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demonologistfucker · 3 years

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WIP Angel MC! x Obey Me pt 2

Part Two - The Museum date with Satan. This is just a ruff of what I got so far. I am enjoying this but i Haven’t had a lot of focus for writing. So I just wanna share what I got so far.

Step into the shoes of an intellectual. I know they are uncomfortable, but these are cushioned with a bias outside human prejudice. They have their own prejudices of course, it’s just not As silly as a humans…. Either way, it’s a different way of looking at history. There is no need to keep colonial powers looking refined and noble.

This museum is not full of anything Real. They are all magical replicas of artifacts long burned, brutalized and forgotten. While it could be enlightening to a great deal of humanity. The plaques mainly speak of the demons who worked along with those doing the burning. It left a rather sick feeling in the angel’s stomach. While showing off the great wonder that was ruined. People still boasted about causing the burning.

Satan did a better job explaining the history. He was detached. Thinking about the matter as a history, and could talk about it easily. Yet when he turned to MC. They had tears in their eyes. Thinking of what it felt like to just be a people, and slaughtered for living. The Angel felt the reality. Both marveling at the people who could create such art and monuments, and the utter despair at how this art came to the Angel’s eyes. So Eventually the Angel started to tune out the world around them, and focused more on their guide. A stranger who was still linked arms with MC.

“I have a question,” MC looks up into Satan’s eyes.

“I might have an answer,” The corner of Satan’s mouth pulled into a sharp smile.

“Do you view angels and demons as enemies?” MC watches Satan’s face closely. His eyebrows shot up for only a second. A brief flash of surprise, and then quickly to thought. His gaze drifting upwards as he rolled the matter over in his mind.

“I think about this a lot, actually,” Satan rubs his chin. “I’m unsure. We are certainly told that we are opposites, but if we looked at the data, I think we’d find something else.” Satan chews on the thought, “There is a whole research of study on whether good even exists, yet there is a realm that claims to obtain All Good. Or define what it is. Which is just ridiculous, and as you can see.” Satan puts a hand on his chest. “Demons are not raging beasts. Sin has its place in reality. Too much of it would be disastrous, true, but not enough would also be a problem.” Satan kept his gaze away from the Angel. Not truly wanting to see them get upset about his stance.

“Can you give me an example?” MC tilts their head. “No one’s talked about sin like that before.”

“Well… Let’s use wrath. Wrath being deemed a sin which is reasonable at first. Being angry and destructive is not helpful. However, wrath has been brought out to protect children, or to fight for justice. Wrath without thought is bad, but it is not bad in itself.” Satan glances at MC to see their expression. Then stays when he sees that MC is thinking it over.

“What matters is how it’s used.” MC says softly. To which Satan nods. “There are plenty of supposedly holy people who are really cruel to keep their virtues.” Now both MC and Satan are sharing a smile. “Some of those people really are the worst. They manage to live up to His standards and yet are still-” MC grits their teeth.

“Bastards? Fuckers?” Satan tries to keep a helpful face, but can’t help the corner of his mouth twitch up.

“Yes!” MC shakes their head to let out some frustration. “Then they summon me to bring them to the bathhouse.”

“You have to bring humans to bathhouses?”

“Where ever they want to go. It is their ‘paradise’ after all, and since I’m not a high ranking angel, so I’m basically supposed to care take for whatever human souls are around me.”

“That sounds… Infuriating.” Satan says politely. He’s overjoyed to see the Angel seething with annoyance, but then something drowns it out. Their face falls and goes back to a placid expression.

“It’s the duty of an angel.” MC’s voice is dryer than before.

“Hmm…” Satan realizes he shouldn’t be staring at the Angel and looks back to whatever exhibit they had landed in front of. “Do you like your duties?”

“Do you like yours?” The Angel looks blankly ahead.

“Ours are very different. I simply Am the avatar. I can spend my days reading and be finishing my duty.”

“Really?” MC looks up in surprises.

“Well, sorta of,” Satan chuckles. “I have RAD duties I can’t get out of, But that’s my choice in the end. I respect Diavolo enough to agree to his leadership, and RAD is his domain, so I do it for him.” Satan shrugs. “They don’t take up too much time for an immortal anyways.”

“That’s… so different from Heaven. I get maybe five hours to myself a day?” MC can’t even give an accurate number. Keeping track just makes it worse. “It’s all preselected work, too. We have no choice it what domains we’re put under.”

“No choice at all?”

“Supposedly it’s from the Divine plan,” MC rolls their eyes. “But I’m unsure of it.”

“No plan is ever perfect, let alone one made from one mind alone.” Even as Satan says this, he is prepared for a fight. His few conversations with angel’s before him had always ended in one. Angels devoted their existences to this divine plan. Critiquing it was a critique of everything they stood for. Instead, MC just nods. Their eyes overwhelmed in sadness. So Satan takes a deep breath and refocuses on the world around them.

“It is amazing what humans are able to turn rocks into,” Satan looks at the old stone statue with amazement.

“I’ve tried to do it before, and I can never manage.” MC tapped their chin as they reminisced. “They can make rock smooth, as if they were just pinching clay.”

“I can’t even work clay well.” Satan chuckles. Then there is silence as MC’s mind wanders down a bunny trail.

“Earlier they said that I would be attending school, is that true?” Satan nods. “Weird,” MC begins to laugh.

“Why do you laugh? I will also be attending.” Satan says this even though he finds the whole school situation fairly fun himself. Still remembers the dinner when Lucifer broke the news that joining RAD also meant having to go through university again. They had completed their courses millennia ago. Satan was honestly a little excited. Brushing up his skills wouldn’t be the worst time. Though, all the other students sounded rather stressful.

“It will be curious. I didn’t expect to be introduced to Hell this way. It’s just… Okay, you’ll understand if I tell you how I imagine this, Exchange, would go in the Celestial realm.” Satan nods and leans back. Ready to listen. “Greeted with trumpets, obviously.” Satan rolls his eyes. “Then a personal conversation with It.” This makes Satan chuckle. “Then guided around the Celestial realm to all its numerous wonders. Shown the polished paradise where you can indulge in Nearly anything.” MC lifts a finger up with a crooked grin. “Though, you Can’t be a sinner, so you must be nice to Everyone you meet. No matter how annoying. If an Issue arises, you have to bring it up at court, and have it processed. It’s worse for angels, but guests wouldn’t see that. It would take months to see the court bit anyway. It would all be Sickly sweet.”

“And here you met a busy prince, told you had to go to school, and left to get eaten.” Satan keeps his head forward, but glances to see the angel’s reaction.

“I’m enjoying it a lot.” MC smiles.

“Not worried about your safety?”

“Not Much,” MC Shrugs. “I don’t think I’ll be totally helpless,” Then MC looks to Satan’s face. Which seems to loudly be saying ‘okay, tell yourself that sweetheart’. “Do you think I should worry?”

“I think it was wise that you asked for a guide,”

“Me to,” MC smiled, “I like your company.” MC pulls the hand they have clasped with Satan’s closer. For a moment, holding Satan against them. Letting their wing brush against his back. Then MC eases back. Failing to hide a blush that ran across their face. “ Just don’t imagine me helpless.”

“I could never.” Satan smiles softly. “I am the Avatar of wrath after all, and as I can tell.” He looks down at his open hand. Pretending to hold a board. “You have indulged in my sin at least six times.” A humorously low number for Satan. The average human indulged in it at least 50 times by their first birthday. That’s for a remarkably well tempered child, too.

“That high?” MC winces, but then straightens their spines. Remember Why that had indulged, and feeling proud of that choice.

“That is very low, and I think it would be good for your health to indulge in it a little more.”

“Is this how you became friends with Alexander?”

“It’s how I became much more than friends, Dear.” Satan puts a hand on his chest. Looking utterly too proud of himself. MC grimace only deepened as they felt their face heat up. They are saved by an alert on Satan’s D.D.D. “I am afraid I have dinner soon. Your human roommate will be at purgatory hall for dinner, though. I can walk you back if you like?” Satan looks rather annoyed at his phone, but his face relaxes as he looks at MC.

“That would be nice,” MC smiles and can feel the heat once again rise in their face and chest. “What on your D.D.D made you so upset?”

“Oh, you could see that?” Satan looks rather apologetic.

“Clear as day, man,” MC has to try and not laugh.

“The message came from Lucifer,” Again he says the name with such disgust. MC wants to giggle. “He was reminded I must come to dinner and meet the new human.”

“The face you just made,” MC has to put a hand over their mouth. Thankfully, they were almost out of the museum. But on the way on they got a couple glares from the Serious Observers. “What about this new human is so upsetting?”

“Oh it’s not them,” Satan grimaces, but then straightens his spine.

“Then what is it?”

“The process of picking was idiotic. It took four years for them to finally decided on what three humans to pick. The last one was completely random, it turns out.” Satan takes a deep breath. “I left the project after the first human was picked.”

“Who are they?”

“Solomon.” Satan says with a grimace. Left is a gentle way of putting what Satan did when Solomon was picked. The table was thrown through the wall and Satan marched out through the hole.

“Who?”

“You don’t know? Oh, right… Angel wouldn’t hear about him, I guess.” Satan chews on his lip for a second. “He is an ancient king who managed to get pacts with 72 demons, and accidentally became immortal.” Satan’s has a great number of suspicions about Solomon. There are barely any humans who have One pact with a demon. Yet this human managed to get 72, and immortality. While also maintaining a beloved relationship with a great number of people. To Satan, this reeked of evil in hiding. “He’s also a super powerful wizard and has gone through the university magic program so many times he rewrote a portion of it.”

“So that’s who they picked to show off the magical prowess, huh?”

“It doesn’t even work,” Satan groans. Satan had sat through hours of meetings debating which humans to brings, and how their presence would affect the experience for Other humans in the trip. They fisted wanted a human who had some understanding of the magical to be a grounding force for the other two. Satan had many suggestions of Other magicians who could do a job. Magicians who did have 72 pacts with demons. One of whom being his younger Sibling. “We should have picked a human who could actually use the program. He was a powerful magician before coming to our school. He used it to have fun and meet people.“

“So he’s open to fun?” MC bounces slightly as they walk.

“He can be… but he’s often looking out for himself first.” Since Satan so clearly distrusts Solomon. MC chooses to ignore this, and instead is excited to meet this weird wizard.

“Ah, prioritizing ones own needs. The gift of the ego… that we all have.” MC smirks. Feeling that MC was poking fun at Satan. He bristled and turned a lovely read.

“It’s not just ego,” Satan huffs. “How could he make so many pacts without being devious?”

“I don’t know,” MC shrugs. “Have you asked him?”

“No,” Satan looks aghast. “He’s a cunning being, I can’t just ask him.”

“I’ve heard cunning humans can be the most fun,” MC is now starting to walk back to campus with a little more speed.

“Who would say that?” Satan looks bewildered at the little angel.

“Simeon,” MC says, unbothered by Satan’s judgement.

“He enjoys Lucifer’s company, I would not blindly trust Simeon’s taste.” Satan’s lip curls upward when he mentions Lucifer. MC thought on the matter. Simeon had given Lucifer a hug. When it was rather clear that Lucifer was Not a hugger.

“Do you know if Simeon and Lucifer know each other? I’ve never heard Simeon talk about him, but it’s also frowned upon to talk about him in general.”

“I wouldn’t know, but Lucifer did spend the most time in heaven out of all of us,”

“Ah, who’s Us?”

“Oh my brothers,” Satan sighs, “They might know if Simeon and Lucifer have a history, but I won’t be asking for you.”

“That’s fair,” MC nods.

“Do they not talk about the revolution in the celestial realm?”

“Only brief mention. He doesn’t like it being brought up so… most just avoid the topic. I really don’t know much about it.”

“Hmm,” Satan frowns. He didn’t want to strike Lucifer’s ego, but what he did is important history. “I might have some history books you could borrow if you’d like.” It was strange being confronted with the Angel’s reality. Satan couldn’t imagine a life without living in the shadow of that revolution. His exists was born from its grief and agony, and this Angel knew of it only in passing. Did that mean they didn’t know his history at all?

“Oh, that would be nice, but” The Angel blushes and closes their eyes.” I’m not the best of readers. My eyes get distracted?”

“I have heard of conditions similar to that,” Satan nods, “Well the topic is a heavy one, but if you wanted I could explain our side of the history some time.” They were now walking down the path to Purgatory hall. Satan felt is stomach dip at the thought of leaving. Next would be a dinner of more polite conversation. With the chance, he’d be living with two new assholes now. “If you wanted I could put my contact in your D.D.D. That way we can schedule, and If you need a guide again-” His words faltered as the blush becomes too hot.

“I would like that very much.” MC Smiles and hands over their D.D.D.

“Oh-” Satan just finished it with a smile, and then takes the D.D.D. With thin fingers he types it all in. “I do have a schedule, so I can’t be your guide always but,” Satan looks into the Angel’s eyes, and feels his heart get stuck in his throat. “Don’t be afraid to ask.”

“I definitely won’t,” MC says, even though their heart was starting to race. MC stumbled as they hit the first steps up into Purgatory hall. “Thank you for taking me around.” MC’s wings flutter slightly, trying to dispel anxiety. “It was really nice getting to know you.”

“It was truly a pleasure,” Satan smiles, and then bows low to the Angel. As he rises, he keeps his eyes steady with MC’s gaze. There is a heartbeat where they are both caught staring at each other. Satan should be going home now, and the Angel should be heading inside. Instead, they both linger. Feeling their hearts surging in their chests, and wondering what they can possibly do about it. “I hope you enjoy your dinner,” Satan regrets the words instantly, but his feet are already moving to walk away.

“You to!” The Angel blurts, feeling horribly awkward, but also thrilled. The nerves of wanting to make a good impression. As they watched the elegant blond walk away. MC could still feel excitement brewing within them.

The feeling lingered as MC walked into the main doors of Purgatory Hall. Already they could feel that something was different within the building. A new presence shifted the home's energy. The air now had the smell of a laboratory. MC wandered down the hall till they reached the kitchen. Which is where they found Simeon, Luke, and a stranger gathered around the Oven. The Stranger was tall with bright white hair. The light in his eyes was unmistakably human, but something was off.

“Are you certain it’s supposed to look like that?” Simeon squinted at the Oven.

“I have never done this before,” The Strange says easily, but both Simeon and Luke look utterly terrified.

“What’s going on?” MC asks as they walk behind Luke to get a view of what’s going on. “Why is it...cracked?”

“I believe that’s a part of the baking process,” The stranger smiles warmly and then extend a hand to MC. “My name’s Solomon, I am the human exchange student who will be living with you three.”

“I’m MC,” They take Solomon’s hand. His hand is surprisingly dense and cold. Heavier than the Angel had expected. “I thought there were three humans?”

“Indeed, but the other humans get to live with the brothers.” Solomon sighs. “I still don’t understand why they get to be close to the princes of Hell and not me.” Solomon actually did have a guess why, but he wanted to pout about it.

“Do you want to hear Lucifer and Mammon fighting with each other all the time?” Simeon chuckles.

“That’s a fair point,” Solomon nods. “Not to seem like I’m complaining about being with you three,” MC hadn’t even considered that Solomon might not be happy to be staying with three angels. Now though they had to think about it. A man with 72 pacts with demons might not have the most favorable opinion of angels. MC couldn’t exactly blame him for this, but hoped it wouldn’t get in their way.

“I think our company is much better than those demons,” Luke tilts up his chin given everyone a good look of his nostrils.

“Not better,” Simeon tuts, “we our own kind of fun, and will still have plenty of time with the brothers if we choose.”

“You like them?” Solomon eyes Simeon.

“Yes,” Simeon smiles genuinely. “I am really happy to see them again.” Solomon nods, and then smiles himself.

“Me too,”

#wip #angel!mc #obey me #obey me satan #my writing

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janeaudron · 3 years

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Update: Electric Boogaloo 2 - Health and Other Updates

Sorry silly title, but need to cheer myself up. Putting a “read more” since this may be long.

For those concerned only about dice, just highlight “ Dice Time ” (minus quotes) and you should be in that section.

Also for the tl;dr folks - Health really sucks right now and is disabling me from living/doing just about everything.

So it’s been a rough for months to year(s) for me. I’m doing better from getting really sick a few months ago and then the sudden kidney infections a few weeks after getting better. But my main health issue right now is everything related to my back and the muscles associated with and around it. Kinda feel like it’s getting worse but that may be me letting it get to me...

I usually try not to bring up my health issues too much but this one is affecting just about everything I’m doing to a great degree and it’s been driving me nuts. Why I just have long breaks of inactivity now. Also family issues(MORE HEALTH) but I want to keep that private.

