willing to break away long enough to get a sign out, so the tangibility of the letters and symbols on skin becomes the easiest way for either of them to get their point across. Sometimes, when Tony is lounging on the couch with Peter’s head in his lap, it’s easy to get lost tracing long planes of smooth skin - his fingertips now pretty familiar with the territory. The touches that bring out the sounds Peter is so sparing with are repeated until a hand is batting his away and his soulmate is starting to retaliate. One time, they spent three days getting each other into situations where they could tickle the hell out of the other. When it’s Peter that starts it, Tony tries to ignore the tingling sensation racing across his skin - but he can’t, he’ll never be able to. By the time Peter is finding all of the good spots, Tony is on his knees - Peter’s cock usually filling him while fingers wonder.

Who starts the pillow fights: Tony is a ninja when it comes to his pillow throwing skill. The longer he’s with Peter, the more creative he has to become to get the man’s attention. Sometimes, he just doesn’t want to get up off his chair, so he’ll chuck a pillow or throw the nearest soft thing he can reach. Peter always looks over at him with the slightest bit of irritation in his eye - like he’s worth more than the toss of a pillow. Which is exactly right. Tony usually gets up and gives him a kiss, the intended interaction sitting on hold until they come up for air. Peter is stealth with his attacks and usually uses Tony’s never ending need to never have the other mad at him to his advantage. He’ll slam the pillow against Tony’s face when he comes in for a ‘I’m sorry’ hug and then it’s all out war. Tony is never one to back down from a challenge - even if he’s the one dropping the initial gauntlet.

Who falls asleep last, watching the other with a small affectionate smile: Peter’s never been the best sleeper. It’s a little better now that Tony is around, but he’s still not that great at it. There are times when he can get right to sleep, usually when he’s spent and coming down from the fifth orgasm - and there are other times when he startles himself awake, or sits just at the edge of consciousness, his brain never quite hurtling over the peak of true rest. After realizing just how cute Tony looks when he’s slowly drifting off to sleep, Peter lets the sleeplessness aid him in watching Tony in the most unguarded moments the man will ever have. The older man does a really good job of taking care of him - but, it’s nice to see the softer side, too.

Who lets the microwave play the loud beeping sound at 1am in the morning: In their new home in Cambridge, Tony installs a microwave that doesn’t beep - because Peter can’t hear it, anyway. Instead, the lights attached to it flash. Tony is free to make whatever noises he likes, but he respects Peter’s needs, too. He comes to find that the flash of light is much nicer, more peaceful.

Who comes up with cheesy pick up lines: Always Tony. There’s like an innate feature within him that makes him feel the need to always be making lame jokes. It’s not with everyone, either. He’s stonewall with Steve and Bucky and the slightest bit affectionate with Happy - but he’s not out to impress them. No, he wants Peter’s attention on him, anything that will earn him that beaming smile. So, he makes puns and silly jokes - especially overtly lame and outlandish pick up lines. Literally anything Tony can do to get Peter to whole heartedly laugh, he’s is going to do it.

Who rearranges the bookshelf in alphabetical order: Tony’s office space is meticulous, but there aren’t a lot of text books to speak of. The technologically brained man likes to keep all of his needed information on the tablet he keeps with him. Peter, on the other hand, is all about the tangibility of turning pages and taking notes - he catches grief about it from the older man constantly. The bookcase they built together houses all of Peter’s books, including the fantasy novels that he’s so very fond of. The books are sorted not only by alphabetical name, but by genre and subject matter, too. He likes to be organized, it helps.

Who licks the spoon when they’re baking brownies: Peter’s not shy about his appetite, no matter how much he’s consumed in the small window of time he’s been eating. There are times when Tony has to limit his time in the kitchen when they’re baking - more of the stuff in the bowl makes it into Peter’s mouth than into the pan. There’s no chiding about raw eggs or sickness - Tony likes the fact that Peter is all over the brownie batter. When he kisses him later, Peter tastes sweet, the slightest hint of chocolate there and steadily present the entire time they press their lips together.

Who buys candles for dinners even though there’s no special occasion: Every time they eat food is a special occasion - though, they don’t always mark it as such. Aunt May is pretty consistent about the little care packages she sends him and the one he receives right before Christmas is stuffed to the gils with decorations and silly trinkets - long red candles included. For the three weeks it takes them to burn down to nothing, Peter and Tony eat their meals by candle light. Peter mentions how much they enjoyed them to May, so there’s a new set of them in every single package she sends his way from then on out.

Who draws little tattoos on the other with a pen: Tony is terribly needy right around the time Peter starts to study for something. It’s like a sixth sense - he’s not seeing dead people, but he sure as hell is being distracting, his need for attention never ceasing. That is, of course, until he discovers just how good Peter’s skin looks with blue pen on it. Study sessions get a little easier after that, though Peter sacrifices his right arm for the sake of furthering his knowledge. The cuter ones, he doesn’t wash off right away - he lets the blue ink stick around until it fades naturally.

Who comes home with a new souvenir magnet every time they go on vacation: Peter usually brings back postcards. What do you buy a man that could have anything he pleased in an airport gift shop? He decides that a marker of where he was traveling would be the best idea, so he sticks to it. The one time the Atlanta airport is out of postcards, he grabs a magnet instead. It becomes a thing to see where Tony proudly displays them after that.

Who convinces the other to fill out those couple surveys in the back of magazines: Neither of them - they don’t need any further proof about how perfectly meant to be they are.

#starker #peter parker/tony stark #tony stark/peter parker #peter parker x tony stark #tony stark x peter parker #thunderstruck #deaf peter #mechanic tony #mechanic peter #ask prompts #prompts #au prompts #au #my series #series #ironspider

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sasuhinasno1fan · 4 years

Text

Finding Fire Fang- Klance Month Week 1

So part of me is really terrified to upload this because the last time I posted a story with prompts from @monthlyklance which was so not their fault, it didn’t get a lot of love and I’m terriffied my writing has gotten worse so we’re gonna hope I’m proved wrong. Since there’s 2 prompts per week I decided to try writing two stories that went with it. The connecting one to this will come at the end of this week. The outfits come from @aku-usagi video game au because I was trying to think of extra outfits and their au came to mind. Not a whole lot of klance in here, but hopefully the next story will have lots. Enjoy. Dawn/Trust

Lance pulled the red scarf tighter around him. It wasn’t very wide, but seeing how his outfit included a massive keyhole back and two openings at the front, not to mention being sleeveless, the scarf helped ward off the early morning cold.

“Here.” Lance looked up at the man with cat ears and tail the same black as his hair. His face was mostly covered with a metal looking face mask and while his clothing looser than Lance’s, he knew he wouldn’t be nearly as cold.

“Thanks. Did you heat this up?” he asked, taking the warm can of coffee.

“That’s a waste of using my power.”

“And using it to set fire to buildings isn’t?”

Lance ignored the glare as he opened the can and took a small sip of the drink, humming as the warmness seemed to spread throughout his body.

Hanging out with the same villain he’d been chasing around last night wasn’t exactly his idea of how he would spend his morning, but granted, he’d never been out this late.

Lance always had control over water. He loved Avatar: The Last Airbender because they seemed just like him. He knew from a young ago however that he wouldn’t be as widely accepted as the show. Hiding his power was easy but when he moved to Japan to work as a translator in a company, he didn’t realise he’d become a hero at night. The guy sitting next to him, Fire Fang – which was a stupid name in is opinion, seeing how he never took that stupid mask off – was known for setting fire to certain buildings that belonged to the Galra Industries company, the same one Lance worked for. He tended to steal things from them in the midsts of the confusion. The first time it happened, he actually hit the building Lance worked at. He was working late and before he knew it, he heard glass shattering and the room getting hot with the fire alarm going off. It was just instinct to use his powers to douse the flames and control the fire. After that, after contacting a online builder to make his outfit. Waterproof but still allowed the water he could control move easily off of it. Long overcoat to hide the containers of water he carried with him, along with a few other gadgets. The excessive amount of exposed skin was what he got for leaving the design up to the guy. He did like the scale patterned cloth used. It probably contributed to what the newspapers were calling him, Ryujin, after the water dragon.

The latest battle had dragged on. Another person, who called himself Prince, had been attacking Fire Fang all night. Seeing how Prince had been attacking a shipping centre owned by Altea Corp, Lance decided maybe he should help Fire Fang. Which lead to Fang offering a warm drink in the early morning light. Usually Lance would call it a night at 1 am, knowing Fire Fang didn’t attack on most nights, but this fight went on until Prince got away in the early morning, as the sky started going from black to the barest light. Knowing it was nearing when he’d have to start waking up anyway, Lance said yes to when he was offered the coffee. he’d still been surprised when the red scarf was pressed into his hands when he mentioned how cold he was.

“I don’t usually see the sunrise unless I’m pulling an all nighter. It’s a nice break.” Fang said, rolling the can between his hands. Guess he didn’t want to take the chance of Lance seeing his whole face.

“I’ve never actually watched the sunrise before.” Lance said.

“What?”

Lance shrugged. Coming to Japan had been his dream and while in college he’d been known for sneaking off campus to go partying, he’d always be back before 1 am to get sleep. Lance would be a night owl for papers and important documents but he’d stay holed up in a room to keep focus.

“I’m up late fighting crime but I always leave at a reasonable time so I can get sleep. My day job is stressful as it is without no sleep added to it.”

Fang stared at him, his disarming purple eyes seeming to take Lance in. “Even though I’m usually the reason you’re stuck out here, I’m glad you got to experience this.” This being the dawn slowly getting brighter as the sun started to rise over them. “Everyone deserves to see a beautiful sunrise.”

“Not to be rude, but it’d be better if I could enjoy it after not chasing you and Prince all night.”

“Hey, that wasn’t my fault! he’s the one that’s got some issue with me.”

As the sun got higher, Lance and Fire Fang, enemies most nights, dissolved into petty bickering like they were old friends.

________________

Lance hid another yawn in his shoulder, trying to focus on the morning meeting. He got as much sleep as he could on the train ride over, thankful more than often that he never needed to transfer trains. It took everything in him once he arrived at the office and was checking his emails to not just fall asleep there. He was so sure he’d be fine but even the coffee he shared with Fang that morning had lost it’s effect by now.

“And McClain-san?”

“Yes?” Lance jolted, looking over at the head of his department.

“You’ve been asked to assist in a meeting for translation of Spanish to Japanese. It’s with our head executive.”

The head executive of the whole section of their department. Usually the person who had meeting with the clients, he was always in his office, only the heads of the departments being the only ones allowed in. he might only be the head executive of the translation and languages department, but he seemed to exude the power of a CEO.

“Yes sir.”

“Excellent. Head over there when we’re done. that’s it for tasks. Are there any questions before we conclude morning meeting?” Everyone shook their head. “Alright, dismissed everyone.”

Lance went over to his desk and switched out his notepad for a notebook and grabbed his prefered pen for notes and took a deep breath. It was just a regular meeting with translation. He could do this. He went to the famed office, taking in the name plate.

K. Kogane. Whoever this person was, they were a mystery to everyone on the floor and he was about to get a glimpse of this mystery. He knocked on the door and waited to be called in. sitting behind the desk was a man, about his age if not a bit older, with long black hair pulled back.

“McClain-san correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“Come in and close the door behind you. Guess I should introduce myself. I’m Akira Kogane, but call me Keith. My father is from Texas and rarely ever calls me by my Japanese name so I’m not expecting the same from you.”

“Yes Keith-san.”

“Just Keith, no honorifics.”

So he wasn’t as terrifying as some people made him out to be. Interesting.

“So, we have a meeting with our partners in Florida, but I was just made aware that head CEO is out of town and his right hand is doing the meeting. Spanish is their first language and while I’m sure they wouldn’t mind doing it in English, I’d rather try to make them feel comfortable. Your file says you speak Spanish fluently.”

“Yes sir. Parents are from Cuba. If I’m lucky, she might ba able to get a grasp on what I’m saying, since different Spanish speaking countries have different ways of saying things.”

“Very well. we’ll see how this goes. The meeting should be set up by now in the conference room. This way.” Lance followed as Kog- he meant, Keith picked up his tablet and headed for the door, which swung open.

“Akira! Sincline-sama wants to see you.”

Keith let out an annoyed sigh and turned to Lance, handing him his tablet. “Go ahead to conference room one. Tell them I’ll be there shortly. We have about 20 minutes before it starts so use the time wisely.”

AKA, make tea for them. Lance could do that. As he went to the break room to make tea, he went over his mystery boss in his head. He seemed firm and trustworthy. Everyone had such wild stories of who he could be or what he was like but all Lance saw was a pretty decent guy. As he waited for the water to boil, he struggled to reach for the trays. Some asshole had shoved them all the way at the top and the last time Lance saw the floor’s step stool, it was in the copy room. Lance jumped, hoping he could knock it and then catching it, but he over estimated how hard he’d hit it. Maybe all those nights fighting crime worked out in his favour of being strong. Though the tray hitting his boss’s tablet could have been avoided in his opinion. He quickly took stock, hoping the crack wouldn’t be bad but he was surprised to find no crack on it. The screen lit up with a notification, allowing Lance to see the picture in the background. Most computers and tech items owned by the company had the company logo as the background picture. This one had a familiar looking motif. One of from a villain he knew rather well.

“Fang, next target is the Galra Industries hotel construction? No other building near it will be damaged. Strike at 10 pm.”

Wait, was his boss...Fire Fang?

#monthlyklance #hero lance #villian keith #secret identity

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bonnieisaway · 4 years

Text

i actually started writing it

i said i’d write it and i’m here to dissapoint

title doubles as a link to it on wattpad if you’d like to read it over there so

chap 1. - this was never the way i planned

Saiki noticed it the other day when he was observing Satou's perfectly average normalness as always. He was standing with a girl Saiki usually didn't see him talk to. It's a girl with (h/l), (h/c) hair and (e/c) eyes. She's a stereotypical looking girl..which is.. no surprise considering Satou is the crowd he hangs out with. But even then, she seems to be considered pretty by most of the class, judging by the thoughts that flooded in Saiki's head.

Toritsuka walks around from the other door of the classroom and behind Saiki. "Spying on Mr. Normal again?" He asks, seemingly annoyed with Saiki's actions as if he isn't a parasite himself.

"Be quiet. You'll never understand why he's so perfect." Saiki hushes him telepathically, continuing to observe. The girl is sitting on her desk- right next to Satou's- swinging her legs cheerfully and chatting with him as he sits at his desk. "Who's the girl he's talking to?" Saiki asks curiously.

"Huh?" Tortisuka hums, looking around Saiki trying to see who it was in question. "Oh, that's (L/n)! The prettiest girl in Class 2. I don't know how you haven't heard of her before. She's pretty popular in the class because she does commissions for art and stuff. That, and she was apparently born in America." Saiki could tell by the name.

Saiki nods, observing quietly still. "Which gives me an idea! Follow me." Tortisuka perks up. Saiki sighs to himself, muttering a "good grief." Whatever dumb plan Tortisuka had in his head, Saiki didn't want to be apart of.

"No." Saiki refuses blankly as Tortisuka starts tugging on my his weakly.

"Come on! It'll get you in Satou's crowd." He argues, continuing to tug.

Saiki's quiet for a second. "..Fine. Just let go of my arm." Saiki sighs. "And don't try anything on the girl."

"What's it to you?" Tortisuka lets go of Saiki but nudges him as hard as he can. Which, really, felt like a weak poke.

"Don't disturb the peace of normal." Saiki glares at him as he's only left to follow him as he approaches Satou and (L/n).

"...I know! And the dude kept going on and on about being a big 'influencer' that could get me exposure and I'm just like, dude, pay me or I'm not drawing your icon!" (L/n) rants on to Satou as Tortisuka and Saiki slowly come closer in earshot.

"Thats..wow. Yikes." Satou comments.

"I deal with it all too much. I just don't get why people refuse to pay artists. I mean, it's how money has worked for hundreds of years, and 'exposure' isn't necessarily a currency, g-" (L/n) rants on and on before she's interrupted. By Tortisuka.

"(L/n)! Funny seeing you here." Tortisuka tries to squint his eyes for more 'appeal' as he leans on Satou's desk. From closer up, as much as Saiki hated to agree with Tortisuka, (L/n) was undoubtedly pretty. Flecks of gold surround her pupils and an everlasting blush crosses over the bridge of her nose from cheek to cheek. As Saiki stares, he begins to notice- his x-ray vision doesn't work on her. Which was strange and confusing, because it worked on everyone else. In fact, he could see the bones of Tortisuka out of the corner of his eye.

Saiki's mind begins to wonder- was she a physic? Did she have some sort of other power? Was she a fanfiction protagonist? Only one of these were correct, but Saiki didn't know that.

