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brasideios · 1 year

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My boy Charlie

So, tentatively, I really want to start posting more about my original writing, since that's what I do full time; what I'm working on, the things I'm writing about, and just generally more writerly stuff, including talking about my OCs.

I feel rather shy about it, but I'm doing it anyway. If y'all hate it, I'm sorry in advance.

I've started with an OC because of a conversation I had in passing with @ainulindaelynn last week. As I said there, a lot of my OCs are based on kind of 'archetypes' I've developed (if that's not too grand a name for it) who I write and rewrite in various guises. I usually call them after the name I gave them the first time I really dug into their character.

Which brings me to my boy Charlie.

He's been my muse for a really long time - and I had this weird experience where I found a picture of him the other day so you can even see him without my having to attempt to draw his ass:

[This image is from a fashion catalogue; the absurdly expensive brand is Connolly.]

Something about the unsmiling face, the way he's looking away into the distance - just the whole vibe. The model from other angles doesn’t look like him, just this image... and the vibes.

Original Charlie

The first time I wrote Charlie was in 2004 in a short story called The Pioneer; that short story was re-written heavily in 2014 and was eventually polished up and included in my published (2018) book Stories from Wiacubbin.

It was called - can you guess? - Charlie 😆 I've never enjoyed coming up with titles!

The whole book was written as an extension of that short, to expand on the characters in it so - what a journey this guy has taken me on.

Anyway. This is (the polished version of) how he's first introduced:

~~~

The sky was the barely blue of a long dry summer, even though it was only early December. Sun-bleached wheat fields lay across the flats, blonde on red clay.

Charlie was surrounded by familiar sounds: the shush of the breeze in the wheat; the snort of the horse’s breath and the muffled thump of its hooves on compacted dirt; the clink of the harness. He was a man used to being in the saddle - his mother had liked to say he was born into it.

He squinted out from beneath his hat, pulled low over blue eyes, at the crop as he passed. It was an assessing glance which told him harvest wasn’t far off.

The Young’s homestead lay ahead. Granite dry walls, sun-baked mud brick, corrugated iron; the outbuildings of canvas, tree trunks, stone; and beyond, the granite outcrop, Wiacubbin Hill - a dark looming mass in the bright day.

The cattle dogs heard the horse and rider approaching and began to bark. Two men walked out from the stables curiously, shielding their eyes from the sun.

As Charlie dismounted, the elder of the two asked, ‘You the new man?’

Charlie nodded curtly, and introduced himself.

‘I’m Ed, this is John.’ John nodded in greeting.

‘The boss about?’ Charlie asked after shaking hands with them both.

‘Down the south paddock. He’ll be back shortly. Head into the house and the girl’ll get you a drink while you wait.’

The house faced the outcrop. There was a dry gully which ran from the dam in the orchard at the south end of the house, along the front of the veranda and into oblivion, thus dividing the house from the driveway. Two rough-hewn tree trunks had been placed across the gully, and Charlie walked over these and then up the couple of steps to the veranda and the front door.

The door stood open. He knocked politely against the door frame before stepping across the threshold.

The dining room was unexpectedly cool. With whitewashed walls, it was dominated by a large, scrubbed table; its only nod to decoration was a sideboard on which several old-fashioned photographs stood. He was looking at these when a girl in her late teens came into the room.

‘My father’s out. He’ll be back soon.’ Her voice was very soft. For a moment, their eyes met. She looked away. ‘Please sit. I’ll bring tea.’

He watched her go, then did as she’d instructed. He took a seat which gave him a clear view of the outcrop and the dam humped beneath it. The landscape was blurred and moving in the heat haze, a wash of gold, ochre and brown.

His eyes wandered back to the photographs on the sideboard. The family ancestors, he assumed. None of the girl, he noted; only matriarchal women in tight-laced dresses and huge hats, and men in dark suits and full moustaches, all of them looking very serious.

He heard the clink of the teapot lid and teaspoons against the china as the girl came back. She set the tray down on the table, then handed him a cup and saucer, and set another at the head of the table.

She turned to leave, but stopped when he said, ‘I’m Charlie, by the way.’

She looked at him from under her brows, as if she couldn’t bring herself to look at him directly. Her face was as serious as the ancestors on the sideboard beside her.

‘I’m Rebekah.’ She was gone again before he could say anything further. He poured the tea into his own cup, frowning momentarily.

~~~

New Charlie (Joel).

I've been working on a new story, set nearly ~80 years later, and was digging into a new character via dialogue, Joel. I got a-ways in and was like, oh no. This is Charlie.

So new Charlie has just dropped (or has started to drop, anyway 😆)

(This is a WIP so forgive unpolished bits):

~~~

It was a perfect golden afternoon – the sparkling ocean beneath a high clear sky; a cargo ship even then was slipping towards the hazy horizon.

There was a golden quality to it all that tugged at my heart strings. The strange sense I sometimes have of the perfection of the world – or at the least, of a moment of perfection.

That feeling was powered by intense gratitude. I was still haunted by the person I’d been, and perhaps still partly was. The darkness that’d been in me – but I didn’t want to think about that. There was too much pain in it.

The guy who was sitting with Rowan came over to where I was looking out at the sunset, dragging a chair behind him, clumsy and shy. The sun caught his sandy brown hair, turning it vividly gold. His face was pleasant, wide-browed, but there was something vaguely brooding about him; something stern could be glimpsed lurking beneath the friendly surface. His eyes were very blue.

‘Since your friend and my friend are talking, I thought I’d introduce myself. I’m Joel.’

He offered a hand, and I shook it. His hand was so calloused, I almost recoiled.

‘Arity,’ I said.

‘So, what brings you ladies here this arvo?’

‘It’s my birthday actually.’

‘Let me guess,’ he said, squinting at me. ‘You’re… twenty-five?’

He was right. ‘Good guess.’

He smiled in one corner of his mouth.

I pondered a moment, looking at the pint of beer he’d placed on the table. The drops of condensation on the glass caught the sunlight like jewels.

After a minute, I said, ‘Well, I guess one of us has to do it.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do what?’

‘Ask the obligatory, boring question – what do you do for a crust?’

He half-smiled again. ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’

I laughed, though I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.

I suggested, ‘So… you’re a secret assassin, here to take out innocent women quietly drinking their cocktails?’

He smiled properly. It transformed his face in an astonishing way, softening the hard lines, crinkling his eyes at the corners charmingly.

‘Not at all,’ he said, though I could see him choosing his words. ‘I’m in public service. What about you?’

‘I work in hotels.’

‘Anywhere good?’ he asked, then clarified, ‘I mean here, in Perth, or somewhere exotic?’

‘Here,’ I said. ‘But I want to go up north eventually, after I finish my degree.’

‘Your degree?’

He’d visibly recoiled a little. I wondered what he was thinking.

‘I’m going to be a writer.’ I said it boldly, as if finishing the degree would automatically eject into the world someone who would write a novel. As if authors were somehow produced via a reliable process. ‘That’s part of why I want to travel. I can’t write about this shithole, can I?’

He half smiled at that; whatever thought the degree had provoked had passed, apparently. Maybe I’d misunderstood his body language.

‘I dunno.’ He looked around us pointedly, eyes sparkling. ‘I’ve been to worse pubs.’

It took me a second, then I caught up. I laughed.

‘You know what I mean!’

He took a drink before he said, ‘I sure do. Perth sucks.’

I agreed with him, but there was something about the way he said it that made me perk up my ears. To me, it sucked, but I meant it in an affectionate way; his dislike was different.

‘You’re not from here originally.’ It wasn’t a question.

He shook his head. ‘Brisbane.’

‘Been here long?’

‘Seven months. Another five to go.’

‘Then what?’

He shrugged, looking out at the ocean. ‘Not sure yet.’

Something clicked then. I’d grown up in Langarrin with new Navy kids always turning up for classes, then leaving again a year later. One of my high school friends had joined up when he was old enough, and he’d seemed to move at least every year, sometimes more, until we eventually lost touch.

And, of course, there’d been my Dad.

‘Are you in Defence?’ I asked, unintentionally pitching my voice low, as if I was asking him to disclose a state secret. Maybe it was his earlier evasiveness which made me vaguely nervous about asking.

The swiftest flicker of surprise crossed his face, as though I’d caught him out; but it was gone as he tilted his head and asked very coolly, ‘What makes you ask that?’

I sat back. I knew I was right. I wondered why he hadn’t just told me outright – I’d never met a sailor who’d been that evasive.

I shrugged. ‘I’ve known sailors all my life.’

He scoffed. ‘Navy.’ He shifted then, sitting up straighter. He met my eye with an almost defiant expression. ‘I’m Army.’

I wasn’t sure what he expected me to say about that. I said, ‘Fair enough,’ but I felt compelled to add, ‘I don’t judge.’

He visibly relaxed. I didn’t understand his reactions at all.

‘Do you want another drink?’ he asked. Why did I feel like I’d passed a test?

‘Yes, please,’ I said, waving my now-empty glass at him. ‘Tom Collins.’

He asked Rowan if he wanted another, and Suzie took the moment to glance over at me then.

She tilted her head, as if to ask if everything was good. I smiled back, reassuringly. I wasn’t sure if I liked Joel, but I’d definitely been around worse people.

I returned the favour, and she smiled in this way she had that said she liked him. I smiled back.

~~~

So that's Charlie. He's one of the easiest to pin down.

Where I can identify the source of his character, he's based very loosely on a close friend I had at one time, mixed with a collection of ideas gleaned from the books of Cormac McCarthy, all things Western, and a brief spell of being really into mid-century history.

If anyone cares to ask anything about him or OCs in general, or anything about writing, I'm open to talk about anything pretty much. AND I would love to see/hear about everyone else's OCs. It's so interesting to see what other people people are making 😆

If you read this far, thank you 🤍

#writeblr #own characters #oc charlie #my oc #oc joel #writing #stories from wiacubbin #arity #original fiction #jpdoingwords

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scrub-caps-essential-accessores · 7 months

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Scrub Caps Are Essential Accessories for Healthcare Professionals

Introduction

Healthcare workers work tirelessly to deliver top-quality patient care, and the attire of healthcare providers plays a significant role in maintaining a hygienic and professional atmosphere. Scrub caps have emerged as stylish yet essential accessories that combine form with function for healthcare staff members.

This comprehensive guide explores scrub caps history, evolution, functionality, and fashion statements in healthcare environments. From healthcare professionals looking to express themselves personally to those simply intrigued by this unique accessory, this article will offer valuable insight into the world of scrub caps.

Chapter 1 : Origin and Development of Scrub Caps

The origin of scrub caps can be traced back to early medical practice. At first, healthcare workers wore simple white uniforms similar to lab coats, but as practices advanced, so did their need for more specialized attire; hence the birth of scrub caps, which have since evolved significantly over time.

1.1 Introduction to Scrub Caps

At its inception in the early 20th century, surgical attire differed significantly from what we see today. Surgeons and other medical staff typically donned long white gowns adorned with cloth hats resembling chef's hats for use during operations to keep hair out of their surgical fields and reduce risk. These cloth hats served a utilitarian function by keeping away hair that could potentially pollute surgical fields as well as reducing contamination risks.

1.2 History of Scrub Caps

In the 1960s, scrub caps experienced an inflection point. Thanks to advances in healthcare technology and an increase in awareness of infection control measures, demands grew for effective and functional surgical attire, leading to its modern form: the modern scrub cap, an eyewear that covers hair while providing protection from contamination.

Chapter 2: Essential Functions of Scrub Caps

One primary function of scrub caps is to keep hair out of the way during surgical procedures, as loose locks pose an immense danger in an otherwise sterile environment and might harbor contaminants that lead to surgical site infections. Scrub caps ensure healthcare professionals' hair remains neatly within the cap to reduce contamination risks and ensure minimal risk.

2.1 Hygiene and Infection Control for an Effective Work Environment

Maintaining a sterile environment in healthcare settings, particularly surgical suites. Scrub caps play an essential role in infection control by protecting against hair and skin flakes from entering surgical fields, thus lowering post-op infection risks while creating a safer working environment for both patients and healthcare staff.

2.2 Comfort and Sweat Absorption

As well as their practical uses, scrub caps are also designed for comfort. Constructed of lightweight materials that promote airflow through ventilation holes to the wearer and help them remain cool throughout a shift, many scrub caps also boast sweat-wicking technology to help healthcare providers remain relaxed during physically taxing tasks.

Chapter 3: The Style Revolution

Although scrub caps were originally created solely to meet functional needs, in recent years their style has undergone an incredible evolution. Now available in an assortment of colors, patterns, and designs that allow healthcare workers to express themselves individually through personal style expression, these caps give healthcare professionals the chance to show off their individuality through expression.

3.1 Personal Touch

The move towards personalized scrub caps stemmed from an understanding that healthcare workers have diverse tastes and preferences that should be allowed to shape the working environment in which they exist. By giving employees freedom of choice when selecting caps that suit them individually, institutions have fostered an inclusive and welcoming work environment for healthcare employees.

3.2 Seasonal and Themed Caps

Many healthcare facilities now provide themed or seasonal scrub caps to boost employee morale while adding an element of fun and enjoyment to patients' experiences. Not only can this boost morale among employees, but it can also bring joy during patient stays!

3.3 Custom Embroidered Products are Available Now

Customization options have also become more widely sought out among healthcare professionals, who now find comfort and pride in personalizing their workwear by having their names or initials embroidered onto scrub caps for quick identification in busy clinical environments. Such personalized items provide a sense of ownership and pride in one's uniform at work.

Chapter 4: Choosing an Appropriate Scrub Cap

Healthcare professionals have many choices when selecting an ideal scrub cap, including factors to keep in mind such as:

Scrub caps can be made out of materials like cotton or polyester blends, depending on their desired material characteristics and the needs and preferences of their wearers. Cotton offers greater airflow while polyester provides lightweight durability; choosing one should meet both preferences as well as demands in their job role.