Don’t know what is wrong but something constantly has my left side tight and also sometimes my hips and rib cage get tight. Right around my left shoulder blade down to my mid back/lower ribcabe is constantly hurting, but mostly feels sore. So with this constant pain it makes it just about impossible for me to do things for short or long periods of time. Also it makes sleeping a pain. It’s just a pain that eats at you mentally and physically.

Oh added bonus, whatever is wrecking my back also wrecks my digestive track! I am just a ball of health issues right now.

I’m glad my job has been understanding and has allowed me to reduce my hours, but I feel like I’m still struggling to meet the reduced hours with how bad some days can get where I just can’t operate.

This pain is also holding me back from doing any art as I just can’t sit or stand comfortably to work for a few hours. It’s been disheartening to say the least. Depressing really as I’ve got a folder of wips I want to finish and my board game idea is just staring at me. Done more writing/mechanics progress to a point with that but no true art due to pain killing all motivation.

Which is extra annoying since I thought I was going to finally have time to get my Ko-Fi/Patreon going for the board game development and other stuff. But if I can’t produce art and other content at a decent pace, I don’t feel comfortable having those up. Just finished finalizing all the details and tiers too. >:(

Currently working with my doctors to try and figure out what is going on, but no luck so far. Back adjustments help but are so temporary it’s frustrating. I’m doing all sorts of stretches and especially try not to undo the adjustments but they barely last a week before the pain is back and occasionally it’s worse. Also trying to adjust how I currently work and that’s had little to mild results. May try to get a split keyboard sometime in the future.

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Fan Blog

Yeah chapter updates and other content will be on hold for awhile. Have mild bouts were I can do some writing but still not a lot of writing.

I may have a few solo fics I may be posting soon-ish.

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Dice Time - Rather short update here.

So dice production stopped when I got really sick a few months ago, but it’s back up and running. Though running slow when you take in account of all the info above about my health. For the tl;dr folks - Health really sucks and is disabling me from living/doing stuff.

Have some unfinished sets(matte and shiny) that I need to sand to a finished state but that’s going to take awhile.

If y’all don’t mind me posting raws for sale for some time just let me know.

Also have a bunch of unfinished misfits(fine just no full sets) and then mishaps/flawed dice that I need to figure out how I want to sell. Thinking of doing it mystery box or bag style for those.

And have to remake a few molds when I can get some more silicone(it will be awhile with everything going on.) Had some numbers tear and then some surfaces got a bit weird. Don’t know what happened to cause some weird surface textures. Funs of moldmaking.

#update #store update #when you have dreams of scifi tech healing you it just gets depressing #delete eventually

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f0xfordcomma · 3 years

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Hello!! Happy FFWF!! Is there anything in particular that you find hard to write? Are there any WIPs that you've just absolutely given up on cause you think it'll go nowhere?? (would you share a bit of it? :D)

Croisty! Happy ffw tuesday (which tbh is earlier than I thought I'd be able to do these, so be proud of me lol)

I wish I had more to go off of in my writing portfolio to answer this question, but I think the thing I have the hardest time writing/ have avoided writing in my wips is just unfettered angst or like horror/ violence. Like character death? Gore? Fight scenes? (ooooh baby I SUCK at fight scenes) all of /that/ is just not really my forte as a writer. Don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to hurting my characters, but hurt/comfort is more where its at for me. You've read my stuff, so you know how emotionally driven a lot of my writing is. I think I would have a hard time writing more graphic/ heartbreaking/ violent *stuff* in my style. Idk, it would probably be a good thing for me to practice.... but.... I don't wanna (hands on hips) sooooo I'm not planning to really do anything quite like that anytime soon.

As far as abandoned wips go, I've got plentyyyy (or just verrrrrrry dusty wips that are not quite abandoned but are sitting very patiently on the shelf waiting for me to have the time to get back to them) Violent/ angsty/ deathy/ fighty abandoned wips though? Not so much.

But for you, mon petit croissant, have a bit of a miraculous ladybug reveal fic that I wrote one night after having a little ~ouid~ and convincing my husband to put on a sheet face mask with me that I now have no intention of finishing (oops, rip me).

okaaaaayyy so this is actually pretty dang long lol but I'm going to share the whole thing with you because I just re-read it for the first time in months and its pretty funny ~if you ask me~ so anyway... under the cut <3

NIGHT OFF

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a totally crazy idea to take a night off.

Besides, Shadowmoth’s akumatizations had slowed down considerably in the past few months, and he rarely ever sent out two akumas in one day. The battle that she and Chat had fought that morning was brutal, but they’d come out victorious against HoneyBadger. Still, the fight had left her exhausted and wound up. Shadowmoth was planning something, she was sure of it. She just couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out what it was.

Ladybug was stressed.

Add to that, the fact that end-of-term exams were starting up next week and she’d not had nearly enough time during dead week to actually cram. Something about black butterflies and cranky kwamis and a cheeky cat (who, in recent weeks, had been considerably less cheeky.) Not to mention, she had been receiving an awful lot of memes, seemingly without preamble, from Paris’ favorite male model. Nino thought it was hilarious. Alya thought it was suspicious. Marinette thought it was confusing.

Marinette was stressed.

All of it was stressful.

Alya knew when her best friend was stressed. She could usually gauge the amount of Marinette’s exasperation by the frequency with which her bangs went flying from her face, propelled by a huff and a heavy sigh. Right now, Marinette’s bangs were a mess.

“Okay, girl. You need a night off.”

“What? No, I’m fine! Really! Plus, I can’t really afford to take a night off right now, Alya… I don’t know what Shadowmoth ha—”

“Yeah, no. I’m stopping you right there. For the next twenty-four hours, this space is a Ladybug-talk free zone,” she gestured vaguely around her bedroom, which was scattered with printouts and pictures that Marinette had brought over to work on nailing down Hawkmoth’s possible location using Alya’s beloved akuma-map. “I know, I know. It pains me more than it pains you, truly. But I’m doing this for you. Tonight: you, me, drinks, distractions. You are taking a night off.”

“But Alya! What if—”

“Hush, you know that’s incredibly unlikely. And, in the event of this IF you are so set on, you know that cat boy and I will have your back. Even drunk ladybugs can purify akumas when they have the clawed crusaders on their side.”

“I can’t believe you gave in to his silly nickname.”

“It is a badass nickname and you are just jealous that we bonded.”

“I’m not jealous. I’m annoyed.”

“Mhmm… keep telling yourself that, girl. Now, back to the matter at hand: what kind of drunk do you want to get tonight? Classy or trashy? I still have that peach stuff from last month, but if we are thinking classy I might need to call in the reserves to get us some decent wine.”

“You won’t need to call in anybody, Al, because I am definitely not getting drunk tonight.”

“Night off, Marinette. Drunkenness is a prerequisite.”

“Can’t we just watch movies or something? I really don’t know if that’s too good of an idea…”

“Girl, we watch movies every night. This is a night off. Don’t think I don’t see you stressing all throughout movie night every week, anyway. You need to take your mind off Ladybug,” she gestured at the mess that had consumed her bedroom. “And get your mind back on Marinette. Superhero or no, you’re still a teenage girl who is supposed to be enjoying the last few months of college.”

Marinette pouted.

“Stop pouting. You know you deserve to have normal girl fun.”

“But Alya I—”

“No buts.” An unnervingly devious look crossed Alya’s face. “Unless it is your butt in that pair of skinny jeans that you and I both know you-know-who loves. Boys will be here in twenty. Get to it, girl.”

Marinette just gaped at her. She didn’t even notice that Alya had grabbed her phone, but alas, there was the tell-tale ping.

Alya Cesaire → Akuma class OGs chat

Alya: anyone down for a little last minute get together—my door is open and my bar is stocked

Nino: HELL YEAH babe!

NL: got a new mix i’ve been meaning to show you… so entertainments on me fam!

Alix: This thing got an itinerary or just drunkenness for drunkenness sake?

Alya: the latter, natch.

Alix: Sick! Count me in.

Kim: same!

Rose: Do you need us to bring anything?

Alya: anything you feel like sharing

Alya: otherwise, just yourselves!

Alya: Agreste~you better bring us some of that expensive shit that i know your pops keeps somewhere in that castle of yours

Alya: no fancy wine, no admittance

Alya: the rest of you peasants just bring wtvr

Adrien: uhhhhhhhhhh

Adrien: ALYA

Adrien: dang it! You know I feel obligated to steal wine from my dad’s cellar now

Adrien: do you know how scary my dad is!!!??

Nino: DUDEEEE

Nino: DO IT you wont!

Adrien: shuddup Nino

Marinette: Adrien you totally don’t have to! Alya is just being **extra** Alya today

Alya: i plan a night off for this girl

Alya: and this is the thanks i get??????

Alya: can ya’ll believe this?

Alya: ridiculous

Zoe: UTTERLY RIDICULOUS

Adrien: utterly ridic

Adrien: dangit

Zoe: lol first! sorry adrien

Marinette: ugh ty I guess Als xxxxx

Alya: awe she DOES care, youre welcome babe!

Alya: so sunshine… about that wine?

Adrien: yeah yeah yeah

Adrien: use my people pleasing against me why dontcha

Alya: gladly <3

“Alya, stop bullying Adrien.”

“No way, girl. Giving that boy a task is the only way to ensure he shows up. Speaking of which… butt, jeans, go, now!”

The doorbell rang. Nino had perfected the quickest route to Alya’s house from every part of Paris years ago. Yes, he was whipped; and yes, he was proud of it.

“ALYA! I have to clean all of this up and I have to go home to get those jeans that you’re so dead set on and…”

“No you don’t. Kaalki?”

“Right here, Ms. Rouge.”

“YOU USED VOYAGE TO BRING ME JEANS?”

“No way girl! Don’t be silly. Kaalki and Roaar just volunteered to be my errand kwamis.”

“You guys do realize that I am the guardian, right?”

“Of course, that’s why we worked so hard to get everything that you need for tonight.”

“I—you… wait is this my good bra? How did you—”

“Us kwamis pay attention, Marinette.” Tikki cuddled up to her cheek.

“Et tu, Tikki?”

The ladybug kwami just giggled and made her way to the pile of papers scattered across Alya’s bed, starting to organize them back into neat stacks.

“Night. Off.” Alya punctuated each word with a shove and a smack on the bum, directing Marinette toward the bathroom and shutting her in to get ready while she got the door for Nino.

#foxford just casually drops an entire dang chapter of a fic for your ffwf enjoyment #oops #miraculous ladybug #foxford writes #ml #ml season four #aged up adrienette #ffwf #ffwtuesday #thanks for asking!!#<3 #foxford answers #thatcroissantgurl #a moment of silence for my wip graveyard #cw: mentions of drunkenness #(they are old enough in france okay)

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spookyboywhump · 4 years

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Here’s the WIP I’d been talking about earlier, now Complete.

Castor has been mentioned and usually I like to give a few current pieces before I get into who the whumpee was before, but right now, here’s where Castor’s story begins, before he was, well, Castor

CW: Kidnapping, needle mention, drugging, nonsexual nudity, dehumanization

***

Julio took a deep breath as he stepped outside, enjoying the cool night air. It was half past midnight and he’d finally finished his shift at the corner store, he was looking forward to getting home and relaxing. He only lived five minutes away, and while he didn’t exactly live in the safest area, he wasn’t worried, as he’d made the walk countless times before without incident. He kept his hands shoved in his pockets as he walked, his mind occupied with thoughts of getting home and collapsing into bed.

If he’d been paying better attention to his surroundings, if he’d been more aware, maybe he would’ve noticed the car before it pulled up in front of him just as he was about to cross the street. Maybe he would’ve run, maybe he would’ve acted quicker, he’d always thought he’d rely on his fight or flight instinct in a situation like this, but instead he froze.

He reacted too slowly, two people had already jumped out of the car before he realized he should run. He’d only gotten a few steps away before he was grabbed, jerked back by the hood of his jacket and passed to the other person. An arm snaked around his torso, dragging him closer, and a hand clamped over his mouth. He was being pulled backwards, towards the car, and still he struggled, clawing at the hands holding him and trying to drag his feet as much as possible, trying desperately to get free, shouting and yelling for help even though his attempts were muffled.

He was forcibly shoved into the car, the door slamming shut as the person who’d been holding him got in after him, the other person getting into the driver’s seat. His first instinct was to try and get out through the other side but he was roughly pulled back by his arm, still struggling as his arms were yanked behind him, bound at the wrists with a zip tie.

“Please-Please let- let me go!” He begged. “I don’t-I don’t have much money but you can have it! My wallet is in my back pocket, just take it and let me go!”

“Could you shut him up?” The driver said, sounding irritated.

“P-Please,” He tried again, frantically as he knew he didn’t have much time now. He couldn’t see what the person holding him had been doing, he didn’t know what he expected, but his hair was grabbed and his head yanked to the side. Something pinched his neck, he realized it must’ve been a needle, which just caused him to panic more.

He kept trying to plead with them, but his words began to slur together, whatever he’d been injected with was acting quickly, and after only a few moments he found his eyes falling shut, despite his best efforts to resist.

***

He woke up exhausted, confused, and seemingly blindfolded, as he couldn’t see anything when he opened his eyes. He tried to move but his wrists were still tied behind his back, and struggling just caused the zip tie to dig painfully into his skin. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he wasn’t alone, he could hear movement, hear other people breathing, and after a short while, he heard a voice, along with footsteps approaching him.

“This is the last one?” A feminine voice asked, sounding unimpressed.

“Yep, just caught a couple of hours ago.” He recognized this voice, as his memories of the night came back, he knew this was the person who’d been driving the car. As he started to remember things, he was starting to get more scared, more panicked, and against his better judgement, he chose to open his mouth.

“W-where am I?” He stammered. “Please- L-Let me go!” He cried.

“There he goes again. He tried that when we first picked him up too.” The driver said.

“Gag him, please, I don’t want to hear a word from him. Get him to his feet while you’re at it.” She ordered. He hadn’t realized how close the other person was until a cloth was roughly shoved between his teeth, tied tightly behind his head. Once that was secure, he was pulled to his feet. The movement made him nauseous, he was still slightly unsteady but able to stand on his own at least. He flinched when he felt hands on him, poking and prodding, lifting his shirt up, he felt as though he were being examined like an object.

“What do you think, will he do?” The person asked.

“Yes, I think so. Get him ready please? And get rid of that zip tie, there’s no good in selling damaged merchandise.” She said.

“Hmm?!”He tried to speak before remembering it was useless, and he seemed to just go ignored.

“Yes ma’am, he’ll be ready in time.” The person holding him said, and he listened to her walk away. He had about a thousand questions he couldn’t ask, and though he wanted to struggle or fight or run, he was still weak, his attempts were useless, he was dragged off to who knows where and he had no choice but to follow.

His heart was pounding in his chest, he wished he could’ve asked where he was or what exactly he was here for, or why him of all people. He desperately wanted to struggle or attempt to escape, but he was too scared of what would happen if he were caught. While he’d been drugged, he hadn’t been hurt yet, and he didn’t want to find out how willing they were to do so.

Once he was where he wanted, his wrists were briefly grabbed, the person speaking up again.

“I’m going to untie your hands now. Either you cooperate and I let you undress yourself, or you struggle and I’ll have to cut your clothes off, understand?”

“Mmhmm…”

“Good. Don’t touch the gag, don’t touch the blindfold, just do as I say.” They said sternly. The zip tie was cut and his hands were freed, for a moment he just rubbed at the stinging marks on his wrists. “Go ahead and undress.” He knew it was likely his only chance to try and escape but he decided against it for the sake of staying unharmed, hoping he was making the right decision. He kicked off his old, worn down shoes and his socks, and with shaking hands he removed his jacket, his shirt, then his pants, and he was grateful he wasn’t told to remove anything more. “Hold out your hands.” The person ordered, and he did as he was told, almost flinching when leather cuffs were secured around his wrists, the chain between them short enough to not allow much movement.

He was grabbed by the shoulder and being led away again, he assumed back to where he was before. He was forced to his knees again and told to wait patiently, to sit still and be quiet. He could manage that much at least. He knew there were people on either side of him, he wondered if they were in the same situation as him, wondered how they were staying so calm when he felt like his heart was going to jump out of his chest. Aside from the occasional whine or whimper, it was quiet between him in the others, he assumed they were either gagged or smarter than him, waiting anxiously for… something. He still wasn’t sure what.

After some time, he heard more footsteps, and voices this time. There were several people, who came and went. Sometimes they’d stop in front of him, sometimes they’d touch him, as though inspecting him. He jerked away once, only to be slapped for doing so, teaching him very quickly not to move. One asked how much he would cost, the words made him sick, but they ultimately chose to pass on him, which was a small relief. Realistically, he didn’t think he’d be let go if he were sold, but he still found himself hoping for it, just praying for a way out of there.