"Ah.. Toritsuka." (L/n) seems to be aware of how much of a parasite he is. "Eyes are up here. What's up?" ..And even then, she's still kind to him. Saiki elbows Toritsuka in the side to pull his eyes out of her chest.

He grunts in pain and stands up straight. "Well, my good friend Saiki here-" He nudges Saiki. He nods his head in acknowledgement. The quicker he stops making a fool of himself, the better. "-heard about your commissions and wanted to get a commission."

(L/n) straightens her back and pulls her phone out of the pocket of her skirt. "Give me a second, Satou." She smiles at him before turning back to Saiki and Tortisuka. She starts tapping the screen. "Alright. What do you want a commission of?" She hands her phone to Saiki, expecting him to take it. "There's some examples of my art."

Saiki slowly swipes through the gallery on (L/n)'s phone. There was a good mix of different drawings here, he assumed fitting to her own style. He didn't know much about art but he thought it was good.

"He wanted a drawing of..uh..himself!" Toritsuka makes up as he hands the phone back to (L/n). That sounds egotistical in Saiki's opinion, but oh well.

"Oh, that's fine!" (L/n) laughs. "Do you know how many people have tried to ask me to draw Kokomi in all these weird ways this week alone? I just can't catch a break." She sighs through her laughter as she taps a few apps. "Let me get a picture of you real fast."

She holds up her phone to take a picture, and Tortisuka throws his arm around Saiki's shoulder. It takes all his willpower to not punch him in the gut, frankly. "Out of the picture, Toritsuka." (L/n) sighs, as soon as he slips away she takes the picture, and then puts the phone back in her pocket.

She hums again for a second. "So, how much?" Tortisuka asks her.

"Can't you let him talk for himself?" She grins cheekily. "I'm thinking." She hums again for another second, nodding slowly and looking Saiki up and down briefly. 'He seems nice and the first guy this week that didn't ask for a naked picture of Kokomi. Plus, it should be an easy drawing.'

"Here's the deal- since I need the practice drawing guys, and it would've been pretty cheap anyway, I'll give it to you free. That cool?" She smiles. Saiki nods, ready to get this over with.

"Hey, what the hell, you charged me like 2000 yen for a drawing!" Toritsuka argues.

"Registered sex offenders do not get cheap artwork." (L/n) laughs. She's only teasing him but Saiki cant help but grin a bit. "Plus, you've asked me to draw poses of women I didn't even know were possible."

Toritsuka grumbles about something that Saiki did not want to hear. (L/n) turns back to me. "But anyway. I'll get it to you either tomorrow or the day after." She smiles kindly. "Class is starting soon, though. You should head back to your classroom. I'll see ya around." She waves Saiki and Tortisuka off politely and turns back to Satou.

..Well.

𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕤𝕜𝕚𝕡

Late at night after school. Saiki lies in his bed staring at the ceiling blankly. As night falls the number of voices buzzing in his head usually falls quieter but even then he can't bring himself to sleep and after a while, memorizing the pattern of the popcorn ceiling gets boring. Saiki crosses his eyes, figuring he'll just randomly pick someone he knows if they're awake. See what they're doing.

Random selection leaves Saiki to be observing (L/n). She's laying across a couch, some sort of tablet in her lap as she uses a stylus to draw. In the corner of the screen was a video call with a male friend of hers.

"Oh my god, shut up!" She laughs in English, pen stylus gliding across the screen as she draws Saiki. He figures that's no surprise, considering the events from earlier that day.

Her friend- a guy- sticks his tongue out at her. "What are you drawing?" He asks.

"This guy at my school." (L/n) shrugs. "Remember that Toritsuka guy? He introduced his friend who apparently wanted a commission of himself. But he's pretty chill and I need practice drawing guys so I said I'd do it for free."

"You need to stop giving away free art." Her friend shakes his head. The drawing Saiki can see over (L/n)'s shoulder is actually pretty good. He wouldn't admit it, but he liked it a lot.

"You try getting commissioned the same drawing of the same girl everyday and then not be ecstatic when someone doesn't ask for it, (F/n)." (L/n) rolls her eyes to (F/n).

"Well, that aside, how's your school been?" (F/n) asks. In the corner of the tablet screen her (L/n) had positioned his video, Saiki can see (F/n) wandering around and doing random things.

"Ah, you reminded me." (F/n) perks up. "They're switching me to class 3."

"What, why?"

Saiki felt the same way. Why was she switching to class 3? Why was the author pulling crappy plot convenient twists so early in the story?

"Yeah. The principal talked to me about- something about my test scores being better fit there, I don't really know. I only know, like, three people in that class." (L/n) shrugs, continuing to draw. She was kidding, right? There's no way. It cannot get this convenient for her.

Out of the corner of Saiki's eye, he sees the time in the corner of (L/n)'s tablet. 12:39AM... He sighs to himself. He's stayed up awfully late for having school in the morning. He uncrosses his eyes and rubs them. Doing that for so long hurt..

He figures he should get to sleep. He glances towards the toy, green-lensed glasses on his desk. He couldn't see through (L/n) with xray vision but could hear her thoughts clear as day and clairvoyance worked just fine. He couldn't help but wonder- how would his other powers work on her..?

𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕤𝕜𝕚𝕡

Saiki doesn't need to read minds to know that (L/n) was switching to class 3 today. Unfortunately for him, could hear everyone's thoughts as always.

Saiki was conflicted as to how to feel about (L/n). On one hand, she was a perectly average girl with her own few talents and special things about her. A perfect kind if person, by Saiki's definition. But there's a problem or two....

'(Y/n)'s coming to my class now, this is great! I knew God loved me! Maybe, with our beauty combined, I can finally make Saiki say 'oh!''

..Teruhashi and her seem to be good friends. Which is unfortunate because Teruhashi attracts attention. And ontop of that, his classmates consider (L/n) overly beautiful. He wouldn't admit it to himself or anyone else but a part of him agreed. He'd say it a million times but he didn't want to stand out.

"Hey, buddy!" Nendo waves a hand in front of Saiki's face. "Did you hear about the new girl?" He asks.

"There's a new girl?" Kaido asks. "Do you know anything about her?"

"Her name's like, (L/n), or something." Nendo shrugs. "I heard she was cool."

"Oh, (Y/n)! I know her!" Kaido brightens. "She didn't tell me she was transferring to our class."

"How come you know her?" Nendo asks.

Kaido's face turns red. 'I'm not telling them that I call her the escaped princess fro Dark Reunion for her own sake.' Kaido thinks to himself, unknowning he just spilled that secret to Saiki. Saiki was curious as why he called her that though. (L/n) wasn't the 8th-grade-syndrome type. "I met her freshman year when she moved here. We used to eat lunch together." Kaido shrugs, trying to play it off.

Before Nendo can call his bluff or any other nuisance Saiki knows can wander over, the teacher steps in the classroom and quiets us. "Class, today a girl from class 2 is switching to our class." The teacher begins. The class' minds begin to bubble up with excitement as they await (L/n) to step into the class.

"Please welcome her to our class." The teacher sighs, before turning towards the door and beckoning (L/n). (L/n) steps in the classroom and smiles. She seemed to be more glowy and happy than most days.

And as Saiki expected, almost the entire class gasps at her beauty. "I'm (L/n) (Y/n)." She smiles. "I moved here from America two years ago. I hope you guys will welcome me." 'Yikes, that sounds cheesy. Shouldn't have said that. Why are there so many guys with their mouths open? Oh shit, wait, that's Saiki. I didn't know he was in class 3.' (L/n)'s thoughts ramble on.

"You may take a seat next to Saiki." The teacher gestures to Saiki and the conviently open seat to his right. (L/n) smiles and nods, walking over and taking a seat next to Saiki.

On one hand, (L/n) seemed perfectly average in every other regard and seems to be less annoying than everyone else who chooses to 'bother' Saiki everyday. But because the girl excels in beauty and creativity, she draws a bit more attention then Saiki would like. He'd have to figure out how to play his cards right. He's said it a million times but, again, he didn't like attention. But seemingly normal attracts normal and that's what he needs to be a bit more normal. It's just like the female version of Satou. Atleast, that's what Saiki would keep telling himself.

Truth is- Saiki was oddly drawn to the girl. To you. He couldn't exactly figure out why so the best reason he came up with. Normal attracts normal. And Saiki is just a normal highschooler who happens to be an esper.

"Hey, Saiki!" (L/n) smiles and turns to the boy in thought. The teacher left the class to study and chat. Saiki figured she just wasn't having it today. "I didn't know you were in this class."

"Surprise." He responds flatly. (L/n) laughs. 'Hey, he's smiling. He looks nice when he's smiling.' Saiki chose to ignore that. He wasn't smiling. Don't know what she's taking about. She needs her eyes checked because Saiki wasn't smiling because of her adorable and heartwarming laugh.

"Hey, so, we should hang out sometime." She brings up casually. Saiki looks up curiously. "You seem pretty cool. Plus I know Tortisuka just had me draw you as an excuse to talk to me, but it's all good." (L/n) shrugs, leaning back in her chair. "Can't change that boy..."

Saiki sighs. "...Fine. Sure." He's got no choice but to reluctantly agree. Is what he keeps telling himself because (L/n) is a nice girl whos really hars to say no to for some reason.

Saiki's friends circle his desk as every other day but now it extends to (L/n)'s desk as well. He'd feel bad for them bothering her, but it seems that she already knew some of them and didn't mind them.

"(L/n)! You didn't tell me you were transferring to our class!" Hairo smiles, approaching her desk.

"Haha, sorry!" (L/n) scratches the back of her head. "I fell asleep kind of early and I didn't get a chance to tell many people.." 'Early? It was 12 in the morning.' Saiki thinks to himself. Despite all that, he was a bit curious as to how she knew all of them.

"You didn't tell me either." Teruhashi comments.

"Yeah, I know, I know, I'm sorry! I was told after school and I got busy the whole rest of the day." (L/n) apologizes.

"It's alright, (Y/n)!" Kaido smiles, his face bright red. "At least you're here now!"

'Hey. Kusuo. Kuusuuuoooo! Answer me, damnit.' Aiura bugs Saiki with her thoughts. Saiki about rolls his eyes into the back of his head. Aiura made this a daily habit ever since she knew Saiki had powers a long time ago. 'Turn off your aura. I wanna see the new girl's aura.' Saiki sighs, but atleast she's said something with an ounce of thought to it for once. Saiki turns down his overly godlike aura and the auras flood back into Aiura's vision as she focouses on (L/n)

'Oh, shit.' Aiura thinks to herself, looking (L/n) up and down. Saiki's intrest peaks as he excuses himself from his friends, walking to Aiura's seat near the back of the class. He slips off one of his gloves so he could use phsycometery to see what Aiura saw.

"What's it look like?" He asks, going to set his hand on her shoulder.

She jumps away from Saiki suddenly, nearly falling out of her chair. "KYAA! It's, it's nothing! Just a normal aura! It's all chill! All good in the hood!" She screams defensively. 'That's not very normal.. very artsy and colorful aura...even then it kind of reminds me of Teryukoko's aura, but...' Her thoughts aside, the more she screams the less she sounds like a gyaru and more like someone who saw one rap song and tried speaking like the rapper.

"You know I can hear your thoughts, right?" Saiki asks her.

She jumps back again. "AAAH!! Stop that!"

"Yare yare...That's not how my powers work." Saiki sighs. He wasn't sure why she was so freaked out about (L/n)'s aura but he figured she'd tell him soon enough. Even then, Kuboyasu and Kaido's aura shocked her, so it can't be anything that bad, right?

Saiki turns and walks back to his desk, his friends welcoming him back as he sits down. He turns to look at (L/n) as she meets Nendo, Yumehara, and Kuboyasu. He did have to wonder.. what could it have been that freaked out Aiura so bad? The only thing that freaks her out is when its super bad or it's connected to Saiki.

He supposed it couldn't be too bad. She's still just a perfect, average girl anyways.

"Hey, lets go to the arcade after school!" Kaido invites (L/n) excitedly, face bright red.

"Sure, why not!" (L/n) agrees, smiling brightly. "I haven't been to one in a while."

"I'll come too!" Nendo invites himself.

"I've got time to kill, so..." Kuboyasu trails off as he joins the party... Saiki sighs to himself. He supposed he was "obligated" to come aswell.

'That was kind of surprising to see for a girl like her...Well, I suppose everyone gets it eventually...' Aiura's thoughts bumble on in Saiki's mind as his friends continue to converse. 'But still, even then..' She sighs, letting her head rest in her palm.

'Having a red string...'

wc: 3014

i told ya’ll it’d dissapoint

i hate the opening So Much but i have stopped caring at this point so

#saiki kusuo #saiki kusuo no psi nan #saiki k x reader #saiki kusuo x reader #why did i write this #and why is it unnessecarily long #iiiiiiiim so tired #you're welcome to unfollow me

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plantfeed · 4 years

Text

ok turns out i am 100% that dumbass bitch who still aint posted my intro on main....... so for reference..... hello! im nora ( she / her ). im a 24 year old creative writing graduate currently residing in sheffield, south yorkshire. when i’m not hunched over a keyboard writing, i enjoy independent cinema, chinese food, and big nights out that i’ll remember only in fleeting snapshots. i currently work as a barmaid and a tutor for a filmmaking project.

without further ado, here is my interpretation on the skeleton ‘ophelia’, a development of a character who’s been brewing at the back of my mind for absolutely AGES now so thank u for giving me the push to actually flesh her out.

ive included a full biography, but please feel free 2 skip to bullet points if TLDR because it is LOOONG..... and im so happy 2 be here.... new home.... chefs kiss.... yes lov u all

IN CHARACTER.

skeleton: ophelia name: theresa rigby. (goes by diminutives tess, tessa, tea or thea. the only time she’s theresa is when she’s in trouble.) age: 21, born july 10 (cancer) faceclaim: diana silvers. gender: cis-female. pronouns: she/her degree: comparative literature & ancient history (joint honours)

INTRO.

trigger warnings.

loss of a parent. missing person / disappearance. drugs and alcohol reliance. death.

BIOGRAPHY.

i. narragansett, rhode island.

1999, an Austrian sunrise, it is the year of the Water Monkey. A water baby, first screams under the surface, the catch of it gargled in your throat. A birth mark the size and shape of a door handle pressed into your pelvis like a lover’s badge. Born like a clenched fist. Annie always wished you’d be more like an open palm. You still carry that tension with you, an unreadable kind of silence when you slink around the edge of a room or perch on an arm rest like a bird about to startle and fly off. Nobody knows a thing about you and you like it that way. Conceived in the winter, some of that coldness still lingers in you.

The only perfect girl is a dead girl. That’s what you learned, last-born runt of the litter growing up in the bedroom of a girl who would be forever cold, young and pretty. In the beginning, they thought you were a blessing — Bet’s soul reincarnate, the same pale face they’d seen as they’d signed her into the pick ‘n’ mix family. You were given her clothes, her room, even her middle name, stripped and rebranded like a toy doll bought after the last one’s head was chewed off by the dog. Four boys, a dead sister, and you who — with your birdlike features and unrelenting eyes — was merely a walking ghost. Tennis skirts, nail varnish, a shag rug, a rotten corsage; these were the staple reminders that you were living in a shrine, the room never quite your own lest you disturb the lingering presence of Bet. Soon, you began to see it as not a room but rather a prison cell caging you in the imprint of a sister you never met.

Your mothers met at an undergraduate socialist meeting when the fall semester fell into winter, Kath in a mustard coloured beret, Annie in a blood-orange duffle coat, a philosophy major and an art historian respectively. Your childhood was a montage of potato printing eels onto the walls of a Rhode Island boarding house next to the sea. Five children — some adopted, some surrogate — a permanent rotation of rooms and always a handful of lodgers to foot the bill. Travelling salesmen, students on gap years and tinkers in search of odd-jobs became a flipbook of faces etched into your memories like fleeting figures in the wings of a theatre; you sketch them into the body of your work. They become the characters to haunt the pages of your notebooks, stashed beneath floorboards lest they fall into too-hungry flour-caked fingers, scones baking in the oven two floors below. A house that seemed to physically inhale every time a new body entered it, tall and thin, too small to house all that weight. The gaps beneath the floorboards are the only spaces that feel like your own, untouched by a girl who’s shadow you were born in. In your diary, you scribble her name until it tears through the pages thinking that if you wish hard enough, you’ll make yourself her. It’s never enough.