Fit and Size: Selecting an appropriately fitted scrub cap is vital to both comfort and functionality. While most scrub caps are intended as one-size-fits-all with adjustable straps for secure fitment, selecting a cap that snugly yet comfortably sits upon the head will ensure its presence during tasks.

Style and Design: Scrub caps come in all styles and designs; healthcare professionals can select solid colors, patterns, or even themed ones depending on workplace dress codes as well as personal taste. When making their decision, it's essential that a cap meets both criteria simultaneously, including complying with dress codes while reflecting personal flair and representing professional dress.

Maintainability: When purchasing a scrub cap, ease of maintenance should be top of mind. Caps should be easy to keep hygienic; consult manufacturer instructions on upkeep for optimal maintenance practices.

Chapter 5: Maintaining and Caring for Scrub Caps

To extend the life of and maintain hygiene in your scrub caps, follow these care and maintenance tips:

Most scrub caps can be machine washed; however, to maximize longevity, it's crucial to follow the manufacturer's washing instructions closely and use only mild detergent when washing with other items (lint-producing objects and Velcro can cause fabric damage).

Avoid Stains: It is best to treat stains immediately to prevent them from setting and becoming difficult or impossible to remove later. In particular, for common blood and bodily fluid stains, pre-treat them with stain remover before washing to speed the removal process and prolong their existence for as little time as possible. Allowing stains to sit could make their removal harder over time.

Drying in order to preserve the shape and elasticity of scrub caps: When drying them, be sure to use low or medium heat settings if possible, or better yet, air drying to reduce shrinkage.

Even with careful maintenance, scrub caps may still show signs of wear over time. Therefore, it's wise to regularly inspect them for wear or loss of elasticity before using them.

Chapter 6: The Scrub Cap and Patient Experience

Fashionable and custom scrub caps have the ability to significantly improve patient experiences in healthcare settings.

6.1 Humanizing Healthcare

Healthcare professionals play a significant role in humanizing patients' healthcare experiences by adding personal touches such as stylish scrub caps featuring cheerful designs or personalized embroidery that put patients at ease and help build rapport between healthcare workers and themselves, thus creating more approachable healthcare workers that put patients at ease.

Scrub caps with eye-catching designs provide pediatric healthcare providers with an effective tool to form instant bonds with young patients and make hospital or clinic visits feel less daunting and stressful.

6.2 Establish a Connection

Slick scrub caps designed specifically to create instantaneous rapport are an invaluable asset when providing pediatric healthcare, helping reduce anxiety levels significantly during visits and making them feel like part of an experience rather than intimidating. An unfamiliar visit can feel intimidating or overbearing for them.

6.3 Encourage Conversations in Class

Patients often have queries or concerns regarding their care, which necessitates open and productive dialogue from healthcare professionals wearing stylish scrub caps to promote trust and collaboration between team members.

Chapter 7: Scrub Cap Trends in 2018 and Beyond

As we look ahead, scrub caps will likely continue to advance and evolve over time. Here are a few trends and innovations worth keeping an eye out for:

As healthcare facilities become more aware of environmental concerns, scrub caps made from sustainable materials, including recycled or organic fabrics, may become available within healthcare facilities to create a greener healthcare industry.

As wearable technology becomes more advanced, smart scrub caps may soon emerge to monitor vital signs or provide real-time information to healthcare providers for improved patient care.

3D Printing can revolutionize the production of scrub caps. Healthcare workers may soon have access to customizable and 3D-printed scrub caps with perfect designs, fits, and fitments for their patients.

Conclusion

Scrub caps have evolved beyond being simply functional to become fashionable accessories for healthcare professionals. Their change from simple cloth hats into more personalized, themed, and fashionable headwear represents the shift toward personalized healthcare attire; not only are these caps crucial in maintaining hygiene and professionalism, but they can also add a personalized patient experience that ultimately creates better care and outcomes.

As healthcare advances, so will scrub caps. From innovative materials to smart technology, the future promises endless opportunities for this humble yet essential accessory. In the meantime, healthcare professionals can continue expressing themselves and making an impactful statement with scrub caps that reflect their individuality while making positive impacts on patients by selecting styles that reflect their style and personas.

#scrubcaps #nursingcaps #medicalcaps #scrubcapsforwomen

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graywyvern · 1 year

Photo

( via / via )

Paint a Vulgar Picture.

"The Instruction Manual

Each attractive in her rose-and-blue striped dress (Oh! such shades of rose and blue), And nearby is the little white booth where women in green serve you green and yellow fruit. The couples are parading; everyone is in a holiday mood. First, leading the parade, is a dapper fellow Clothed in deep blue. On his head sits a white hat And he wears a mustache, which has been trimmed for the occasion. His dear one, his wife, is young and pretty; her shawl is rose, pink, and white. Her slippers are patent leather, in the American fashion, And she carries a fan, for she is modest, and does not want the crowd to see her face too often. But everybody is so busy with his wife or loved one I doubt they would notice the mustachioed man’s wife. Here come the boys! They are skipping and throwing little things on the sidewalk Which is made of gray tile. One of them, a little older, has a toothpick in his teeth. He is silenter than the rest, and affects not to notice the pretty young girls in white. But his friends notice them, and shout their jeers at the laughing girls.

Yet soon all this will cease, with the deepening of their years, And love bring each to the parade grounds for another reason. But I have lost sight of the young fellow with the toothpick. Wait—there he is—on the other side of the bandstand, Secluded from his friends, in earnest talk with a young girl Of fourteen or fifteen. I try to hear what they are saying But it seems they are just mumbling something—shy words of love, probably. She is slightly taller than he, and looks quietly down into his sincere eyes. She is wearing white. The breeze ruffles her long fine black hair against her olive cheek. Obviously she is in love. The boy, the young boy with the toothpick, he is in love too; His eyes show it. Turning from this couple, I see there is an intermission in the concert. The paraders are resting and sipping drinks through straws (The drinks are dispensed from a large glass crock by a lady in dark blue),

And the musicians mingle among them, in their creamy white uniforms, and talk About the weather, perhaps, or how their kids are doing at school.

Let us take this opportunity to tiptoe into one of the side streets. Here you may see one of those white houses with green trim That are so popular here. Look—I told you! It is cool and dim inside, but the patio is sunny. An old woman in gray sits there, fanning herself with a palm leaf fan. She welcomes us to her patio, and offers us a cooling drink. 'My son is in Mexico City,' she says. 'He would welcome you too If he were here. But his job is with a bank there. Look, here is a photograph of him.' And a dark-skinned lad with pearly teeth grins out at us from the worn leather frame. We thank her for her hospitality, for it is getting late And we must catch a view of the city, before we leave, from a good high place. That church tower will do—the faded pink one, there against the fierce blue of the sky. Slowly we enter. The caretaker, an old man dressed in brown and gray, asks us how long we have been in the city, and how we like it here. His daughter is scrubbing the steps—she nods to us as we pass into the tower. Soon we have reached the top, and the whole network of the city extends before us. There is the rich quarter, with its houses of pink and white, and its crumbling, leafy terraces. There is the poorer quarter, its homes a deep blue. There is the market, where men are selling hats and swatting flies And there is the public library, painted several shades of pale green and beige. Look! There is the square we just came from, with the promenaders. There are fewer of them, now that the heat of the day has increased, But the young boy and girl still lurk in the shadows of the bandstand. And there is the home of the little old lady— She is still sitting in the patio, fanning herself. How limited, but how complete withal, has been our experience of Guadalajara! We have seen young love, married love, and the love of an aged mother for her son. We have heard the music, tasted the drinks, and looked at colored houses.

What more is there to do, except stay? And that we cannot do. And as a last breeze freshens the top of the weathered old tower, I turn my gaze Back to the instruction manual which has made me dream of Guadalajara."

--John Ashbery (1956)

Rapid Unscheduled Disassembly (thread).

" 'Mike Harrington wrote a book,' Mr Richards objected. 'A very good book, too.'

'Oh, Arthur, that was an instruction manual...on stresses and strains and the uses of a new metal!'

'It was a very good instruction manual.' Mr Richards poured more wine for Madame Brown and himself." --Dhalgren (1975)

Limbo.

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this-is-mdness · 3 years

Text

05.10.2021

am i starved for social interaction or are there just a lot of really attractive people in the medical fields

fjdaklgjkdlgja;l this is absurd

#personal #ms3 #i feel so silly about this #my resident is MARRIED and as cool as i think he is come on i have no idea what he looks like really! masks and caps!#but okay my attending today?????????#looked a lot like my friend #has cool fashionable scrub hat #nice and chill as hell #ABSURDLY BIG BICEPS FOR A VERY SLIM MAN?????#honestly i just miss my friend a lot #who is a very attractive dude but not one i am interested in dating #anyway i just hate my brain

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surely-galena · 2 years

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Which Dr. Doofenshmirtz invention would they voluntarily keep in their home?

If you want to, you can also headcanon that it's Luke who comes up with all these wacky inventions in the Tears of Themis universe

WC: 0.6K

[images attached are not mine and belong to the Disney show Phineas and Ferb !]

MC/Rosa: The Wrapped Up In A Nice Little Bow-inator

[image from here]

Because sometimes MC just wants to give gifts that look pretty on the outside :D

She's a very busy person, but she also cares a lot for her friends

And one way she shows her love is by gift-giving (demonstrated by the two birthday events we've had so far, I mean she gave eight gifts to Luke for eight missed years)

So she fires up the handy dandy invention to wrap gifts neatly to give to her friends later

And then proceeds to continue with her lawyer work

Multitasking at its finest

Luke: The Bread-inator

[image from here]

The invention is a little too large for his tiny home, but bread

If he has a toaster, it also means a constant supply of toast -- provided he has things he can use the inator to turn into bread

He also appreciates that the invention looks vaguely birdlike, even if the bread is only for him and not Peanut

Plus, he's very excited to invite MC over for toast parties... and if they end up with too much bread, then perhaps the rest of the NXX can come over as well

"So what spreads do you have?" Marius asks.

"Spreads?" Luke echoes, thinking about the nearly empty, singular tub of butter in the fridge.

"...Perhaps it is not too late to bring over my homemade chocolate hazelnut spread," Vyn says.

Also maybe they end up feeding the crumbs that fall onto the floor to the roomba

Vyn: The Media-Erase-inator

[image from here]

Vyn's gotta keep his reputation squeaky clean!

He probably doesn't use it much because he's already pretty good at all the reputation stuff, but he probably has it in his home just in case

It's more especially for those who try a little too hard to dig around in his past

If he gets ahold of any media sources he doesn't want, he can simply scrub them from existence

"There's barely anything about you online before you came to Stellis," Luke says idly. "Everyone's like, 'who's Vyn' or 'where's Vyn', but no one ever says, 'how's Vyn?'"

Vyn allows himself a rare pun. "Feeling vyndicated."

Artem: The Whale Translator-inator

[image from here]

Artem just thinks it's cool

Also, many people will assume it is a phonograph at first glance

And since everyone already assumes he is the sort of person to keep a phonograph at home, no one really questions it

Plus, even though he barely has any opportunity to use it, its coolness prevents Artem from shoving it into storage and forgetting about it

Sometimes, if a whale documentary is on, he might turn the translator on to listen to the clips and chuckle at the inconsistent whale dialogue

Maybe one day he'll think about putting together a whale opera via splicing various clips together

No one will know what the whales are saying, but he will :D

And maybe MC, too -- that is, if he gathers enough confidence to ask her to watch Whale Opera: A Home Film Put Together By Artem with him

Marius: The Yodel-inator

[image from here]

(The invention is the hat)

Because Marius just wants to impress MC one time with his definitely spectacular singing voice! He wants to sound so good that she'll see his voice in bold, all caps, and italics ALL AT ONCE. That's all he wants! Is that so impossible?

And sure, maybe she'll question his fashion choices, but since it matches the vibe he's going for, she probably won't think too much of it?

"Marius," MC goes, as he's adjusting his mic stand. "What are you doing?"

"Serenading you," he answers.

"Oh," MC responds, knowing full well what happened the last time he tried to serenade her. "Okay."

Marius can't decide whether or not to be offended over her less than enthusiastic response

#tears of themis #mc | rosa #luke pearce #artem wing #vyn richter #marius von hagen #have something from the drafts today!#snooped through the phineas & ferb wiki for this one #but now I am thinking of found fam nxx toast parties... everyone brings a spread of their choice

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bokettochild · 3 years

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If you’re still taking requests maybe Legend showing off his outfits from Triforce Heroes (if you consider that one of his games) or just the fierce deity outfit if that’s to much

Good grief! This one really took it away! I liked the prompt so much, and had so many ideas for it, that I think this might have to be a multi-parter (wasn't expecting that).

I touched on three outfits in this one, but I have six more I might do as well. For reference, I included the Kolkiri Clothes, Linebeck's Uniform and the Cozy Parka.

I also realized while writing this that this is the first time I've written from Wind's perspective, which is positively criminal!

I am still taking requests by the way! If you want to see something, shoot it at me!

(Fic below the cut)

It started so normal, Wind never thought it would get so insane.

They were in the Old Man’s Hyrule, too far from the ranch to make it by nightfall but close enough to still be in a relatively safe location. Time had called for them to set up camp and as they were close to a stream, Twilight had called for the additional order of baths.

Watching Twilight drag his protégé into the water was almost worth having to have his head scrubbed by Sky.

Most of them had taken the chance to cool off and mess around once they were clean, and while Warriors attempted to duck Time under the water (a mistake, they soon realized, when the man easily overpowered the captain, who ended up getting dunked instead) and Wild sat in a tree watching their backs (hanging up to dry, Twilight had joked), Wind found that the rest of them were content to swim idly in the water, with only the occasional splash from one or another of them. Usually, there would be more noise, but Twilight was teaching Hyrule to doggie paddle, and they needed calmer waters so as to not scare the Traveler.