It was a woman who seemed to show the most interest in him. By now whoever had been on either side of him had been sold, he heard it mentioned he was one of the last left, and just as he was thinking he’d get lucky, this woman showed up. She held his face in her hands, taking her time to inspect him.

“Does he fight? Is he any trouble?” She asked.

“He tried to run, but don’t they all? Other than that, he just seems to have a problem with talking too much.”

“Hmm, nothing I couldn’t train out of him.” She said. “I’ll take him, bring some clothes for him please?” She said politely, and as the person walked off, she reached up and pulled away the blindfold. He squinted against the light, finally getting a look at this person, a dark haired woman with pale blue eyes. She smiled at him, despite the fact he wasn’t doing a great job of hiding how scared he really was. She looked nice, and for a moment, he really had hope that this wouldn’t be entirely terrible, a thought that quickly disappeared as she reached a hand up to ruffle his dark hair and said, “You’re going to make such a pretty puppy for me.”

#whump #my writing #my oc's #Castor #tho i used his Person Name here #he was Julio :D #kidnapping #dehumanization #nonsexual nudity #needle mention #drugging

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hookedonapirate · 4 years

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Figure of Speech

Summary: Killian has been in love with Emma Swan ever since he was eleven and she was his babysitter. The last time he saw her was the day he kissed her, thinking they were having a special moment… right before she headed off to college with her boyfriend.

When their paths cross years later, he’s just happy she remembers him—because while he’s a talented, free-spirited journalist who takes risks and has a knack for finding trouble, Emma is an accomplished and sophisticated politician who’s planning to run for President of the United States.

Sensing Killian Jones—the boy who once knew her and supported her long before she entered the soul-sucking world of politics—is the key to unlocking a part of herself that’s been dormant for so long, she hires him as her speechwriter. As she travels the world to launch her 2020 presidential campaign, he is by her side, helping Emma find her voice again.

The attraction between them sizzles, but when they eventually give into it, will their relationship withstand the demands of the election and scrutiny of the public?

A/N: Thank you @ultraluckycatnd for beta reading and @onceuponaprincessworld for your help with this! Thank you @captainswanmoviemarathon for starting the event and everyone on discord for all your help!

Before you read, there are a few things I want to clarify.

First off, this story is heavily based on the movie, Long Shot, for the Captain Swan Movie Marathon, with some elements of OUAT weaved in. What I’m referring to mainly is that the president in this fic is in no way based on President Trump. In other words, I am not using this fic to bash the current U.S. president in any shape or form, or any other real-life president. So if you plan on going into this with that mindset, I beg you to hit the back button right now. This story in no way reflects my opinions or views, I mainly stuck to the plot of the movie.

Secondly, I hope that I have made it perfectly clear in the beginning scene of this chapter that Killian is not actually a white supremacist, he is only going undercover to get his story. Nor is he Jewish like Fred Flarsky is in the movie. He’s the Killian we all know and love. So please don’t send me hate messages accusing me of either being a racist or writing Killian as one. I was very torn whether to include this scene or not but I feel it is relevant to the plot and shows Killian’s character in this story as very passionate about what he believes in and is a big risktaker when getting his point across, so I decided to keep it.

Third of all, I know some of you are sick of hearing about politics, especially since the U.S. election is so close. But this is not a political movie, it’s a romance. There is of course some talk of politics, but I’ve tried my best to keep it to a minimum. So if you’re worried about that, please don’t be. The movie genre is a romantic comedy.

Writing this fic was a huge wake-up call for me because it’s the first one in a while that I’m not proud of, for lack of a better word, because I have not been able to spend much time on it. I have so many wips in my docs it’s not even funny and I think that has really impacted how this chapter turned out. But because of this fic, I decided to take some time and work on finishing some of my wips before posting them, with the exception of this one because today is my posting date.

With that said, because I’ve been pushing myself to finish my wips, I finished writing my first original novel after working on it for two years, and I will be publishing it soon. So be sure to look out for Follow My Lead, a romance about a former ballerina and a gym owner.

Okay, now I am done with my rant, so please enjoy!

AO3 FF.N

Rated: M

2018

“So you guys are fairly active on social media, right?”

“Yeah,” Jaxon answers absentmindedly, his eyes focused on the cue ball as he lines up the shot.

“How many times a day would you say you Tweet on average?”

Jaxon taps the ball, sends it into its pocket, and high-fives Marcus, ignoring the question.

“Hey Rogers, ready to get a Swastika tattoo?!” Richard calls from the other room as the tattoo artist is finishing up with him.

“No, that’s okay, I’m cool,” Killian replies nonchalantly through the large lump in his throat, glad his British accent didn’t leak out as he takes his turn.

“Oh, come on, man, we’ve all got ‘em!”

Killian gulps and looks around the room, all the members pulling up their shirts to show their tattoos on the left side of their chest. He was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but he can sense Jaxon is already suspicious of his motives. He forces a small smile, pointing to himself with his free hand as he holds up the cue stick in the other one. “You want me to get a swastika tattoo?”

“Yeah!” the group chants in unison.

“Then I’ll get a swastika tattoo,” he agrees submissively, hoping the anxiety he feels isn’t clear in his voice. He removes his leather jacket, or rather the jacket he borrowed from Victor, depositing it in a chair before he walks into the adjacent room where the tattoo artist is waiting for him. He sits in the parlor chair, his stomach twisted in knots as he chooses his left bicep for the tattoo and cringes at the thought of getting it. He’s never gotten a tattoo before, and not only is he afraid of needles, but his beliefs don’t at all resemble anything a swastika symbol resembles. Tattoos are removable, though, right?

When the needle pierces his skin, he pinches his eyelids shut and yelps, “Blo-ooooody he-eeeell!” He realizes his mistake immediately when the words screech out in his thick, British accent. Plus, bloody hell isn’t exactly an American phrase.

He’s praying no one noticed, because if they did, they would know he’s lying about who he claims to be, but when he flips his eyelids open, everyone’s staring at him.

Fuck.

Jaxon, the leader of the group, enters the room with Killian’s jacket in one hand and wallet in the other, raising it for everyone to see Killian’s driver’s license. His heart flitters with panic. “Look at this. He’s been lying to us. His name isn’t John Rogers,” Jaxon announces angrily. Marcus appears next to him, holding up his laptop. On the screen is the Storybrooke Advocate website with Killian’s profile pic on the page. “It’s Killian Jones. He works for the Storybrooke Advocate! He’s a fucking journalist!”

“Wait, wait, wait, I can explain!” Killian pleads, raising his hands in surrender.

The members circle him like sharks, and everything becomes a blur as they yank him from the chair and slam him against a table.

“What are you doing, trying to fucking embarrass us, huh?!” Jaxon screams at him. “Who sent you?!”

“No one sent me!” Killian claims adamantly, fear and pain crippling him as he tries to think his way out of this. “I was just…”

Before he can finish his sentence, Marcus reaches into Killian’s jeans pocket as the others hold him down, and pulls out his phone. Which is currently recording everything. “He’s been recording us this entire time!”

Jaxon’s face is red with anger, steam practically emitting from his ears as he grits his teeth and fists Killian’s shirt in a vice-like grip, pulling him so close that Killian smells his wretched breath. “You infiltrated our group! You’re gonna fucking die!”

They say your life flashes before your eyes during your very last moments. They say it’s like reliving every moment that’s ever stuck with you—every moment that’s ever made an impression on you. Killian always thought when he was finally shuffled off to sleep with the fishes, his life would appear in sequence or at least in random order, featuring all the people who have played a vital role in his life—his parents, his brother, his best friend—but he never thought one person would stick in his mind. He never thought all the images flashing before his eyes would be of one person and one person only.

The woman he’s been in love with since he was eleven years old.

Killian remembers when he first fell in love with her like it were yesterday. Or at least an eleven-year-old boy’s version of love. He remembers the song, It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday by Boyz II Men, was playing on the boombox. He remembers what day it was, what he was wearing and the fuzzy feeling in his chest. He remembers thinking about one of his favorite movies, The Sandlot, how Squints tricked the lifeguard, Wendy Peffercorn, into kissing him and how she eventually married him even though she was older and way out of his league.

Back then, a three or four year age gap seemed like a huge deal, but maybe because he was so young and she was… well she was so grown up and mature and very beautiful for her age. Not Wendy Peffercorn. Well, he supposes Wendy was too, but Killian had his real-life version of the movie character. His version of her was also blonde. She may not have been a lifeguard, but she was his next-door neighbor and also his babysitter ever since his brother left to join the Navy. Killian’s bedroom had an excellent view of her backyard and he would occasionally watch her sunbathing by the pool as she listened to music on her headphones or read a book in her bikini. Not only did she have a beautiful body, but she was wicked smart. She was passionate about the environment and the things she cared about. She was super nice to him—which went a long way with him—and had a ridiculously cute, dimpled smile. She was perfect. An angel.

Maybe that’s why, right before his death, she’s the only one he sees.

Before he met her, he never considered kissing a girl, or even liking one for that matter. He thought girls were gross and had cooties. But Emma was no girl. Not even at fifteen. She was a woman.

Emma Swan was his Wendy Peffercorn.

She still is. Even as he’s being threatened by a group of angry white supremacists.

She’s all he sees.

“Did you know that every year, the school throws away over five hundred tons of recyclable garbage? And no one cares!”

“Aye, it’s rubbish. But how do you get muppets to care about stuff they don’t care about?”

Emma shrugs. “They’ll just…” She bites her bottom lip, hesitance etching her features, “they’ll just c-care because it’s the right thing to care about.” She may not have all the answers, but she’s the most inspiring person he knows.

He smiles and rests one elbow on the counter, his chin perched in his hand as he admires her passion for the environment. He admires how beautiful she is in simply a snug pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt with a picture of a buttercup on the front. He admires her waist-length, golden hair, how it glows radiantly in the sunlight cascading through the kitchen window and how it swishes from side to side when she turns around to grab a mitt and pull the pizza out of the oven. Delicious aromas of crisp, baked bread, melted mozzarella cheese and sweet tomato sauce waft through the kitchen, making his stomach growl. Licking his lips, he jumps off the stool and heads over to grab a slice from the pan.

She gently swats his hand away. “Don’t touch, kid, you’ll burn yourself. Let it cool, first.”

He frowns as he returns to his seat. He hates it when she calls him that. He doesn’t want her to think of him as a kid; he’s almost a teenager! Heeding her warning, he does his best to resist the temptation of getting up again and grabbing a slice, even though the gooey, golden cheese, colorful toppings and toasted crust look amazing. Instead, he places the hand she’d touched on his cheek. He never wants to wash his hand or his cheek ever again.

Emma continues the speech she’d prepared for her Student Council election. She’s running for president, and he is not only her biggest supporter, but he also came up with her campaign slogan, ‘Stay calm and vote for Swan’. He was quite proud of himself when she actually thought it was clever enough to use.

“I would definitely vote for you, Swan.”

“Thanks, Killy,” she says, ruffling a hand through his hair.

Now that’s a better nickname. Though he hates when his brother calls him Killy, he never minds when Emma does.

Once the pizza is cool enough to eat, Emma returns to the oven, using a pizza cutter on the pie. She plates two big slices, one for each of them, and brings them to the counter, sitting next to him. They eat their pizza in silence at first, besides the yummy food noises they make.

“Thanks for helping me. I know it’s probably boring hearing my speech over and over again.”

He shakes his head. “Not at all,” he mumbles through a mouth full of pizza. “I’m just happy to help,” he smiles. His hand pauses midair, still holding his half-eaten slice of pizza as he locks eyes with his beautiful babysitter. He wonders if she feels the same way he does, and normally he wouldn’t think it was possible, but the way she’s looking at him right now makes him rethink everything.

She reaches out to him, and he closes his eyes as she caresses his cheek. His heart slams against his chest and he loses all the air from his lungs. And that’s when he knows he’s totally and completely in love. Her hand feels so wonderfully warm, he wants to spend the rest of his life feeling her touch and immediately gets a chill when she pulls her hand away.

“All better.”

His eyes flip open to see Emma wiping her hand with a napkin. She looks up at him and smiles. “You had some sauce on your face.”

He chuckles on the outside, but internally he’s berating himself for being foolish enough to think someone like Emma Swan could possibly like him. She’s way too good for him.

Especially when he’s thirteen and has to wear glasses. As if hitting puberty isn’t bad enough, he also has to sport the most hideous pair of thick-framed glasses. By then, his father said he was too old to have a babysitter, so he didn’t get to see Emma as much. He mowed the Swans’ lawn occasionally, but she was gone most of the time with extracurricular activities and prepping for college. He convinced himself she could never be into someone like him. Someone who was nerdy and awkward and four years her junior.

Until one day when he’s fourteen and she’s eighteen.

She’s leaving for college and he’s been in his room sulking while listening to It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye for two weeks, not looking forward to her departure. He’s afraid he’ll never see her again. But he’s also happy for her. She’s off to better and greater things, greener pastures as they say. She’s going to Harvard and leaving him in the dust.

He’s on the front porch, sitting on the top step, his chin in his hands and his elbows propped up on his knees as he watches Emma and her parents packing up her things. He wants to offer his assistance, but this seems like a very important bonding moment for the three of them and he doesn’t wish to interrupt. He can tell Mr. and Mrs. Swan are both incredibly sad but also very proud of their daughter, and there are lots of hugs and tears by the time the car is packed. Then Emma says something to her parents and they wave at Killian. He smiles and waves back before they head inside.

Emma walks over to him, and he immediately stands up, making his way down the remaining steps.

“Hey,” she murmurs, smiling at him.

“Hey,” he parrots, offering a small smile. “So, you’re all packed?”

“Yeah, we’re leaving soon.”

Nodding nervously, he scratches behind his ear as he looks away, not sure what to say.

“Look, I’m not a goodbye person, but — ”

“Let’s not say goodbye then,” he suggests and offers his hand. But instead of shaking it, she throws her arms around him. Killian’s stunned, and can’t even move at first, completely paralyzed in her embrace.

Emma’s hugging him.

He slowly molds into her body, his arms wrapping around her waist as she tightens her hold. Her hair smells like strawberries and cream as he buries his face there. He never wants to let her go.

“I’ll miss you, Killian,” she whispers in his ear.

His heart does a little somersault, and he whispers, “Not a day will go by when I won’t think of you.”

He feels her smile against his neck. “Good.”

That one simple word does something to him and he grins into her hair, holding her tighter.

She breaks the hug long before he’s ready, and he’s still awestruck as she leans in to kiss him.

Bloody hell.

Emma Swan leans in for a kiss as he springs forward to meet her halfway. Their lips finally connect like they had so many times in his dreams, but he doesn’t fail to miss how surprised she is when a gasp escapes against his mouth. She doesn’t pull away, but he knows he probably should after realizing she was actually going for his cheek. But her lips are so soft and warm and taste like cinnamon and cocoa, and he swears they move ever so slightly against his. He still has his arms around her, pressing her to him, and her center suddenly moves away from him. Forcing himself to break the kiss, he looks down and notices the very prominent and very hard erection tenting his pants.

Fuck.

His cheeks are on fire as he looks up, apology and embarrassment flushing his face. He’s expecting her to either slap him or storm away and never look back, but she stares down at his groin, her mouth agape.

“Bloody hell, I’m so sorry, love.”

“It’s okay,” Emma squeaks as her eyes snap up to his.

Just then, a ‘69 Ford Mustang pulls up in front of Emma’s house, the music booming through the speakers at an obnoxious volume.

He panics when Emma’s boyfriend gets out of the car and makes his way over to them. Killian forgot Neal was riding with Emma to Harvard, where he was certainly not attending. Neal could only get into a community college.

Killian quickly pulls off the backward baseball cap from his head and uses it to cover his obvious boner.

“Hey, babe, ready to go?”

She nods and looks at Killian, a small smile tilting her lips.

“Bye, four-eyes,” Neal taunts with a condescending sneer as he wraps his arm around Emma’s shoulders.

Really?

Killian bites his tongue as he rolls his eyes. That nickname really gets old. Can’t he think of something more original?

“Don’t call him that,” Emma scolds her boyfriend, swatting his chest. “He has a name.”

“Sorry, I mean Killian,” he says insincerely before turning around and pulling Emma with him.

As Killian watches them walk away, pushing up the bridge of his glasses with his finger, he would give anything to be the one with his arm around Emma, the one leaving with her instead of being the one she leaves. She cranes her neck to look at him as she walks away. He swears she’s looking at him longingly but he’s sure he’s only imagining it. She’s still gazing at him until her parents emerge from the house. Neal doesn’t even have the courtesy to open the door to her parents’ station wagon for her, and instead hurries into the back seat.