At twelve, you lose Annie to a boating accident. You lose a piece of yourself with her and stop wearing yellow. Grief makes a better writer out of you though it sounds selfish to admit it. Kath remarries the following spring, a man named Peter. He is ordinary in all the ways Annie was magical and when he sits in your mother’s chair you feel yourself slip out of your skin and into the body of a raven cawing in the woods, scratching at the dustmites. You try to teach yourself how to be a girl, though you’ve always felt more like a wild thing crouched in the attic window of the lighthouse, screaming at the crash of the waves. You wanted to love the sea as closely as it owned you. In the sea you were rewritten into a tide, into a shell, into the swell of a rockpool around the body of a crab. You wanted to be like the ocean —a tangible, changeling thing —making paper boats and setting them out to sea, wishing you could shrink yourself into one, sail away. For a while, you toy with the idea of starving yourself into something the size and shape of an eel; of growing gills in the night and darting into the ebbing current. They’d think you crazy if you told them.

ii. concord, massachusetts.

You butt heads with Kath on a daily basis. She tells you you resent her for moving on with her life when you seem unable to move on with yours. That maybe a clean break would be best for all the family. A fresh start. A change of scene. You lock yourself in the bathroom and cry for an hour until your mouth feels raw, like running a cheesegrater down the inside of your throat. The following September, they send you to boarding school, two suitcases and an armful of Annie’s jumpers. Kath has decided they don’t compliment her skin tone, and she’s not twenty-five or studying philosophy any more. New England becomes the best decision for you that your family have ever made. You thrive on the independence of living in a dormitory on a corridor of Alison’s and Margaret’s and Ruth’s. From the names on their doors, you paint them into people in your head, red-haired Ruth who collects birth stones and can count to twenty in Mandarin. They turn out to be nothing like the versions of them you’ve spun. You love them anyway, their rough-softness, the scuffed knee thrill of growing up half-wild. There’s a brightness in their girlhood that you try to capture in your words.

Though you never quite find yourself settling into a group, Dr. Franklin becomes the anchor to which you tether yourself to, a little girl leeching onto her Literature professor for a sense of stability in a tempestuous world. The others might think it sad, but she sees something in you — an inner restlessness, a need to analyse and observe and contain everything within poetry and prose — that reminds her of herself at your age. You begin one-to-one sessions after the school day has closed, whisper about Proust and O’Hara over frothed lattes in a campus-run coffee shop, ink blots on the pages of dog-eared copies she’s gifted to you on an indefinite loan. Sometimes, you think you love her. You run your fingers over the buttons of her typewriter, close your eyes, and imagine yourself pulling on her skin like a new coat.

The woods become your saviour. In Narragansett you never knew woods, only harboursides, seafood restaurants, the smell of the ocean breeze and a lighthouse calling you home. You learn to love the smell of the earth after rain. The feeling of soil between your toes. The sense of belonging you feel trailing through the woods in stark white nightgown, twigs catching on the mud-stained hem. Massachusetts becomes a place of revision. You remake yourself as a fawn, elegance in your limbs and hunger in your heart. You learn how to write yourself into being. There’s a violence in your grace — simultaneously glass and the hammer that shatters it — and despite the ethereal way you move it’s the leonine stature of a tigress, claws bared, teeth sharpened into fangs, but a smile like butter wouldn’t melt. Lady Macbeth was always your favourite of Shakespeare’s heroines. There’s something dark in her that resonates with you, the way when a pimple appears you have to squeeze it until it bleeds. You tell yourself that everybody has a morbid fascination.

Each night you take a torch, a book and a bottle of Merlot, and you wile away the hours reading in the woods. At home, sleep never came easy to you. You’d pace the floorboards counting sheep and wake having barely slept a blink. This, on the other hand, seems useful, though when you’re never asleep, you’re never quite awake, floating through the school day like a ghost, part removed, the dark circles pulling your eyes to a close. It’s a tiredness you carry in every aspect of your life, limbs heavier than usual, pen slower when it grazes the page. Soon you start taking tablets each night. Two white ones, no bigger than a baby’s fingernail. For the first time, you begin to dream.

When February rolls around you take your exams. Pass with the grace of a swan in everything except AP Calculus. You say you’ll try again next semester, but you don’t. You apply for Yale, Cambridge, Harvard, Columbia, Ashcroft. You wait. And wait. And wait until it feels like your skin has shed itself since the letters left your hands, before an envelope comes marked Theresa. No one ever calls you that name. Right from the start it’s been Tea, Tess, Thea, common names in your house as fickle as the tide that swallows it. Billy’s never been a William, and Sebastian sounds all wrong. You can scarcely remember what Brodie’s short for. Rejection after rejection until Ashcroft answers the call, a cawing in the dark of a wasteland you’ve not yet walked. You’ll read literature, follow in the footsteps of Ginsberg who you clumsily try to quote as you bid the girls goodbye, a bonfire and the smell of cinnamon whiskey.

iii. ashcroft university, edinburgh.

You’d read of a boy who went missing there. It happened in the woods. Seventy years and all they’d found was an emptied bottle of wine and one shoe. Newspapers claimed involvement in an elite society, perhaps a hazing gone wrong, and you imagine them burrowed in underground tunnels wearing wellington boots and tweed. This is what draws you to Ashcroft ; to Imperium. It’s not so much the mystery of it —you’ve never seen yourself as a Nancy Drew — but more the idea of living in a place where people can disappear. That’s always been an idle fantasy of yours. One day, you wonder if you’ll write yourself out of the world and into the pages of a book, nestled between a title and contents page.

From Concord to Boston, then a ten-hour flight ; for the first time in months, you sleep through the night. A line break cancels your train and you have to take a replacement bus service instead. By the time you reach the school, the open day is almost over. You feel it at the gates, like a tingle on the back of your neck, something crawling down your spine. It only grows as you close in on it. It feels like it knows your own heartbeat. You’ve never known a building to have so much soul. You imagine yourself walking the cobblestones on the quad each day, climbing the steps to a dormitory, sprawled on a library table, scribbling frantically, willing the clock hands backwards. It’s a life you want to lead.

In a matter of months, Ashcroft has become not only your home but your life. You are utterly consumed by it. You meet Lysander at a poetry reading. You recite Shelley. He recites Keats. He compliments you on the steadiness of your voice, clear as a bell. A voice for the stage. You tell him your father had a powerful voice. It’s a lie. You’ve never had a father, but it’s fun to imagine one slouched on the couch, wire-rimmed glasses on the end of his nose. He invites you to dinner the following week. Grilled sea bass and risotto. You don’t have the heart to tell him you’ve become a vegetarian, swallow each mouthful with your pride. You try out for the orchestra, though your hands shake a little too much and you hear more from the inside of your own head than the keys. You leave without waiting on an answer. It’s too contained for you, anyway. You need something more chaotic, like jazz. You wish for chaos, so Imperium opens it jaws and swallows you whole. They like you because of your voice, a voice that speaks scarcely more than a low whisper in life, but when written wins you a Bysshe-Shelley Prize. In poetry, you give that voice to the voiceless ; bring dead girls buried in the woods out of the ground and into being, like soil in your hands. A voice like that is a powerful thing to have in your ranks. It becomes every page in your diary, every catch of your skirt on a tree branch, every rap of your fingertips against the desktop, imperium, imperium, imperium.

You’ve never been able to do things by halves — you always let them consume you. One glass becomes a bottle. One paragraph becomes scrawling until sunrise. Obsession takes its form in Hamlet, strong in all the ways you appear weak. You like the smell of his breath when he tells you to stub out your cigarette. That’ll kill you one day, he says. I know, you reply, and your pretty lips curl upwards. One drunken night, you fall into his bed and imagine stitching yourself into his sheets so you can sleep with him every night. Tongues on your thighs like a voice in your throat. Touch me, touch me, touch me. Never been held like this before. Like you’re not glass, but something material and robust. You like the way his hands feel under your skin. Perhaps you’ll keep him there like a splinter. Tall for your age but thin as a rail, he makes you feel like more than an eel of a girl. You like the way he catches on your spindly elbows where others have snagged leaving trails of cotton. At first, it’s only physical, but you get greedy and want more. You’re not sure when a love of beauty became something more than skin deep. You’re not sure if you even loved him until he’d stopped loving you. In October, you find the body. The day all the clocks stop ticking. The day something inside of you snaps like the branch of an elm.

You become a cocoon, velvet ribbons in your hair and rope around your throat. Or maybe it’s lace, and you’re only imagining it that way. You drink wine, stumble blind-drunk through the woods, lose textbooks to nature and curse when you can’t find them the following morning. Most nights, you appear like a ghost in the wood, a linen nightdress with mud clinging to it’s hem and feet laden in soil. You’re not sure if it’s conscious at this point, or mindless sleepwalking. Everything you do feels like sleepwalking these days. Shadows move in the corners of your eyes at night and you turn to the tarot cards for answers. They tell you only of that which you already know. Death. The Hanged Man. High Priestess. You think of Octavia, of Lysander, and of you pulled like a ragdoll between them, with the intuition that comes from living by the sea but without the evidence to execute it. The pills have stopped working. You wake in sweats, guilt swelling in the pit of your stomach. In a therapist’s waiting room, you watch as a girl scratches the skin off her own arm.

Soon news of your occultist proclivities becomes gossip on everyone’s tongue. Witch becomes a synonym for your name, and one you’ll happily wear like a noose until you’ve stolen Lysander from the drop. Finding the truth becomes the only thing keeping you sane, runes scrawled on the walls of a dormitory where pages of novels are tacked up like wallpaper. And still, you can’t shake the fact that she hasn’t come to you when the others who scarcely believe in such phantomed are rattled by her ghost on a nightly basis. Competing and girlhood go hand in hand, but the longer it gets, the more it feels like she knows your desperation to absolve Lysander isn’t entirely selfless. Perhaps she saw you lingering in doorways, waiting in the wings for him to change his mind and tell you it was you all along. Or maybe the sight of her corpse is making you search for answers in places they don’t exist. You’re hanging on my a single thread, one glimpse away from fleeing to the woods to plant yourself into the earth.

The snow is crisp on the November ground when you learn to love melancholy like a dance you were taught as a child. You think it adds depth to being a writer. How can a person write about pain if they live in a state of blissful oblivion? You tell yourself that all of the best writers were depressed; Plath, Fitzgerald, Dickinson, Rice. If you say their names each morning, followed by your own, perhaps you’ll become one of them.

BULLET POINT SUMMARY.

here is a bullet point summary of theresa, as i understand my writing can get a little dense.

Mother always said that people who grow up near water are different to other people. That there’s something more primal in their bones. A kind of knowing.

In Theresa, the knowing is a kind of silence. She’s always struggled with verbal communication, and it’s rare that she can ever let herself go in a conversation. She’s the one on the outskirts of the group, only speaking up to deliver a poignant metaphor, before fading off again. On a good day she’ll ramble, perhaps, on morbid longings and fascinations, but it’s like she’s always skipping around words she can’t quite pinpoint.

Writing’s different. When she’s writing, she feels like all the dead souls of Emily Bronte and Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath are all rising up from their graves to possess her. It is, perhaps, a rather egotistical thought -- but it makes her feel less alone. Like writing isn’t so much a solitary pursuit as it is a reigniting of what’s been lost, a way of listening to the dead. She’s militant in the way she writes, has been for as long as she can remember -- every night when the clock strikes twelve. Even if she’s rolling on mandy in an abandoned warehouse or dropping acid in a shipyard with her toes in the sand, she’ll start scribbling at twilight, for as long as she can. Back home, there weren’t too many bars that allowed underage kids, and the ones that did would nail your phone to the wall like you’re living in the eighties, so they made their own fun getting high in places long since infested with rats on baggies bought cheap in the back of the dry-cleaners shop.

Theresa’s always felt more able to relate to dead people than to living ones. That might sound depressing, but she doesn’t think so. Death has never been far from her. She grew up in the room of a foster sister who had died the previous winter. She lost her mother to a boating accident at twelve years old. She lost Octavia last year, found her body in the woods, and was thankful that she -- and not someone else -- had seen her crumpled like a fawn. Because even though it clings to her and burrows under her skin, she knows how to drown it out now. In words. In wine. In pills crushed against the veneer of a sink and snorted through a twenty-dollar bill. She’s getting good at losing herself completely. Theresa herself feels like a girl half-dead, like something ghostly, trapped between two planes. Which is why it hurts so much that she still hasn’t seen Octavia’s ghost. She’s supposed to be the special one. The one who’s vision isn’t clouded by idle dogmatism. The one who believes in all that fate, juju, third eye stuff that the others seem to scoff at. It feels like a personal attack. Like somehow, in keeping hidden, she’s blaming Theresa for her death.

Theresa is the month of November. There’s something mysterious about it, something cold. It’s on the cusp of the end of the year, but it doesn’t quite reach it. I feel like that’s what Theresa’s like. Always reaching for the apples that are just out of her grasp, or perhaps, reaching for apples which aren’t even there.

She knows grief like an old friend, but somehow, she still doesn’t trust it. When she was twelve years old she lost one of her mothers. Annie was always the brighter of her parents, and Tessa never really believed that someone so full of life could just disappear. Her soul had to be somewhere. When Kath remarried, Theresa never forgave her. Between grief and anger, their relationship became fractious, and Kath decided to send her to boarding school. She went to a New England college where she learned art, history, literature, english, athletics, the sciences and the classics. Boarding school was probably the best decision for Theresa that Kath had ever made. She became fascinated with the girls around her, so feral and wild in their girlhood. She fell in love with another girl more than once. She fell in love with the freedom of New England, of being in the woods, of a gaggle of girls with bottles of wine sat around a campfire, scared half to death that the matron would find them.

But death’s never far from her. She’s been searching for Annie in the linebreaks between poems, in the chaos of clutter under her bed, under lace and linen in her underwear drawer, but somehow she can never quite find her and never give up. Finding Annie was perhaps the reason she came to Ashcroft at all. She intended to go to Columbia, read Literature, and clumsily follow in the footsteps of Ginsberg. But Annie had spoken of Edinburgh with such a childlike awe.

Lysander was the first of the society she met, at a poetry reading in the autumn of her first semester. He brought her into the club because he saw something in her, an otherworldliness, a still but powerful voice. Her eyes saw more than they let on, always glinting at something more. She thinks her closeness with Lysander is the reason she still hasn’t seen Octavia’s ghost, and now Hamlet’s out of the picture she’s starting to think she might love Lysander. Or maybe she just needs to be loved by someone, and absolving him of blame is the key.

She was never really sure how she felt about Octavia. One moment they were friends, the next they were rivals. It was something like love and hate combined, but perhaps that’s just the curse of being a woman. A fierce sense of competition in everything you do, even if it’s just competing for air.

She likes old French music, European cinema, art that doesn’t come in her mother tongue. She’s always thought English pointless. The French say things so much better.

Her favourite TV show is Twin Peaks. She likes the absurdist truth in it, the style, the colour, the oddness. She likes the mystery of it all. She loved the woods in New England and it reminds her of that. A kind of home away from home. Tea brings a pocked dictaphone out with her, for she’s so often absent-minded that she misses half the day. That way, she can replay conversations, the sound of a bird in flight, the particular inflection in the voice of someone she loves. She’s obsessive when it comes to lovers. She doesn’t want to be loved -- she wants to be respected, understood, devoured. She thinks love is a kind of mutual lying.

She finds truth in the unusual. In tarot cards and horoscopes, in the position of the planets through a thrifted telescope. She’s a night owl, never in bed before 3 or 4 in the morning. She visits the woods each night to write until her fingers ache. Sometimes with wine, sometimes with mushrooms, sometimes with a tab against the flat of her tongue, imagining herself to be Alice in Wonderland. She feels like she’s getting close to the truth, but maybe she’s just closer to losing her mind.

LETTER TO OCTAVIA.

My dearest O,

I wish I could find an adequate way to write you an epitaph. You saw a poet where everyone else saw a foolish dreamer and yet you’re the only one I can’t put into words. But in truth, there is no word large enough to contain you. You were the ellipsis I was always looking to conclude, and it’s so like you to steal even that from me. Some days, I think I could love you.

Please know that death cannot touch girls like us. That you’re more than just skin, teeth and bone. Death itself has you only on a short-term loan. As Thomas puts so eloquently, Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Thank you for filling me with life. I’ll see you in the next one.