He cast his eyes over their group. A red-faced Warriors was coughing and spluttering out insults at a smug looking Time (boy he needed his picto-box), Twilight was gently coaxing Hyrule to the other bank in a manner highly resemblant of a parent urging a baby to walk, Wild was keeping watch, and Sky was relaxing in the shallows.

Where were Four and Legend?

A glance upwards and a signed conversation with Wild later and Wind was making his way upstream a way, around a bend that blocked off most of the noise but that Wild could still see over if needed, to where Four and Legend sat together one the bank.

Or rather, Legend sat, Four was floating in the shallows with a curious expression as he watched the vet- cleaning clothes?

“We’re out here having a good time and you’re doing the laundry? Boring much.” He drawled, drawing the attention of the two heroes.

“I don’t like swimming around others.” Legend scrunched up his nose in disgust, it wiggled, almost cutely. “And my things needed a wash.”

He snorted, turning his questioning gaze to Four.

The smithy shrugged. “It’s quieter over here, and Wars will try and dunk me if he gets the chance.” A heavy sigh escaped the shortest hero. “He really needs to be taken down a notch some days.”

“Some days?” Legend snorted.

Wind just rolled his eyes. So, what if Wars had a bit of an ego and spent a lot of time messing with them? It was just the way the captain expressed himself, Wind would do the same if he could get away with it and had a few inches on the others.

A flash of color in the spring caught his attention, bright pink against the soft blue of the water, and he surged forwards. “What’s that?”

Legend’s hand hit his face as the vet reached out to push him back, effectively pushing the excited child under water, and for a brief moment, Wind could swear he saw a pink skirt drifting just before his face before it disappeared and he was popping up out of the water again with a splash.

“You have pink clothes?” He grinned at the bundle of fabric in the Vet’s hands.

“I have clothes in all colors.” Legend sniffed, batting another piece of fabric at him in a shooing motion.

“Doubt.” Four and Wind deadpanned. “Nobody has that much clothing.”

Legend’s face was drawn, eyes dark with that haunted look that Time sometimes got when looking at the moon. “I do.”

Wind and Four exchanged a look. “Why would you even need so much clothing?”

“Adventure number six.” Legend sighed, returning to his washing.

Another shared glance was exchanged and the two boys swam closer to the older teen. “And you used all of it?” Legend nodded. “All by yourself?”

The vet paused. “I had some...friends, with me.”

“You have friends?” Wind sat up again, who knew the Vet actually got along with people other than Ravio and Zelda?

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, Wind, that’s kinda mean.” Four murmured.

“I don’t mean you don’t have friends,” He huffed bangs from his eyes to look at Legend better, it did nothing, they still drifted into his view and cut off his view of the top of Legend’s hat. “I mean, we’ve never seen them so I didn’t realize you were on good terms with more people than Ravio.”

Legend shrugged. “You probably won’t ever meet them, I... became acquainted with them outside of Hyrule and they’ve never been seen leaving the land where we traveled together.”

“What were their names?” Four asked lazily, eyes trailing after leaves that floated off downstream towards where the others were.

Legend’s snort caught them off guard. “You don’t want to know.”

Now that was interesting, Legend never shied away from giving names to the people he had met in his travels, what was so different about these people? He’d had nothing against telling them Ravio’s name. “Why not?” Curiosity was tickling at his just like his hair was, and it was the only thing keeping him from ducking under again to relieve the itching of slowly-drying hair.

Legend cocked a brow at the two of them. “Their names are worse than ours.”

Now Wind really wanted to know! “What were they?”

Four echoed his question, eyes glinting in the light as he stared over at the vet, who was now beginning to pack away his things again. It took some nagging (something Wind had plenty of experience with) to finally get Legend to answer, but when he did, he didn’t disappoint.

“Red, Blue and Green. A set of nut cases if you ask me.” Legend drawled, not looking at them as he stuffed something glittery and gold in his bag. Four froze, eyes flashing four colors, one after another for a moment before he turned his sharp gaze on the vet.

“Did they call you Vio by any chance?”

Wind stared. “Why would they do that? He already has a name, he wouldn’t need to match, besides, Legend doesn’t even wear purple.”

“His eyes are purple.” Four pointed out, and Wind turned to very pointedly try and see what color Legend’s eyes actually were.

They were purple.

“No, they didn’t call me Vio,” Legend rolled his eyes, pushing Wind out of his face again. “They call me Link, same as any sane person does.”

“We’re sane.” Wind protested.

“Debatable.” The two older heroes deadpanned.

Wind pouted, but let it go, gaze drifting for a moment as he let silence fall over them. Four was staring at Legend in a suspicious manner, eyes blue again, but he didn’t say anything, and the vet didn’t seem keen on saying anything either, instead getting up and walking over to the clothes he had draped across one of the trees. He wasn’t kidding, it looked like a rainbow over there.

“So, if those things belonged to your friends, why do you have them?”

“Only one with a bottomless bag.” Came the clipped reply. “That and I’m the only one who’s likely to need them again.”

“Your friends don’t need clothes?” Four balked.

“No! Of course, they do!” Legend made a face, swatting a hand at Four. “Wild’s the only one who goes around naked, I’ll have you know, and if any of them had done the same they would have been shunned by the whole kingdom.” The vet huffed, voice dropping to a mutter. “What with the fashion laws and all.”

“So, if they already have clothes of their own, what did you need all for this for?” He gestured towards the various garments that Legend was still packing away.

“They’re all enchanted, or otherwise intended for special purposes.” The vet winced. “Hopefully I’ll never need most of them again, but there’s always the chance.”

“Will we ever get to see them?” He watched as Legend stuffed another garment into one of his bags many pockets.

“Hopefully never.” Legend spat.

But when did things ever go Legend’s way?

It was a hat first.

A battle in the forest ended with black blood spattered everywhere, but with Legend and Wild having provided support from the sidelines in the form of arrows flying across the battlefield, injuries were more scarce than normal.

Of course, that could be attributed to the fact that there had only been a few of the black-blooded monsters in the camp they had just destroyed.

As most of them had gathered their weapons and wiped away the blood, Wild had come leaping down from the treetops with Legend following after at a more sedate pace. Wind wondered if that was because of the Vet’s arthritis is because of the huge hat on his head.

“Nice accessories, do some shopping while we were down here fighting?” Wars snarked, huffing a laugh at the vet as Legend’s feet touched the earth again.

Indigo blue snapped at the captain as Legend adjusted the pointed cap. “No time for that when I have you all to keep an eye on.”

Twilight sniggered. “What’s with the hat, Ledge?”

“Yeah!” Wind bounded up to the older hero, eyes wide as he looked at the strange accessory. “Where did you get that?”

“Is that one of the things you got on your last adventure?” Four mused, sparking further excitement in the sailor, if it was, than maybe Legend would actually be willing to tell them more about it!

“Yeah, is it?”

No one addressed the confused stares of the taller heroes as their three shortest members conversed.

“Yeah,” Legend lifted the hat off and brushed at its brim in a clearly fond display; if he even attempted to say anything about hating his adventure again Wind was not going to believe him, not after that smile. “A Kolkiri hat, made to aid archers and help them shoot more arrows. I don’t usually use it, but it helps when you need to take out more than one enemy at once.”

“You could just learn to shoot better.” Wild chuckled, plucking at the hats brim only to have the garment whisked out of reach by a glaring veteran.

“I can shoot well; this just helps me see better because it blocks the freaking sun.”

“Kolkiri you say?” Time mused, stepping forwards to peer at the pointed green cap.

“Sure, you didn’t just steal it off of a witch?” Wars teased.

“No witch could replicate this sort of quality,” And if there wasn’t pride in his voice than Wind would eat his boots. “Not even the finest tailors in all of Hytopia could imitate it, and they’ve tried.” Legend spun the hat in his hands before popping it back on top of his head. “Don’t know the tailor, but what I wouldn’t give to learn their tricks. Kolkiri know what they’re doing, and they do it better than most Hylian craftsmen.”

Time was smirking, and Wind really wanted to know why. “You should see the tunics they can make.”

Legend returned the smirk. “Oh, I have, I own one.”

“As do I,” Their resident old man chuckles. “Although I doubt I could fit in it any longer.”

Wind giggles, trying to imagine Time in the clothes he’s seen on the spirits of the kolkiri, it’s hard, what with how big their leader is.

“Hat might fit you though.” And as the words ring through the air, Legend is already reaching up to pull the brim of his pointed hat over Time’s face. Their leader chuckles, brushing Legend off and adjusting the hat to sit more securely on his head.

Somehow, Time looks more comfortable in the hat than he does in his armor, and even though the two clash terribly, he doesn’t seem to mind, a light smile gracing his features as they set off again.

It’s a few days before Legend brings out another item from his collection of clothes, and when he does, it’s only after the others have drifted off to sleep. Wind would have been sleeping too, but you can only stay awake so long when your mind replays the horrors of the past, and Wind can only watch in silence for so long as giant ocean-monsters attempt to destroy those he loves the most. Tetra’s scream echoes in his own cracking voice as he startles awake.

The stars shine brightly overhead, brighter still as they blur from his tears. Despite what the others might say, or the confident way he tries to convey himself, Bellum frightens him, even now, and everything he had to deal with on that adventure... it weighs heavy on his mind.

A strangles sob escapes him as he sits up to bury his head in his knees, arms wrapped tight around his legs as he tries to shake of the after-effects of the dream.

That’s all it was, after all, just a dream.

Just like the Ocean King, like Lineback, like everything else in that world had been.

It’s just a dream.

“Hey,” Legend’s voice is soft and almost lost in his sobs and the crackling of the fire, but Wind is used to listening for even the softest of sounds in the night; be it due to Aryl having a night-terror –her own dreams aren’t free from their adventure- or someone sneaking around to make trouble. “Sailor, you all good?”

It’s clear he’s not, and he knows that, so Legend really has no business asking, but at the very least he isn’t being told to stop being a baby. “’m okay.” His own voice betrays him and Wind wants to sigh in irritation. Usually, he’d pout and groan at the way his voice cracks, but right now he doesn’t have the emotional or mental strength to do anything about it.

There’s shifting from across the camp, and even though his head is still pressed against his raised knees, he sees a flicker of golden pink in the firelight as Legend crouches down before him.

Thank Hylia the vet doesn’t sit back on his ankles, Wind doesn’t want to know if he’s not wearing shorts under that skirt of his.

“None of that now, what’s eating you?” It’s a weird term, especially coming from Legend, who’s usually so clipped and professional in his speech, and Wind can’t help but huff out a short laugh.

“Nothing,” His hand dashes across his eyes, wiping the tears away, only to have more of them prick at the corners. “Go back to watch, I’m fine.”

“And Twilight is a dog person.” Legend drawls. “Look, if you have an emotional moment or whatever, you’ll be tired as shit when we have to leave in the morning. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel keen on dealing with another Sky.” It’s rough and gruff, but in a way that reminds him of Lineback rather than make him upset.

“I’m fine, just...” He dwells on his next words for a moment. He’s not scared, not really. It’s just the aftershock of a too-real dream about another too-real dream. He’s not really sad either, even if the island is gone now, he’s just... “I’m drained.” He whispers, scrubbing his eyes. “I miss everything back at home but,” He pauses, wondering briefly if Legend could even understand what he’s trying to express. “I guess I miss the things that aren’t there too.”

“Like what?” He doesn’t look up, but he knows the exact expression on Legend’s face; brow raised and mouth pulled into a thoughtful frown.

“Places... people. It’s all just dreams but..” He fiddles with the end of his blanket. “I miss the warmth of them I guess, miss the sea and the islands, even the fake ones, they were so... comforting.” He chuckles, surprising himself with the bitterness that tinges his own voice. “Even if I did spend so much of that time trying not to get killed.”

“Warmth, huh?” Legend hums. There’s a brief pause, one Wind almost takes for Legend rolling his eyes and deciding to leave him to his thoughts, but then there’s a brief rustling and something warm and thick settles over his shoulders as Legend sits at his side. “It’s no pirate uniform, but it still smells like the sea, if that helps at all.”

Wind wants to tease Legend for the sentimentality and love in the action, but when he turns to look at the Vet, his gaze falls instead on the royal blue coat that has been draped around his shoulders.

Too-long sleeves fall to fold at his waist while the rest of the long coat trails and puddles around him, rich, warm fabric blocking out the night chill. It’s a lovely coat, but it’s painfully familiar, and Wind finds himself running his fingers over the stitching and inspecting every detail with a precision that he only ever shows to his swordsmanship and sailing.

His eyes don’t fool him either, the coat is an exact copy of Lineback’s own.

“Where... where did you get this?”

“Like it?” The vet chuckles softly. “Hytopian tailors. It’s a sea-coat, made to aid traveling sailor’s in searching for treasure. Don't ask me how it works though,” A ringed hand waves lazily overhead. “I could never make sense of it all. What matters is that it’s warm, not even the ocean can chill you in that thing, and trust me,” Buck teeth and small canines shouldn’t look so chilling, but Legend’s smile is just that. “It’s tried.”

Wind decides not to push it. There’s no way Legend could know about Lineback, not with the gaps of time and timelines between them. So, instead, he nestles down into the coat, one which bears the promised scent of the sea, with just a hint of smoke and rum to it, and lets his mind drift off again while Legend hums something under his breath.

The vet doesn’t realize he’s humming any less than he realizes Wind is slumping into him, but by the time he does recognize it, Wind is out cold, his head pressed against Legend’s shoulder, the coat still draped over him as he snores softly. Legend doesn’t push down the warmth in his chest as he smiles down at the golden curls, no one will see him anyway. Gnarled fingers decked out with countless rings card through sun-bleached curls as a lilting melody pierces the silence around them, no one will hear it anyway.