Arsehole, Killian thinks bitterly as he watches the vehicle pull away from the curb. Emma stares at him through the passenger’s window, and their eyes connect. He flashes one last smile and waves. She smiles back at him and presses her palm to the window before she disappears down the road and out of his life, leaving a permanent gaping hole in his heart.

He always thought not being able to see Emma anymore was the scariest thing he’s ever experienced. But that was before he was inked with part of a swastika tattoo so his cover wouldn’t be blown. That was before he fell from a two-story building and landed in a dumpster. Luckily the trash bags cushioned his fall and didn’t contain any glass or other sharp objects. He hadn’t really thought that through when he jumped. But then again, he didn’t really have time to do anything but run for his life while Marcus and Jaxon were busy trying to figure out how to stop Killian’s phone from recording. Killian took advantage of the distraction and plucked the phone from their hands, sprinting for the nearby window.

His phone.

Killian quickly lifts his hand to see that not only is his phone still in his hand but it’s still intact. He climbs out of the dumpster, his entire body sore, but he lands on his feet. He’d left his leather jacket up there, but it wasn’t even his. Killian doesn’t wear leather jackets, he’s content with his hoodies. He borrowed the jacket from his best friend, Victor. He’ll be pissed, but oh well, Killian will buy him a new one.

Three of the members are poking their heads out the window and Killian looks up at them, throwing the hand that’s still holding his phone in the air. He feels like Bennie in The Sandlot when he finally gets the baseball from the beast and hurdles the fence, still holding onto the ball. The difference is the beast chased Bennie down. The difference is the beast in the movie was not actually a beast at all. He can’t say the same about those white supremacists, though.

“We trusted you, man!” Richard calls out. He’s the one Killian had contacted through one of their social media groups.

“Sorry, mate,” he says in his British accent, his words lacking any sort of apology as he spins around. “Peace!” he calls behind him trying to sound as American as he can, and instead of saluting the members with two fingers, which is not a peace sign for Brits, he flips them the bird as he goes.

∞∞∞

“Tonight on Walsh News, we take an in-depth look at Emma Swan, a Rhodes Scholar, a Pulitzer Prize winner and a protégé of President Gold who tapped Swan two years ago to be the youngest Secretary of State in the history of this nation.”

As sore as Killian is from that jump out of a two-story window and as much as he hates that arsehole, Walsh, and everything the media mongrel represents, he lifts his eyes from his MacBook. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and manages a small smile when he sees Emma on the television screen. He knows what he’d done to write his article and expose the White Power group was worth it. He may have lost faith in humanity long ago, but Emma’s passion and ambition and hope have always stuck with him. He wants to believe the support he’d always shown her when they were young has always stuck with her too, but he doubts it. She doesn’t need his support. She never did. She was never a helpless duckling, and even after she lost the student council election to August Booth because of his stupid two prom platform, her wounds healed and she eventually spread her wings and soared high in the sky, leaving Storybooke in the dust.

As Killian gazes at her wistfully at the screen, he sees the elegant swan he always knew she’d become. While everyone he knows had hopes and dreams they gave up on long ago, Emma is the one person who made hers come true. Well, not quite all of them. She always talked about saving the planet, but he knows her work isn’t nearly finished. She’s only thirty-seven, and even though they haven’t spoken to one another since the day he watched her ride away in her parents’ 1987 Pontiac Safari Station Wagon, he still believes in her. He’ll always believe in her.

∞∞∞

Emma sucks in a deep breath as she twists the knob and opens the thick, wooden door, entering the Oval Office with a little bit of forced enthusiasm. President Gold had been vague over the phone about what he’d wished to discuss with her, but his tone of voice indicated it might be something big. “Good morning Mr. President,” she greets with the smile she had practiced in her bedroom mirror repeatedly that morning.

“Hello, Ms. Swan.” He rises from his chair and rounds the desk, gesturing to one of the couches. “Please, have a seat.”

She sits down and crosses her legs, folding her hands in her lap as he sits on the couch across from her and rests his elbows on his knees. “Ms. Swan…”

“Yes, sir?”

He blows out a long breath as if whatever he’s about to tell her has been weighing on his mind for quite some time. “I will not be seeking re-election.”

Emma’s sure the awestruck expression on her face doesn’t even come close to how surprised she actually is. “Really?” Did she hear him correctly?

He nods, clapping his hands together. “Look, I know how absurd it sounds seeing as I’m only halfway through my first term—”

“And you’re incredibly popular, sir.” But she knows most of his popularity stems from being a television star before he took office. He hosted the popular game show, Let’s Strike a Deal.

“And I’m going to use that popularity to transition into something more prestigious than the presidency. I wanna make it in the movies.”

Emma blinks, not believing what she’s hearing. She opens and closes her mouth several times, trying to process this. “Yoooouuuu… want to leave… the presidency… to be a movie star?”

“I know it’s tough to make the leap from television to film, but I think I’m going to give it a shot.”

After the initial shock washes over her, she sees this as an opportunity. She had planned on running for president in 2024, but with Gold leaving office at the end of his first term, perhaps she can use this to her advantage. And she knows just how to go about it. Gold may be good at convincing people—he is an actor after all—but Emma not only has far more education than him, her extensive political background has helped her greatly improve her cajolery tactics over the years. After she lost the Student Council election to August Booth in high school, she’s learned that in order to get ahead, sometimes you have to use a little sleight of hand to get there—give the people what they want, so to speak. Or, in this case, help Gold realize just how legendary his presidency could be.

“Mr. President, have you given any consideration as to whom you might endorse? I’m sure you’re probably thinking of Yang or Crowley. Sound choices,” she nods and purses her lips, averting her gaze, a look of contemplation on her face. “It’s so strange because I was considering a run in 2024, and I can’t stop wondering what…” she looks at Gold again, “what it would do for your legacy to endorse the first female president. I mean, wow. ” The word is breathy, almost a whisper. “Now that’s a legacy.”

Gold presses his joined hands to his lips and has a thoughtful expression embedded in his features, but she can’t discern what he’s thinking.

She looks at the floor between them while he ponders her words.

“Emma?” he finally says after a moment.

“Hmm?” She reverts her eyes to him.

“I would like to endorse you to be the next President of the United States.”

Her entire body is thrumming with excitement and her stomach is full of butterflies; she doesn’t even care he said it like it was his idea. She’ll even give him credit for it. Besides, trying to convince him otherwise would be like trying to teach a fish how to bark. She closes her eyes and refrains from jumping up and down on the couch. She opens her eyes again, trying to hide the excitement in her voice but fails, her tone coming out unusually high pitched. “I mean, if you think that’s a good idea, sir, I trust you completely. I’d be… I’d be honored.”

He reclines back, wagging a finger at her. “I’ll be pulling for Team Emma. Because you’ve been a great secretary.”

“Of State,” she adds.

“Whatever. You’ve done it well, Dearie.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So stay focused. Don’t make any major screw-ups. Don’t kill anyone. That’s probably not a problem for you. I don’t know what you’re into. Whatever. And before you know it…” He rises from the couch and hums the US Presidential Anthem.

“I like the sound of that,” Emma says with a jubilant smile as she stands up.

“Hey here she comes, it’s the first lady president,” he chants.

“Thank you, sir.” She heads for the door, Gold following behind her still singing.

“Who can believe she is actually a woman. She’s got a big brain and a couple other assets.”

Emma opens the door and walks through, not even giving another thought to how incredibly sexist Gold is being. She’s floating high on a cloud as she sashays proudly down the hall and raises a subtle victory fist in the air, whispering to herself, “Yessss!”

∞∞∞

“You’re gonna love this,” Killian raves as he hands the piece to his boss. “I almost died for this.”

Sidney lowers the mug from his lips, swallowing his coffee down. He offers a tightlipped smile as he glances very briefly at the draft before looking up at Killian, a serious expression clouding his face. “Got a second?”

“Of course.”

“Come with me.”

Killian follows Sydney into his office and sits across from him at the desk, setting his satchel on the floor.

Sydney sets down Killian’s article and his coffee mug, folding his hands together on the desk. “I have some great news, Killian. We’ve just been bought by Walsh Media.”

Killian pales and his stomach drops. “What?!” Blood bubbles under his skin at the thought of the wanker buying the Storybrooke Advocate. The thought of him owning something Killian has literally put his blood, sweat and tears into. “Bloody hell. Are you fucking kidding me?!” Ever since he was a kid, he’s dreamed of being an investigative journalist, so he’s been nothing but loyal and dedicated to the company from day one. But in the blink of an eye, Walsh has managed to ruin all that for him.

“Look, I knew you would have a poor reaction—”

“A poor reaction?!”

“Killian, this is a good thing.”

“How?! That wanker represents everything we’ve been fighting against since day one. The whole point of this paper is to fight giant media conglomerates. Now we’ve been bought by a giant media conglomerate.”

“I see the irony,” Sydney nods.

“Irony?!” Killian stands from his chair, his voice growing louder with every word. “He’s going to turn us into a giant propaganda machine! And not the good kind!” Anger pulsates through him as he paces back and forth in front of Sidney’s desk; he’s never been this worked up before in his entire life. And that’s saying something for him.

“Killian, we’re running out of options. We’ve been running as long as we can on ads for weed doctors and escorts.”

Killian stops in his tracks and raises his hands in the air. “Then run penis enlargement ads or something!”

“Come on, Killian,” Sydney admonishes.

He sighs in exasperation, trying to calm down, his voice calmer. “This Walsh guy ran fake stories to get Gold elected.”

Sydney shakes his head and raises a finger at him. “No, they couldn’t prove that.”

“We proved it!” He holds up three fingers. “I wrote three articles about it. You published them!”

Sydney nods, lowering his face into the palm of his hand. “I did.”

“The shite that comes out of this guy’s mouth? He said same-sex marriage caused tornadoes! He represents everything that’s wrong with this country!”

“Killian, it’s done, alright?”

He freezes. “It’s done?!”

“They’re upstairs, finalizing the deal right now.”

Killian presses the pads of his fingers to his temples and turns away from his boss as he tries to process this.

Sydney stands and rounds his desk, sitting on the edge, pleading with him. “Look, we have to cut two-thirds of our staff.”

Killian turns around, devastation in his features. “Two-thirds?”

“Yes. But we want to keep you on. They want to keep you on. It’s just,” he blows out a hesitant breath, “you just have to tone it down a little bit.”

Killian furrows his brows in bewilderment. “I don’t know how I can tone things down any more than I’m toning them down, mate,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

“Okay look, Killian, you’re a brilliant writer…”

“Thank you.”

“You’re funny, you take risks, you connect with people…”

Killian’s brows pinch in suspicion. “Why am I sensing there’s a big but coming?”

“You have a distinct, authentic voice… but… ”

“And there it is…” he sighs.

“But, sometimes you’re a little too much.”

Killian is taken aback. “I don’t think I am too much. I actually think I’m the perfect portion,” he says defensively.

“Look, you have your job, so focus on that and just toe the line a little bit.”

Killian is enraged. Toe the line a little bit?! He’s not toeing any lines. “I quit.”

Sydney’s face twists with a mixture of shock and disappointment. “Oh, come on, Killian…”

“You should quit, too. Everyone should bloody well quit.”

“No, I’m not quitting, I need my job.”

“I need my job too. I’m broke. But I can’t work for that tosser.”

Sydney sighs. “At least let me fire you so you can collect unemployment.”

Killian slices a hand through the air over his chest. “No bloody way! I want nothing from him. Besides, I want him to know I quit.”

“He’ll never know it, he’s never heard of you. You’re going to destroy your life to spite a guy who’s never heard of you?”

“Yes! You said it best! That’s exactly what I’m doing. Fuck this.” Killian grabs his satchel and walks out of Sydney’s office, closing the door behind him, announcing to all his former coworkers, “Journalism died today, people!”

∞∞∞

“So the headline is, you’re in great shape,” Mary Margaret, the polling team manager, points out as she displays the next presentation slide.

Emma’s sitting at the meeting table between her Chief of Staff, Regina Mills, and Deputy Chief of Staff, Robin Locksley, trying to follow along with the presentation, but it’s difficult for Emma to focus when her stomach is full of butterflies. She still can’t believe she persuaded Gold to endorse her. Her head is spinning.

“Ninety-two percent, that’s good,” Regina comments.

“It’s very good,” Mary Margaret agrees exuberantly and moves on to the next slide, which shows Emma’s personality traits and how they were ranked. “Your sense of humor is eighty-two, which is solid.” Mary Margaret cocks her head to the side, as though she has to rethink that assessment. “It’s solid, but we wouldn’t mind seeing that number go up a few points… or more.”

Regina leans in to speak to Emma as she takes notes. “I’ll get some writing samples from some funny speechwriters.”

Emma sets her pen down and smiles. “Thanks, Regina.” She rests her elbows on the table, clasping her hands together as she reverts her attention to Mary Margaret and says, “But I’m really interested in knowing how people feel about my accomplishments.”

“Right, so we don’t drill down on specific policies, and that’s only because people don’t seem to care.”

Well, that’s a blow to the gut.

“With that said, if you could broker a deal that gets you out there talking about something you feel strongly about, that would be really great.”

“Well, that’s perfect,” Emma says enthusiastically, sitting on the edge of her chair. “We’ve been looking for an opening to start a conversation about the environment.”

“That sounds great,” Mary Margaret says with a grin, but Emma’s not sure if she’s being sarcastic and trying to hold back a laugh, or if she’s being sincere. “Now, if I may, onto your romantic life…” The brunette shows a photo of Emma and Graham Humbert smiling for the camera.

Emma refrains from rolling her eyes as she rests her chin in her palm. She doesn’t have a romantic life. One make-out session with a world leader she barely knows doesn’t constitute a romance.

However, the way Mary Margaret gushes as she looks at the couple in the photo, one would think they were actually a couple. “Remember the stir online when you and the Canadian Prime Minister were seated next to each other at the Global Business Forum?”

Emma nods, wishing she were taking a nap right now. She doesn’t care about improving her personality traits or starting a romance that will raise her numbers and appease the public. Although she is quite proud of her two highest scores, elegance and charisma, both ranked at over ninety-five percent.

“A relationship like that,” Mary Margaret points to the photo of Emma and Graham, “could push you into the high nineties.”

“High nineties? Wow,” Regina murmurs to herself, making note of it.

“That brings us to…” Mary Margaret switches to the next slide, showing Emma’s wave.

She knits her brows in confusion. “What’s wrong with my wave?”

“That kind of elbow movement is um…” Mary Margaret purses her lips as though she’s trying to figure out how to put it delicately, but then gives up, “well, it stresses people out.”

“You know what? It’s just an area of improvement,” Robin assures Emma after sensing the offended tone in her voice.

She supposes the movement in her elbow is a bit too much. It makes her look like a robot actually. “Fine, I’ll work on the wave.”

∞∞∞

“I’m not going to a fancy rich person party,” Killian declares after Victor proposed going to the World Wildlife Fund benefit in Philly tonight. Killian had shared the details with Victor and now they’re walking down Main Street discussing their plans for the evening. But Killian thought Vic was trying to make him feel better. Going to a fancy, rich person party will only remind Killian how rich he is not. He had something else in mind, something involving the closest bar and lots and lots of rum.

“Oh, come on, Jones. Don’t be so judgemental. There will be free booze and pandas and shit. People love pandas and shit.”

Killian shakes his head. “I just lost my job, I’m not really in the mood to mingle.”

“Fine, just sit at home and do nothing. Don’t hang out with your best friend and Boyz II Men.”

Killian’s ears perk up and he stops in his tracks. “Boyz II Men will be there?”

Victor stops walking and turns around, nodding. “Yep. They’re bringing their timeless blend of R&B and hip hop to the party. The fancy rich party doesn’t sound so bad after all, now does it?”

Not at all. He used to listen to Boyz II Men and other popular musicians in the nineties. But mostly Boyz II Men because it’s what he and Emma would listen to when she was over at his house babysitting him. He didn’t know Victor then; they met in college before Victor went off to medical school, but they have similar tastes in music. Which is how Victor knew exactly how to persuade Killian into going to a fancy, rich person party. “Okay, I’m in, mate.”

“That’s the spirit!” Victor pats Killian on the shoulder, and they walk again as Victor sings Motownphilly.

∞∞∞

“I’m starving. Why didn’t you power bar me?” Emma asks Robin as they make their way down the staircase, Regina and her Secret Service agents following behind them.

The Grand Room glitters like something out of a fairy tale, all candlelight and crystal chandeliers and gilt and sophisticated shine. The attendees glitter, the women dripping in diamonds and other precious stones and the men donning suits and black ties.