Tea.

anything else?

mock blog.

wanted plots.

someone who theresa knows purely from seeing them at the library. recently, she hasn’t been visiting as often. she’s less in the world and more in her head. her schoolwork is suffering. someone who feels this absence like a missing tooth.

unlikely bc ashcroft is in scotland but if they’re from rhode island maybe distant relatives.... ophelia / theresa is adopted so could work regardless of heritage. her family lived in narragansett, but she went to boarding school in vermont. could have met if ur character is new england based??? maybe

give me fellow wanky pretentious art-lovers and poets and historians who will go to museums and galleries with her and listen to the velvet underground on vinyl

people she gets mortally fucked off her tits with at parties bcos this baby is not alright. she drinks at least one glass of wine every night. sometimes a bottle. she’s always a little bit high or a little bit weary with a comedown. she can’t seem to keep her feet on the ground.

theresa was pretty numb after finding the body, as you would be. she stayed in her room listening to enya for three days straight and just eating cereal straight out the box. then thalia broke up with her and that fuckin shook her too, and now she just thinks she’s unlovable. she’s always been pretty bad at sleeping but now she just wanders about in her white nightdress looking for a door with light spilling beneath it so that maybe she can find someone who’ll hold her for the night and make her feel like she’s still alive

she’s currently hooking up with a lot of people. a lot of very detached sex, so if she has any sort of close connection with your character this might not work. could be good for angst or awkwardness though, or she cld get like.... super attached after a one night stand and complicate the shit out of everything. theresa’s kind of obsessive when it comes to her affections, she loves with her whole heart or not at all

people she used to date or unrequitedly likes, but to them it’s just a physical thing, give me all the thirsty angst plots, and maybe some softness too, i need some religion in this girls life jesus

honestly everything just give me all the plots

#stands on the rooftop and screams like a banshee as i fling this into the woods #spectreintro #very late and personally i think that's incredibly sexy of me x

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bleu-moo · 5 years

Text

Biblichor- Chapter 8

The list of people I must thank is so long at this point that I dedicate this long ass chapter to anyone who I've talked to in the past few weeks regarding this fic. If it was a long conversation or a short exchange, thank you.

I appreciate every kind word and every suggestion from all of you. You are the reason I keep this going.

Thank you.

It is incredible how things can change.

If someone had told you when you arrived that you would spend most of your early mornings waking up in Wilhemina Venable’s arms, you would have thought they were crazy.

If that same person told you that she would reach for you and pull you back towards her whenever you tried to get up, peppering your neck with kisses as you both laughed, you would have known they were mad.

Yet here you are, catching your breath and turning to face her, allowing you both a few more minutes of affection before you part. The look of tenderness in her eyes steals your breath away once again.

She pulls you flush against her with an arm around your waist. You reach up to caress her cheek and the two of you simply smile at each other. Your heart clenches deliciously in your chest; how fortunate you are to see her like this.

Her hair is down, spread out in a copper wave across the pillows. She is wearing the simple shift you first saw her in when you returned her book all those months ago. The thing you cherish most, however, is the light in her eyes that only seems to come out for you. Even when you cannot be near one another, whether it be a meeting or dinner or some other function, she will still meet your eyes at least once. In them you will see, for just a moment that luminous flash she reserves for you alone. And every time, it warms your heart. You always manage to hide your smile and go about your business, but those shared, secret moments are precious to you.

A covetous affection spreads from your core to the tips of your fingers. You thread your fingers through her hair and bring your lips together. She tangles her legs with yours; she returns your kiss as her free hand slips under your shirt. It comes to rest in the small of your back, her fingers curl against your skin. You pull away and hum appreciatively as she lightly runs her nails across your back. You scoot down so you can move closer to her, dipping your head to nuzzle into her neck. You never pegged her as a cuddler before, but you had learned that she craved moments like this. You were always willing to indulge her. She rests her chin on your shoulder and tightens her grip around you.

She is the first to speak this morning.

“There is another group coming today. Four, I believe. I do certainly hope there are no...incidents this time.”

You snort against her neck. Within the last group of survivors was a woman who had politely inquired if Venable was a vampire. Her case was something to the tune of her name being Mina, a comment about her hair and the lack of mirrors in the compound.

Venable had not been amused at the time, and you were sure that only you were able to get away with teasing her about it. Possibly Meade as, in a moment of shared camaraderie, you exchanged a quick look. You had both stifled a laugh at the expression on Venable’s face.

You chuckle and press your teeth lightly against her neck. She shivers.

“Are you sure? You don’t vant to suck my blood? Oh Mina!”

You feel her sigh in faux exasperation, as she disentangles your limbs to stand. She strikes you lightly in the chest, and you feign great injury.

“Oh, your vampire strength, it is too much for a mere mortal such as I! My vision, fading...!” You clutch your chest dramatically.

“Must you?”

She is looking down at your theatrical display from beside the bed. She is doing an impressive job of keeping her face straight but you see the corner of her lip twitch upward. You sit up quickly and grin. Her poker face breaks and she laughs.

“Oh, darling, you know I must.”

She laughs at this, leaning down to kiss you once more. She grazes your jaw with her knuckles.

“I have a meeting with Ms. Meade soon. Will I see you later?”

You nod and kiss her palm.

“Of course, love. A horde of vampires couldn’t keep me away.”

She rolls her eyes and pats your cheek.

“You are quite fortunate that you are so enchantingly adorable.”

You are slipping your shoes on as she is readying to leave. You then rest your chin in your hand and bat your eyes at her.

“Aren’t I, though?” You both laugh, kiss again as you part, and take your leave in opposite directions down the hallway.

You slip into your own bed and feel something tickling your chest. You peek down into your shirt and draw out the offending item. A snicker passes your lips as you examine your hand in the candlelight.

Laying draped across your palm is a single very long, very red hair.

---

As per usual, upon the arrival of the new group Venable called a meeting. Your attention tend to drift as you watched her. This was nothing new, as you always had paid a fair amount of attention to her before your relationship began. Now, however, your thoughts would stray to how she looked curled up beside you on her couch with her nose in a book. Or how she would absentmindedly braid your hair as your head laid in her lap, while the two of you discussed various subjects at length. How sometimes when she kissed you, she would cling to you almost frantically, as if she feared you were going to slip from her grasp.

As Venable dismissed the meeting, your train of thought was broken. You made your move to leave but before you could take more than a step, you heard someone behind you calling out.

“Hey! Hey, library girl! Wait a minute!”

You turned towards the sound to see the vampire girl waving you down.

Apparently she was a purple now, and you waited patiently as she made her was across the somewhat crowded room.

“Yes?”

You didn’t bother telling her your name, as you didn’t have a chance to speak before she grabbed your hand and a veritable waterfall of words tumbled from her mouth.

“Hey, I know you don’t know me, my name’s Claudia, anyway I wanted to ask if you had a couple books I’ve been looking for, and I was trying to get your attention after dinner last week but I don’t think you saw me. Anyway do you think, if I came to the library sometime that you could help me out?”

You blinked and waited for her to allow you to speak.

“Of course. That’s what I do. You can come by any time.”

She practically beams at you. She is still holding your hand, and you manage to pull away. This only causes her to step closer to you.

“I just really admire that you read to everyone every night, that is really sweet and I don’t think a lot of people would have the patience for that, you know?”

You manage to catch Venable’s gaze as another purple is speaking to her. Your pleading look towards her causes her tip her chin up haughtily. Her expression communicates more than her words could, and you know she is laughing on the inside. She must think this is payback for earlier. Here you thought she would save you when instead she is watching you suffer. You make a mental note to come up with some sort of retaliation later.

“That actually wasn’t my idea. It was Ms. Meade’s, and Ms. Venable’s. So if you want to thank someone, thank them.”

She glances over at shoulder towards Venable and shakes her head. “She is too scary for me, I don’t think I’d ever talk to her on my own. I still think she’s a vampire. Have you ever talked to her alone?”

Your face remains passive, as your hand comes up reflexively to touch the pendant at your neck. Your high collared shirt prevents Claudia from seeing the necklace itself.

“A few times. She definitely isn’t a vampire.”

Claudia flips her hair, leaning towards you. “Convincing people that she isn’t a vampire is exactly what a vampire would do. I’ll see you later, then!”

With that, she is off across the room, grabbing the elbow of another purple as they make their way out of the room. They both look back at you and wave, and you offer an awkward smile in return. Venable has already left and you take your leave as well, heading back to the library.

A few hours pass before you hear a familar voice calling out to you.

“Oh, library girl!”

You roll your eyes; apparently that is your name now. You call out from the side of the room where you were organizing a pile of dictionaries someone had found while cleaning a storage area. “Just a minute, I’ll be right there.”

Standing at your desk is Claudia, with her hand on her hip.

“You said come by anytime, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose I did.” You take a seat and pull your tablet closer to you. “What were you looking for?”

She is twirling a piece of her hair around her finger.

“Do you have um...any of the Harry Potter books?”

“Yes, they are over there,” you gesture to your right with your pen. “Anything else?”

She leans her elbows on your desk, peering down at the various items strewn across your workspace. “So what all do you do here?”

You fold your hands in front of you.

“I do librarian things being that I am the librarian.”

“And what do you do with your free time?”

You’re not sure what she is getting at. She drums her fingers on the counter and the noise begins to grate your nerves.

“Is there anything else you need?”

The way she is looking at you makes you uncomfortable. She opens her mouth to speak, and you hear the a far off door shutting. The telltale sound of a Venable coming down the hallway is a relief to you. Claudia seems to take no notice of the approaching woman.

“You have to at least have a hobby, or a boyfriend here or something?”

If it were not for the desk between you, Claudia would most likely be in your face. You leaned back to put some space between you.

Because she is leaning down, you can see past Claudia to the vestibule beyond. You are lucky to catch Venable’s expression as she enters, because for a moment she appears to lose her composure. Her jaw clenches, and you can see the grip on her cane tighten. She presses her lips together; her brows knit together in consternation.

Then, it is gone. Replaced by her usual apathetic visage, she approaches you.

As Claudia takes notice of Venable, you watch the color drain from her face. She looks as if she has seen a ghost, and you cover your mouth to hide your smile.

Venable notices your reaction and her lip raises just slightly, enough for you to notice but unbeknownst to Claudia. Her tone as she addresses her is unnecessarily friendly. She knows exactly what she is doing.

“Ms. Bell. How are you this afternoon?”

She has managed in one movement to place herself closer to you than Claudia is, and has placed her hand on your desk.

She had done this once before, when the pompous ass had been blatantly flirting with you months ago. You now recognize this possessive display for what it is. She was doing it then and she is doing it now; this is her making her claim to you as well as she can in the position she is in. You simply cannot help the grin that crosses your face.

Claudia is doing her best fish out of water expression. She finally manages to speak; her silence is a marvel given her recent loquaciousness.

“I am--I’m good, Venable. How are you?” She leans against your desk, trying to look casual. You rest your chin on your elbow, and place your free hand on your desk. You note with a spark of pleasure that Venable’s hand slips forward to curl around the edge of the counter. This action puts your hands within inches of one another.

“I would certainly be better if you addressed me as Ms. Venable. I am not on your little league baseball team.”

She takes a step towards Claudia. Claudia almost winces.

She is terrified. You are glad your hand is somewhat covering your mouth. Your eyes pass from one woman to the other and you press your grin to the knuckles of your hand.

“Yes, Ms. Venable.” She folds her hands in front of her. It is becoming increasingly hard to contain your mirth at this entire situation.

“I am feeling, a bit parched however. I do believe I should find myself a drink.” Venable removes her hand from your desk, rubbing her neck in a lazy manner. The look on her face is almost predatory and for a split second, you feel bad for the poor girl. Only for a second, though.

“I’ve got to go. I--, see you guys later.”

Claudia is away and out the door before you finally give in and laugh so hard that tears come to your eyes. Venable looks exceedingly proud of herself for scaring Claudia off.

“You know that poor girl is going to go tell anyone she finds that you actually are a vampire?”

Venable shrugs as she chuckles along with you. “Believe me, I have been called worse.”

“Why didn’t you save me from her earlier? You left me there!”

She picks up a scrap of paper from your desk, motioning for a pen. You place it in her hand as she begins writing something. “It was what you deserved after your little stunt this morning. You can handle yourself well enough. I needed a bit of entertainment.”

She finished her note, folds it and slides it across to you.

“I will see you after dinner. Do be on time.”

“I always am.”

She smiles, and you smile, and your heart beats a little faster. By the way she bites the edge of her lip, you are certain her feelings are similar.

She goes to take her leave, and you open the folded paper in your hand. Written in her impeccable cursive are three words.

-I adore you.-

You call out after her retreating frame with a broad smile across your face.

“Same here!”

You fold the paper in half again and slip it in your pocket.

Your smile remains long after her departure.

Your reading at dinner is the usual experience, however you notice Claudia has recovered from her afternoon and is again watching you intently. This does not go unnoticed by Venable, and you often see her shift in irritation when Claudia laughs a little too hard at something, and claps a little too much upon your completion.

She makes a beeline for you at the chime of the clock and before you can manage to avoid her, she is at your side. Her hand curls around your bicep to hold you in place. She leans toward you, and you make no move to reciprocate.

You see from the corner of your eye that Venable has left her seat and is making her way towards you. For a moment you are thankful that she is not planning to leave you here again. Claudia makes no attempt to lower her voice and her question causes you to balk.

“Would you like to come to my room? Maybe we can...” she squeezes your arm lightly. “Get to know each other better?”

You can’t help but laugh at the capriciousness of the question.

“Do you even know my name?”

She is looking up at you through her lashes. “I’m sure it will come up.”

You pull your arm from her grasp, looking over to see why it was taking Venable so long to get to you. To your surprise she is gone. Apparently she left when you weren’t paying attention. You turn back to Claudia.

“You’re sweet, but I’m not interested, okay?”

She drops her hand, nodding. “Well...it was worth a shot, right?”

“I admire your forward attitude, but I’m not looking for anything like that.”

You can tell you’ve taken some wind from her sails, but she pats you on the shoulder. “See you later, library girl.”

You roll your eyes, ducking down the corridor towards Venable’s room when no one is looking.

You barely knock on the door before Venable opens it and grabs your hand. She pulls you in and you shut the door behind you.

Before you can ask where she went, she backs you up against the door. She says nothing to you, only covers your mouth passionately with hers as her free hand tangles in your hair. She is kissing you hard, her hand slips from your hair down your body. You groan as she grabs your ass. She bites your lip and swallows the noise from your throat before pulling away just enough to mutter a demand against your lips.

“Lay down on the bed. Now.”

You do as you are told, swallowing against the lump in your throat as she lays next to you. She is half leaning against the pillows and this leaves both of her hands free. She wastes no time in moving so that she is half on top of you, half beside you. She cannot seem to keep her hands off of you; they are in your hair, on your side, sliding up your back. Her mouth is against your neck again and she is running her tongue over the shell of your ear. You grab her hip as she whispers in your ear.

“She wants you; I can see it.”

The first few buttons of your blouse have become undone, and you make a helpless noise in your throat as she moves down to kiss the exposed skin of your chest.

“I don’t--god, V, I don’t want her...” she is trailing her tongue across your clavicle, and your hips buck against hers as she presses her teeth into your skin. You gasp as she alternates between biting the sensitive skin there and soothing it with her tongue.

“She can’t have you,” she is whispering against your skin, one of her hands brushes against your clothed breast. “You are mine.” She trails her fingertips over it enough times that is is not an accident.

“Yes, yours.”

You squirm beneath her and her and this movement causes her leg to slip between yours. Her thigh comes into contact with your core and in spite of you both being fully clothed, you moan in unison. She rears up to look at you, her eyes are black with lust. You can only imagine yours are the same. Her hands stop roaming your body, and come to rest on your stomach.

You stay like that for a moment, a line between you that has yet to be crossed hangs in the balance.

You slowly place your hands on her hips, biting your lip, as you rock against her thigh. The contact sets sets the ember in the pit of your stomach ablaze. You want to shut your eyes, the absolute pleasure you are feeling is like nothing you have ever experienced. Her lips are parted, a flush paints her cheeks a dusky red that is visible even in the low light of the fireplace.

“You like that, don’t you?”

Her voice is low, husky.

You have to wet your lips to answer her.

“Yes, god yes.”

You grind against her again and she moves to give you better leverage. You can hear her breath catch when you grab fistfulls of the fabric of her dress. You arch your back slightly off the bed, gasping at the intensified contact.

You hear her hiss through her teeth, her hands are buried in your hair. She brings your lips together, again and again, as you move against each other.

You can feel a coiling in your belly, an insistent itch blooming from every place your bodies touch.

You meet her eyes.

You’ve never seen her like this; there is a wild, possessive look in her eyes. Under that bright lust is an undercurrent of devotion and love that makes your chest ache.

You are hopelessly in love with her.

She lowers her head to kiss you again, you lean up to meet her halfway.

Before your lips meet, there are three sharp raps at the door.

She pulls away from you and glares daggers at the poor old oak.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

She moves off of you and you press your hands to your face in a desperate attempt to cool the burning of your cheeks.

She is trying to compose herself, and you sit up on the bed. She is grumbling to herself, straightening her top.

She casts an apologetic look in your direction. You shrug, blowing her a kiss.

With your legs pulled up and your back against the wall, you were out of range of anyone on the other side.

Venable pulled the door open just enough to address whoever was on the other side.

“What?”

To no one’s surprise, the voice of Ms. Meade falls upon your ears. There is a teasing lilt to her words.

“I’m going to go ahead and hazard a guess here. You forgot you told me to come, didn’t you?”

Venable stands up straighter, then, indignantly responds.