In the days to come, Legend allows Wind to don the heavy sea-coat from that night. Warriors makes a comment about poor coordination between fabrics, and while Legend doesn’t seem to disagree, both of the older heroes seem of the opinion that it's for the best he holds onto it, what with the cold and all.

The last switch landed them in the mountains, and while the Hyrule they are in has not yet been confirmed, everyone knows one thing for sure: it’s cold. Wind buries his face in the raised collar of the heavy sea-coat, which, despite being in Legend’s bag for so long and the vet refusing to smoke or sail, much less swig rum, the coat smells of all three, and Wind buries a smile at the thought that maybe Legend didn’t get it new like he’d let on.

It does a good job of keeping him warm though.

He wishes he could say the same for Four.

The poor smithy refuses to be carried, but as snow whips around them as they trek through the knee-high snow, the diminutive smith is left chattering and shivering in their wake.

It really shouldn’t be a surprise that Legend has something to help with that.

Yes, the vet still isn’t wearing pants, but he doesn’t seem too poorly off, no matter how badly the others shiver. He and Wild only share a look and scoff when Warriors asks through chattering teeth how the two of them aren’t freezing.

“You should see the mountains in my Hyrule.” Wild chuckles brightly.

“Done this before, cold is cold, you get used to it.” Legend grins, swinging his fire-rod.

“N-not all of us c-can s-st-stand the c-c-cold.” Four chatters grumpily, sounding startlingly close to the minish he’s shown Wind in the past. “Jer-jerks.”

The concern on the faces of the taller heroes is obvious, but with Twilight’s teeth chattering nearly madly (the rancher's nose is somehow frozen) and Time wrapped as tight as possible in one of Wild’s extra cloaks, it’s clear most of the others don’t have warm things to spare.

They were separated in landing in this world, and even when they had all been pulling themselves together again it had become clear that there was nothing of Wild’s that could even fit the smithy, and not even the blue scarf that trails over his shoulders seems to be doing much good against the freezing winds.

“Hang on a sec.” legend huffs, already turning to rustle through his bag. The coat he pulls out is ridiculously plushy, and in a soft shade of violet that makes Four chuckle past his chattering teeth. The chattering doesn’t last for much longer though, not when shoves the garment over Four’s head like Wind has done to his sister so many times with the sweaters Granny has knit them. The smithy’s blond hair is mused beyond recognition, chunky and flying every which way as he pushes his face out of the plush, but the healthy flush to his cheeks assures the rest of them that he won’t be freezing any time soon.

“I- Oh...” Whatever Four was about to say cuts off as he looks down at himself. The coat is long, but not too long. Where Wild’s shirts would drown the smithy, a coat made for Legend only brushes against the smithy’s ankles.

Legend smirks. “It prevents slipping too.”

“Why aren’t you wearing it then?” Hyrule questions, the Traveler’s cheeks are rosy in the cold, but borrowed clothes from Wild, while also too big, seem to be keeping him warmer.

Legend winces. “It’s a pain to get off.”

“And inconvenience is enough reason to freeze?”

“Do I look cold to you, captain?” Legend snarks, turning an expectant look on Warriors. “Because I certainly don’t feel it.”

“Stop rubbing it in.” The captain huffs, unfortunately too big to borrow from the others, and now highly irritable from the cold. His scarf is still on Four, and if what Legend says is right about the coat, Wars won’t be getting it back for a while, leaving the poor captain to shiver as he clings to another fire-rod.

Four seems comfy enough anyway.

#fluffics #linked universe #linkeduniverse #linked universe legend #linked universe time #linked universe wind #linked universe four #hytopia #triforce heroes #references to the dopples #fic requests

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supernatural-jackles · 4 years

Text

Owe You One - Part 3

Title: Owe You One - Saving You

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 5,141

Warnings: Angst, Self Hate, Nudity, Depression, Anxiety, Mentions of Sex, Minor Fluff, Self Loathing.

Summary: Dean Winchester has been your best friend and neighbour for the last year. A year of finding comfort in random drop ins and casual conversations, but neither of you know the pasts that the other has. Not fully. Pasts that come back to haunt you, and ruin everything you want in life. Can you find what you’re seeking in a couple of favours and a good time between the sheets or is history doomed to repeat itself?

Owe You One - Masterlist

Square Filled : Best Friend for @spndeanbingo

A/N: Here we go! I hope y’all enjoy this part! Please please please, leave a comment, reblog or ask! Your response is very important to me! Happy Reading!

*Tags are still open! Please send an ask*

Three Months Later

“Hey Y/N, it’s me, Dean. Again. Uh, look, we need to talk. It’s been three months since I last heard from you. I haven’t seen you since the night out. I’m getting worried now. I’m stopping by tonight around seven. Have a good day.”

You listened to his words, letting them swirl around in your head as they sunk in. It had been three months since you last saw him. The night of his mom’s party. He called and left messages. Knocked on your door a few times and sent a bunch of texts. You didn’t return any of them. It was for the best.

You couldn’t get his mother’s words out of your head since that night. You were never going to be good enough for the Winchester family. You were never going to measure up because you were the same filth that your mom was. You were bound to repeat history with their oldest son and she was going to make damn sure nothing happened. Hell, you had no idea what had happened. You were clueless, helpless and most of all, you were completely and utterly alone.

You glanced around your messy bedroom, knowing fine well it was time to get up to get ready for work. That didn’t help you move. Your room hadn’t been cleaned in close to two months. You had probably vacuumed about three times. You had clothes everywhere. Your sheets were half on the bed. You had blankets on the floor, and the odd pillow. You just stopped cleaning up and taking care of yourself. There was no motivation in you to do anything. You slept, are the odd meal, went to work and repeat. There was nothing special about your life now that you didn’t have anyone in it.

You rolled off of your bed, your feet landing in what felt to be a sweater that you had worn yesterday or the day before. You couldn’t quite remember. You took a deep breath, searching your drawer for something you could wear that was semi presentable, and not already worn and on the floor. You didn’t have a whole lot of clean clothes left.

As soon as you pulled on your pants and shirt, you slipped out of your room and into the main part of the apartment. Your dishes were piled up in the sink, and all over the counter. You hadn’t bothered to clean anything in your apartment for awhile now. You just didn’t have the energy to put into cleaning up.

You shoved your shoes on your feet, wanting to leave the apartment as quickly as possible to get out before you had the chance to run onto Dean. That was the very last thing you wanted. Especially after the message on your phone. If you were lucky and timed everything out, you’d be home early and you could ignore him like you had done for the last three months. Dean and the rest of the Winchester’s were better off without you.

You hopped on the number five bus that took you straight to the stop right outside your work’s building. You barely gave his beloved impala a second glance as the bus took off down the road. It was filled with the usual crowd. Some in their business suits, others in scrubs. It was always the same people that never said a single word to each other. Not even a hello.

The ride was exactly twenty six minutes. The average amount it took you to get there. This morning, the lady with the stroller didn’t get on, which saved you three and a half minutes. The old man with the big hat got off at a different stop, and a few new faces got on at a stop that wasn’t typically used. It was all so routine. Nothing ever changed.

Maybe that was part of your problem. Your life was so routine now that you were alone. You didn’t run the odd chance that Dean was coming over to hang out because you had shut him out. You didn’t go out. You lived the same daily routine every single day. No change. Maybe that was why you were in the slump you were in. Partially anyways.

You pulled the string, letting the driver know you needed off. You stood up, heading for the side door to get ready to leave. No one looked at you, or even paid any attention to you. They were all staring at their phones, not taking in their surroundings. It made you wonder how they ever got off at their stops.

You stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk, heading straight towards your building’s entrance. You had your key card ready to scan when you walked in. You took a deep breath as you pulled the door open, your footsteps light as you made your way to the front desk. You slipped your card in the slot, hearing the click to unlock the door.

The exact same routine every morning. Your work station as you liked to call it was on the third floor. You had your own little cubicle that you made yours. The elevator dinged as it stopped on your floor. You heard the conversations the second you stepped out and headed into the big room. Your area was to the left of the room, near the conference office.

You arrived at your cubicle, removing your bag from your shoulder before placing it on your desk. You took a seat in your comfortable chair. Your eyes wandered in the same place they always did. The picture of you and Dean that you had there. It was the only picture you had the two of you. You didn’t have the heart to remove it. You loved the picture. He was smiling wide while you were laughing. His younger brother Sam had taken it. What you would do to go back to that day.

“Morning Y/N,” Charlie beamed, handing you your morning tea with a smile. “Your morning pick me up.”

“Thanks Charlie,” you smiled softly at her.

“Are you caught up on The Walking Dead yet?” she asked, leaning against your desk.

“No not yet,” you shook your head. “I’ve been a bit busy. I think I’m six episodes behind now.”

“You are and it’s killing me,” she sighed. “Okay, what about we get together this weekend and catch up. Or have a Harry Potter marathon.”

“I’ll see what I’m doing,” you nodded. “I’ll text you and let you know.”

“Will you?” she cocked her eyebrow knowingly.

“Promise,” you said, looking directly at her.

She gave you a weak smile before heading to the next cubicle with their drink. You let out a breath, turning your computer on. You were just going to focus on getting your work done so you could go home and feel comfortable once more.

Your job wasn’t hard. You worked for a magazine company called Asemodeus and you wrote articles. It wasn’t your dream job by any means. When you moved here, this was the only place you heard back from that the pay was decent. It was better than nothing. You just weren’t challenged as much as you would have liked. It was all a routine to you.

Your column was strictly fashion. Nothing to write home about. You worked with a bunch of other woman who helped get the main parts of the magazine together. Your boss, Abaddon was the daughter of the company’s CEO. She ran this floor and was the one in charge of getting everything done. Charlie worked alongside her. She was in charge of everything Abaddon couldn’t get done. Everyone else was just like you in some sense.

The day was dragging on. You had nothing due. Nothing to research and nothing to write. You were ahead and there wasn’t anything you could help with in anyway. Your eyes kept slipping over to that picture and how he was coming over tonight. He was worried about you. All you could think about was his mom’s words. You weren’t good enough for any of them. What made you think that Dean wasn’t going to realize it at some point? As soon as another woman came into his life, you would be shoved out of his life anyways. You were saving yourself the heartache.

Six o’clock finally came. You shut down your computer and turned your side light off before standing up. You had your sweater close to you and your bag over your shoulder. If you were lucky, you would catch the first bus back to the apartment, you thought to yourself. You pulled your hair out from beneath the strap.

You slipped your card in the slot once more, signing out for the day before pushing the door open. The cool March air filled your lungs instantly. The wind had picked up a little. You were looking forward to spring finally making its appearance.

The bus stopped in front of the stop for you to get on. This ride was shorter than the last one you reminded yourself as you took your seat at the back of the bus. It was a different crowd on this route compared to the morning round. There was a man always on his phone with his wife. Today they were arguing about something which sounded a lot like what to get for dinner. Most of the time, he was telling her how his day went and how much he missed her. He couldn’t have been much older than you by the looks of him. He wore a suit and carried a briefcase. It wasn’t new by any means. A hand me down at best. His suit was one of three he owned. He was definitely just starting out.

Your stop came quickly and before you knew it, you were back out into the cool evening. You glanced both ways, checking for cars coming before stepping out onto the street to cross over. You couldn’t wait to be in your bed. It was all you could think about.

It was just after six thirty when you stepped foot on your floor off the stairs. You searched your bag for your keys. You pulled them out of their spot, finally look up, only to have your heart sink in your chest. Dean was sitting on the floor outside your apartment with his knees up to his chest. It wasn’t even seven yet. So much for getting home early enough that you could avoid him. There was nothing you could say to him. There was no point in conversation.

“Y/N,” he half smiled, getting up off the floor.

“Look, now’s not really a good time,” you said, slipping the keys in the lock as quickly as you could. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do.”

“Not even ten minutes?” he asked, his tone almost cold. Not that you could really blame him.

“As you can see, I’m fine. I’m still alive and all is good. I’m just busy. You can stop worrying,” you stated, pushing the door open.

“Y/N,” he breathed out. “Please.”

“It’s not a good idea, okay?” you muttered, stepping inside your apartment. You turned back, finally looking directly at him for the first time. He had a sad, broken and defeated look on his face. It damn near broke you. You didn’t want to hurt him. That wasn’t your intention in the slightest. You were saving both of you from heartache later on.

“You have someone over last night?” he asked, pointing towards your kitchen, furrowing his eyebrows. Shit. Of course he could see your kitchen from where he was standing.

“No,” you shook your head. “I gotta go.”

“Y/N, please,” he pleaded. “I talked to my mom about what happened.” You stiffened at the thought of him talking to her about you. The mere thought of you on her mind, her face turning angry and filling with disgust.

“That’s great. I don’t want to hear it, okay? Please, leave me be,” you said. Your voice laced with defeat. You moved to shut the door closed, only to have Dean’s hand stop it before he entered your apartment. He wasn’t going to give up. There was no getting him to leave now without a fight.

“You’re not okay,” he said sadly. “Are you?”

“I’m okay,” you lied. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he stated. “Your kitchen is a mess which is completely unlike you.” He walked over to the fridge, opening it up. “You have nothing in your fridge, Y/N. Not even a carton of milk. You haven’t done the dishes in what looks like a week or two. God knows, the last time you had a proper meal.”

“I’ve been busy,” you whispered, trying to make yourself small. He wasn’t going to buy a word you were saying. You could see it on his face. Maybe if you kept lying, you’d piss him off to the point where he’d leave. Maybe if you pretended not to need him.

“Y/N, don’t lie to me,” he frowned, making you feel guilty.

“Can you please, just go,” you swallowed hard, not daring to look at him.

“Let me clean up, okay? Go shower and do whatever you do after work,” he told you. You didn’t have to be told twice. You turned on your heel, heading into your bedroom. You shut the door quietly, taking in the darkness that was the room. The curtains hadn’t been opened in months. Dean was going to leave after he did the one thing you couldn’t do. You could handle him doing that. You were tired of fighting.