“I tried to, but you pushed my hand away,” Robin chuckles.

“Hopefully they don’t have skewered foods. I can’t eat skewered foods gracefully; I always look like a fucking cavewoman.”

“And there are cameras everywhere.” Regina points at a dutiful photographer who’s unobtrusively circling the perimeter of the room, taking pictures of as many of the guests as he can. “That would hurt your elegance score.”

“That’s my best score.”

When they reach the buffet table, Emma’s relieved to find that not all the food is on skewers. But even so, she’s so hungry, she may still look like a cavewoman trying to stuff as much food into her mouth as she can. “Cover me?”

“Of course.”

Regina and Robin both stand behind her like walls as Emma makes her first selection, grabbing a saucy meatball on a toothpick and bringing it to her mouth, being careful not to drip any sauce on her black dress.

“Oh my god, these meatballs are really good,” Emma mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“Graham Humbert is approaching,” Regina warns her. “He’s about nine feet away.”

“Shit,” Emma whispers and shoves another meatball into her mouth before wiping her lips and chin with a napkin. After swallowing it down and discarding the napkin, she spins around, offering a bright smile.

When Graham approaches her, giving her a once over, Regina and Robin disperse.

“Graham… how are you?”

“Good evening.” His lips twitch in a pleased smile as he takes Emma’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. “I am so sorry I missed you at the White House a few weeks ago,” he says in his thick, Irish brogue. He was born in Canada, but his parents are originally from Ireland, so naturally, he took on their Irish accent.

“Oh, it’s fine.” Emma waves off his apology with a flick of her hand. “Maybe next time?”

“Well, I—”

“If I may?” the photographer interrupts, holding up his camera.

“Aye, of course,” Graham turns toward him, and Emma relents, remembering what Mary Margaret said about how being seen with Graham would raise her score. She supposes if she’s going to be running for president, she must endure some things she may not like, in order to appease the public. Besides, it’s not like Graham is bad looking; in fact, he’s rather handsome with his curly brown hair and grey-blue eyes. But her hectic schedule doesn’t allow time for a romantic relationship.

Graham wraps his arm around her as she places a tentative hand on his back. The camera flashes a few times as Emma and Graham hold their smiles.

“One more,” Graham says, just as Emma’s about to pull away.

A few more successive shots are taken before Graham thanks the photographer and they break their pose, turning toward each other.

He inches closer, speaking intimately in her ear. “What do you say we get out of here? Grab a drink somewhere a bit more… private?”

The music changes from something soft and elegant to something more familiar. Very familiar actually.

Motownphilly.

Emma looks over Graham’s shoulder and her eyes light up when she sees Boyz II Men on stage. “Yeeeessss!”

When Regina told her about the World Wildlife Fund benefit, she failed to mention Boyz II Men would be performing.

“Yeah?” Graham asks, a big smile spreading across his lips.

While he’s thinking she was saying yes to his invitation, Emma had forgotten his presence as soon as she heard the music. Not that she would’ve accepted his invitation anyway. But now she sees this as an opportunity to avoid the question altogether. “Oh my God!” Emma scurries over to the crowd that’s gathering around the entertainers of the evening.

“Alright, alright, alright, alright. Philly, make some noise. Make some noise!”

The crowd whistles and cheers, and Emma is taken back to when she was a kid again. She was ten when this song came out—when she bought their CD—and listened to it constantly throughout her teen years.

Graham joins her on the dance floor as she moves to the music, not even caring about her elegance score. She literally hasn’t danced like this since high school, but she feels more carefree than she has in years and she hasn’t even had a sip of champagne. Stuffy music and champagne have never been her thing. But this… this is her music.

“Duty calls.” Graham’s deep voice in her ear makes her jump, and she spins around to look at him. “I’ll take a snow check on those drinks. Canadian for a rain check,” he winks.

“Okay,” Emma says, forcing a small laugh at his joke.

“Good evening,” he bids her, slowly walking away.

∞∞∞

“I feel very underdressed,” Killian grumbles as he peers down at himself. He’d never thought to change out of his blue jeans, t-shirt and black hoody, and here he is drinking champagne in a room full of rich people who are wearing tuxes and formal dresses.

“Don’t worry, you look fine,” Victor says as they make their way through the crowd.

Killian knows he’s just being nice though. Even Victor is wearing a dress shirt and blazer, but then again he blends in more with the other rich folk because unlike Killian, he’s not jobless or poor; he’s a doctor who makes more than a decent living.

Killian finishes his champagne and places the flute on a tray when a waiter approaches, and snatches another one, gulping it down like rum.

“Easy, buddy. You’re pounding those drinks pretty hard, don’t you think?” And that’s coming from Victor, who’s at the bar every night he’s not on call.

“I got fired today, mate.”

“I thought you said you quit?”

Killian’s gaze moves across the room as he turns his head to look at Victor who is standing next to him. “I was forced to quit because—” His words die in his throat, his jaw dropping when his eyes land on a gorgeous blonde dancing.

But not just any blonde. Killian recognizes her.

It’s the Secretary of State. It’s Emma Swan. His first crush. His first kiss.

He hasn’t seen her in person since she was eighteen, but she’s even more stunning as a grown woman. And she’s even more stunning than she is on television.

#cs ff #long shot au #captain swan

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rideonwings · 4 years

Text

The Enevitable Cliche Quarantine Story

Chapter 2

Pairing: Hiccup/Astrid

Summary: Stranger-Neighbors lean on each other during the quarantine

A/N: See, I told you all, I never start posting WIPs because I feel too guilty when I don't update them. Now here I am, weeks later, feeling like I've left you all hanging. This one is short and sweet, but hopefully worth it? Hoping everyone is staying safe and healthy out there.

AO3 Link

Astrid: “Okay, guys, only 30 more seconds, keep those hips up! 30 seconds is nothing, then you’re done for the day!”

Astrid felt silly, talking to her phone camera like it was a crowd of people, but this was currently her source of income, so she was willing to be as enthusiastic as she possibly could.

“Okay, time! Great work everyone, go ahead and come down to your stomach, then shoulders back, stretch out those abs in a cobra.”

As she finished up the stretch routine, Stormfly took the opportune moment to come to rest under her chest. Astrid laughed, turning her head to rest her head against the cat’s soft fur.

“Thank you to everyone who participated today, thank you for taking the time for yourself, be safe, wash your hands, and stay sane! See you tomorrow!”

She reached over to stop the video, Stormfly protesting beneath her as she shifted on top of her. She then collected her yoga mat and weights and stacked them back in the corner of her apartment, wiping her brow as she went.

Settling on the couch, Astrid started reviewing the video. The lighting in her apartment wasn’t great, making the video shadowy and not particularly detailed. She’d have to figure out a better location for the future, because unfortunately, she needed as many people as possible to watch her videos, lest the gym decided she wasn’t worth keeping on the payroll. Still, she made some quick edits and posted it to the gym’s YouTube channel and Facebook page with a peppy message she wasn’t really feeling.

She was already sick of her apartment. When Astrid had decided to live here, she hadn’t been particularly picky, seeing as she normally spent a significant portion of her day outside its walls. Now, every flaw and inconvenience was right in front of her constantly, and she was over it. She had heard Hiccup leave the apartment this morning, presumably to walk Toothless, and was instantly jealous that she couldn’t join them. She vowed to go for a run later, to break up the monotony.

Grabbing herself a mug of tea and one of her books for her thesis, she found her way back out onto the balcony. Hiccup wasn’t out in his area, which she was surprisingly disappointed about: she’d enjoyed their chat yesterday. Still, she didn’t spend too much time on it, instead copying her position from yesterday with her legs pulled into her sweatshirt and delving into her book. She made notes along the margins and nocked pages as she read, finding key quotes she could later incorporate in her writing.

It was cloudier today than the day before, and the breeze was making her slightly uncomfortable. She was about to give up and head inside when the sliding door to her right opened and a messy head of hair poked out. He turned to look at her and smiled, the tiny gap in his teeth clearly visible even from this distance. Toothless slipped out between his legs and darted towards the railing to say hello to her.

“Hey!” He said exuberantly. “I was just checking to see if it was warm enough to bring my stuff out here to work. Are you cold?”

Astrid curled her legs in closer to herself, putting her mug on the ground. “Yeah, it’s not as nice as yesterday. I was thinking about going in.”

Just then, a particularly harsh gust of wind whipped through, making her shiver. She rose from the chair and began to collect her things as Hiccup winced, closing the door a bit to prevent air from getting into his apartment. “Yeah, probably a good call for now. I might come out later for a drink, if you'd want to join me?” He sounded oddly hopeful, which tugged at Astrid’s heart.

She hugged her book closer to her chest and nodded, smiling a little. Hiccup’s smile widened and he waved slightly before ducking back inside, whistling for Toothless. Astrid ducked her head and suppressed a chuckle as she made her way back inside, settling on the couch with her book.

Hiccup As he got up for the umpteenth time to stretch, Hiccup cursed his furniture choices for the hundredth time in two days. The chair he had at his desk was not exactly conducive to good posture, and his back was aching from being hunched over his monitors. As lucky as he was to have this kind of office setup in his apartment, he’d never really had to use it long term and had picked a fairly cheap office chair from a local big box store. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time, but he was regretting that choice now. He felt like he had to get up every twenty minutes and shake out some kink in his back or hips.

Every time he stood up, Toothless jumped up too, following him around the apartment, obviously hoping they were going for another walk.

“Sorry, buddy, not yet,” he murmured, running his hand over the dog’s silky ears. “Give me another hour and we’ll go out.” He stretched his arms over his head, releasing the knots in his shoulders and neck. The motion twinged something lower in his back, making him sigh in frustration. Finally, he flopped onto the floor, laying flat on his back and straightening out as much as he could to align his spine.

He stared at the ceiling for a few moments before Toothless’ head appeared in his vision, obviously perplexed at why his owner was copying his signature nap position. The dog sniffed around his hairline, checking for signs of distress, before he began to lap at Hiccup’s cheeks with his tongue, making Hiccup squawk in distress and curl into the fetal position.

Toothless barked excitedly, thinking they were playing a game, and pawed at Hiccup’s back to get him to re-engage.

“Toothless, no!” Hiccup cried, swatting his arms blindly to shoo the dog away.

After a few minutes, Toothless fell into his play position, forelegs flat on the ground and rear in the air, tail whipping almost dangerously as his human rolled over to glare at him. Hiccup’s face was sticky and smelly, but he couldn’t hold a grudge against his buddy for long. He reached out with both arms and tackled the dog, pulling him against his chest and rolling around as Toothless yipped in excitement. Their tussle didn’t last long before they were both flat on the rug, both of their mouths open wide in humor.

Suddenly, Toothless’ ears perked and he jumped up and darted to the sliding door to the balcony. He’d started doing that whenever Astrid opened the door, looking to greet his new friend. The habit made Hiccup smile for more reasons than one.

Honestly, since the quarantine had started (had it only been a few days?), he’d come to realize how much of his social life had depended on his job. He had very few friends outside of work, and though he felt somewhat isolated in his apartment, he couldn’t think of anyone he really wanted to talk to. He chatted with Fishlegs while he was working, and exchanged a few messages with a few other friends, but he always struggled to come up with new topics.

But he really liked talking to Astrid. Their conversations hadn’t exactly been in-depth or long, but she seemed quick and funny and he needed that kind of conversation in his life right now.

He walked over to the balcony window, trying to get a glimpse of the blonde. From what he could see, she was wearing heavy leggings and a zip-up hoodie, and her cheeks were flushed as she leaned over the balcony railing. He slid the door open and poked his head out.

“Hey,” he greeted lamely. As she turned to look at him, he saw the glistening of sweat on her brow and noticed the shirt under her quarter zip was dark along the neckline. “Go for a run?” He asked.

Astrid nodded, still slightly out of breath. “It felt so good to be outside,” she said, popping one of her legs onto the railing to stretch. “I wanted to keep going forever.”

Hiccup’s eyes widened a little as he took in her long, toned legs in her running shorts, but forced himself to meet her gaze again and relax his expression. “I know the feeling. Those walks with Toothless are never long enough.”

“Still working?” She asked, gesturing to his open sliding door as she switched legs. He nodded, shrugging a little.

“Toothless keeps bugging me to go outside” he said, suddenly remembering that he was just nearly licked to death by the lab and he probably looked like it too. He absently ran his hands through his hair, finding it still wet.

“Oh, I could’ve taken him! I didn’t even think to ask!” Astrid said, bringing her leg down and settling into a crouch by the railing closest to Hiccup’s balcony. Toothless shoved his head through the bars as far as he could reach, forcing his eyes closed comically.

“That’s nice of you,” Hiccup replied, smiling down at the dog. “I’m going to go in an hour though, so he’s fine. Maybe some other time if I get caught up in conference call hell.”

Astrid nodded, picking up a water bottle from her chair and taking a drink. “I’m going to take a shower. Can I bug you later for dinner ideas?” She asked, smiling cheekily.

“Sure thing,” Hiccup said, feeling his cheeks flush slightly. Interacting with Astrid made him feel a little bit like a schoolboy with a crush. She was definitely more attractive than any girl he’d ever been with, and seemed friendly and sane enough. He could definitely see himself being friends with her, and then… who knew?

As she turned to re-enter her apartment, she smiled over her shoulder at him.

Hiccup smiled weakly back, turning to go back inside himself. He paused with his hand on the handle, half looking back in her direction, smiling to himself a little more confidently, even as his stomach flipped.

Who knew?

#hiccstrid #hiccup/astrid #httyd #httyd modern au #hiccstrid fanfiction #fanfiction #httyd fanfic #httyd fanfiction #hiccup/astrid fanfic

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softbiker · 4 years

Text

Born to Run - Chapter 15

Warnings: language, literally zero editing

Word count: 3k

A/N: Wow I’m back to updating this story??? A million years later?? I am so sorry to anyone who was following this - but if you’re still reading and still interested, here’s an update! God as my witness, I will finish this. I actually have more ideas and inspiration for where the story’s going now - plus we’re all getting quarantined, so these WIPs have never had a better chance of getting done. Anyways, here it goes! Please let me know what you think!

The lone monitor beeped steadily, plaintively, in the early morning quiet of the hospital room. Air rattled through the breathing machine, filling unknowing lungs over and over. A starched white blanket was pulled up to his chest, covering most of the bandages wrapped around his torso from the hours of emergency surgery. His left arm was already in a cast and laid on top of the blanket, resting against his stomach.

Natasha felt sick.

And angry.

How could she have been so stupid? Acting like a goddamn rookie, for starters, and running to Nick to fix their situation - letting things get out of hand with the Avengers, failing to convince Y/N to get out of here before things got bad. And they were only going to get worse.

If Nick had been identified, then they were all in danger. And there was no fucking way, to her mind, that he couldn’t have been I.D.’d. This wasn’t a random accident, regardless of whatever the hell the local police wanted to write on the incident report. It was an attack, a warning. First blood.

Her knee bounced in her seat by the bed, plastic upholstery squeaking with every shift in her weight. She chewed her nails - a habit she thought she had finally managed to kick. A tall nurse, dark curls piled into a bun on top of her head, came in to check Nick’s vitals; she was quiet, efficient, offering Nat a sympathetic smile.

“If you need anything, just contact the nurse’s station, ok?” Her pink bubblegum, tucked in the back corner of her mouth, was visible when she talked. “And there’s a coffee machine around the corner, in case you need your fix before the cafeteria opens up.”

Nat nodded her thanks as the woman slipped out of the room, her white nursing clogs creaking a little, not yet broken in.

The sky outside the window continued to brighten, a clear and cold winter morning; she wasn’t sure how long she stared at him before she decided to have that coffee after all. Massaging her temples, she shuffled down the hallway towards the flickering glow of the machine. Her boots echoed on the tiles in the empty hall, the low hum of the coffee machine filling the little alcove near the elevators. It whirred and hissed and spat out her coffee into a blue paper cup with slow, deliberate drips.

How had she let it get this far? What was she going to do without him? And who the hell could she trust? She winced as the first sip of coffee burned her tongue. It wasn’t as though she didn’t trust the team…but she’d gone to Nick in the first place because they were no longer being objective - Barnes especially, and Rogers was only enabling him.

Her eyes on the waxed linoleum floor, she barely noticed him standing outside the door of the hospital room. Steve squared his shoulders, directly in front of her, his eyebrows tilted at a thunderous angle.

“You gonna tell me what the hell is going on here?” he gritted out, the hoarse edge of his voice scraping in his throat.