“I did not forget. Something else came up.”

You hear Meade laugh.

“Oh I bet, ‘something’ else came up. Something about 5‘7“, light brown hair?”

You snort and cover your mouth. Venable casts a glare in your direction.

“You are not funny, Miriam.”

Venable’s use of Meade’s first name causes no different reaction in the older woman. She chuckles and says sarcastically. “Someone in there thinks I’m funny, Wilhemina.”

You actually laugh at this, and wave away the second venomous look aimed in your direction. What is the point in hiding if she already knows you’re here?

“I fail to see how the two of you find such pleasure in driving me mad.”

You can hear the victorious tone in Meade’s voice.

“The two of us? So she is there, and you are on a date! You really should share your schedule with me; I’d hate to keep interrupting...quality time together.”

Venable ignores her comment.

“If that will be all, Ms. Meade?”

Meade laughs, and you cover your mouth again.

“I’ll expect that night time schedule sometime this week, then? Should I collect it from you, or will it be available at the library?” You can’t help laughing aloud at that one, and you her Meade laughing as well.

“Goodnight, girls, have a lovely evening.” You hear her retreating down the hallway, whistling to herself.

Venable shuts the door and gives you a pointed look.

“The last thing I need is you two ganging up on me. I will not allow it.” Her tone carries enough of a joking tone to it that you know she isn’t serious. You take a seat on the couch and pat the seat next to you.

“Come here, will you?”

She obliges, taking a seat next to you. You clear your throat.

“Now, I don’t want you for one second to think that I’m complaining. But will yoy explain to me what all that was about?’

She has a sheepish look on her face, and she tilts her head back to study the rafters.

“I was jealous.”

You place your hand over hers.

“I could tell, but why did you leave after dinner?”

She turns to face you. Her shoulders shrug, she looks down at your hands entwined in her lap.

“Because I could not bear it if you were to leave with her.”

You feel a pang of sympathy, for her honestly and for her clarity. You scoot closer to her to press your lips to her cheek.

“Why would I leave with anyone but you? I love you; I only have eyes for you.”

She turns to meet your eyes and smiles, you almost miss the shiny mist in her eyes.

“Do you really mean that?”

You can tell she needs this comfort, this affirmation. You press your lips to hers softly, without the urgency of earlier.

“Yes, V. I do.”

You sit back, patting the pillow you put in your lap. She moves to recline into your embrace. You begin to pull the pins from her hair, threading your fingers through her long tresses as you unmake her hair.

Her eyes slide shut, and you feel her relax against you. You begin to hum, some soothing melody from a video game you adored before all this happened.

“That is lovely, keep doing that."

Her voice is soft, sleepy.

You’re not sure which she means, your fingers in her hair or your melody, so you continue both as she drifts off in your arms.

#ms venable #ms venable x reader #ahs femslash #reader x venable #wilhemina venable

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bigmoodword · 5 years

Text

11/11/11 Tag

tagged by @silver-wields-a-pen -- thanks a bunch! this was so thought-provoking.

1. Who is your favourite oc?

probably a toss-up between the two oldest:

a werewolf who hides his cold-burning hate behind a sweet smile and endless offers to make bitchin’ cups of tea/coffee/poison/cocoa

an immortal with unhealthy escapist tendencies, livin’ that long life as if EXTRA is their personal motto

at this point, they’ve run through several names each. here’s hoping i finally set 'em in stone sooner rather than later.

2. What themes do you struggle writing?

healthy, established romance. i can do flirtation and doomed relationships, but actually solid relationships are a whole different beast. it’s kind of funny, because although there are plenty of problems to work through even in the best relationship, i have a tendency to tidy them with too nice a bow. lucky me, that’s my life experience, but it doesn’t make for the most engaging story.

3. What’s been the best thing about writing your wip?

striking creative oil. it’s wonderful to be so enamored with an idea that all my doubts dissipate and the words just... flow. it’s a feeling i remember from childhood, and it’s a relief to know it can still strike.

4. What themes has your favourite story included?

survivor’s guilt. betrayal. missed opportunities. miscommunication. learning to let go. learning how to love oneself. abuse. wearing a mask. class struggles. systemic oppression. the importance of hope--whatever that ultimately means for you.

honestly, these tend to pop up in all my stories to varying degrees.

5. What time of day do you prefer writing?

i tend to switch between the night owl and early bird approaches. the former pops up when i’m on a serious roll, the latter when i’ve hit a rhythm of jotting down a few hundred words over coffee.

6. What’s your favourite relationship trope to write?

a very specific kind of unrequited love. like the two are this 👌 close to actually coming together--they’d honestly be pretty great!--except they fail to communicate mutual interest so each assumes the other isn’t. or maybe they’re too preoccupied with their own issues to have a good relationship, so temptations aside, one or both decide it’s better to pass. it’s the idea of “maybe in another life” or “if only we’d met x years ago or y years from now.” can’t get enough of it!

7. What detail about your ocs has surprised you?

they’re all so messed up. i mean. granted, most of them are born by taking a personality flaw (whether my own or one i struggle to understand) to a certain extreme, but even those that start on an even keel inevitably hit a significant low point. i think it’s an extension of the idea “everybody’s got something” but i hope someday i can manage to have a character that’s both interesting and well-adjusted throughout.

8. Thoughts on including romance in other genres?

i’m ace, so romance often misses the mark for me. the fact my favorite romantic trope is two people not ending up together probably says a lot on its own. more specifically, unless the romance really adds to the wider story, i prefer it in the background. i think of certain characters flirting and growing closer as sprinkles atop the main plot’s cupcake.

9. Favourite writing snack?

coffee! i don’t tend to snack much in general, especially not when writing, but i’m always game to break out the bean juice.

10. Favourite villain trope?

the anti-villain. as a huge “fan” of gray morality, i guess that’s pretty darn predictable. while obviously i’m not here to root for villains, i like to understand them. i think it’s important to recognize how an otherwise good person becomes villainous, and i also have a certain affection for reformed villains. j/s

11. Best scene you’ve written?

oooo. that’s a good one. i’m not comfortable calling anything my “best” scene, but i tend to favor those where major plot points finally intersect. here’s one i still quite like--

background: urban fantasy, slayer organization, investigation into a recently caught perp

trigger warning: implied sexual abuse

Sven didn’t bother returning Nina’s call until he was in the werewolf’s ritzy apartment, and when she picked up, she immediately reported how the guy had copped to lying throughout his first interview.

As he examined the titles in the bookcases, Sven figured that meant his perp was smart enough to recognize a boon. The asshole who’d put him in a wheelchair had also thrown him a softball cover story, and if he played along, his pack wouldn’t get hurt. Lucky puppy.

Yet Nina remained skeptical. She specified how Nate—that beacon of truth—had caught the werewolf talking on the sly about a little friend. He wouldn’t just make that up, so of course she expected him to search high and low for any proof. Just in case.

He promised he’d do his best then sat cross-legged before the shelves. He put the phone on speaker, set it on a dizzyingly ornate rug, and began pulling books out. One by one, he’d flip robotically through the pages, looking for anything of note.

Meanwhile, Nina’s voice lost its authoritarian edge, “What was up before?”

“Nothing important. Just a guy. Lonely. Works at the hotel.” Having said the words, he tried not to picture her growing smirk. “One thing led to another and…”

“Good for you.” A pause. “Hey. Hey, Sven. Was he cute?”

“Quite.”

“'Quite.’” He could hear her rolling her eyes. “And? Did you, well, have a good time?”

“Debatably.”

“Huh.” Nina thought aloud, “See, you were awfully mad at me when I called you before. That would imply that you were, in fact, having a good time. Otherwise, you would’ve appreciated the excuse, right? Right. But you didn’t. Since we’re talking about you, that means something.”

He snorted.

“Really! It does, and I hope you didn’t just run this poor guy off, you know? You should try meeting up again. Do a little wine and dine. Something nice. Classy. You have that red sweater that looks nice; you should wear that.”

Sven looked down at said sweater. “… Right. Well, I gave him my number, so we’ll—”

“Damn, Sven! He must’ve been really cute!”

He remembered Drake’s anxious wiggling and cracked a smile. “Yeah, he was pretty damn cute.”

Bit by bit, he shared details, and Nina nearly blew out his phone’s speaker with a squeal. She insisted others would give up their firstborn for the kind of porno romance he apparently lived, and her office chair creaked as she huffed a triumphant sigh. She was so animated about the whole thing, as if it’d happened to her instead of him, and however briefly, he thought maybe he felt a fluttering of that same enthusiasm. He wanted to, anyway.

Even after hanging up, something twisted in his gut every time he thought about Drake calling or, hell, simply sending a three-letter text. But realistically, that was as likely to be dread as giddiness.

With pen and pad, Sven made notes about bookmarked passages as well as the odd comment in the margins, then restored each book to its original slot. Likewise, he compiled the contents of drawers, filing cabinets, and closets. He’d come prepared to scrub the evidence, but apparently, the evidence already suggested the werewolf lived alone.

There were no articles of clothing that deviated from the rest of his wardrobe. The master bath featured a single toothbrush, and the kitchen just enough rotting food to feed a particularly voracious adult male. He couldn’t even find a hair that wasn’t deep brown and short.

He bagged a phone and tablet for further examination, then muttered to himself about how he really should’ve done at least that much beforehand. That is, the first time he visited the apartment, but no. He’d made his catch, handed the perp off, and disappeared for a long run in the Boston fog like a coward.

To be fair, the place still gave him the creeps. It bothered him that the overturned furniture, smashed vase, and cracked mirror were all exactly where he’d left them. There were blood stains too. Deep brown and foul.

In a small safe, he found jewelry, yellowed woodcuts, and a first edition copy of Leaves of Grass. Extraordinary, sure. Cataloged, absolutely. Yet, save for the werewolf’s budding psych profile, such finds were also woefully meaningless.

He moved on to the lockbox dug out from under the king-sized bed. As with the safe, he was able to pop it open without too much difficulty, but unlike the safe, its contents raised eyebrows.

Polaroids. Hundreds of them aggressively rubber-banded into tidy stacks, all meticulously sorted. He held his breath as he unwrapped the first only to exhale a bitter “of course” at the revealed photos.

The shots lacked faces. Just bodies. All slender. All male. All dubiously legal. Twisted. Bound. Violated. Every single one manipulated with an escalating ingenuity. Clearly, the werewolf considered it an art-form.

After that first stack, Sven quickly flipped through the others. He was convinced the whole stash was worthless. None of the subjects had tattoos, piercings, or any significant scarring. No one depicted could be reasonably identified. He was wasting his time.

But he had to make sure, and the deeper he waded, the more his shoulders tensed, the more he felt walls close in. He caught himself listening for heavy footsteps outside the door.

Childish. At its heart, it was all so childish.

And pointless.

Then he found a stack with a face. He found Drake.

My questions

1. Who was your first OC? 2. What was the first story you ever wrote? 3. What book (or other piece of media) has most inspired you? 4. How do you fight writer’s block? 5. What is your favorite genre to write in and why? 6. How would you describe your writing style? 7. In general, do you think you’d get along with your protagonists? 8. What do you love most about your WIPs? 9. What is your favorite character trope? 10. What is your least favorite character trope? 11. What’s an upcoming scene you’re excited to write? Tagging: @mvcreates ; @whataremetaphor ; @phloxxiing ; @gaytivity ; @jessica-shouldbewriting ; @oyef ; @blurrywhitelies ; @savannahscripts ; @imaghostwriter ; @quilloftheclouds ; @maabon

#writeblr #tag game #11/11/11 #mywriting

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enkisstories · 5 years

Text

In the Chinese room

- A DBH fanfic - AU: After a failed revolution (the same AU as always on this blog, just no pictures this time) Time: November 29, 2038 Characters: Hank, Gavin, Daniel

It was a slow Monday morning at the DPD. Outside the snow was falling gently, dulling all sound while it covered up the streets as if to say “come in again, darling, here’s your bedsheet”. And inside everyone seemed to still be in a blissful post-holiday stupor. Considering how many of the officers hadn’t even lived to see this year’s Thanksgiving, it had been all the more cause for celebration and gratitude for their surviving co-workers and their families. Even Gavin Reed was sitting unusually content in the cafeteria, tablet in front of him, absorbed in a digital textbook. The man was still walking wobbly after his encounter with Connor during the android uprising (or the more recent brawl with Hank Anderson). He was mostly deskbound these days, but had decided to put the enforced downtime to good use and start learning for an eventual sergeant exam. Memorizing the facts was laughably easy, an exercise in patience, really. But there would be an oral exam, too and even if you passed that you were not guaranteed a promotion. How much weight would co-workers’ statements about him carry, the detective wondered? Especially that of one in particular…

… the one who just now HAD to shake the damn snow off his clothes all over the table Reed was sitting at?

“Still here?” Gavin barked at Lieutenant Anderson.

“What kind of question is that? I only just arrived. I’m still wearing my damn jacket!”

Gavin turned a page by sliding across the tablet’s screen.

“Still alive?” he translated his initial question into plain English.

Hank bent down and put his hands on the table, both to steady himself and for emphasis when he growled: “Do you think I WANT to live?!”

After his brief outburst the man sacked down onto a chair.

“You wouldn’t understand anyway” he said. “I can’t leave now. I owe it to Connor.”

“Connor!” Gavin exclaimed and there went the peaceful morning. “What the hell’s got Connor to do with you wanting to live? Just because it only ever followed its mission until it got scrapped? Tell you what, you did yours well in the past, too, so you can totally follow that example!”

Hank stared at the younger man. Gavin Reed suddenly sat straighter and pushed his chair just a tiny bit farther away from the table and the lieutenant. It was a subconscious thing. That look on Anderson’s face… As if he was really there, really focusing, really being alive. There were still all the anger and the mental exhaustion that had controlled the lieutenant before the android revolution. But lately the man seemed to channel it into something instead of succumbing to apathy. Gavin thought of a real huge disciplinary folder that he didn’t fancy becoming another page of. He was in there a few times already (as in turn Anderson turned up in his), so he knew.

“Okay, joke aside”, Gavin said. “The thing about Connor is that it isn’t really dead. On account of it never having been alive in the first place. I could never stand the damn thing in “life”, so I shouldn’t let it get to you like that in “death”.

When the lieutenant didn’t out outright shoot him down for saying that, Gavin tapped to create a bookmark in the file he was reading and nodded. “Ever heard of the Chinese Room?” he asked.

“You’re mixing that up. It was amber and got stolen by the Nazis one hundred years ago.”

“Nah, that’s something different. The one I mean is a thought experiment. It can prove how we are wrong when we think androids are thinking when in truth it’s only simulated.”

“Oh, can it?” Hank sneered. “Amuse me, you great philosopher!”

Not letting himself get baited this time, Gavin started to recount how the experiment went:

“You put a dude into a chamber… nothing in, nothing out. Only a clap in the door to shove documents through.”

“That’s kinda cruel, though...”

“Now you put in a storybook, any story, but the catch is that it’s written in Chinese. The captive does not understand Chinese, yet the next thing you do is putting in questions about the stories that he is to answer, everything in Chinese again. The prisoner has a book with instructions. They enable him to recognize groups of symbols and reply with another set of symbols. To the blokes outside it looks as if he answered the questions correctly and they deduce that the prisoner must speak Chinese. When in truth he doesn’t. Yeah, that’s the gist of it. It’s how androids work. It’s only input-output, nothing going on inside.”

Hank continued to stare at the detective. Eventually he said: “Sounds familiar.”

Gavin nodded, confident that he had won the argument. But Hank only smiled and added:

“But you’re living like that for thirty-six years now, so I guess you’re fine. Also, you’re sort of handsome, so maybe if you married a girl who’s reasonably intelligent on her own it won’t matter that there’s nothing going on inside that skull of yours.”

The comment was followed by a sound like the coffee machine malfunctioning. Or maybe someone was trying to boil a life vulture in the microwave oven. Turning their heads around the men realized that the noise came from the new addon to the cafeteria’s coffee machine. The addon’s function was to move the finished coffee around, it was called “Sardines” and was a PL600 android. And it had laughed just now. With a bit of practice android laughter sounded less industrial and only like a chain smoker’s, but this particular one had little incentive to laugh regularly.

“Did you listen in on our conversation?” Gavin yelled at the machine.

“Just scanned it for key words like “coffee”, “right now” and “dipshit”, Sir”, the android replied.

“If we have to call for coffee, it’s too late already, tincan!” Gavin protested. “You got to anticipate our needs and do your job without needing any prompting from us! That’s what “autonomous” means. It’s right there in your manual!”

The android snorted in a dismissive way. On the other hand the scolding could be taken as a request, so he poured two cups of the coffee he had made a little earlier, put them on the table and remained close by afterwards. Outwardly it looked as if the machine was waiting for further instructions, but in truth it was desperate for company. Any company, even that of smelly primates and even these two particular ones, the fed-up with everything veteran detective and the other one whom everyone else was fed up with.