You shed out of your work clothes, dropping them near the overflowing laundry basket. You never bothered to make sure they were fully in there. It didn’t matter anyways. Your room was as much of a mess as your kitchen was, if not worse. You reached for your pyjamas that you had on this morning, pulling them on your body before slipping beneath the covers of your bed.

You lay your head on your pillow, bringing your legs up to your chest as you settled in. You felt everything, but at the same time, you felt nothing. It was one of the worst feelings in the world. Knowing something was wrong, but not having the slightest clue how to fix it, or the energy to even try. Nothing was going to make you feel any better.

You had no idea how much time had past when your bedroom door opened, letting in a little bit of light from the main part of the apartment. You had no energy to move, let alone talk. You didn’t want to do this. You didn’t want to have to fight Dean on this.

“Y/N,” you heard as the bed dipped down next to you. You felt his hand coming down to the other side of your body. “How bad is it?”

“What?” you mouthed.

“The way you’re feeling. How bad?” he questioned. His tone was light. There wasn’t a single hint of anger or judgment.

“‘M fine,” you replied, nuzzling your head into your pillow a bit more.

“Y/N, please don’t lie to me. This is my fault; I know it is. Please just, talk to me,” he almost begged.

“I would like you to leave,” you asked politely. You couldn’t handle the hurt in his voice. He was worried and you knew it was a long shot of him leaving after he seen you like this.

“Not without a fight, sweetheart,” he half smiled. “C’mon.”

He stood up, throwing the comforter back without your consent. You felt the draft instantly, wanting the warmth back. Before you could reach for it, Dean reached down, pulling you into his arms, lifting you out of bed. You could barely protest as he carried you into the bathroom. He placed you down on top of the counter before flicking on the light.

“Alright, arms up,” he pointed to your shirt.

“Dean,” you shook your head.

“I’m going to say this as nicely as possible. You smell terrible. Now arms up. We’re showering,” he explained.

“I don’t want to,” you protested, casting your head down.

“Okay,” he nodded. “Then you can go for a bath instead. You can soak in there while I clean up your room.”

“No,” you refused.

“Y/N, please,” he declared, raising his voice just a little. He turned away from you, reaching your tub. He turned the nozzle, beginning to fill up the tub. He grabbed the bubble bath from the shelf, adding a good amount into the water before testing the temperature. He never uttered another word to you. You knew he was irritated with you, and you did nothing to make that any better. You were pathetic. Why was he sticking around?

When he was satisfied with the bath, he made his way back to you. This time, you didn’t protest. You weren’t sure you had any fight left in you. He pulled your shirt over your head, revealing your breasts to him once more. He didn’t look at you with the same lust filled eyes this time. Then again, this wasn’t the time or place. Next were your pants and your panties, which were off quickly. What you weren’t expecting was for him to carry you over to the tub. He was careful when he placed you in the water. It wasn’t too hot. It was the right temperature to provide you with some relief. It felt nice to be in the water.

“I’m going to go clean up,” he stated lowly. For a split second, you didn’t want him to leave you. After telling him to leave so many times. After avoiding him for so long. You didn’t want him to go. If he was in here, you weren’t alone with yourself and your thoughts. You weren’t alone with your fears, and your depression. You would have him here with you and it was a lot less scary if he was here.

“Stay,” you whispered. Your voice was weak and barely even there.

“I’ll just be out there-”

“Please,” you mouthed.

“Alright,” he nodded. “You want me to wash your hair?” You nodded your head this time, not daring to try to speak again. He opened up the cupboard door, grabbing the pitcher from the shelf. He moved to the shower, grabbing your shampoo and conditioner from the perch before settling down next to the tub.

You moved to the middle of the tub, giving him some room to work. You brought your knees to your chest, letting him do what he needed to do. He was gentle, which you should have expected but didn’t. He worked in silence, solely focused on washing your hair the best he could. You didn’t want to do anything to make him mad. You just let him do his thing.

You couldn’t deny that it felt good to have him run his fingers through your hair. It was that comfort thing again. Like the way he kissed your head at his mom’s party. It was little things that put you at a little more ease. You never really realized just how much you missed him until you thought about these things.

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” he assured you, running his fingers through your wet hair once more. “You want to get out now so we can dry you off?”

“Okay,” you breathed out. You moved your hands to the side of the tub, finding the energy to prop yourself up to a standing position. He reached for your arm, helping you climb out of the tub and onto the soft mat to dry your feet. He wrapped you in one of your warm towels, trying to dry you off the best he could. He held out his finger to you, taking off into your bedroom a second later. You moved the towel around your body, drying yourself off in all the places you knew Dean would miss.

“Clean pyjamas,” he said as he stepped foot in the bathroom once more. Dean took the towel from you, and handed you the clean clothes in exchange. You managed to pull them on without too much of an effort. Dean stepped over to the counter, grabbing your hair brush off the little shelf. What you didn’t expect was for him to begin brushing your hair. You felt useless. You couldn’t even take care of yourself and it took to Dean barging into your apartment to help you for you to actually do something. He had to be thinking about how pathetic you were. How much of a broken fucking mess you were.

“De-”

“We’re going out,” he told you, throwing his arm around your shoulder. You furrowed your brows. Where in the hell could he be taking you that you could be wearing your pyjamas. He lead you into your bedroom, heading over to your closest to grab you a sweater before exiting the room.

You followed him into the now clean kitchen. He was setting out your comfortable slip on shoes for you, and he had your bag ready for you. You weren’t really up for going out, but there was no way he was taking no for an answer. Not this time. Even if you tried, you were still going. You were breaking routine, you told yourself. That was good.

He threw his arm around you once more, pulling you into him as he lead you down the stairs and to the impala. The wind had picked up a little more, chilling you instantly due to your wet hair. Dean still opened the door for you first like the true gentleman that he was. You couldn’t wait for him to get in and turn the heating on.

You were on the road within seconds, heading left instead of right, which was what you were expecting. The car heated up pretty fast, warming you up slowly. Dean hummed along to the Queen song that played on the radio. The car ride was pretty silent all in all. You didn’t know what to say to him. You were sure he didn’t know what to say to you at this point. You were a mess. You weren’t his responsibility.

He made another left turn up a road you weren’t sure about. It was a dirt road that went uphill. You weren’t sure how long you were in the car for or where you were for that matter. Dean knew what he was doing and that was more than enough to put you at ease. The car eventually came to a halt and Dean cut the engine. You were at the top of the hill, overlooking the main part of the city.

It was just starting to get dark out and the lights were becoming brighter. You couldn’t stop staring out the window, taking it all in. It was breathtaking. You took a deep breath, letting the calm feeling take over you. It was the first time in a long time that you felt a sense of ease. You didn’t want that feeling to leave you.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Dean said lowly, grasping your attention.

“Yeah,” you breathed out. You could sense that he wanted to say something more but chose not to. Not yet. You knew after everything he did for you, you owed him an explanation. You owned him something. There was no nice way to put any of it. You had no idea why he even cared. After everything with his mom. You knew she didn’t want you around him or any of them. You shouldn’t have been with him now.

“Y/N,” he sighed, almost as if he was defeated.

“I’m not okay,” you confessed. “But Dean, we can’t be friends.”

“Why not?” he questioned.

“Because your family hates me,” you reminded him. “Because for some reason that I don’t know about, they hate me. My existence was enough for your mom to tell me get away from her family. I’m not good enough for you, Dean. Or anyone for that matter.”

“Is- is that why you didn’t answer any of my calls, or texts? Because you think you’re not good enough for me?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Partially.”

“I’ve been so fucking worried about you,” he revealed, turning to face you. “And clearly I’ve had a good reason to. Talk to me, Y/N.”

“There is nothing to say,” you shook your head.

“Yes there is,” he pointed out. “Since when do you not have something to say?”

“Since my best friend’s mom hates me,” you raised your voice. “Since the one person I actually got along with was told to break up with me, because my bitch of a mom fucked your mom over in some way that I don’t even know about!” You let out a huff, crossing your arms over your body, trying to make yourself small.

“I’m sorry,” he frowned. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve done something sooner. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“We can’t be friends, De-”

“I don’t give a fuck what my parents think, Y/N,” he stated clearly. “I care about you. The one who stuck by my side even when she wanted to run. I’m never going to leave you behind because my parents feel a certain way. They can go to hell for all I care.”

“I’m not going to be the one to break you from your parents, Dean. I’m not worth it,” you argued.

“I’ll be the judge of that one,” he told you. “I like you and that’s all that matters. I’m not going another day without knowing you’re okay.”

“You said you talked to your mom about what happened?” you brought up, finally turning to look over at him. He gave you a soft smile, motioning for you to move over to him. You took a deep breath, not fighting him this time. He threw his arm around you, tugging you into him, giving you a squeeze.

“From what she told me, she said your mom and her were best friends growing up. From Kindergarten to junior year. She didn’t speak kindly of her, I’m going to tell you that now-”

“I figured,” you shrugged.

“Your mom cared more about her boyfriends that she did about her friendship with my mom. My parents were together in high school. Have been since sophomore year. Apparently they took a break during senior year and during that time, your mom hit on my dad and said a bunch of things about her to him. Their friendship was over after that and your mom took off. I know there has to be more to it, but that’s what she told me.”

“I’m trying my hardest not to be like my mom,” you breathed out. “She made it pretty clear before she died that I was going to end up the same way as she did. A slut who was never going to settle down with anyone.”

“Sweetheart, you’re not your mom,” Dean declared. “You’re not a slut. Trust me, someone is going to fall head over heels for you someday. You’re definitely a little naughty though, I’m not gonna lie.”

“Shut up,” you let out a chuckle.

“You are,” he laughed, “I’d fuck you anytime. You’re hot as hell.”

“I’m a mess. You don’t want me,” you half joked, swallowing hard.

“I’d take you no matter what,” he assured you. “Best sex I’ve ever had.”

“You already know you’re the best I’ve ever had,” you shrugged. “Backseat is free.”

“As much as I’d love that, I’m not sleeping with you. Not tonight,” he breathed out. “You’ve clearly got a lot going on and I’m not about to make that any worse for you. Just, don’t shut me out again, okay?” he said, nudging you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Things just got dark, you know? My head got the better of me after that night and I just kinda stopped. Everything whirled around in my head and I convinced myself you were better off without me. After that, I felt trapped in a loop. Everyday was the same shitty routine. I didn’t want to talk to you because of what happened, and I worried that because your mom told you to break up with me, you were going to leave me in the end anyways. You deserved a better friend that your parents didn’t hate. On top of that, I never told you that I have bad anxiety and a bit of depression all wrapped up in this tight little box. I’m a mess nine times out of ten. And everything with my mom and growing up - I figured I’m only good for a night between the sheets and nothing more.”

“You are worth a lot more than that, sweetheart. I can promise you that,” he stated, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “You might have a few dents, but you aren’t broken and you aren’t a mess. You’ll always have me, no matter what. I’m right next door, neighbor.”

“Thank you,” you nodded, swallowing hard. You leaned your head over, resting it on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I’ve been a terrible person the last three months.”

“You do owe me a birthday present,” he joked. “I get it. I don’t mind helping you clean up your apartment when things get to be too much. I don’t want you to feel like you have to shut me out. I’m always here for you. I don’t care about what my parents think. You’re always going to be my friend. I’m not a kid and I can make decisions for myself.”

“I might need you to remind me of that from time to time,” you shared. “I’m not going to be okay all the time. I’m never okay all the time.”

“I’m a phone call and probably about twenty two steps away. Anytime,” he assured you.

“Can - can you stay over tonight,” you inquired. “I don’t really feel like being alone. Not after three months of it.”

“Only if I can sleep in your bed. I’m not sleeping on the couch,” he chuckled.

“Yeah you can sleep in my bed,” you nodded.

“Good. Your bed is comfortable,” he smiled. “We’ll get your room back in order this weekend.”

“Thank you for being a good friend, even if I’m a shit friend.”

“You’re not a shit friend, Y/N. You thought you were doing what was best for you at the time. You’re overprotective of yourself and I get it,” he smiled. “But remember I’m here for you.”

“I know,” you breathed out. “Thanks for caring.”

“Always!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 4 will be out on Sunday 👀

Did you like it? What was your favourite part? Any theories? Please share your thoughts with me via reblog, reply or send me an ask! Nothing is stupid! I WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU! Your response is the ONLY thing keeping me sharing this story!

Dean Babes

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Owe You One

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mythgirlimagines · 3 years

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This Tuesday, we have a very special guest today! You may remember her for her many roles in as both harem leads and magical girl protagonists! Say hello to Myth Anon, the Former Ultimate Voice Actress!

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BACKSTORY AND TALENT

As a child, Myth didn’t really have many friends or confidence in herself, but she yearned to become an actress. Because of her lack of faith in her acting skills, she worked backstage as a stagehand and audio technician, which she proves to still be competent at, even in the present day. One day in middle school, Myth’s parents decided to sign her up for voice acting. Despite her lack of confidence, she blew people away with her performance, and managed to secure the role of the little sister of the protagonist in Branching Paths, one of the most successful harem animes of the year. It managed to do wonders to her confidence, and eventually Myth managed to audition for and secure more and more major works, eventually making a name for herself and her colleagues as the “Harem Queen”, because if the harem lead is a female, you can guarantee that Myth will voice act in it. She is also famous amongst her fanbase for her behind-the-scenes antics, with her fellow seiyuu. (Note: You’ve got to watch videos of seiyuus, for they are comic gold!)