Nat didn’t answer, not right away. Instead, she let him stew in the boil of his righteous anger, air tightening between them. The coffee had cooled a bit, but left a funny taste in her mouth - the flavor mixed badly with the mints she’d been sucking on an hour ago. The muscles in her neck and back ached from hunching by Nick’s bed all night, and she arched a little on her feet, stretching and flexing, though the early morning tightness never quiet left her muscles.

Finally, when the flare of Steve’s nostrils told her he was on the verge of making a scene, she gestured toward the door with her coffee cup.

“Why don’t you head in there and see for yourself?”

Clenching his jaw, Steve turned and let himself into the hushed dimness of the hospital room. He filled the doorway - he filled most doorways - and from behind Natasha wished he could march into this and save the day, the way he always wanted to. At the foot of the bed, he stopped and rested a hand on the mobile tray waiting there, now cleared of the uneaten food from last night. His mouth turned further down, matching the turn of his eyes as he watched the sleeping man tucked into crisp hospital linens. After all these years, I was so strange to see Nick this way - weak, still, not in command. It shook something loose inside of him, but he tamped it down, cracking the knuckles of his fist.

“You know who did this?” he said, his voice a low growl under the tone of the monitors. Behind him, Nat closed the door with a soft click.

“Of course I do - don’t you?” She slipped behind him, sipping from her coffee, and took up her chair by the bed again.

Big hands curling and uncurling, Steve remained silent. From her spot in the squeaky hospital chair, Nat watched the slant of his profile, reading the rage in every line.

“Rumlow is dead,” Steve said through clenched teeth.

“But not the rest of them.”

“Without a leader? They’re just a bunch of thugs.” Steve shook his head. “There’s someone else pulling the strings - someone smarter.” He nodded towards Nick’s prone body. “Someone who knew about Nick. Maybe about all of us.”

Natasha nodded slowly, one finger tracing the rim of her coffee cup. Usually she enjoyed being right.

Steve scrubbed at his face with his hands, blowing a harsh breath past his lips. He turned away from the hospital bed and paced along the edge of the room, towards the window. With the thin curtain drawn, pale sunlight cast shadows beneath his eyes, sharped the noble angle of his nose. HE never dreamed they’d be standing here, years deep in a life built on lies and duty. Fresh from the army, him and Buck, and no plans - that’s when Sam approached them. Intelligence work, a chance to do something important, to keep fighting the good fight on the home front.

“They’re all in danger.” Natasha’s voice scraped at the edges of her throat. “You know that, Steve.”

“I know.”

“It’s time.” He turned to look at her, bits of hair falling from her ponytail to frame her face. Bits of mascara had smudged underneath her eyes, bloodshot and heavy.

“Make the call,” Steve said, looking back towards the window. “Get Pierce if you have to. It’ll piss off Stark to go over his head, but I’m not worried about his ego.”

Nat licked her lower lip, tracing the chapped skin.

“What about Barnes and his girlfriend?” she asked, leaning an elbow on the arm of her chair. “I can’t see him being eager to burst their happy little bubble.”

Steve sighed through his nose, crossing his huge arms across his chest. The monitors beeped a lonely rhythm behind him.

“I”ll handle Bucky. Just get everything ready - make all the arrangements. Do what you have to do.”

***********

“So for dinner, I’m thinking…we still have that spaghetti squash in the fridge? I could whip up some kind of sauce to go with it…” she peaked her head up over the door of the fridge. “Sound good to you, Buck?”

Startled, Bucky’s head popped up from his phone.

“Uh, yeah sure,” he said, ducking back down and resuming the rapid movement of his thumb.

With a frown, Y/N hip-checked the door closed, bottles rattling inside.

“Are you listening to me, Bucky Barnes?” she asked, eyes narrowing as she leaned back against the fridge.

He looked up again - a well-developed sense of self-preservation kicked in when he caught that dangerous glint in her eyes.

“Yes - yes, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he sighed, sliding his phone into his back pocket. “Whatever you want for dinner is good - I’m fine with the spaghetti squash.”

She was never so easily distracted.

“What was so interesting?” she nodded his direction. “You’ve been glued to that thing all afternoon.”

Bucky’s shoulders dropped as he sighed, rounding the edge of the counters to approach her in the kitchen. Soft hands reached for her hips, reeling her in closer, sharing heat and heartbeats. The scent of his cologne drifted up on the air between them - spicy, warm, just subtle enough to remain sexy. He leaned in close and pressed his lisp to her forehead, devoted and sweet, and always properly apologetic.

“I”m sorry, baby,” he said, squeezing her waist softly. “It’s just Steve-”

“Steve?” She looked up at him with a frown, neat little line forming between her brows. “Steve has been blowing up your phone?”

“Yeah, I know.” He shook his head. “It sounds like total bullshit, but I swear that’s all.”

“What’s going on with Steve?”

Bucky sucked in a deep slow breath, hoping to hide his hesitation. Their “club business” had always taken first place, first priority…the job came first. The job was important. They were saving lives, putting away criminals. But now his girl was pouting at him in the kitchen, and he’s so tired, so goddamn tired all of a sudden - of all of it. Of being a public servant or a hero or whatever the hell. Of duty. He wants to pack it all up and just start driving. Move back to the city - or hell, even the suburbs would be nice. He’d take Y/N to Sunday dinner at his mom’s place; they’d move in together, and Y/N could decorate just how she wanted, and he’d sweat over rearranging the furniture and complain about trips to fuckin’ Ikea and all the other stuff that normal boyfriends got to do. In this moment, this inhale, he tasted it all, the life they could have. A dream they could build, together.

And all he had to do was come clean. About all of it.

In the space of an exhale, he faced it. He wanted this. It was on the tip of his tongue.

And then the next breath.

“Just club stuff,” he shrugged, feeling the weight of the lie dropping on her. “There’s…been a little drama between the members lately. Nothin’ for you to worry about.”

With another kiss to her forehead, he turned away and opened the fridge.

“I’ll put that spaghetti squash in this afternoon if you want me to,” he offered. “That way it’ll be ready when you get off work. Sound good?”

Y/N nodded mutely, pressing her lips into a smile. She had to admit it was nice having a boyfriend who was mildly competent in the kitchen.

“Okay, well, I’ve got to get in to the clinic,” she sighed, checking her watch. “Shit! I’ll be late.” Swinging her bag and lab coat over her shoulder, she gave him a final peck on the lips before bolting to the door.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Bucky called from the kitchen.

“Too cold!” was her reply - and then she was out the door.

Bucky stared at the closed door for a moment, one hip leaned against the counter, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. He just needed some time. Just a little more time to sort all this out. And then he’d tell her - the whole truth. Everything. And after, they could have a life together, something real, something safe, a home.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Steve again.

Call me. Now.

Even as he rolled his eyes at Steve’s flare for the dramatic, a little tremor seized Bucky’s heart. Dread hovered in the back of his mind as he swiped his thumb and dialed Steve’s number.

This could only go badly.

**********

One breath.

Inhale to exhale. That was how long it took for him to lie to her.

Cold fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, it was all she could think about. It scared the hell out of her, whatever it was he tried to hide in that breath, whatever he decided to keep from her. He’d never done that before…or had he? Did she know? Would she know? Would she be able to tell?

Calm down, Y/N. You’re overreacting. She lectured herself, cranking the heat in her car to a higher setting. A top 40 song, thumping beat and repeated lyrics, hummed faintly on the radio; she was running late enough that the morning talk show had already ended, moving on to the daily shuffle of hits and local business commercials. It all went unheard in the worried circle of her thoughts.

What could he have to hide? Unbidden, her mind flooded with horrible possibilities, every possible answer to that question, and each more horrible than the last. Was he cheating? Another woman was responsible for the constant barrage of text messages pinging his phone? Bucky was handsome, not to mention clever, flirtatious, romantic; she had no doubt he could get any woman he wanted. But his attention and affection for her hadn’t waned - just this weekend he’d planned a beautiful dinner for the two of them, followed by a homemade cheesecake he had slaved over for dessert, and then well…he was certainly still eager in the bedroom. The warning signs just weren’t there.

So what else? He’d never been secretive about the club before. Avengers business was Avengers business, but he’d never lied to her about it. It turned her stomach sour, and she regretted having those pancakes this morning, the cloying smell of syrup still on her hands making her want to pull over and vomit on the side of the road.

She knew she was working herself up, letting her mind run amuck, but she couldn’t stop herself. By the time she pulled her car into the parking lot of the clinic, she’d half made up her mind to turn right around, go home, and confront him. The image of herself, half-crazy with ideas of secret affairs or violence or drugs, marching into the house and accusing him of lying - it stopped her short.

God, why am I losing my shit over this? Y/N dropped her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, the car idling in the lot, warm and safe from the harsh winter morning. She’d dealt with shitty men before, she’d survived bad boyfriends. It was impossible to make it very long as a woman without that experience. And yet, somehow, the memory of that paled in comparison to the devastating knowledge that Bucky was lying to her.

You love him. Oh god, she did, she loved him - she was in love with him.

She hurried out of the car and into the clinic, preferring to bury herself in wellness checks and vaccines and the flu than to keep thinking on it.

**********

At the reception desk, Charlotte stopped her before she could get to her office.

“Oh! You’re needed at the county hospital today.” She handed Y/N the note, written on robin’s egg blue stationary.

“I’m sorry? Why?” Y/N squinted at the note, a handwritten scribble. Charlotte shrugged.

“No real explanation - but the chief surgeon said that they could use an extra set of hands with all the flu cases they’ve got coming in.” She took a sip from her travel mug. “I’ve heard they’re a little overwhelmed down there, since they’re the closest treatment for a lot of people in the county.”

Y/N sighed, looking back out to her car. She hadn’t planned to drive the extra mileage out to the hospital today; not to mention it would probably make her late coming back for dinner tonight. Digging in her purse, she grabbed her phone and shot off a quick text to Bucky, explaining the change.

“Alright then,” she huffed, placing her purse back on her shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

With a wave to Charlotte and the other nurses, she was back out the door and heading to her car. This time around, she turned the radio up loud, singing along and tapping her fingers on the steering wheel and not thinking about this morning, or her own life, or anything at all.

**********

At the hospital, she was assigned to make rounds for one of their physicians who had called in sick. Simple enough. The elevator ride up was quiet, new nurses and doctors all quiet and polite, but holding down their conversations in the presence of a stranger.

She started on the third floor recovery ward, making her way down the hall door by door. Bedside manner was always one of her strengths; she could charm most patients with just a few words, breezing through her examinations and questions with ease. Chalk it up to customer service experience, but even the difficult patients usually treated her with gruff politeness, the insistence of her friendly manners forcing them to match with their own. Room by room, she checked charts and asked about pain levels and wrote prescriptions, the morning passing by in hours of sterile white tile and the smell of hand sanitizer.

Turning a corner onto the next ward, she was just looking up from her clipboard when she caught a glimpse of a familiar shade of red ducking into a doorway. Y/N hurried her steps, her cadence almost a jog as she tried to catch-

“Natasha?” She knew that hair, the back of her jacket, the set of her shoulders.

Nat was standing in the door of the hospital room, propping it open with one arm, head turned over her shoulder to stare at Y/N with weary eyes. Her face was pale, scrubbed clean of makeup, the bright baby hairs around her face twisting in tight little curls. At the sight of Y/N, she quirked the corner of her mouth up in an attempt at a smile, but it only managed to make her look more strained and exhausted.

“What are you doing here?” Y/N went on when she didn’t get an answer. Her eyes cut past Natasha to the dim fluorescence of the room behind her. “Is everything okay?”

Nat stared for another moment, her lips pressed tight together, jaw working back and forth. The hand she held on the door was curled in a small, tight fist, the peaks of her pale knuckles standing out against the long sleeve of her hoodie. Then, still silent, she stepped aside, gesturing for her friend to enter.

“Come in,” she said hoarsely. “We need to talk.”

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky x reader fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #biker!bucky #biker!bucky au #biker!bucky fic #marvel fic #avengers fic

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pankows-girl · 4 years

Text

Can I Be Him? - Tom Holland

Pairing: Tom Holland x reader, Harrison Osterfield x reader

Summary: Based on “Can I Be Him” by James Arthur

Word Count: 1,266

Warning: Cheating, Cussing

A/N: This has been a wip for literal years but I finally got motivation to finish it at 3 am. It’s probably terrible but oh well lol. Enjoy

For as long as Tom can remember, him and Harrison had been best friends. Nothing could break the strong bond that they had made over the years, or at least before you came into the picture and changed everything. The three of you had met at a bar, you were performing as a solo artist and the boys caught your eye. After your set they came up to you and offered to buy you a drink and you accepted. A new friendship quickly formed between the three of you and soon enough you all started to hang out together. Tom and Harrison both fell in love with you but in the end only one of them got the girl.

Tom was beyond devastated when you and Harrison had started dating. Each time he was left to be the third wheel and it hurt him to see you happy with someone that wasn’t him. However, that someone was his best friend and he was happier than Tom had ever seen him before. The way you two went together so perfectly made Tom jealous. That should be him that gets to hold you and kiss you. There were a few times that he thought about admitting his feelings to both you and Harrison but he chose to bite his tongue and stay quiet. Who was he to ruin your happiness?

It wasn’t long before your singing career took off and you were performing all over the place. You were amazing, writing your own music, following your dreams. Harrison could not have been more proud of his girl or at least that’s what Tom thought. Tonight Haz and Tom went to every one of your shows, supporting you and your love of music.

Tonight you were singing a new song, one that neither Tom nor Haz had heard. As you walked onto the stage, Tom was blown away. You looked so gorgeous. It was like a punch to the gut as Tom remembered that you weren’t his, even if he wanted you to be. Oh, how he wished he never fell for you, then he would never have to feel this way, feel this longing that he always felt when you were around. He knew even if he had the chance to turn back time, he would fall for you again and again.

You walked into the room and now my heart has been stolen

You took me back in time to when I was unbroken

Now you're all I want

And I knew it from the very first moment

'Cause a light came on when I heard that song and I want you to sing it again

As you started to sing Tom felt his heart skip a beat. It felt like you were looking right at him, like he was the one that existed besides you. But, he knew it must have been Harrison you were staring at, who was standing right next to Tom. Though you were dating his best friend, his heart ached for you, hoping against all odds that the words you sang had even the tiniest semblance to him.

I swear that every word you sing, you wrote them for me

Like it was a private show, I know you never saw me

When the lights come on and I'm on my own

Will you be there to sing it again?

Tom knew that to you he was just another face in the crowd, only a friend, but it didn’t hurt any less. As selfish as it was, he loved you and he needed to tell you. He didn’t know if he could bring himself to do it, to risk ruining his friendship with you and Harrison. He wanted to be with you, be able to love you in the most wonderful way but how could he?

“She’s great isn’t she?” Harrison spoke to Tom, snapping him out of his thoughts of what life would be like if you were his.

“Oh yeah, mate. Y/n’s killing it up there.”

Harrison clapped Tom on the back, his eyes drifting over his shoulder to check out some girl that wasn’t you. The brunett gave him a once over and nodded her head at him

Tom clenched his jaw, unable to believe what’s about to happen. As much as he loved his best friend, he also envied him and his relationship with you. Not only that but he felt guilty for wanting his best friend's girl. But all that guilt flew out the window as soon as Harrison’s eyes wandered and he took a step towards the girl.

Tom looked at you for a moment. You were in your old world, oblivious to him calling after Harrison as he followed the brunette throughout the club after, eyes begging Tom to keep this quiet. Tom was dumbfounded as he realized the person he considered a brother was really a cheating asshole.

He felt sick to his stomach. You deserved so much better than Harrison. Tom knew he had to tell you about this but he didn’t know how. Little did he know that you already knew. You saw Harrison walk off with that girl and you did nothing. You continued to sing even though your chest hurt and tears threatened to escape your eyes.

After the show was over, Tom made his way backstage. He cleared his throat upon entrance, alerting you of his presence. You jumped, turning to look at him and noticing that Harrison was nowhere to be seen. Your eyes watered with more unshed tears and they didn’t go unnoticed by Tom.

“Where’s Haz?” your lip quivered as you spoke, already knowing the answer.

“Fuck him, seriously,” Tom scoffed angrily. He stepped forward, burying his face in your hair as he wrapped you in a hug. “He’s a twat.”

“I could treat you so much better than him,” Tom whispered into your ear, tensing as he awaited your reaction. “Just give me a chance please, darling.”

I heard there was someone but I know he don't deserve you

If you were mine I'd never let anyone hurt you, no, no

I wanna dry those tears, kiss those lips

It's all that I've been thinking about

'Cause a light came on when I heard that song and I want you to sing it again

If you were being completely honest with yourself, you hadn’t been happy with Harrison for a while. You and Haz both knew it but never brought it up with another and sure him cheating really hurt but you also couldn’t lie and say that you weren’t relieved.