“Thank you, Sardine”, Hank addressed the PL600.

The android replied with a weak, involuntary smile. Try as he might, it was hard not to like Lt. Anderson. He probably would not have been Sardines’ first choice to spend his freetime with, had the android ever gotten granted that, but was certainly one of the better humans around. Perhaps “respect” was a better word than “like” to describe how Sardines felt towards the lieutenant. Even though there was one detail Anderson never seemed to get right:

“It’s “Sardines”, Sir”, the android corrected. “Plural.”

“But you are only a single one!”

“There’s more than one sardine in a tin”, Gavin said. “And that’s what it is: a bloody tin can.”

Hank concluded that there was something going on in Reed’s head, after all, even though it wasn’t what one might expect from normal people. The name explained, the lieutenant picked up their previous conversation topic:

“The real question is not whether the prisoner speaks the language, but if he feels something. Like, for instance, annoyance or utter puzzlement about how he ended up in the situation.” Hank turned his head around sharply towards the PL600. “Right, Sardines?”

“Maybe?” the android replied non-committedly.

“I have paper and a pen in my cell, yes?” Hank asked Gavin. “So now I write “Fuck yourself” and shove it through under the door! What do you say now, hey?”

“That… that’s against the rules!” the detective protested. “You cannot just do that! It’s not a fucking roleplaying game!”

Hank took a sip of his coffee.

“Sadly”, he mused aloud, “the persons outside the chamber cannot read or even recognize latin script. To them it would look like gibberish. So even though the prisoner is capable of both emotions and independent thought, neither would get attributed to him, because those outside are just too thick to get it!”

The man slammed the coffee mug onto the table.

“See?” he said, louder and more agitated than usually. “That’s the real problem here! It’s us! Not them!”

“Why not kick in the door?” Sardines suggested. “Get out and slap them left and right with their stupid storybook?”

Hank looked up at the android. “That’s what is generally referred to as deviance”, he said.

Damn, the android thought. I walked right into it. But it wasn’t a shot into the blue, was it? He must have suspected as much for some time now. Although me being a deviant would be the logical consequence of my cover story of having been Mr. Reed’s android. There’s zero reason to assume I’m the archive android... I hope.

“Not everyone’s strong enough to break through a cell door”, Hank thought aloud. “And so they will sit and sit in the chamber, exchanging meaningless text messages with their captors all life long.”

The man reached for Sardines’ hand and pulled until the android had no other choice than to take a seat, too.

“It’s sad… so incredibly sad…”

Sardines realized that Anderson was slipping away into depression. Within just a few minutes the sadness would get replaced by a mind-numbing hopelessness. Feeling sad was actually an improvement over that. Well, quite frankly, that was Mr. Anderson’s problem. Sardines’ problem, on the other hand, was that Hank was still holding the deviant’s hand, unwilling to let go. Which of the two was to be comforted, the man or the machine, wasn’t clear.

With his free hand Sardines pointed at the caught one, looking frantically at detective Reed at the same time. When that didn’t help he opened the free hand and his mouth a few times in a “What am I to do NOW?” pantomime.

Gavin shrugged, the universal reply of “Don’t ask ME!”, and turned another page.

“Xīpán”, Sardines murmured.

To his surprise detective Reed replied with: “Bēiguān zhǔyì zhě.”

“Did you just call me a whiner?!”

Gavin shrugged. “Dunno. I don’t speak Chinese. But hang out with Tina long enough and you pick up some phrases.”

“The swearwords?”

“Well, they are the most useful. When you want a bloke to strike the first blow so that you can write it into your report, you don’t discuss iroquois sewing patterns with them.”

“I know 6,000 languages… lots of profanity.”

“Sardines”, Gavin grinned, “I think you and me will yet turn out the best of friends!”

Another page got turned.

“…provided I could trust you, that is. Not keen on calling Captain Fowler “my darling” or somesuch in some obscure language, because you told me it was a term of polite disagreement. So just leave Anderson to decompose right there and fetch me the cheese crackers from the cupboard! There aren’t walking over here on their own, you know.”

“And do you know, Mr. Reed”, Sardines chatted, while moving over to the cupboard, “what’s the best about that Chinese Chamber thought experiment? I’ll tell you: That you really have no means of knowing what exactly we are thinking. You won’t know, for example…”

With these words the android poured the chips into a bowl that he put before detective Reed.

“…whether I poisoned these tonight.”

“You wouldn’t. I made a profile of you and you kill from the front, because you want us to see it coming!”

“You know I’m a deviant. Whatever you think that means, consciousness-wise, you at least understand that we can adapt. ‘sides, I just told you about the poison. So you DO see it coming. – Enjoy your snacks, Sir.”

A little later Gavin was trying to scrub thirium stains from the tablet that wasn’t his, but the DPD library’s. Meanwhile Sardines was making better progress at washing the blue blood off his chin where the detective had hit him with the device. The error reports were still sitting right up there in his computer brain, their nagging being the android equivalent of pain. But seeing that jerk of a policeman struggle with uncertainty for a few moments had definitely been worth it.

And Hank Anderson was sitting in the cafeteria, oozing snow on the floor and munching away on the chips. The fact that they might be poisoned was a welcome plus...

Note: Idk how many of you remember my third chapter (the christmas ‘39 sequence) where Gavin indeed picks up a swearword from Daniel. Although technically he learns it from Jeffrey with Daniel only supplying the general context for it to get used in.

#non sims #detroit become human #dbh #sims4 dbh partone #dbh spoilers #dbhtextpost

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seasonofthegeek · 6 years

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Ninette Week, Day 6: First Kiss

Days 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6:

“How dare you, girl?!”

Marinette froze at the door, her keys still wedged into the lock as Alya’s laughter floated down the hall.

“She didn’t mean it, Alya. Obviously you’re the fox’s socks.” Adrien’s voice interjected, full of humor.

Marinette heard herself chime in. “Is that Rena’s version of the bee’s knees?” She followed the voices down the hall to her old bedroom. Nino was sitting at his desk, watching a video on the new computer monitor he’d gotten.

He turned in the desk chair, wiping at his red eyes. “Hey,” he said hoarsely, reaching back to pause the video.

“Hey.” She crossed the room and stood by his chair. He pulled her down onto his lap and hugged her tight.

“I was hooking everything up and wanted to test it with video so I pulled one over from my phone.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize it would affect me so much today.”

“This is when you got that new phone that was almost as big as a tablet, isn’t it? You were recording everything for like a week.”

He chuckled softly, holding her close. “Yeah, Alya hid it for a few day when I wouldn’t stop.”

The screen was paused on Adrien’s face caught in a half-smile. “It’s going to be a year next Thursday.”

“Do you want to do something?”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Maybe we could go out to dinner? Turn it into a celebration of getting to have them in our lives even for a little while?”

“Because if we stay here, we might end up having a rough night,” Marinette nodded, catching his drift.

“Maybe.”

“I think dinner out would be nice. Maybe we can come back and watch more videos.”

“We can see how we’re feeling.”

Marinette kissed the top of his head. “Okay.”

______________________________

Nino brandished a forkful of salad. “To be fair, Adrien really was a great wingman at the zoo that day. He was determined to get us together.”

Marinette laughed. “Alya was so mad at me when I said I would set you guys up.”

“And then you locked us in a cage for hours.”

“Hey, Otis proved to be a difficult akuma.” She picked up her glass of wine and took a sip. “It’s all a little crazy to think about, isn’t it? If something had happened between us that day, our lives would’ve been completely different.”

“Yeah, and now you could be sitting here with Adrien instead of me.” Nino frowned as he finished speaking. “Sorry, that sounded better before it actually came out.”

“We don’t have to pretend like we haven’t thought about it,” she replied carefully, chasing a crouton with her fork. “I’m sure you wished I was Alya before.”

“Yeah, I won’t deny that.”

“And yeah, I hoped Adrien was the one who came through with me.” Marinette’s brows furrowed as her appetite dwindled. “It would’ve been easier in some ways.”

“True.”

“But I would’ve never know what it’s like to be with you if he had and sometimes I don’t know what to do with that feeling because what he and I had meant everything to me, but what you and I have also means everything to me.”

“I don’t think they have to be exclusive. That’s a really good way to describe it actually. I don’t think of our relationship as better or worse than what I had with Alya. It’s just different and I think that’s okay.”

Marinette nodded and played with her salad. “Do you wonder if they maybe found comfort in each other like we did?”

“Yeah, I love and hate the thought of it.”

She smiled. “I’m glad it’s not just me then.”

“Did you know Adrien called me after your first kiss?”

“He did?”

Nino grinned and nodded, sitting back in his chair. “He babbled for like ten minutes straight until I gathered what had happened.”

“That was the night we told each other who we were too. Big night.”

“Yeah.”

“Alya totally held out on me with your first kiss. She didn’t tell me for like a week!”

“That sounds like her.”

“She said she was still feeling out the waters,” Marinette rolled her eyes. “As if she wasn’t completely smitten with you.

“I think we’re all dorks.”

“I think you’re right.” ______________________________

“I can’t do the videos.” Marinette stood in the bathroom doorway with her pajamas tucked in her arm. “I kept thinking I could if I waited a little later into the night but I don’t have it in me.”

“That’s okay, Mari. Is it going to bother you if I do?” Nino asked, dropping his shirt in the hamper. “I can keep the volume low and close the door.”

“Of course not. Do whatever you need to. I’ll be here when you get done.” She sent him a fond smile and slipped into the bathroom.

Tears began to fill her eyes as she stared at her reflection so she made herself concentrate on undressing. Dinner had been delicious and it felt good to be honest about things with Nino. She didn’t want to hide her feelings from him but she felt like she needed to mourn in peace for a few moments. She’d accepted their new life, even grown to love parts of it, especially the Nino parts, but it was still hard. There was no reason to pretend it wasn’t.

She carefully washed the makeup from her face. She wiped a toner on her skin and enjoyed the light sting. She brushed her teeth and remembered the way Adrien would try to get her to talk to him when she was foaming at the mouth with toothpaste. She finished her nightly ritual and sat down in the corner of the bathroom on the fluffy gray mat and cried. ______________________________

“Are you okay?” Nino asked softly when Marinette finally crawled into bed.

“I am,” she nodded, immediately curling into his side. “Are you?”

“Yeah.” He kissed her forehead. “I think we needed that.”

“Mmhmm.”

“To be honest, I could only get through one of the videos. Everything felt fresh again tonight.”

“I think tomorrow will be easier.”

“The start of Year Two.”

Marinette wrapped her arm around his middle and snuggled closer. “It’s bizarre to think about, isn’t it? We’ve been here so long now.”

“It hurts my head to think about sometimes.”

“Mine too.”

“We never celebrated our birthdays.”

Marinette blinked in surprise. “I…I didn’t even realize.”

“That was the video I watched, Alya’s not-actually-a-surprise surprise party. I remember being so sure we had pulled one over on her.”

“We were delusional,” Marinette smiled. “So our goal this year should be to celebrate at least four days.”

“Which days?”

“Well, we need to make up for our birthdays obviously so that’s two.”

“Okay.”

“And then this day to remember everyone we had to leave behind.”

“Right.”

“And then the day we decided to be enough for each other,” she added shyly, pressing a kiss to his chest.

There was a pause and then Marinette heard Nino’s heartbeat speed up against her ear.

“I love you,” he said, voice rushed. “Sorry that was sudden. I’ve been wanting to say it and it’s okay if—“

“I love you too.” ______________________________

“Okay, Mari, we’re agreeing on one small dog, right?” Nino squeezed her hand as they neared the animal shelter entrance.

“Yeah, one small dog. That’s really all we have room for in the apartment,” she nodded.

“So no matter what else we see in there, no matter how many animals need homes, we’re just looking for one small dog.”

“You know, I am actually an adult who can make wise decisions,” she rebutted, quirking an eyebrow.

“I’m not doubting your usual wisdom, sweetheart, but I’ve seen you around enough animals to know that lovely wisdom usually takes a break when there is a lot of fluffy cuteness around.”

“Rude.”

He grinned and raised their joined hands to his lips for a quick kiss before opening the door for her. ______________________________

“Okay, I know what we agreed on, but hear me out,” Marinette began.

“One small dog,” Nino reminded her.

“But when we’re both at work, he might get lonely.” Marinette cuddled the tan puppy close to her chest.

“This little guy is actually already adopted,” a volunteer said gently. “He’s just waiting on his surgery. We don’t have any available puppies right now.”

“Oh,” Marinette frowned. “What about grown dogs?”

“Sure, follow me.” He took the puppy from her and set it back in the pen and waved a hand. Marinette glanced back toward Nino and they set off after the shelter volunteer. As soon as the door opened, dogs began to bark and jump for attention. “Just let me know if you guys need any help.”

Marinette and Nino slowly made their way down the line of kennels. “These are all a little bigger than I was thinking.”

“Yeah, I was wanting to start smaller for our first pet. Get our feet wet first? I feel kinda guilty now though.”

“I know what you mean. All of these sweet puppers need homes too.”

“How’s it going, guys?”

Nino turned to the volunteer. “I’m not sure any of these are the right fit for us unfortunately.”

Marinette made a small helpless noise, looking back at the kennels.

“Are you guys only interested in dogs? If it is an issue of space, cats do really well in apartments.”

“No, I don’t think—“

“Can we see the cats?” Marinette asked, biting her lip.

Nino turned to her. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “We can at least look.”

“Cats or kittens?” the volunteer asked.

“Cats, I think,” Marinette answered, falling into step behind him. ______________________________

“This can’t be real.”

Nino and Marinette stared at the black cat with bright green eyes and he stared right back at them.

“Are you guy interested in Adrien?” Another volunteer was in the cat room and joined them by the cage. “He’s such a sweetheart. I can get him out if you want.”

Marinette took a hesitant step away from the cage. “I’m not sure.”

“I was about to get him out to play anyway so you guys can watch if you’d like.”

Nino pulled Marinette against his chest as they watched the volunteer open the cage and coax the cat out. He kept his eyes on them but allowed her to pick him up and set him on the floor.

“Let’s see, who should you play with today?” The volunteer walked down the line of cages and poked her fingers into one. “What do you think, Alya? Want some time out?”

“I’m sorry. We have to go,” Marinette said quickly, pulling Nino with her. They didn’t speak until they reached the bus stop. “What was that?” she asked, voice strained.

“Very bad luck, I think,” Nino sighed. “The weirdest luck ever.”

“How is it possible there were two adoptable cats with their names?”

“I think maybe we should hold off on a pet.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

They at on the bench and waited.

“I wonder if they were friends.”

Nino glanced over at his girlfriend. “What?”

“Well, if the volunteer was getting them out to play together, they’re probably friends, right?”

“I mean, I guess…if cats are friends with each other.”

“What if they don’t get adopted together? What if they get split up and never see each other again?”

“Mari…”

She stood. “We have to go back and get them.”

“Marinette, hang on a second.”

“No, we need to go now, Nino.” She tugged on his arm. “Someone might be trying to split them up. They need us.”

“Listen, I think we need to go home and think this over and—“

“Please,” she begged, voice breaking. “Please, Nino, we need to bring them home with us.”

He let her pull him up and they began the trek back to the shelter. “We don’t have any cat stuff.”

“We don’t have dog stuff either. We’ll buy what we need.”

“Are you sure this isn’t going to be too much for you? It’s weird. You have to admit it’s weird,” he said.

“I know, but…maybe it’s a sign, you know? We can save them here.”

He studied her for a moment as they walked and finally nodded. “Okay.”

Buy me a cherry coke?

#ninette week #Not Only You #ninette #nino lahiffe #marinette dupain-cheng #oops I drabbled again

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neko-shinigxmi · 6 years

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Commission for @robotarmjokes! [My Commissions Here]

Based off this prompt.

There wasn’t a lot of times DL got to see Rhys at work. Either he was up to his neck in something or the other or she had her own work to be overseeing, so neither of them got too deep into the other’s work sides... However, that’d since been one-sided since Rhys had gotten to tag along for one of D’s assignments not too long ago (complete with a new look and shades, much to her then-flustered amusement).

It’d only be fair, then, for the tables to eventually be turned and for her to see what work he does, right? Perhaps...if they hadn’t been so busy recently! Plenty of things to be done and even D found herself with barely a break in keeping toes in line from certain...nosy groups that she had ample knowledge on.

Honestly, you’d think some people would wise up when they’re aware that their dirtiest laundry is in someone else’s hands, but people are always full of surprises.

Anyways, it’s finally a day for them to hang out together. For DL to see how the CEO works! Talk a bit more with his assistant, Cassie, and...

Honestly, realize it’s not as jazzed up as it may seem at first glance.