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RELATIONSHIPS

Wyre Anon, Former Ultimate Surgeon

Wyre was one of Myth’s few friends from her childhood, and they always hung out together. But upon showing great prowess with her medical skills, Wyre was forced to attend medical school, and leaving poor Myth behind. Despite missing Wyre severely, Myth had to remain strong and positive, for it’s what Wyre would have wanted. Needless to say, Wyre was impressed when the two reunited in Hope’s Peak, and saw that their shy wallflower of a friend sprouted into a more confident person. Now that they’ve reunited in high school, they both try their best to catch up on old times, despite the totally different talent domains.

Outfit: Hair tied into small pigtails and a green surgery cap on top, intact glasses, green face mask, blood-covered green surgery scrubs and blue gloves and shoes.

Anon Scar, Ultimate Astronomer

When Myth first met Scar, she was amazed to find a real life chuunibyou, for she has seen many chuunibyous in the animes that she voice acts for. Claiming to have control and infinite knowledge of the cosmos as the “Cosmo Master”, Scar‘s eccentric attitude and elaborate, grandiose vocabulary belies a concerned mother figure for the group, constantly handing the younger Anons nourishment and reminding the Anons to go to bed. Because of Myth‘s childish and clumsy nature, Scar always breaks her facade when around Myth. Myth really loves to stargaze with Scar, and Scar gladly obliges in educating Myth about them.

Outfit: Hair with two pointy buns that make her hair resemble a star, a blue hoodie with yellow stripes on the sleeves and stars decorating the fluff on the hood, a dark blue scarf decorated with a star badge in the centre, a galaxy colored t-shirt underneath her hoodie, a yellow skirt with the same fluff her hoodie has, dark blue boots with yellow soles that have a star design on the bottom.

Fusion Anon, Ultimate Romantic

Despite Fusion’s odd and feminine fashion sense, Fusion’s school regards him as a fountain of romantic advice and a sort of father figure, viewing the people who seek his advice as his children, and being very proud of them when the gain the confidence to confess to their crushes. Fusion is a fanatic for all things romance, and that extends to romantic anime. Upon finding out that the seiyuu that starred in some of his favorite anime is going to be chaperoning him on his Kibo-Con trip, Fusion was on cloud nine. Myth is amazed at just how much knowledge Fusion has about the anime she starred in, even more than her. Outfit: An ahoge shaped like a heart, a long red scarf with white hearts on it, a pink sweater with a darker pink heart on the front, darker pink mittens, glasses, pants and shoes from original design.

Fusion Anon II, Ultimate Orithinologist

Hardly seen without her pet owl, O’Rly, Fusion II is sassy, sarcastic, and regularly tries to be cool, but to no avail. Fusion II has an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of birds, has mastered the art of laying motionless in one place, from years of birdwatching, and despite claims to the contrary, is a massive nerd when it comes to nature. As it turns out, Fusion II is perfect at imitating bird calls, and regularly tries to teach Myth how to make bird calls to attract birds. Myth has eventually mastered the art, and basically became a real-life Disney princess. Fusion II is honestly really proud of her work.

Outfit: Undershirt from the original design, a grey sleeveless parka, a necklace that holds a hawk’s talon, a brown glove on her left hand that allows her to hold O’Rly, cargo pants that patch her parka, brown steel-toed boots, sunglasses from original design.

Just Anon, Ultimate Conspiracy Theorist

Janon practically lives his whole life in an iron-padded apocalypse bunker, fully stocked with food and other needs. Janon regularly uses the excuse of the inevitable end of the world to get out of doing anything, apart from prepping for the apocalypse, and managed to form other procrastinators out of his followers thanks to his surprisingly believable conspiracy theories. Because of their opposite temperaments, both of the Anons didn’t exactly get along very well. That is, until Myth found out about Janon’s secret soft spot for children, despite his vehement denial. But at least Myth managed to find a common point.

Outfit: A tinfoil hat on his head shaped into bunny ears, a camo-hoodie, formal wear and facemask from original design.

Sparkle Anon, Former Ultimate Ice Skater

Famous for her speed and grace on the ice, and her dramatic and powerful performances on the ice, Sparkle mainly specialises in musicals on ice. She is also a master at speed-skating and won a bunch of trophies for her performances. Just like Fusion, Sparkle is a massive fan of the anime that Myth voice acts in, and was ultra happy that Myth is a fellow chaperone. Myth always wanted to learn how to ice skate, and Sparkle was all to happy to teach her heroine in entertainment all about the art of ice skating. Myth isn’t the best at skating, regularly slipping and falling, but Sparkle would never dare yell at her idol, so the lessons still continue.

Outfit: A blue leotard with a sparkly transparent skirt that has snowflakes on it, white gloves, a long blue cape with silver shoulder pads and a large snowflake on the back, sparkly white boots, glasses from original design.

Egg Anon, Former Ultimate Puzzle Solver, and Wet Sock Anon, Former Ultimate Poet

Even though most people hardly read poetry these days, Wet Sock is still famous for their dark and grim poetry. On the other side, Egg is famous for solving puzzles at record speed, and won many records. Despite both of the Anons being famed for their intellect, they love to regularly creep people out with their cursed comments and chaotic behavior. Wet Sock would never admit it, (especially not to Egg) but Myth’s vocal performances just make them swoon. But if Myth ever catches them swooning, Wet Sock would threaten the security of Myth’s kneecaps, but not before threatening Myth with a ballpoint pen to the throat. Egg’s Outfit: Same outfit from the original design, but without the earrings and a Hawaiian shirt that resembles a Rubix Cube.

Wet Sock’s Outfit: A black overcoat over a white and blue checkered shirt, a feather quill behind their right ear, black pants and shoes.

Curious Anon, Jr. Ultimate Essayist

Don’t be fooled by their age and tendency to be a total pushover for their friends (real or fake), for Curious’s essays are referenced in academic journals all over the world, thanks to how well-written they are. Because Curious is constantly busy writing their assignments, Myth hardly ever gets chances to interact with them. On the few times, Curious gets a day off, they can’t help but politely giggle at the antics of Myth, and wonders how Myth can change her voice at the drop of a hat. Myth loves Curious for their polite attitude, and being the kind of person who would be the prime person to have a cup of tea with.

Outfit: Same outfit from the original, except with a green turtleneck instead of their tie, and longer hair that goes past their shoulders.

Nerd Anon, Former Ultimate Procrastinator

If you thought Janon was lazy, Nerd is somehow makes Janon look like Dream. Needless to say, Nerd gets very grouchy if woken up from his usual 12 hours of sleep, and he especially can’t stand the more energetic Anons of the Kibo-Con roster, but especially the adorable and childish Myth. Years of starring in anime has made Myth realise that she found her male tsundere love interest, much to the anger and embarrassment of the lazy and starving college student. Myth regularly tries to use harem tropes to woo Nerd, but they just result in Nerd releasing all of his pent-up strength on the charming voice actress.

Outfit: Messier hair, a black and unbuttoned gakuran over an improperly-buttoned white dress shirt, and matching black shoes, regularly holds a brown suitcase.

Eldritch Anon, Ultimate Speedreader

Eldritch lived in an old and dilapidated library for practically all of his life, and managed to clear the entirety of the library roster three times over. But because of his isolated upbringing and his binging of horror and fantasy novels, Eldritch shows a hostile distrust of just about everybody, even the adorable-looking and sounding Myth, claiming that she is a spiritual vessel that houses thousands of tortured high school girl souls. Myth believes that that sounds like a great anime series, but she is willing to back away from the bite-sized bookworm for now, seeing as Eldritch doesn’t trust the seiyuu in the slightest.

Outfit: Longer and unkempt hair, black reading glasses, a patchy brown jacket over a green sweater vest with a brown stripe in the middle and a red bow tie with white polka dots, brown pants, and black and white shoes.

Dream Anon, Ultimate Trivia Master

With an energetic disposition and a love of learning the most random of things, Dream is the captain of her school’s quiz bowl team, and truly deserves her appearance and victories on many trivia game shows. Myth and Dream got along like water and Kool-Aid mix, thanks to their similar energetic, goofy, and childish personalities and dispositions. Myth loves to learn random trivia from Dream, and Dream loves to watch the anime that Myth stars in. In conclusion, both Myth and Dream gain something out of their friendship. In Myth’s eyes, Dream is like the little sister Myth never had, and Dream is happy to earn that position.

Outfit: Blue and red hairclips shaped like question marks, a oversized blue letterman’s jacket with a big yellow question mark on the back over a black shirt with a big yellow one on the front and back, shorts and shoes from original design.

Iris Anon, Jr. Ultimate Personal Assistant

With a constant need to help and assist others, Iris carries herself with an overly-positive and cheerful demeanour, despite her heavy workload, which makes her a massive hit with the people who hire her to carry out a variety of duties, such as cooking, cleaning, and entertaining guests at parties (the latter being a particular speciality of hers). But just because she‘s clumsy when off-duty, that doesn’t mean she‘s clumsy or careless with her duties, for any of her bosses could tell you that Iris does everything with precision and accuracy. Just like with Dream, Myth and Iris get along, thanks to their similar demeanours and dispositions.

Outfit: A blue overcoat and matching skirt over a red tie and a white dress shirt, white stockings, black Mary Janes, glasses from original design.

Purple Anon, Ultimate VS Debater

Specializing in hypothetical matchups between both famous and obscure historical figures, Purple is famous for her online videos that bring attention to underrated historical figures, and pits them against each other in hypothetical intellectual and physical battles. Because she is a historical expert, this influences Purple’s vocabulary, making her speak in an old-fashioned and archaic style, much to the confusion of the majority of the con attendants and chaperones. Because of Purple’s extreme timidity when not behind a screen, Purple and Myth don’t interact much, if at all. Myth yearns for Purple to come out of her shell, though.

Outfit: A black overcoat over a purple turtleneck, a black skirt, stockings and shoes from original design.

This series revolves around a childish and dorky voice actress (aka. The Harem Queen), making friends with both her fellow chaperones and the con’s attendees.

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PERSONALITY

Despite her career as a seiyuu making her even more outgoing and energetic, deep down she’s still a massive goofy dork, which you can see very clearly in her interactions with the other seiyuus. Because she’s younger than her colleagues, she has a tendency to be babied by them, and unlike Janon, she doesn’t mind. VoiceAct!Myth is also very romantically minded, much like Romantic!Myth, but she doesn’t seem to realise that harem anime isn’t exactly the best tool to get romantic advice from. People claim that Myth doesn’t have a consistent voice, for she repeatedly switches up her voice, to impersonate one of her characters.

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APPEARANCE

VoiceAct!Myth wears her standard glasses, and her purple hair down. She also wears a brown beret on her head, and a pair of microphone headphones over her ears. She also wears an oversized white turtleneck, a long brown shirt with a bisexual heart patch on the right side, a brown side bag, white stockings, and black Mary Janes.

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I hope you like this talentswap! Let me know what you think of VoiceActress!Myth in your reblogs!

-Fusion Anon

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imgnaf · 3 years

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The Instruction Manual

As I sit looking out of a window of the building I wish I did not have to write the instruction manual on the uses of a new metal. I look down into the street and see people, each walking with an inner peace, And envy them—they are so far away from me! Not one of them has to worry about getting out this manual on schedule. And, as my way is, I begin to dream, resting my elbows on the desk and leaning out of the window a little, Of dim Guadalajara! City of rose-colored flowers! City I wanted most to see, and most did not see, in Mexico! But I fancy I see, under the press of having to write the instruction manual, Your public square, city, with its elaborate little bandstand! The band is playing Scheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov. Around stand the flower girls, handing out rose- and lemon-colored flowers, Each attractive in her rose-and-blue striped dress (Oh! such shades of rose and blue), And nearby is the little white booth where women in green serve you green and yellow fruit. The couples are parading; everyone is in a holiday mood. First, leading the parade, is a dapper fellow Clothed in deep blue. On his head sits a white hat And he wears a mustache, which has been trimmed for the occasion. His dear one, his wife, is young and pretty; her shawl is rose, pink, and white. Her slippers are patent leather, in the American fashion, And she carries a fan, for she is modest, and does not want the crowd to see her face too often. But everybody is so busy with his wife or loved one I doubt they would notice the mustachioed man’s wife. Here come the boys! They are skipping and throwing little things on the sidewalk Which is made of gray tile. One of them, a little older, has a toothpick in his teeth. He is silenter than the rest, and affects not to notice the pretty young girls in white. But his friends notice them, and shout their jeers at the laughing girls. Yet soon all this will cease, with the deepening of their years, And love bring each to the parade grounds for another reason. But I have lost sight of the young fellow with the toothpick. Wait—there he is—on the other side of the bandstand, Secluded from his friends, in earnest talk with a young girl Of fourteen or fifteen. I try to hear what they are saying But it seems they are just mumbling something—shy words of love, probably. She is slightly taller than he, and looks quietly down into his sincere eyes. She is wearing white. The breeze ruffles her long fine black hair against her olive cheek. Obviously she is in love. The boy, the young boy with the toothpick, he is in love too; His eyes show it. Turning from this couple, I see there is an intermission in the concert. The paraders are resting and sipping drinks through straws (The drinks are dispensed from a large glass crock by a lady in dark blue), And the musicians mingle among them, in their creamy white uniforms, and talk About the weather, perhaps, or how their kids are doing at school. Let us take this opportunity to tiptoe into one of the side streets. Here you may see one of those white houses with green trim That are so popular here. Look—I told you! It is cool and dim inside, but the patio is sunny. An old woman in gray sits there, fanning herself with a palm leaf fan. She welcomes us to her patio, and offers us a cooling drink. “My son is in Mexico City,” she says. “He would welcome you too If he were here. But his job is with a bank there. Look, here is a photograph of him.” And a dark-skinned lad with pearly teeth grins out at us from the worn leather frame. We thank her for her hospitality, for it is getting late And we must catch a view of the city, before we leave, from a good high place. That church tower will do—the faded pink one, there against the fierce blue of the sky. Slowly we enter. The caretaker, an old man dressed in brown and gray, asks us how long we have been in the city, and how we like it here. His daughter is scrubbing the steps—she nods to us as we pass into the tower. Soon we have reached the top, and the whole network of the city extends before us. There is the rich quarter, with its houses of pink and white, and its crumbling, leafy terraces. There is the poorer quarter, its homes a deep blue. There is the market, where men are selling hats and swatting flies And there is the public library, painted several shades of pale green and beige. Look! There is the square we just came from, with the promenaders. There are fewer of them, now that the heat of the day has increased, But the young boy and girl still lurk in the shadows of the bandstand. And there is the home of the little old lady— She is still sitting in the patio, fanning herself. How limited, but how complete withal, has been our experience of Guadalajara! We have seen young love, married love, and the love of an aged mother for her son. We have heard the music, tasted the drinks, and looked at colored houses. What more is there to do, except stay? And that we cannot do. And as a last breeze freshens the top of the weathered old tower, I turn my gaze Back to the instruction manual which has made me dream of Guadalajara. John Ashbery this, actually, is what my job feels like

#john ashbery

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korpuskat · 4 years

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Summary: Six weeks. You shake your head, press the warm plastic directly to your belly. The muscles there begin to relax and you watch as a talk show begins. Six weeks and finally it would all be over. Rating: Explicit (citrus, violence) WC: 7,131 Warnings: Violence against reader, menstruation >Chapter 1 >Chapter 2 >Chapter 3 >Chapter 4 >Chapter 5 >Chapter 6 >Chapter 7 ======

You stand on your porch and kick the rug back into place. The wind last night had turned up one corner and dragged it just far enough to not hide the staining beneath. You sip your coffee and drag a chair over to hold down the troublesome corner with one leg.