This was your shot at happiness with Tom. His words ignited a spark in you. One that caused all the hair on your arm to stand up and a smile to stretch across your lips.

“Ok, Tommy,” you mused. “Here’s your chance, don’t miss it.”

A smile lit up his face, Tom unable to believe that what he’s wanted for so long was actually happening to him. His eyes wandered down to your lips and you nodded, giving him permission to kiss you. Almost immediately his mouth connected to yours, nose rubbing against your cheek. You both pulled away for air.

“I have something to tell you, Tom,” you started nervously. Tom’s eyes shined as he looked down at you with curiosity. “That song I sang earlier was about you.”

He blushed at your confession. Heart nearly leaping out of his chest at his dream come true.

Tom pecked you in the lips. “I want you to sing it again. For me, please?”

Tag List: @toms-order @hollandjmc @totallyreadyforthis @tomholllandsquackson

Lmk if you wanna be added or taken off

#tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland imagine #tom holland one shot #tom holland fanfiction #harrison osterfield x reader #song fic #haz osterfield #tom holland fanfic #my writing

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gumnut-logic · 4 years

Text

When the World Goes Boom

Okay, I tried. I honestly tried to finish this, but it didn’t happen ::falls to my knees and begs forgiveness:: I really didn’t want to offer yet another WIP, but aaaaargh! I’ll work on it some more tomorrow. It isn’t supposed to be long, though it has definitely gone off the rails of what it was supposed to be ::glares at it enough to set it on fire::

There is more written, but I’m glaring at it at 11.30pm, very annoyed with it. So I’m going to put it down, walk away and look at it again tomorrow.

I’m sorry ::wails lots::

So this is...

Part One

again ::headdesk::

Many thanks to @scribbles97 @i-am-chidorixblossom and @olliepig for reading and listening to my wailing.

Spoilers for Season 3.

Happy Birthday, Alan.

-o-o-o-

It involved a fire.

An out of control fire was never a good thing, but an out of control fire in space was always a very bad thing.

Thunderbird Three was launched and Alan and Scott broke atmosphere at speed. John threw names and numbers at them. Firm Oxy-Baker again. This time an in-orbit facility harvesting space junk and recycling components and fuel.

Emphasis on the fuel as the fire was threatening to denotate the storage cylinders.

Scott made a mental note to take out Oxy-Baker on the stock market the first chance he had. He was sick of this poorly managed death trap of a company.

But his train of thought was heavily distracted as they pulled the three staff from the habitat just as the whole complex made like a sun and exploded.

He lost time for a moment there.

Consciousness found him spinning through space, his safety line dragging the three rescues along behind him.

“Scott!”

John. Thunderbird Five.

He blinked and forced his brain to work.

Earth spun past, alternating with starlit space.

“Thunderbird One, do you copy?”

“Uh?”

“Scott!”

John, perturbed. Not good.

“Thunderbird Five. I, uh, copy.” He could stop the spinning, couldn’t he?

He palmed his jetpack controls and did just that.

God, that was so much better.

“Scott, status!”

Damn, Johnny was a nag.

His three rescuees settled around him. One grabbed at his leg, her eyes wild and terrified.

Rescuees.

Shit.

He reached down and gently brought her closer, his brain struggling to function clearly enough to assess her condition. Suit seals, air supply. He moved from her to the next, who was still unconscious, but appeared secure. The third person at the very end of the safety line was not so lucky.

The terror on her face was forever frozen in the vacuum of space as her suit had been shredded.

Scott closed his eyes for just a split second.

“Scott-“

“Thunderbird Five, two out of three survivors.” His voice was ever so parched. “Tell Alan-“

And his brain hit a non-sequitur.

Alan.

He had been beside him.

Where?

“Alan?”

Thunderbird Three was spinning slowly in the distance.

“Scott, I’ve lost contact with Alan.”

“Alan?!”

Thunderbird Three did not answer, the red rocket continuing to slowly spin, her pilot who knew where.

“John, where is he?!”

“Shifting orbit to assist.”

A sudden distant point on the Earth’s curve swelled into the shape of Thunderbird Five, her thrusters fully deployed. She moved fast and loomed large above him.

He skipped a breath and nearly choked on nothing.

And John was there, blue and yellow and fiery jets. His space brother took control and the next thing he knew, he was safe inside Thunderbird Five, her silver padded interior too bright for his eyes.

So he closed them.

Alan.

His eyes opened in panic.

John darted past as the air pressurized around them and sound returned.

Someone was crying.

Alan.

John was hastily assessing the two survivors. Soft words of reassurance and instruction. Both were now conscious. One crying inconsolably.

Alan.

“John.”

“I’ve lost his signal. Eos is looking for him.”

As if hearing her name, Eos spoke up. “John, I have located Alan Tracy.”

“Where is he?” Two brothers. One voice.

There followed the recovery of their unconscious brother. Scott would never forget the sight of John decked out in his exosuit cradling his little brother against his chest, terror in his eyes.

Alan’s suit integrity was in place, but only because the material had melted down one side. The heat of the explosion…he had been too close.

His little brother had been burnt.

Part of Scott started screaming.

John took command. Scott forced his brain into procedure as Thunderbird Five realigned her path yet again and John took his exosuit out to Three and docked the abandoned, but thankfully undamaged craft.

Alan’s face was so pale under the touch of his fingertips. His littlest brother…

“Scott?”

His father’s voice echoed through Thunderbird Five. John was moving the rescuees to Three.

“Status? John reported Alan injured.”

“Yes.”

The scanner was in his hand and its readings hurt. Still his thoughts were sluggish.

“Scott? Your status?”

“He’s burnt, Dad.” Burnt. His little brother was burnt. Part of his uniform was fused to his thigh. Scott couldn’t help him.

Help him.

A blue gloved hand reached over and took the scanner from his fingers. John. Turquoise eyes frowned at him and that same scanner was suddenly pointed at him. It whirred and flickered light.

“Scott, you need to sit down.”

“Alan-“

“I’ve got, Alan. I’m going to transfer him to Three. You need to sit here and wait for me. Can you do that?” John’s voice was ever so gentle.

A single nod. But then John was taking Alan away. Scott had to follow.

He was his littlest brother.

He was vaguely aware of John shooting him a worried look, but Scott’s eyes were only for Alan. He trailed behind the hoverstretcher and the Thunderbird changed from Five to the red of Three.

John was strapping him into a chair beside Alan’s docked stretcher. Blue fingers touched his cheek and Scott looked up.

“He is going to be okay, Scott.”

Something knotted in his throat and the mental controls he grabbed for failed.

The whimper that passed his lips registered as horribly embarrassing in some corner of his mind, but he paid it no attention.

John’s hand slipped to his shoulder and those turquoise eyes suddenly filled his vision. “Alan is going to be okay, Scott. I have to pilot. I need you to stay here. Can you do that?”

Scott struggled to straighten his shoulders. What the hell was wrong with him? What put that horrible fear in John’s eyes?

John was his little brother, too.

“I can.”

A gentle squeeze of that blue hand and John was gone.

Three roared and his world moved.

He lost time again.

Everything shook and shifted from red to green and Virgil appeared in front of him, brown eyes ever so worried. “Scott, you with me?”

“Alan!” He shot to his feet and Virgil grabbed him as the world took several steps to the left. His head screamed.

‘Hey, he’s okay. He’s okay.” Strong arms held him.

That green.

He was on Two. How?

“Mid-air transfer. We need to get you to a hospital.”

“Alan. We need to get Alan to a hospital.” He wilted. “He’s burnt, Virgil. He’s burnt.”

Something flickered in those deep brown eyes. “I know, Scott, but he is going to be okay. I need to look after you now. C’mon, let’s get you comfortable.”

“Alan. Where’s Alan?”

Virgil stepped to one side and there lay his little brother on a docked hover gurney. Sitting beside him was his father.

“Dad?”

Something inside just broke.

He was aware of Virgil grabbing him again as the world tipped on its side and his stomach heaved. Everything spun. He realised he was talking, saying something over and over again. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Sorry…” He mumbled and mumbled and grey eyes caught his, doubled and wavered. “I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry. Allie got hurt. I’m sorry…”

A hand found his hair and he realised he was horizontal. Virgil was there. Dad was there. Dad. I’m sorry. Allie got hurt. I’m so sorry. Light flickered over him. Virgil’s worried rumble. A hand inspecting his head.

Soft fingers on his cheek.

Dad.

I’m sorry.

His father’s voice was ever so soft. “It’s okay, Scotty. Not your fault. It’s okay.”

A single tear leaked out one eye.

Blue fingers gently wiped it away.

Dad was in uniform. His pale gold baldric shone dully in the lighting. Scott’s eyes fixated on it as it doubled and wavered in and out of focus.

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

His father’s hand cupped the side of his face. “Not your fault, Scotty.” Grey eyes bore it into him and Scott fixated on their determination.

But it didn’t matter because they blurred, the greys all became black, and everything faded away.

-o-o-o-

End Part One (damn it)

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Scott Tracy #Alan Tracy #John Tracy #Jeff Tracy #Virgil Tracy

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harringroveheart · 4 years

Text

harringrove horror wip

promises to keep (and miles to go before I sleep) -- untitled sequel | follows on from [this]

:::

Billy drank so much chlorine. Bleach, when he could get it. Hydrofluoric acid, once. He felt sick all the time. Felt himself dissolving away out from under.

When the monster spears him through the chest, it’s a relief.

:::

Dying takes a long time. He can hear voices, feel Max shaking him. Crying. There are sirens too, just too late.

It hurts on and off. All over.

He twists in and out of worlds like overarm swimming – a breath on the surface and a stroke underwater. Light and nothingness. Pain, deep, sucking, all-encompassing, and then just—floating.

Time slips away.

:::

That fucking… beeping. Will someone please turn it off so he can sleep?

:::

His dad holds him, rocks with him.

“My boy, my boy, my boy,” he says, choked up on tears. His words are wet, rough, hot in Billy’s ear. “I’m going to make it right this time.”

Billy keeps rocking with him because he can’t stop.

It’s his first day back from the hospital, but he won’t know it for two more months.

:::

Max is shaking her head. “This one,” she says, putting the fork in his hand.

“I made your favorite,” Susan says, looking to Neil, eyes nervous. She puts the casserole down on the table.

Max shakes her head again: It’s not.

It tastes like crap.

It’s better than antifreeze.

:::

Home, Billy thinks. He keeps staring, forgetting how to blink, where he is, how he got here. His feet are cold past hurting.

Harrington looks around and down the long stretch of asphalt disappearing into the woods, his eyes darting back to Billy, dark and knowing. The moonlight makes them look wet.

“That’s not your home,” he says. “Let me take you back.”

He’s cold everywhere except where Harrington’s palm presses against his chest.

:::

“Thanks,” he says a little while later, in the car.

“For what?”

“For hitting me with your car.”

“Well…It wasn’t really mine.”

“Well. I wasn’t really me.”

“You’re you now, though,” Harrington says, more question than it should be. “You know that, right?”

:::

He has to wait all day to see him.

He finishes his shift late, when it’s already dark and the parking lot is still swarming with cars. People going to the movies. People picking up their kids. Harrington is too tired or too distracted to notice Billy at first. Does a double take.

When he sees that Billy isn’t there to chase him, he comes closer. Follows Billy into the dark corner behind the loading bay where the Chinese restaurant dumps its trash.

It’s just how he thought it would look: the sailor uniform. Billy feels something like a smile.

“What are you doing here?” Harrington asks, suspicious. Not as hard-toned as it could be. They’ve seen each other around. Eyes over headlights on the dark drive to the Byers’ house. Tense quiet shared in the locker room after practice when they’re both afraid of each other for different reasons.

“Just felt like seeing a familiar face,” he says.

It’s the truth. It’s all he wants. Harrington’s face is familiar and new all at once, every damn time. He looks clean, rosy. If Billy touched his cheek it would leave a mark. If he touched his hair, he could never trust himself not to stop touching it.

“You okay in there, Hargrove?” Harrington asks. “You look a little…”

I’m okay, Harrington, he thinks.

It’s just sweat.

:::

They shaved his head, Max tells him, putting her hand over his on the gearshift. In, left, second, drive.

“Neil went apeshit,” she says. “No. In, left, second, drive. There. You got it.”

“Did I look stupid?”

“No. You still looked good. Not like you, though. Do you want me to cut it again?”

He laughs. “No way,” he says. “Harrington’d kill me.”

She’s looking at him funny. He stops. Looks down at his hands. Remembering and forgetting.

“Why would Steve kill you, Billy?”

The wheel is warm under his fingers like it remembers him just fine.

:::

After dinner he washes dishes, quiet and careful, staring at his reflection caught and dulled in the opaque blackness of the window over the sink. The flower boxes outside are spilling over, heavy with big blowsy roses, petals soft and faded at the edges, their centres a vibrant rancid pink that makes his head spin.

It’s almost midnight; a year to the day. Neil bought sparkling wine and the birthday cake Billy liked when he was seven.

A dish clinks in the soapy water, the foam itching at his wrists.

“It’s ok,” he says dully, Susan’s reflection beside his like a smear of pale oil paint, watching, fretful. “I don’t do that anymore.”

She watches him a moment longer anyway. And when he leaves he hears her putting the detergent away in the cupboard.

:::

Heather’s house. Fran’s house. Gary Kenwick’s house. The house at the end of Dearborn and the house on Randolph Lane. The house with the rose garden and the house with the deadbolt and the house with the fridge-door left open and the milk all over the floor and the house with boys’ rooms and their dinosaur nightlights.

These are places he has been.

:::

If he goes to the steelworks and goes down and down and lies on the concrete and breathes in the dust and closes his eyes he can dream again but it’s not the same.

:::

“I don’t want it to have my mom.”

“It needs her, for its work.”

“I want to go home.”

“We are.”

He is. They are.

“Why did you lie?”

He doesn’t answer. Breathe in, breathe out. He has so many heartbeats now. So many names.

“Billy.”

Billy?

“You said it would be over soon.”

:::

He likes Robin. She works at the video store with Harrington and she doesn’t remember Billy from either of his befores. She should be sick of seeing him, day in and day out, but she likes his jokes and the nasty smile he shares with her when Harrington does something stupid.

“He told Keith The Karate Kid is the only movie that ever made him cry.”

“He told me his favorite actor is the Terminator.”

“He thinks Gremlins is ‘a classic’.”

“He thinks Gremlins is a documentary.”

“Hey,” Harrington says. “Do you two assholes want to help me here, or am I supposed to unpack these all myself?” He waves an exacto knife around at the jumble of half opened boxes and scattered packing peanuts.

Billy smirks. “Who let you have a sharp tool?”

“It’s got a safety on it,” Robin says.

:::

Every now and then they get high out the back of the store. It’s Harrington’s weed. Sometimes it’s the pills the government doctors give Billy each month to stop him from turning back into jelly. Robin and Harrington are fearless. They don’t care what kind of trip they have so long as they’re together.

“I don’t feel anything,” Harrington says, pacing, running his hands through his hair over and over with neurotic focus.

Robin gives one of her honking laughs. “Oh, I think you’re feeling it Stevie.”

“I don’t feel good,” he whines.

“You feel fine. You feel fine,” Robin insists. She’s doing something to her shoelaces, tying them into some intricate knot of vital importance. Billy laughs. It’s only fair. They got him so high last week he let them paint his nails.

“Does this feel weird to you?” Harrington asks, suddenly in front of him, sucking up all his attention, shoving his head under Billy’s hand. Billy’s fingers slide through: muscle memory. It’s softer than he remembers, and lighter too. Blond, in parts.

So, the Mindflayer didn’t get his highlights right.

Harrington calms down under his stroking hand. When Billy finally looks up Robin’s finished her task, shoelaces of both shoes all knotted together, and she’s staring at him, at both of them, surprised and then sad.

:::

“Does your family know you’re out here?” Harrington asks, tugging the bottle out of his hands and hopping up onto the bonnet beside him. “Fuck.” He shivers. “It’s fucking freezing out here. Aren’t you cold?”

Billy shrugs. He’s drunk. He woke up thinking about rats. Rats don’t get cold. They can probably get drunk.

Harrington is wearing a jacket pulled tight over a thin t-shirt, warm all over from sleep. He looks great. He looks too good to be true. Billy watches him take a slug of the bourbon and give it back to Billy so he can blow on his hands.

“So…” Harrington says, after a nice enough silence. “What are we doing here?”

“Watching fireworks,” Billy says.