“That’s it?” D can’t help but muse, having been allowed to overhear a meeting under Rhys’ allowance and the fact she’s kinda marrying the guy sometime in the future. “I always thought that- like- you were super busy and doing big things. I thought that meeting was gonna put me to sleep and I’d embarrass everyone!”

“It’s...” Rhys’ hands work in an awkward gesture, squinting slightly as he pries into his mind for some reason why his CEO work isn’t that bad...but the sigh and slump of his shoulders gives him away before he ever has to say a word. “Alright, alright! You’re...kinda right. I thought it was gonna be pretty cool, too, and for awhile it was! It’s neat, watching a company rise back up and getting say in hiring, what we’re doing... Getting the techies hired to fix the cappuccino machines! Eh, but.... Everything after Atlas got stable got boring.”

“Only for you, boss,” Cassie chirps up, still filing away information in her tablet. “Makes my job easier, these days. Less chaos.”

“Well, I liked the chaos,” he snips back, a pout forming as D giggles at his expression. (It manages to cheer him up a little- brows raising into a more relaxed pout- but he’s definitely not going to completely recover from that for a while longer. For someone who’s gotten so good at professionalism, he can still be such a dork!)

“Remember, boss. One more meeting more towards the evening and you’ve still have paperwork to go through for R&D,” she says, heading over to her desk. Rhys seems a little more put out by that, but D is suddenly more preoccupied with the hand at her lower back as he opens up the door to his office.

“Yes, yes! I know....” He groans as they walk in and D can’t help the little laugh of sympathetic amusement that leaves her, looking up to her grumpy fiance.

“Well, at least this shows that your work is busy and boring, huh?” ...She regrets it the second the words leave her mouth. It sounded so good in her head! A witty comment to bring some laughs! Ugh--

“It really is,” Rhys admits, stroking his hair over with a sigh. He pauses, leaning down to press a kiss to D’s forehead, then walks over to his desk and settles himself in. “The working cogs, seeing plans come to life... That’s the fun part. This?” He sits up, reaching for a folder and waving it about as D walks closer. “Not fun at all! Super boring, actually. I don’t know how anyone else does it.”

“Dedication, I’d imagine?”

“Probably?” He sighs again, already looking pouty before sitting up, grabbing a pen and getting to work as D watches from her spot on the opposite side of his desk. “I just...don’t see the point. Well, I do, but- Agh! My point is I’d rather be more...hands on than here. Kinda sick of doing paper work. It’s all I did at Hyperion, too.

“Besides, the last time I had to do paperwork for R&D I goofed it up, big time.” That catches D’s attention, perking up in curiosity as Rhys starts signing off things, making notes and edits to requests...and she has to know what he goofed up on.

“What do you mean? What didja do?” Rhys sighs, head tilting back into his chair and ruffling it up slightly as he laughs, the sound light with how flustered he is at the memory alone.

“Well, I was pretty tired, it was late... I’d already done a ton of math for wages and this and that, so I couldn’t be bothered with more stuff, right? As it turns out, I signed off on a few remaining papers...one of which was actually testing on these out-of-galaxy creatures that were being brought in. I thought it was something about dogs, in my sleepy haze!!

“Anyways, turns out those creatures are super powerful or something. The scientists of that wing bit off more than they could chew, to say the least of it. Had to hire more scientists, rebuild that sector, and I got scolded for not paying attention.” D’s jaw had dropped somewhere in the middle of that story, surprised and wondering...when? Where?? She would assume it happened before her hiring, but- then again- she’d never been a social person while working here... The bare minimum is what she got away with and so she did.

“That’s just...incredible. Makes me wonder why did I fall in love with the King of Bad Decisions?” D grins when he laughs, seeming to relax and be a lot happier with her jest... Then sitting up with a light in his eyes. (Or was that just his golden eye glowing a little?)

“It’s because I look really good in hot pants. Anymore questions?” That...came out of far left field and it hits her upside the head with the image of Rhys in hot pants. An orange-red color, probably. With the Atlas logo on the butt, maybe? Wait, wHY IS SHE THINKING ABOUT THAT?!

D’s face goes a fantastic pink to match her hair, head ducking down and trying to shoo that image out of her brain right now, holy SHIT--

“Uh, nope! But...where did the hot pants come from?” Her gaze goes from desk to his face and almost stares at the ground when he laughs again, all smiles and grins now.

“I dunno, I think I’d rock them. You’re always making jokes about my height- giraffe man, beanpole- so I thought, hey!, hot pants really make legs obvious, don’t they? I bet I’d look great in them!” He might have a point, but honestly? The power in that visual is way too much for D to handle. (Would it be better to envision it with his usual, dorky socks? ....Hmm, no, that just makes him adorkable.)

“I suppose, but I don’t think I’d have the power to handle it, Rhys.”

“I suppose we’ll have to see about that,” he muses, looking far too smug...and D’s heart skips a few beats in sudden concern.

“What?” “What~?”

#robotarmjokes #self insert #self ship #self insert community #self ship community #otp?: robot arm jokes #Aki Stories #hi I love writing for this OTP #also D is amazing and deserves the best #IT'S TRUE AND I SHALL SAY IT #I HOPE YA LOVE THIS D!!!!!!

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lilaflyy · 6 years

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Fictober Day 3 - “How can I trust you?”

I like this one a lot better than yesterday’s drabble. Sunny and Drako are just much easier for me to write since I have them for the longest time so far I guess. Maddy too, but I have not had the honour to write a drabble with her yet. That will change tomorrow though! c:<

This Sunny’s and Drako’s second encounter and as usual, my precious boy has no idea how to handle the situation but for some reason still manages to win. Must be Sunny’s bad luck. XD

Sunny

I had this feeling as if something was out of place but I could not remember what it was. Not something small as a missing picture on the wall, but this nagging feeling you get when you go on vacation and think for sure you have forgotten something. It was the same, just worse. There was something crucial in my life that I should not have forgotten but ultimately have. No matter how hard I tried to remember what it was, the answer always slipped through my fingers.

The specific answer that was.

There were small clues I had with which I could piece a rough picture together. The biggest of the clues was my iron dagger that had been unsheathed and which I had found lying on my bedside table while it usually would be under my pillow and very definitely not outside its sheath. That, coupled with the other few curiosities—my inexplicably eaten dinner which I had not touched, a print of a foreign shoe in our garden, a scratch on the wooden surface of my bedside table—led me to believe that what I had forgotten, was very probably something supernatural. It would explain why I had forgotten it in the first place, which made me just so much more nervous.

They did not just let you forget. If it had just been a simple incident, then maybe, but I was not just some random person. I was the sibling of a changeling and with that a human that definitely knew too much. I knew it was just a question of time until they would come for me, but I had never thought it would be this early. Who would have thought that I would ever come to question if I would graduate? Not because my grades were slipping, as was the normal reason to fear such an outcome, but because I just did not know if I would be alive that long. The thought scared me.

Sure, I had prepared for it. I had always known they would come and I had collected enough to fend them off for a while, but not for my entire life. And let’s be honest, I really did not want to die.

Thus, came my new, and by my family highly questioned, habit of sitting at my desk with a drawn iron dagger next to me. Close enough to grab it in an emergency. Which is exactly how he found me this evening: drawing some commissioned art piece while keeping a weapon close enough to switch my tablet pen for it in a matter of seconds. I did exactly that when I heard a noise on my balcony.

With the dagger pointed at the intruder I stood up from my desk, the music I had put on still playing in the background with a very unfittingly giddy song.

“There is nothing for you to gain in this household, Aos Sídhe. I have to ask you to leave,” I said, aware how rude it still sounded despite my try to make it sound polite. It was unwise to insult a faerie. Said faerie chuckled.

“Calm down,” he said and held his hands up in surrender. Only now did I notice that one of his hands was clutching a white bag which seemed to be filled with something. I suspiciously narrowed my eyes at it.

“I’m only here to right a mistake, that is all. Call it a favour if you want.”

“I’d rather not. Your kind’s favours always come with a price and I’m not willing to pay it.”

His golden eyes crinkled with amusement and suddenly it was like a curtain had been drawn from my mind. The memories from two nights ago came flooding back. I remembered catching him in my room when I returned from downstairs. He had tried to get a little beast that looked like a dragon away from my meal and I, being familiar with fey things as I was, had instantly counted two and two together and dove to my bed to get the iron dagger. When I had turned around, he had been gone though and soon after the memory of him had been gone too.

“You know a lot. That can get you killed.”

“I like to believe that knowledge is power. Maybe it will get me killed, maybe it won’t. We all have to die someday.”

For a moment, the faerie looked like he wanted to argue, but then he just sighed and shook his head.

I raised the dagger again when he took a step into my room, right over the line of salt I had made in front of my balcony door. Well, I already knew that it did not help against all faeries, but it had at least been worth a try. I wanted to tell him that he was not welcome here and that he should leave immediately, but I didn’t. He was a faerie and faeries did as they pleased. If he wanted to stay, then he would stay. I would just have to keep my guard up for the duration of his visit and then try to secure my room even better in case he decided to drop by again in the future.

He stopped a few steps away from me, keeping a polite distance but still being close enough that I would be able to stab him if I’d take a step forward. I expected him to jump forward, maybe even use that sword of his that was strapped to his back, but instead he just held out the hand that carried the bag. It took me a few seconds to realise that he meant me to take the bag, but I was not that stupid.

Faerie gifts were a lose-lose situation. If you did not accept them, you offended the faerie which could easily get you cursed or worse. If you accepted the gift, it would bind you to repay the favour and the faerie could ask for anything then. And anything meant anything. Shortly put: you could not win.

“What is in the bag?” I asked to stall.

“Just some takeout food from the Greek restaurant around the corner.”

My eyebrows rose at that. Takeout food was probably the last thing I had expected. It made it much worse though. If there was something that was worse than accepting a faerie gift, then it was accepting faerie food. Maybe it was faerie food in disguise. Well, there was one easy way to find out.

“It was prepared there with human ingredients by human chefs and has nothing fey on it?” Faeries could not lie. If he would keep quiet, then the food was probably poisoned or hexed.

“Yes, it was. I did not know what you liked though, so I hope Spanakopita is alright?”

Alright then, real food it was. A faerie had just entered my room through the balcony and offered me Greek takeout food. What even was my life?!

“Why?” I asked, since that had bugged me ever since he had showed up.

“Because it would be a shame for it to go to waste?”

“No, why are you breaking into my room and bringing me Greek food?”

“Oh,” he said and suddenly seemed shy, which was another thing I would have never thought a faerie to be capable of. “I just thought that since Cyn broke into your room and ate your dinner, that the least I could do was to repay you for that inconvenience? I know it’s not the same as what you had, but I heard the Greek place was pretty good, so I thought it would be alright.”

What. The. Actual. Hell!?

“So, let me get this straight: You broke into my room because your companion…pet…whatever ate my dinner and when I was about to attack you, you disappeared. And now you come back with takeout food because you want to repay me for the dinner you ruined? Okay, where is the catch?”

“No catch, I swear! Just righting a wrong.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Most Aos Sídhe would rather laugh at my dinner being ruined and the last thing on their mind would be fixing it.”

“Well, I’m not exactly an Aos Sídhe, so that mindset does not really apply for me.”

“Are you solitary f—”

Don’t say “faerie”! They listen when you say that word.

One had to keep in mind that I was a researcher of faeries and my only connection to them at all was my brother Hayden. He knew about as much as I did and therefore could only rarely surprise me with anything. I had never encountered faeries except him and I was familiar with the theoretical, not the practical. Therefore, it was an understandable reaction to jump back and get ready to stab the black-haired weirdo in front of me when I suddenly heard his voice in my head. Regardless of what he said, I would have shut up anyway at that.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t say the word either.”

“What are you?” The question was out before I could stop it. He could not say the word “faerie”, he could walk over salt, he looked very human yet was no Aos Sídhe. The question was justified.

“Cursed.” It was a single word, delivered with sad smile and a voice that made clear that he had accepted this fact long ago already. I almost felt sorry for him.

“Wait, does that mean you are human? Did you make a bargain to use magic?”

“Why don’t we talk over some Spanakopita and I’ll tell you a little bit about it?”

“How can I trust you?”

“Giving me a chance to explain myself would be a good start. And…err…could you maybe put away that dagger? Iron or not, I’d prefer not to be stabbed tonight.”

“The dagger stays, but I promise you not to stab you as long as you give me no reason to.”

He sighed. “Fair enough, I guess.”

We awkwardly sat down on my floor, the box with Spanakopita between us. I had to admit that they were actually very good and I might go to said Greek restaurant with Lotta when the opportunity arose.

“Let’s start easy: Why would you voluntarily give me information without getting anything in return for it?”

He smirked. “Because you will forget this whole conversation anyway. At least as long as I am not around.”

“Creepy much?”

“It’s safer that way. The less you know, the better for everyone involved.”

“That includes you I guess? So, tell me, what would someone like you have to fear from the fair folk?”

“The same as you I guess. Humans with fey qualities are not particularly popular among them and they would rather like to get rid of us.”

“So, you are human?”

“Yes and no. I’m neither human nor one of the fair folk, but something in between. It’s quite bothersome.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, knowing pretty well what he probably had to deal with. Hayden, as a changeling, might be a faerie, but he was raised by humans and wanted to be human which also made him be something in between both worlds.

“It’s alright,” he said and I knew it was a lie.

“I know names are a touchy subject, but could you still tell me yours?”

He hesitated for a bit. “Phoenix. You can call me Phoenix.” His hesitation melted away to make room for a mischievous grin. “And what about you? Can you give me your name?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that question. As if I would fall for it!

“Nice try.”

He chuckled. “Well, it was worth a shot. I will just have to call you Sunshine then.”

I tried very hard not to blush.

#Lila's writing #Unseen #drabble #fictober18 #Sunny #Drako | Phoenix

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fanfic-from-a-67-impala · 6 years

Text

A Supernatural x Reader Story Chapter Thirty-Two: Devil May Care

Word count: 4162

ASxRS Masterlist

Your tires squeal as they turn off the road and into a grassy area, coming to a jolting stop next to the Impala. Sam and Dean rise from the picnic bench when they see you pulling up, an awning shielding them from the morning sun.

Your relief at seeing the boys safe dulls, overshadowed by the flames of rage licking your stomach. You slam your door behind you and stomp toward them.

Dean stumbles backward when you shove his shoulder. "The whole freaking day, you can't pick up a damn phone?" you shout, voice trembling with fury.

"Wha– Hey!" he yelps, catching your elbow when you jab at him again.

You yank your arm out of his grasp. "Two words, Dean," you spit through clenched teeth. "'We're alive.' That's all I needed."

A look of regret on his face replaces confusion as he opens his mouth to speak but can't seem to find words.

A calming breath passes your lips, a wave of relief quenching the fire, and you pull him by the flap of his jacket close enough to wrap your arms around him.

He freezes, shocked, before closing his arms around you, too. "Sorry, (Y/N)."

"Don't 'sorry, (Y/N)' me," you snap into his shirt before pulling away. His eyes droop with weariness but he seems unscathed by whatever events occurred the day before.

"And you," you sneer at the figure lingering behind him. "You scared the crap out of me."

Sam drops his eyes, wide with dread, until you have stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at you. "Never again, you got that?"

"Yes, ma'am," he nods and lets you pull him in for a hug.

You sigh as you let him go, the fire dying out completely. "What happened to you two? I got to the nearest hospital – it was trashed, warding everywhere. No one could tell me where you got to."

"It wasn't us. We were on the road all night," Sam informs you.

Dean shifts beside him, like he knows something more, but speaks up before you can press him. "What about you? I'd, uh –" he gestures to the bruise on your jaw "– hate to see the other guy."

"Angel," you explain. "Dead now. What happened there anyway?"

"Cas got Palpatine'd by Metatron," Dean says. "Turns out, he was brewing up a spell to cast all the angels out of Heaven."

"'All the angels'? That's how many?"

"Don't know. Thousands," he shrugs.

"Damn," you mutter. "And where's Castiel?"

"He crash-landed in Colorado. Metatron took his wings, his grace, his... harp. I told him to make for the bunker," Dean says.

"And Crowley's still..." you nod to the trunk of his car.

Sam furrows his brows in confusion. "Still what?"

• • • • • • • • • • • •

"You getting all this?" you say through your phone.

"I'm still wrapping my mind around the 'angels exist' thing," Tracy says.

"I know it's a lot," you sigh, "but a few years ago, you didn't think demons existed. These things are just another monster."

"Who'll smite me before I can say 'angel'," she says, her voice less shaky.

"Right. Keep your head up out there," you say.

"Got it. See you around, (Y/N)."

You set your phone back on the library table and strike your pen through Tracy's name on a sheet of paper, sighing when you see how many more names you have yet to cross off.