It’s not a pretty thing- just a brown woven mat that covers between the stairs and your front door. You’d taken the time to paint your stairs- and the columns on each side a fresh, fetching blue, but painting your whole porch would be much harder. So you didn’t bother. You’d scrubbed it down with bleach to remove as much as you could and eventually gave in and just bought the rug to cover what you couldn’t scrub free. Which was a lot.

If you squint you can make out the road through the white blankets of snow. You’re sure there’s a dark green car nestled up on the shoulder of the country highway with two freezing people inside, one with binoculars pressed up to the glass. You’d spoken with them a week ago, even brought them hot cocoa as a peace offering. They’re just there to remind you now.

It’s freezing out, long icicles hang from the roof over your porch and the handrails. But you stand there, warm your hands on your cup and peer out into the distance. You want something other than a forest green sedan. You want to see something other than a tan hat peeking over the snow mounds when one of them has to piss. So you stand there and scan the trees, hope the eyes you feel on you are not just the police’s.

The wind kicks up and you shiver, duck back inside before your coffee cools too much. January had arrived with a vengeance, bitter cold and unpleasant and with a violent snowstorm. It had snowed again two days ago, the perfect fields untouched around your house. Not a single set of footprints maring the pristine surface.

You had no need to leave now. Your house was back in working order, save for some items the police kept under lock and key in hopes that Michael Myers would turn up again.

The idea of Michael in court- maybe even trussed up in a suit- made you smile.

You settle onto your couch, curled up in one corner as you flick the television on. You rub at another painful cramp in your belly as the static fades. The news plays, an update on the families of four fallen officers. A man weeps and recalls his husband’s bravery and valor and the horrors of not even being granted an open casket for closure. It changes to a woman speaking about her brother, you recognize her.

She’d lain flowers at the end of your porch one morning. When you stepped out she startled and something dangerous flashed in her eyes. She kept it reigned in and curtly explained herself and left. She hasn’t returned. The yellow flowers she’d left are frozen solid, preserved in ice.

In the end, you were tried only in the court of public opinion.

”Simply not enough evidence.” The district attorney had said, gritting out the words. There was outrage; two men had been murdered on your doorstep, a murderer’s fingerprints all over your house. Blood soaked deep into every crevice of your home. You were complicit.

You are complicit.

Hateful letters appeared in your mailbox for the first week- sometimes worse.

And then it leaked. Some broken-hearted nurse somewhere dropped your medical evaluation online.

Paragraphs upon paragraphs of dutiful descriptions of the bruises, new and old, on your arms, neck, hips, and thighs. The half-healed perfect impression of Michael Myers’ teeth on your shoulders, your chin. Invasive, personal details- inflamed, bruised cervix. Scrawled in nearly unreadable doctors’ handwriting: Definite proof of insemination.

And after it all, there were pictures. At least the nurse had conveniently excluded the more revealing photos. But even the initial exam had been damning. Your eyes were glazed over and far away, empty. Too easy to mistake one kind of trauma for another.

Blues and purples ringed your wrist and neck like gaudy jewelry. Amateur internet detectives even outlined on your neck the shape of Michael’s hands where he’d choked you, pinpointing the exact places where his fingers met at the back of your neck.

The outrage turned overnight- you were a victim. Coerced became the word they liked, coerced over duress or hostage. Why else would anyone help Michael Myers?

The hate mail faded, replaced with tearful outcries of the injustice. Well-wishers hoping your life would get better, more than a few requests for interviews. You politely declined them all, answered only once that you simply wanted your life back.

And you had it. More or less. There were still faded bloodstains on your porch and two empty slots in your knife block. Your bed was empty, but neatly made.

Another cramp makes you flinch and press harder into the skin between your navel and the hem of your jeans. The caffeine of your coffee was not helping, but you enjoyed the warmth too much to set it aside. You even had that back in your life- the stress of it all had pushed your cycle back and bloodless through November and December. Come the new year, it finally retaliated. You’d rather it stayed a thing of the past, but in an unfortunate way, being surrounded by blood was becoming familiar.

But your life was not quite complete. There was only one thing missing; it would snow again tonight.

The thought brings a warmth through your chest. You don’t know how you know, can’t begin to explain how you know. The police released you from “protective custody” a month ago, but even still they lurk at the street. They wander through the Mortons’ property in guise of looking for evidence, yet they stare to your little cabin. He hasn’t been able to get close enough yet, not without a conspicuous trail of bodies.

It could have all been a blood bath. He could’ve killed every cop that touched you, reclaimed you and resumed your frantic run. It’s what the police expected, a mindless killing machine to appear at your door again. They even wonder if he’s dead now- why else would he stop?

You want to laugh at them, want to scold them for thinking of him as something so lowly. He’s smarter than that. The clean snow that surrounds your home tells you so.

You finish your coffee, push down on your belly before the next wave of pain comes. The news moves on as you leave the living room, move into the kitchen. You’ve been waiting for this.

You cleaned the slow cooker a week ago and froze some beef chuck. You pull that out and leave it in the sink to begin to thaw. The slide of a knife out of your block feels taboo, a personal little thrill as you begin to cut up vegetables. It’s wrong. You don’t stop smiling.

Though it hasn’t thawed much, you drop the beef right in the center of the ceramic pot. You scrape carrots and onions and potatoes into the slow cooker, pour in water and broth and a healthy mix of spices. It’ll be done by nightfall; if he liked your soup, he should enjoy your pot roast.

The thought warms you, bring a queasy sort of calmness. Like the forest when the wolf is near. You plug in the slow cooker and set a timer. You’ll be ready. You’re sure it’s tonight.

With that beginning to heat, you pour another cup of coffee. A pang from your belly reminds you how terrible caffeine is on your period. You curse at nothing and realize one other thing you’re still missing. You should’ve remembered! He’ll need bandages and you need medication. Especially for when he arrives.

Your ibuprofen is tucked inside the first aid kit the police kept as evidence. You haven’t replaced that yet. You’ll have to go old-fashioned on it. An old plastic water bottle is good enough. You turn the hot tap on full blast, dipping your fingers under the water and waiting for it to heat. You fill the bottle, listen to the quickly rising pitch. When it’s bursting you screw the cap on and take your improvised heating pad with you to the living room.

Six weeks. You shake your head, press the warm plastic directly to your belly. The muscles there begin to relax and you watch as a talk show begins. Six weeks and finally it would all be over.

You start to doubt yourself when the shadows of the trees stretch long over glistening snow. Your heart hurts, anxiety rearing its ugly head. What if you were wrong? No, no. He’d be back. He came back twice before. Had he finally gotten what he wanted from you? It can’t be- surely that’s too much to invest just to have sex when he could’ve taken it so much earlier.

You pull a pillow to you and hug it close, push the warm bottle flush with your skin. The first whiff slides in from the kitchen. He’ll be back. You press your eyes closed and hope you’re right. He liked your soup too much.

It’s cold. You blink awake- it’s dark in the living room. The TV plays on, bathing the room in too-bright, multicolor lights. You rub at your arms through the sweater- it’s damn cold. Too cold. It’s never been that drafty before-

The kitchen light is on. You stand, water bottle and pillow dropping to the floor with a thud and wump. You step closer. Your heart soars; wet boot outlines track down the hallway and around the corner- you can hardly breathe.

You peek into the kitchen. The rich smell of the cooking- or perhaps cooked- pot roast fills you, helps to fight off the chill that bites through your sweater. But aside from the light being on, the kitchen is empty.

Thrill overtakes disappointment; the puddly bootprints are still there. They stop in the middle of the hallway already smaller and thinner than the larger, glistening pools towards your bedroom. He should be here, you know, but if he hadn’t woken you… You follow the bootprints backwards, down the dark hallway and into your laundry room.

Wind whistles, fresh snow pours in through your back door. Outside, a single set of tracks from the trees are already filling in in the falling snow. You grin- A single set of tacks. He’s here. You’d left it unlocked just for him, had been leaving it unlocked for weeks. Your smile hurts its so wide.

You kick the snow aside and push the door closed, squint against the freezing winter wind that chaps your cheeks. It closes- and suddenly your house is all too quiet, the buffeting sounds of the storm locked out once more.

You turn, heart beating out of your chest- but the doorway to the laundry room is still empty. The little bits of half-melted snow on the tiled floor confirm again he’s been here and yet he hides. You creep back towards the hallway.

What if it wasn’t him?

The first touch of alarm slides over you. If you had an intruder… you carefully wrap your hand around the molding and peek one eye around the edge. You gasp, shoot upright-

A hand, big and cold wraps around your throat. He turns, slams you into the wall at the end of the hallway. Your cry doesn’t make it past his palm, your hands find his chest, dig your nails into thick fabric-

And he presses in close to you; you smell machine oil and rust and long dried blood. Low and steady breathing, made louder through the tiny nose holes. Above you empty black eyes bore into you, the plain emotionless face of a white latex mask ghostly in the low light. You sag in his grasp, fingers twitching to pull him closer. ”Michael.”

He stares down at you, stiff and unchanging. It’s about as warm a welcome as you expected. But he’s here, he’s not out slaying your neighbors, and you can’t hide how comforting his presence is. Even as he makes your heart race, makes your hands tremble with the growing tension- you’d rather him be here.

He leans in close, close enough for you to feel his hot breath escaping the mask, close enough for you to smell the bitter, metallic tang of old blood deep in the crevices of the mask. He’s nearly cheek-to-cheek with you, white latex fills the left side of your vision- and air whistles in through the nose holes.

He stands there- then slowly cocks his head. He switches hands smoothly, his left coming around your throat before you even realize the right hand has moved to his mask. He pushes the latex up; it’s awkward and difficult with one hand, but he lodges it over his nose and leans close again.

You whimper, close your eyes expecting the sharp imprint of his teeth- and get only cold air pulled over your shoulder, the long noise of Michael’s slow inhale. He’s smelling you. The thought makes your blood rush- what does he find? He moves close, septum almost touches your skin as he sniffs again.

His head tilts the other way. Cold fingers slide under your shirt, pushing the thick sweater up. He feels your stomach, the chill permeates your skin, makes you cramp again. You flinch, flex your stomach away from him in protest- it does not go unnoticed. The mask tips to look at your face- and he rucks your shirt up. He looks at your stomach, runs his hand over your skin, searching for something.

He doesn’t find it. He leans in close again, inhales just over your navel, makes you squirm. He pops the button to your pants and pulls them down to your knees without unzipping them. Cold air makes your skin prickle, makes you press your thighs together, but Michael’s quickly warming hands make up for it. Again, he feels over your skin with probing, curious fingers.

He tips his head again, this time releasing your throat in favor of dragging his hand down to your sternum. He pushes there, makes you short of breath and keeps you pressed to the wall.

And Michael Myers sinks to his knees before you. You don’t have to meet his icy blue eyes to know he still has all the control. His right hand is almost delicate as it curls into the hem of your underwear and slides the thin fabric down your thighs. His mouth twitches at the sight of your bloodied pad.

You think you know what he was smelling. You flush, feel your cheeks heat in embarrassment and wish he’d stop his exploration already.

His fingers slip between red-tinged labia for only a moment. You whimper as he brings the now bloody digits before his eyes, looks closer. The suffocating presence fills the hallway, threatens to drown you then and there.

His left hand grabs your hip hard; the right delves between your legs, brushes harshly against your over-sensitive clit and finding your entrance. You bite your lip to stifle a cry, nails scraping on the wall as he pushes just the first knuckle inside. It should feel amazing- the first time he’s been inside you at all since the motel. But you’re too sensitive, too tender-

He withdraws just as fast, makes you clench your jaw. The hand at your hip is bruising, demanding your attention- and he holds up the two bloody fingers before you. They glint in the moonlight that seeps in from the laundry room. You can’t see his eyes but you know from the painful bite of his nails in your skin that you’re in danger. Chills race down your back, adrenaline floods your veins. Something just short of rage leaks from his fingers into your thigh.

You don’t know why he’s so furious, that makes it so much worse. He looks to you and you know he expects something from you. why has your blood infuriated him? You can only hope he’ll be more helpful if he knows you don’t understand. “What’s wrong?”