He can feel Harrington’s eyes on him. Confused. Pitying maybe. From up here the forest looks like a toy forest and the town looks like a toy town with tiny fairy lights. The sky is cloudless, near and black. It’s empty tonight. It’s empty every night. There’re never any stars and there’re never any fireworks.

“Well, okay then,” Harrington says. “How’d you score such good seats?”

That makes him smile. “I dreamt them,” he says.

“Well, thanks for the invite then.”

“I dreamt you too.”

Harrington laughs. “Okay. Well, thanks for the hair, and the big dick.”

“You always wanted me to kiss you.”

Silence.

“Oh.”

Oh.

“Were we…”

“Yes,” Billy says.

:::

A party: a basement: a couch.

“Did it hurt you?”

“No,” Billy says.

Harrington is drunk, sloe-eyed. He has lipstick on him, just a smudge, so cruel, in the corner of his mouth, like a sore that Billy wants to scrub and scrub and scrub at. He drinks his beer instead and pretends he can taste it.

“Did it lie to you?”

“No.”

“What did it offer you?” he asks. He knows. He knows.

Billy can’t answer that. He’s not here. He’s not real. He’s a wave of tar and spare parts under thin skin.

“What did it offer you, Billy? Anything? Everything?”

Kingdoms, he wants to say. Worlds and stars and kingdoms. A road that only goes where his heart wishes it could live.

“Less,” he says.

He looks at Harrington, at the perfect inimitable color of his eyes.

Enough.

:::

#harringrove #stranger things #freeform #fic #season 3 #mindflaying

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orangeoctopi7 · 4 years

Text

Back in My Day

I’ve been very busy the last half of the month, between my grandpa’s funeral and getting sick, so the idea I originally had for @Stanuary week 4 sadly hasn’t gotten off the ground. (It was just gonna be a very silly crossover with Atop the Fourth Wall’s Contest of Champions, and I may come back to it when I don’t feel like I swallowed a gallon of mucus) Instead, I’m posting the first chapter of a WIP I’ve been sitting on for a while that will have Stan in a fight later on. So it sorta fits.

***

After the flash of brilliant blue light, Ford realized he was no longer standing in the living room of the Mystery Shack. Instead, he was standing in a much smaller living room, with painfully bright yellow and orange 70’s style wallpaper. The same kind they used to have in their home in Glass Shard Beach. In fact, it was the same wallpaper.

“Hey, are ya gonna stand there gawkin’ like a pigeon all day, or are ya gonna move out from in front of the TV?” A harsh voice asked from behind him.

Ford whipped around to see his father sitting in his old favorite green-and-red plaid chair. The scientist looked down at his hands and saw that they were young and soft, rather than worn and calloused from years of work and travel. But in his left hand he still clutched the Time Tape, the one Shermie had claimed was broken.

“Whatcha got there, slick?” Filbrick asked, spotting the Time Tape.

“Uhhh... tape... measurer?” Ford said slowly. He’d certainly gotten better at lying over the years, but he wasn’t prepared for this. “For…” he looked around and tried to guess the year he’d come back to, “...for my science fair project?”

“That’s not one of mine.” Filbrick observed, “Where’d you get it?”

Stanford was saved from having to come up with a convincing lie when they heard Stanley thunder down the stairs and burst into the room. In the split-second the twins’ eyes met, Ford knew Stan was going through the exact same thing he was.

“Borrowed it from school!” Stan explained, too loudly.

Even though they couldn’t see their father’s eyes behind the old man’s shades, it was clear he was rolling them. “Just as long as you didn’t waste any money buying a new one when we got perfectly good tools at home. Now get outta the way before the commercials end.”

Stan and Ford dashed back up the stairs to their room and slammed the door tightly behind them

“What the heck is going on!?” Stan exclaimed as soon as they were alone. “How are we back here and pimply teenagers?”

“Well, obviously,” Ford’s voice cracked, and he cleared his voice before continuing, “Obviously the Time Tape brought us back here.”

“But Shermie said that thing’s been broken for years!” Stan’s voice cracked right back. “You didn’t fix it, did you?”

“Well, I was just testing it to try and see what was wrong with it. I didn’t think it would actually take us back in time!” Ford pulled their calendar off the wall. It read January 15th, 1969. 44 years before the present they had left… and four months before that fateful day at the Science Fair.

Stan’s expression brightened as he looked at the calendar. “Wait, Ford, we could fix things! Stop your science fair project from breaking, stop Dad from kicking me out!”

Ford’s face fell, and he glanced at his desk. The perpetual motion machine was still in its early building stages, just a few parts of the frame lying still next to the blueprints, and a half-finished methods paper.

“Stan, I know it’s tempting, but it’s an incredibly bad idea! Changing that event would alter a lot of things in our timeline. If we don’t part at the end of our Senior year, we might never defeat Bill!”

“Yeah, and you might never meet him in the first place! Let that jerk be someone else’s problem!”

“And Dipper and Mabel might never be born! At the very least they would be very different people when we returned.”

Stan's eyes widened. “I-I hadn’t thought of that…. I don’t want that….”

“And that’s even assuming we could change the timeline in the first place!” Ford continued to ramble on, despite the fact that his point had been made. “From what I understand, changing the greater flow of time is absurdly difficult. Dipper had to go through over thirty different permutations just to win a carnival game! Then there’s the Time Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron to worry about--”

“OK,OK, I get it!” Stan held his hands up placatingly, “Let’s just get back to 2013 then!”

Ford pulled the tape out 44 years and pressed the forward button. Nothing happened.

“Ah, so that’s how it’s broken.” He commented, deceptively calm.

“What!? Don’t tell me we’re stuck here!”

“No, no, I’m sure I can fix it…”

“And how long is that gonna take?”

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, if I had my lab and my tools back in Gravity Falls, it would just be a matter of hours, but here… a few days? A week? Maybe more?”

Stan groaned loudly and flopped back onto his bottom bunk.. “So basically, you have no clue. How am I supposed to resist the urge to change the timeline in the meantime?”

“I know it’s not going to be easy, but we really don’t have any other options. We just need to try and stick to the original timeline as much as possible.”

“Crap, Ford, I barely remember what happened throughout this entire year, let alone some random day!”

“I know, I know!” Ford sighed and sat down with a thump at his desk. “I don’t remember much in the way of specifics either. We’ll just have to stick to whatever seems like a normal routine.”

Chapter 2: Stupid Teen Emotions

#Gravity Falls #Stanuary 2020 #Stanley Pines #Stanford Pines #Fanfiction #My Writing

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gideongrace · 4 years

Text

Talking amongst ourselves - fanfic writer interviews: @ihni

(Originally, these interviews were done more conversationally, but this interview is a LONG one! So I edited it down for tumblr. You can read the whole unedited, uncut interview over on a03! There are pictures involved. :)

Please say your first name, your age, your pronouns, the fandoms you write for and provide a link to your a03. You can also mention your sexual orientation or other details, if you'd like.

Ihni:

My real name is Moa, but I go by Ihni online. On AO3, I have an account under Ihni (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihni) but that's for rhymes (and doodles). I only wrote rhymes/poetry for a long time, and when I started writing fic, I wanted to put that under another pen name. I was NOT comfortable writing stories for YEARS. Now, though, I don't care. So, I write fics under the pen name Thei (https://archiveofourown.org/users/thei/).

It's all Stranger Things, these days. Harringrove (because I love the fandom and I like the two of them interacting) and Billy-centric (because I love his character, SO MUCH).

I am ace and aro, so my fics tend to not contain any sex (I have ALLUDED to it a couple of times, but that's basically as far as I go). I am also just as happy to write fics without any romantic or sexual relationships at all. Billy and Steve can be buddies only, as far as I'm concerned.

How do you feel about being aroace when so much of fanfic is all about romance and sex?

Ihni:

I live by the tried and tested rule of "don't like, don't read".

There is a lot of romance in our fandom, for sure. But it's not like it's lovey-dovey IN OUR FACE romance, you know? 97% of Harringrove fics are two dumb boys who are bad at communication and who can't deal with Feelings. And I fucking live for that! Also, even the lovey-dovey fluffy romance stuff is cute, when it's them. I may not want a relationship for myself, but I don't mind at all if the boys are in one! (If they want it, they deserve it <3)

And as for sex ... well. I can read about sex, if it's well written or if it furthers the plot. If it's too graphic, I tend to scroll past it though, or just skim through it. It doesn't... give me a lot? I guess. Like, it's not like I read "smut" in the tags and go "oooh I have to read this!" - rather the opposite, in fact. I can read it, but it's not something I actively look for, and when I stumble upon it, I don't always read all of it. If I know the writer, I'll probably read through it to honor their work, though.

I just won't ever leave a "omg that was so hot!" comment! XD If someone expects that from me, they'll be disappointed (and I'm constantly terrified of disappointing or offending people for NOT commenting on their smut).

Basically, I am the master of my own fandom experience, and if something makes me uncomfortable I will keep away from it. Simple as that.

More people should live by that rule.

What's your writing process like?

Ihni:

Uuuuuuuugh.

That's an interpretation of my writing process.

No, but.

I usually get SUPER INSPIRED to write a specific scene, or concept... and THAT part goes well, but then I have to build a STORY around it, and that takes SUCH A LONG TIME and SO MUCH EFFORT!

And also, usually, it gets out of hand.

I usually have to force myself to get the words in, honestly. And also, I get real tired of what I'm writing, real fast. So I have to force myself to finish (I have a few WIPs that are more than a year in the making...) before moving on to other things. (And I usually write the other things inbetween, anyway.)

I get easily distracted, when I write. Like, actually sitting down and writing takes an hour and a half. Then I MIGHT write for like twenty minutes, lol.

Cold Turkey Writer was a godsend XD.

If I have internet on while I'm writing, not a lot will be written, let's just ... let's just say that.

How do you edit?

Ihni:

HAHAHAHAHAHAA

Erm.

Well.

Sometimes, I read through it once, and change a few things, and let that be it.

In a couple of cases, for the longer ones, I have actually made an effort to read through it more than once. (The problem being that by then, I'm so sick of it that I will skim through it just to get it over with.)

A couple of times, a friend has read through it for me, and given me pointers. Which is VERY HELPFUL! But they've offered to do it for me, I would never ask it of someone.

And about the editing process ... I check for spelling mistakes, or when something sounds wrong, or looks wrong ... and then I fix it, so it looks and sounds better in my head. I don't know. That's editing, right?

What fanfic authors do you admire?

Ihni:

In the Harringrove fandom, I have to mention LEMONLOVELY, because I'm in love with the way she writes Billy, and the way she's shaping her fics as she goes, and the way her attention to detail brings a whole mood (I am OBSESSED with her "Words Left Unsaid" fic, and am probably that fic's biggest fan).

LYMRICKS, because fucking hell, they sure can write a fic that draws you in. There's something about long sentences in combination with short sentences that really makes them easy to read, and the language is like a punch to the gut, at times.

CALLIEB, because I love their stories and I'm currently following "Second Thoughts" and I love how they write everyone like ... like they're holding their breath, waiting for something.

And I'm not even gonna mention any others by name because I'm terrible with names and I'm bound to forget someone and I'm just, I don't want to do that. Our fandom is full of talented writers, and I just. If I've commented on your fic, I read through all of it and I liked it. If I haven't - well, I HAVE been writing more lately = less time to read, and I have like 100 fic tabs open on all of my devices ... I hope to get there, some time!

In other fandoms, let me mention PeaceHeather (for how they write Loki and that world), aloneintherain (such good whump!), isaDanCurtisproduction (the absolute best Spideypool!) and gaelicspirit (who writes lovely angsty whumpy Musketeers fics). Like. Just to mention 0.01%, or something.

I don't think any of them, particularly, have impacted my style - because I don't HAVE a style - but I soak up every word of every fanfic I ever read, and if one sentence is a particularly pretty string of words, I will copy & paste it into a word document that is now 170 pages long, or screenshot it to keep it forever. ❤️

Words. <3

What's your favorite story of yours?

What's your least favorite story of yours?

What's your favorite line you've ever written?

Ihni:

Like, in what SENSE? Even though I know my writing isn't up to par, they're still my babies. Still my creations. I love them in different ways! Like. I love "Coming Back" because it was the longest I had written back then, and it's probably the one I am most pleased about, writing-wise, and it's also the one I went through and edited the most. So it feels like the one I worked the most on.

I love "Toy Soldiers" because it was a totally self-indulgent piece of writing that I wrote for the joy of it, and because I wanted to read it and no one else was about to write it for me.

I love "About Apologies" because something about it pleases me, it was an experiment that didn't fail, and I like it more and more with time.

I love "Less of a mistake, more of a miscalculation" because I had fun while writing it, and it turned out kind of like I wanted it to, plot-wise.

I love "Actions and reactions", because I had no idea what I was doing back then, but I still did it, and somehow it got long and I still don't know how that happened.

And I realise that this makes me sound a little self-centered, but I worked hard on them. I love them, even if they're my ugly and imperfect babies. And even if I cringe if I re-read certain parts XD

I guess my least favorite story of mine (and I'm guessing we're talking Stranger Things things here?) is "Not unusual" because a) I never re-read it and b) it was the start of something that I have to actually FINISH at some point and ugh, that was not the original plan. If we're talking least favorite stories in all fandoms, then definitely "In which there are mistakes made", which was a Teen Wolf fic, and the reason why I don't do WIPs anymore. The last chapter was written simply to fucking END it, and ugh, I hate it.

The favorite line I've ever written ...? I don't know. Are we talking in fic? Because I write my best stuff in comments, honestly. :p I don't think I have an answer for that one, actually. Sorry :S

What part of writing is easiest for you?

What part of writing is hardest for you?

Ihni:

Easiest? Dialogue. I like dialogue. Like, as a non-English speaker I can at least imagine a plausible exchange of words, and banter, and make it sound somewhat realistic, I imagine.

Hardest? The rest. Like, some people are just fucking WIZARDS with words, can write these long descriptive sentences that perfectly sets the mood for when a character gracefully moves across the room ... whereas I am just, "He stood up and walked over. End of fucking story."

What do you do when you're struggling for inspiration?

Ihni:

Give up?

Or do something else.

Or go and read. (That's basically the same as giving up.)

Or, if I'm still writing, I go to another part of the story and write THAT, and hope that I'll feel like connecting the two pieces, later.

Inspiration is a bitch.

Who introduced you to fandom and when?

Ihni:

Oh god. I am old. I don't remember.

I started writing stories when I was real young, and I was always reading something. I started writing stories with my friends when I was a teenager. Then we discovered the internet (yes, this was around the time when we got internet access in school and at home, told you I was old!) and when doing that, I guess we found more like-minded people.

Fanfics ... weren't an organized thing, back then. But I've been reading them, and been in fandoms, ever since I discovered that there were people online who liked the same things that I liked.

I would say, actively, from maybe around 19-20 years old? Like, that was ACTIVE fandom-ing.

What is your advice to fellow writers?

How often do you jump between fandoms?

How long have you been writing?

Ihni:

As a WRITER, I am not the best person to give advice to writers, I think. I'd rather TAKE advice than give it, at this point.

As a READER, my advice is to WRITE, WRITE, WRITE, because you are doing a good thing and you are creating a version of a world that is yours, versions of characters that you can shape into anything, and SOMEONE out there will love you for it (probably me).

I jump between fandoms ... hmm, as a WRITER? Seldom. Billy's my jam and I'm not moving.

As a READER? All the time. I mean, I'm pretty deep into Harringrove and Billy and Stranger Things, but sometimes I need something light-hearted, and then I go back to some of my basic fandoms, and read something else. I will never run out of things to read.

❤️

And how long have I been writing? FOREVER. I wrote when I was young, and thought I was going to be an author (wrote in Swedish, back then). Then I wrote when I was a teen, for fun. Then I stopped writing. Then I started writing rhymes, in English, because it was a craft I could do and train in, and it was short pieces. And only in recent years (very recent), have I started writing fics. And now, I write long-ass fics in English, so I guess I have at least come a long way!

Why do you write?

Ihni:

...

I just sat and stared at the screen for a good ten seconds.

I'd say that it differs.

Sometimes, I write because I want to READ something and no one has written it (or is going to).

Sometimes, I write because I want a very specific thing or feeling, and it doesn't exist yet.

Sometimes, I write because I am inspired.

Sometimes, I write because I want to.

Sometimes, I write because of a deadline.

Sometimes, I write because there's something in my head that Won't Leave Me The Fuck Alone until I get it out.

Sometimes, I write for fun.

Sometimes, I write because I want to hurt.

Sometimes, I write because I need to.

Sometimes, I write because I want to become better at it; learn; reach towards the writers whose work I love.

And sometimes, I just sit and stare at a document, don't write a single fucking word, and go watch a movie instead.

#talkingamongstourselves #ihni

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