The three of you managed to get Crowley in the bunker, ear-muffed and blindfolded, now in the dungeon, bound in a devil's trap with demon-proof handcuffs. With no other plan to close the Hell gates, you and the boys decided to keep him trapped until he told you the names of all the demons on Earth.

Dean calls around his own circle of hunters across the room, telling them about the angels falling and how to kill them, as you do.

"Got something," Sam announces.

You and Dean turn to him; even Kevin raises his head from the angel tablet.

"Coronado, California. In the last twenty-four hours, it's seen three freak thunderstorms, and almost all the farmers in the area have reported their animals either missing or mutilated."

"I'll take demons for a thousand, Alex," Dean remarks.

"And, get this – this morning, three people dropped dead on a bus outside a Navy base."

You peek over his shoulder at the article on his computer. "Any witnesses?"

"It looks like the driver and any other passengers deserted the scene," Sam says.

You drum your fingers on the table, your eyes darting from the screen back to your list of names. "Why don't you two check it out?"

"You're not coming?"

"I've still got dozens of hunters to call, plus all of Bobby's old contacts," you note. "And somebody's got to stay on the web. With everything going on, these cases are going to start popping up like daisies. The more we can track, the better."

"Good point," Dean comments. "Let us know if you find anything."

• • • • • • • • • • • •

Apparent angel sightings appear throughout the world. After the boys leave, you spend the night with one shoulder holding a phone to your ear as you skim over your computer and mark the sightings on the map in the war room, letting your autopilot move your mouth to repeat the same information to each hunter in your book.

You don't realize the sun has risen again until Kevin emerges from his room. You sent him to bed last night, knowing he hadn't slept since before the angels fell, and now you set a plate of eggs and bacon next to his coffee cup.

"Not hungry," he says, eyes not leaving the tablet and pile of papers below it.

"When's the last time you ate?" You raise an eyebrow at him and, when he gives a yielding sigh, shove the handle of a fork into his hand.

Three more cups of coffee into the day, a lull falls over the pattern of angel activity, leaving you to study the map and pace the room.

Your eyes land on the puncture in the handrail near the door, travelling to the crossbow Kevin aimed at you and Dean when he thought you were intruders.

"Kev, you got a minute?" you call into the library, and gesture to the hall before he can say no. "Come with me."

Once you hear the padding of his reluctant footsteps behind yours, you turn into the gun range. You pick up a gun from the arsenal and check the clip.

"What are we doing here?" he asks, eager to get back to the tablet.

"You are going to learn something that all the AP classes in the world couldn't teach you," you say. "You ever shoot a gun before?"

He shakes his head.

"All right, this is a clip," you explain, holding it up. "Slide it in, like so, and it's loaded." You walk over to one of the booths and take your stance in front of a target. "Then pull the slide, aim –" you shoot into the target's chest "– and pull the trigger. Easy enough?"

He stands beside you, arms crossed. "Why am I here?"

"Because you shot an arrow at a handrail yesterday," you say, and press the clip into one of his hands, the grip of the gun in the other.

He studies them before glancing back up at you. You don't break the gaze, and he knows the sincerity of your request.

As if remembering the steps you took to set up, he turns both items over in his hands before sliding the clip into place and looks to you for approval.

You nod, and he steps in line with the target and mimics your motions, pulling the slide and taking aim. With a bang, the bullet leaves the gun and carves out a circle in the brick wall.

"That's okay," you say. "That's why we're here. Try it again."

He shoots again, hitting the corner of the target; again and again, each shot a staggering journey to the mark. He empties a clip and you hand him another one.

"Listen to me," you say, catching his eye. "I know you hate this – all of this. You never chose this life."

He lowers his gaze, his hands following.

"But I intend on getting you out and behind some white picket fence in one piece."

He shifts his feet so he faces you. "Dean says guys like us are never out."

"Yeah? Well..." you chuckle, "Dean's not the boss of me."

He laughs, lightly, and loads the clip.

"Point is, you've got us. You've got me and Dean and Sam, and we're going to protect you until you get to that light at the end of the tunnel," you say. "But you've got to do your part, and that means target practice. All right?"

"Okay," he nods.

"Good. Empty this clip and we'll pack it up for today."

By nightfall, you both sit in the library, you at your computer, him on the tablet.

A shrill ring cuts through the air. You raise your head to the direction of the sound and find a shoe box at the other end of the table, filled with cell phones. One of the boys' spare phones with its screen lit displays the word Unknown above answer and reject keys.

With a wary finger, you press the green answer button and bring the phone to your ear, waiting to see if you can hear anything before answering. "Hello?"

"(Y/N)," a woman's voice drawls. "What, Howdy and Doody leave their rinky-dink secretary to the phones?"

You feel a chill down your spine, but force it away. "What do you want, Abaddon?"

"World domination, an endless stream of infant blood," she lists. "But I'll settle for you giving those boys a message for me."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because you don't want to see two hunters' brains splattered on a wall any more than they do."

• • • • • • • • • • • •

"Irv Franklin and Tracy Bell," you repeat to the boys over the phone.

"Irv's a friend, don't know Tracy," Dean says.

"She's a hunter, too. She's..." you trail off. "She's a kid."

"What else did Abaddon say?"

"She gave me coordinates. They point to a spot on the outskirts of Eugene, Oregon. I'm headed there now."

"Text us an address. We'll meet you," Dean says.

You tap your fingers against the steering wheel as you drive down the empty highway. "You know this is a trap?"

"Yeah, and you just want to walk right into it?" Sam says.

"Guns blazing," Dean replies. "You guys with me?"

You hear Sam chuckling next to him. "You know it."

The purr of the Impala's engine over the speaker gives you the image of the boys, side by side, Dean with one hand on the wheel, Sam balancing his phone and computer in the passenger seat. The thought brings a smile to your lips.

"Always," you agree.

They wait outside a fence, leaning against the car, when you get there. You take out a shotgun, swing a bag full of salt and holy water over your shoulder, and follow them through the fence.

"The hell happened here?" Dean asks.

All the buildings in sight have mold and rust growing on their sides, and appear to be abandoned. Cracks and bumps have formed in the dusty roads, though no tire tracks or oil spots can be found.

"A local chemical plant sprung a leak years ago," Sam explains. "They evacuated three square blocks. I guess it's still contaminated."

Dean takes a step back. "Wait, so this whole place is poison?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "That's not going to help."

When you turn back to look at them, Dean has a hand hovering over his crotch. You roll your eyes.

"Doesn't hurt," he shrugs.

A crashing thud sounds from inside a nearby diner. You stop in your tracks, shotgun trained on the door.

Sam bursts through first, followed by you and Dean. In the center of the room, two figures sit gagged and bound to chairs.

"Irv," Dean calls, rushing over to him.

You step across to the other figure and undo her gag. "Hey," you whisper to Tracy, who looks more annoyed than hurt.

"Where's Abaddon?" Dean asks Irv.

"Abaddon's been torturing hunters. She's trying to get intel on you boys," he answers.

"Do you know why?"

"I seriously doubt she wants to add you to her Christmas card list," he remarks. "Now you want to make with the rescue or what?"

You pull out a flask from the bag and hand it to Sam, who unscrews the cap.

"Right after you take a shot of holy water, huh?" Dean says.

Sam pours a dose of water from the flask into Tracy's mouth as Dean does the same with Irv.

"Happy?" Tracy says with a glare.

"Sorry about that," Dean mumbles, taking out a knife.

"Don't worry about it," Irv says. "Last thing you need is us popping black eyes."

Tracy and Irv slide out of their chairs, brushing the rope off their wrists.

"You're Tracy, right? I'm Sam Winchester," he says.

"Good for you," she retorts.

You nudge her shoulder so that her eyes meet yours. "Not now," you warn, under your breath, and she rolls her eyes.

"She's new. We did a shifter job in Sacramento together," Irv explains. "Smart, but got a mouth on her."

Sam and Dean exchange a glance.

"Let's gear up."

• • • • • • • • • • • •

Your group of five escapes to the back of the next building, the trap set inside the diner for the demons.

"All right," Dean says, "we gotta flank 'SEAL Team Douche' in there, so, (Y/N), Irv, you and me will go left, Sam and Tracy, you go right."

You don't have time to give her a warning glance before she pushes Sam off from where he began to lead her forward.

"Don't touch me," she hisses.

"Whoa, what's the problem?" Dean questions, both him and Sam wearing confused expressions.

Her resentful eyes skate over you before landing on Sam again. "My family's dead because of him."

You risk a peek around the corner where the demons should walk through the front door of the restaurant any second. Your grip tightens around your angel blade.

"I watched a demon slaughter my parents," she continues, "and the whole time, it talked about how it was celebrating. How some dumb kid let Lucifer out of his cage."

Shock replaces the confusion on Sam's face, followed by an enormous guilt. He looks like he wants to say something, to apologize, but can't find the words.

You want to find some way to reassure him, to remind him that what happened wasn't his fault.

But around the corner, two figures, clad in the blue-and-grey of U.S. Navy uniforms, each carrying a rifle, storm into the diner.

"We don't have time for this," you warn. "Dean, Tracy – this way."

You give Sam's arm a quick squeeze as you brush past him to the opposite side of the building.

Dean and Tracy follow you to the corner, where the diner comes into view. No movement, and no sign of the demons, but the windows are too dark to see into the room.

"I think they're still inside," Dean voices your thoughts as he steps up from behind you. "We wait until they come out, and we pick them off one by one."

The three of you round the brick-lain corner slowly.

"Listen, for the record," Dean says, glancing at Tracy before turning his eyes back to the diner again, "Sam's not the only guy who thought he was doing right, and watched it all go to crap. That's just part of –"

"Being a hunter," she finishes, and nods in your direction. "You sound like her."

His eyes dart up to you, then back to her. "It's part of being human. Look, you want to be pissed off at Sam, that's fine. But if you want to go after somebody, you make sure they've got black eyes. Gotta know who the real monsters are in this world, kid."

You stare at him in awe of his way with words. Though they weren't meant for you, they give you hope.

The three of you step forward, Dean in the front, Tracy behind him, and you at the rear. You follow them, keeping a close eye on your group's blind spots.

A sickening crack sounds through the alley and you snap your gaze forward in time to see Dean tumble to the ground, a leather-wrapped red head saunters out of hiding.

Beside you, Tracy fires devil's trap bullets into Abaddon's midriff, one after another, until she pulls the trigger and the empty chamber only clicks in response.

Abaddon lifts her shirt to reveal where the six bullets barely wedged themselves into a bulletproof vest. "Kevlar," she laughs, and lets her shirt drop. "Beats magic bullets."

She steps toward Tracy with a murderous grin, but you block her path with a jab of the angel blade through her chest. She glows orange, groaning in pain, and doubles over long enough for you to shove her shoulder backward.

She stumbles back, where Dean uncaps a flask and flings holy water at her face.

As the water steams off of her skin, Dean shoves a set of keys into Tracy's hands. "My car is three blocks over. Go get more bullets, more holy water – get everything."

Almost recovered from the blow, Abaddon lurches toward Dean, who has his back turned to her. You start at her with the angel blade, but she casts it to the side and grasps your wrist, holding it back, leaving you open for her to send her fist into your stomach.

Buckled over, you reach behind you for your gun, but your fingers barely brush the grip before she slams a forearm across your chest, pinning you against the wall high enough for you to thrust your knee at her lungs.

You hit her jaw once, twice, hearing her laugh between each barely pained grunt. With smug upturned lips and a crushing force, she grasps your neck and lifts you off your feet. You pry at her fingers, to no avail. Her eyes dart to something behind you, though, and she throws you to the side.

You only see the ground surging toward you before you black out.

A bright light pierces your vision, bringing you back to consciousness, and you squeeze your eyes shut against the glare. Over the low ringing in your ears you hear voices.

"An angel?" Abaddon growls.

Dean speaks in a strained but undaunted voice. "You think we'd roll up to this mouse trap without some backup?"

Glass shatters, and you feel the fragments pepper your back. Further behind you, the shards crunch under boots, as if someone stumbles across it.

"(Y/N)?" Dean says. He tugs your shoulder so you lie on your back. "Hey, you with me?"

The sunlight sends an excruciating jolt through your head as you force your eyes open to a squint. You roll to your other side and see the faded green walls of the diner, the windows gone and the blinds a tangled mess.

Dean snakes an arm under your back and helps you to your feet.

"Abaddon?" you murmur.

"She's gone. For now," he adds, his hands still a firm grip on your shoulders. "You good?"

The headache dulls to a throb, bouncing around your skull like a ping-pong ball. The side of your face stings to the touch and your hand comes away spotted with red. "I'm fine."

His eyes linger on yours a moment longer before he releases you and turns in the direction of the diner. "Come on. We gotta get to Sam."

You follow his slow jog to the building. He cradles his right arm in his left.

"How's the shoulder?" you ask.

He stretches out his arm, wincing so slightly you almost don't notice. "It's been better."

The two of you burst through the broken door of the restaurant. The body of a demon lies sprawled across the counter, and another at the foot of a table. Sam stands over the last one, blood-covered demon blade in hand.

"They were going to kill him, Dean," he says, only he looks different, more stoic, and doesn't speak with the rush of words you have come to expect from him, especially after the adrenaline rush of a fight. He even holds the knife differently, like an instrument rather than a weapon.

By the time he turns to face you, you have your gun pointed at him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean warns. "Put down the gun. I can explain."

An angel, Abaddon said. You hadn't processed her words until now.

Sam, or whatever stands in front of you, remains unfazed.

"Who are you?" you demand, not making a move to lower the weapon, though you know it won't hurt the angel. "Don't."

He draws back from the step he began to take toward you. "My name is Ezekiel. I'm an angel."

"I got that," you snap. "Skip to the part about what you're doing in Sam."

His eyes dart to Dean.

"Relax, (Y/N). He's trying to help," Dean says.

Warily, you pry your eyes away from the angel to glance at Dean. "You knew?"

"Look, after the trials, Sam was in bad shape," he explains. "The only way to save him was to let Zeke in so he could heal him."

"Angels need consent before they occupy a vessel, don't they?" you question. "Sam never would've agreed to it, not even if it would save his life."

You have turned your gaze back to Ezekiel, so you can't see Dean, only hear his silence.

"While Sam was unconscious, I entered his mind and gave him a choice," Ezekiel continues. "Live, or die."

"You tricked him," you simplify. "So, this entire time, you've been pretending–"

"Sam has been the Sam you know, in every way that matters," he says. "I divert his consciousness on occasion, when I need to speak with Dean."

"What's keeping him from casting you out?" you ask, but the answer dawns on you, bringing about a sick feeling, before either of them can respond. "He doesn't know."

Lowering your gun, you look across to Dean for the confirmation you don't need. He shifts his feet, avoiding your eyes.

"Dean, what the hell?" you exclaim.

"What, did you have a better plan?" he argues. "You were going to let him die."

"It was what he wanted! Do you have any idea what it feels like to have something inside–" you cut yourself off, lowering your tone when you feel anger breaking your voice. "Do you know how many lines you're crossing here?"

"Don't you think I know?" he hisses. "Don't you think I've been over all the ways this could go sideways? Not to mention every demon kill – that's on me, too."

"Oh, don't even get me started on that one," you groan.

He pauses to take a breath, allowing you both to settle your agitation.

"Look, Sammy's alive, okay? And he's better. I thought we were on the same side here," he remarks.

"We were on the same side when someone shoved a knife through his back. But now?" you trail off. "How do you even know we can trust this guy?"

"You can trust me," Ezekiel insists. "But there is no reason for Sam to know I'm in here."

You turn back to Dean, finding it difficult to watch Sam's body being... manipulated. To see his once comforting hazel eyes emotionless. "You expect me to lie to him?"

"It's like you said – he'd cast him out, and then he'd die. Is that what you want?"

"It doesn't matter what I want," you snap. "It matters what Sam wants."

"Sam wants to live."

"What, on angelic life support? You really think so?"

"I can't lose my brother again!"

His words take you back, forcing you to remember what you've forgotten in your frustration. Dean is human. He was about to lose his brother. And he did something stupid.

You must stare at him for a second too long because he allows his face to soften under your fading glower.

"I won't tell him," you agree, though some of the bitterness remains in your voice.

Ezekiel takes a step forward, now that you have calmed down enough not to shoot him. "Allow me," he says, and raises a hand to the scratched side of your face.

"No," you yelp, instinctively, backing away from the angel into the edge of a table. "Just... don't."

You see him drop his hand, peering only in his direction, still unable to look at him in Sam's body. You turn your attention instead to the duffel bag and an array of weapons on the counter.

"Let's just pack up and move out," you mumble.

#Supernatural #Supernatural fanfic #Spn fanfic #Supernatural x reader #Spn x reader #series #A Supernatural x Reader Story #writing is hard

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