It’s the wrong question. He’s upright before you can blink, the bloodied hand wrapped tight around your throat. It’s clear now the grasp he’d used before was only for control, for keeping you still and where he wanted you. This time his fingers bite into the base of your skull, pressure from his palm makes your vision staticky.

Real fear makes you twist your fingers into his coveralls, stare wide-eyed into the mask’s eyeholes. His mouth is distant, and horrifically emotionless. His voice is the same monotone, disconnected from the rage in his fingertips. A single grunting word. “Who?”

Your mind races. He was mad- you were bleeding- You can barely form words over the pressure on your throat. “Who… hurt me? Michael, I-“

He growls, deep and primal, and surges forward. He’s hard, grinding up on your side through the coveralls. You whimper, fight off fear and lightheadedness to chase any possibility. Rage, blood, he’s hard, sex maybe-

Oh.

It’s not rage, it’s jealousy.

You shake your head, only making your vision swim harder. “Nobody, nobody.” You tap at his hand weakly in a plea for air. ”Michael.”

The suffocating presence does not subside, but his thumb eases off your jugular. You blink, feel your head bobbing. “It’s my period. People with…” you pant, wish there was a better way to explain, but between the hypoxia and Michael’s limited patience you opt for fast over comprehensive. “vaginas just, bleed sometimes. It’s not… It’s not a sex thing, Michael.”

He doesn’t relax, keeps the same threatening hand over your neck. You squeeze his wrist in what you hope he understands is meant to be sincerity. “There’s nobody else, Michael. Just you. Only you.” You pause, seek the mismatch of his eyes. “Ever.”

Only then does his head begin to tilt, a long moment passing before the bloody, violent hand loosens around your neck. You sigh, lean back against the wall. The mask sweeps over you, slow and deliberate. His right hand slides down your body, over your bunched up sweater and down over your belly, brushes through the dark hair- and nudges back between your legs.

You whimper, “It’s sensitive…”

Michael doesn’t seem to hear you. He doesn’t look up, but instead brings his middle finger back up where you can see it. It’s glossy, near black in the low light, just as it had been before. And Michael brings it close to his lips- You can hardly breathe.

His pink tongue slips out and licks, long and slow, over his fingertip. He isn’t looking at you. This isn’t for you. His head tips slowly as he considers something, thoughts hidden behind his mask.

He grabs at the rolled-up fabric of your jeans caught on your thighs, thumbs curling into the leg holes of your underwear as well and shoves. You yelp as he forces them down, your skin exposed to more cold air. You shiver, go back to digging your nails into the wall because you know well enough you can’t stop him now. You even lift you leg so he can tug the denim off one leg- and he settles that thigh onto his shoulder.

The cold air dries the blood to your skin, making it prickly and stiff, pulling at the hair on your thighs. Even on his knees, Michael comes right up to your sternum. He presses the palm of his hand to your stomach, a silent command to stay still.

You cup your hands over your mouth, hold your breath- and can’t stifle a gasp as his tongue, scaldingly hot on your cold skin, touches to your thigh. He licks at the blood drying there, slow and methodical. HIs hand fits easily under your knee, pushes your leg out farther so he can find more. His scruff scratches at your skin, tickles your inner thigh, and his tongue delves into the sensitive crease between hip and thigh.

You squeak, instinctively try to bring your legs back together- but Michael’s hand is firm under your knee. The mask tips up in warning; with anyone else you might complain that you can’t control if he’s the one tickling you, but Michael’s already wound up. He’s rough enough when you’re compliant, you’re not sure what he’d be like if you were obviously rebellious.

But his tongue laves across your inner thigh again, saliva chilling uncomfortably on your skin, until your skin is pink with diluted blood. A ghost of teeth on your skin is the only warning you get.

He sinks in, ripping at the delicate flesh there and you try so hard not to squirm too much. Your nails scrape on the wall behind you and you cry for mercy, “Ow! Michael, please, fuck!” He ignores you, sucks hard there until you’re sure he’ll really take a bite out of you.

He lets go with a wet pop, freezing air somehow better than the painful heat of Michael’s mouth. At least it doesn’t feel like he broke skin this time.

With your weight on the other leg, his cheek presses fully to the warmth between your legs for him to taste the blood that’s gathered on the other thigh. You whine, rock gently against him in hopes he’d understand. But Michael is in no hurry, his patience is near unlimited- and he holds all the control.

He cleans the blood from you with a twisted jealousy- he’d been furious at the thought of someone else making you bleed. That makes a cold shiver shake your shoulders. He wants your blood for himself, he wants to be the one to make you bleed. He has and he will again, you’re sure of it.

He gives the other leg only a nip, a glancing scrape of his teeth that still makes you stiffen, ready yourself for the piercing pain of his bite. Instead he sets your leg on his shoulder, slides his palm close to your body. The blood has stuck some of your short hairs together, they tug and part painfully as his thumb slips between your labia and pulls your pussy open.

Being watched now while you’re bleeding is just as exposing as when he’d peered so observantly at you before. You bite your lip, expectantly watch the mask, still half-wrapped over his nose, as though it would whisper to you what he thought of your body.

You don’t have to wait long.

His tongue swipes over your swollen, irritated clit. You scream, nearly jump out of your skin- it’s too much, the nerves of your pussy too raw to be able to focus on the pleasure behind it. You instinctively try to pull him away- wrap your fingers in long, soft hair and try to make him ease up on this torturous touch-

But all you get is the wobbling of latex, a displeased grunt, and a punitive lash of his tongue against your clit. His right hand still holds you open- so the left curls into the same soft hair you did and pulls the mask off, dropping it to the floor.

His eyes hold you in place even as he his tongue slips deeper, towards the source of the blood. His gaze is icy, dangerous. An edge of a threat written across his scarred face- he’s already warned you to be still once. You can’t help it, the sensation is too much, too powerful on your hormonally-wrecked body; he tries to lick at your entrance and his bumps against your clit.

You sob and reach for him again, weak pleads for mercy already spilling from your lips, “It’s too much, please, please.” Your fingers find his scalp and the short, coarse hair there. Too short to pull him off, you can only push weakly at him. Cool blue eyes narrow- and you cry out as his hand wraps around your wrists. There’s no kindness to his grasp; he pins your hands with brutal efficiency, keeps them just at the end of your sternum to keep them out of his way as he licks into you.

You writhe, fight to free your hands, try to close your legs around him, but he pays you no mind. Only brings your hips forward, away from the wall, so he can press in closer. Each time you twist, his stubble scrapes across your thighs- now so sensitive it burns. You whimper, try to still your movements if only to minimize the pain.

The edge in his gaze softens, his tongue flattens against you and gives a slow lick across your weeping pussy. His attention returns to claiming every drop of your blood, not quite closing his eyes, but no longer focused on you. The briefest pause of his relentless attack makes the wires cross in your brain. Each touch still hurts, sharp pangs of unmitigated pain- and yet the warmth of his tongue, the soft texture as he slides down to suck at the bottom edge of your labia.

He tongues into you, just barely slipping the tip of his pointing tongue in- and his nose presses to your clit again. You whimper, close your eyes, and rock against him. The motion sets your thighs alight again. You shake and try to spread them wider- which is hard enough with one leg propped up on his shoulder, but you roll your knee out to try to give you at least a little more room.

He pushes closer, grinds the bridge of his nose into you. You sputter and grind back- pain and pleasure warring under his touch. He slides up, wraps soft lips around your clit. Your head thrashes back and forth, shaking desperately to get away and to pull him closer.

You look to him- and his eyes are trained only on you. The piercing blue and milky white hold you, makes your breathing stutter to a stop- until his tongue laves slow and purposeful across your clit. He draws the moan from you and the dangerous glint in his gaze returns. Your reaction has caught his interest again.

You whimper and he licks your clit again, the point of his tongue edging from bottom to top, pushing the hood of your clit back. You jerk under him, whine, his tongue already returning for another swipe, slow and steady. Your mouth falls open, breath caught in your chest as you can’t decide between a gasp and a scream.

He continues on, lapping at your clit with merciless precision- tears burn at the corners of your eyes and you know he wants it to hurt. He passes over you again, warm and repetitive, and you want to beg him to stop- it’s so good and it hurts and he’s made you suffer enough, but-

The pain has masked how good it really feels. Stimulation good or bad has been pushing you up and up. All at once pleasure is winning out and you’re right at the edge and you’re gasping, head lolling back against the wall. It’s all too raw, too acute on your senses- but the first wave of your orgasm crashes over you- and Michael does not stop his incessant torture. You shake, grinding against him without even feeling the burning rub of his whiskers across your thighs and labia. You wobble on your one leg and hope Michael would catch you if you fell.

You don’t have to worry; his hand securing your wrists keep your torso pressed to the wall, no matter how hard you buck. And he still doesn’t stop, moving back down to lick languidly at your entrance, tasting your release. You tremble in the aftershocks, each motion of his tongue on your skin brings a new skittering pleasure until you’re whimpering with soft pleas for him to stop.

You yelp with a startled, ”Oh!” as he stands, your leg falling from his shoulder to sit in the crook of his arm. He stares down at you, and in the low light you can see the sinful red discoloration of his beard, the proof of his bloodlust. He lets go of your wrists, and your arms fall limply to your sides. He reaches to his crotch- and, oh. These are new coveralls, nice ones, the kind with a double zipper. He unzips no more than he needs to, withdrawing his cock and revealing nothing else.

He’s expressionless, cool and guarded even with how much he’s already made a mess of you. He presses his cock against you and oh, the heat of his mouth was nothing compared to this. He ducks down for a moment- and his three-fingered hand slips under your other leg and hefts you up. You grab at the wall on instinct- your shoulders and neck still grounded, but your lower body is supported only by your legs caught on his elbows.

It only makes you more aware of how much control he has, how strong he is- that you can’t escape him now. You draw an inhale through your mouth and stare up at his eyes. He’s so hard to read, but you can’t imagine he’s not enjoying the frantic too-fast pace of your breathing, the hammer slam of your heart against your ribs. He adjusts- and lodges himself right up against you.

You bite your lip, push away that same feeling of overstimulation- and he fills you in one brutal thrust. It knocks you against the wall, nearly folds you body in half as he moves closer, finds just how he wants to hold you. His hands seek out your wrists again, pin you down to the wall, and like this, you can’t even move.

He rocks into you again- and though it hurts- he’s too big and your period has you too sensitive, you moan and let your eyes fall half-closed. It feels right, feels like what you’ve been missing for so long. He fills you entirely to bursting, his pubic bone meeting your clit with each roll of his hips.

It’s too much, but you can’t stop staring at him, can’t stop the little noises that slip from your lips unbidden- and he draws them out with such precision. A liquid heat settles inside you, your first orgasm easing the way for you to numbly bypass the too sharp pain. His cock bounces against your cervix and you know you’ll have the same, deep bellyache as before.

With him holding your legs, you can’t even meet his thrusts, can’t get any sort of leverage at all. It feels so good, his cock fills you, even as overstimulation tinges nerves. He moves steadily in his familiar, somehow comforting just barely too hard, achingly slow thrusts. It makes you mewl, scratch your nails against the wall in frustration- you want him to move faster, to bring you that same white hot pleasure. But his pace is as unchanging as his face, cool and unaffected by your growing plight.

Your lip trembles dangerously; hormones have already destroyed your fragile hold on you emotions, Michael’s cruelty was pushing you to the wrong edge. “Michael…” your voice wavers.

His head tips in bland acknowledgment.

“Please,” you know it’s useless to only beg. Everything happens by his will, petty pleadings alone won’t change his mind. Maybe something else would. You lick your lips, inhale slowly to draw up your courage. “I need you, Michael.”

Something flashes in his eyes, his fingers tighten around your wrists. He shifts you in his arms, urges your legs higher onto him, tilts your hips back further. He doesn’t say anything and other than the intensity in his eyes, he may as well have not heard you at all.

The next drive of his hips you understand. He spears into you, knocks hard against the sensitive patch inside you before sliding in deep. You gasp, clench around him in the sudden, lightning pleasure- the next thrust makes you cry out. Pleasure builds fast as Michael’s hold on you stifled the instinctive, rhythmic rocks of your hips. The heat deep within threatens to burn out all thought, all rational ideas beyond Michael Myers’ cock inside you.

But as you focus on the liquid pleasure between your legs, the rough impacts of his thighs on yours- your breath catches. The added sensation has your head spinning, but there’s a problem. He’s tortuously slow. No, he’s a sadist.

Another thrust has you mewling, cunt clenching desperately on his cock. Your body pleads on instinct, begs him to stay deep inside, to chase his pleasure with reckless abandon- but all you get is the parting of his lips, soft pants of exertion. Even that makes you feel closer, thinking that he’s enjoying the wet, slick heat of your body. The soft glaze to his eyes, the dusting of pink across his cheeks-

It brings you right to the edge. You’re close before you can even process it, the heat threatening to boil over. You’re moaning and waiting for one more harsh thrust to push you beyond the point of no return-

It doesn’t come. Focus returns to Michael’s eyes before you can find release, his hips stilling while you’re stuffed full of his cock. No, no- frantic desperation overtakes you. Primal need makes you writhe on him, weakly trying to fuck yourself on him.

Your left leg drops- the adrenaline rush of falling ceases all other movements. And it does not stop when Michael’s hand wraps around your throat. You manage to slip an inhale in before he presses down and constricts your breathing. He pushes in close to you, until your body is right up against the wall again. Like this, he fills your vision, reminds you just how tall he is. His intense gaze returns, staring at you with his mismatched eyes- waiting for something.

Hypoxia sets in fast, your mind losing track of what’s happening-

Before he pushes into you again. Pleasure lights up the parts of your brain still functioning. Your eyes roll, but he picks up his pace. Your eyes threaten to close, the darkness collecting in your vision with each passing moment. But his fingers loosen, readjusting so he can deny you even unconsciousness.

Without his arm to support it, your left leg dangles uselessly, waving in time with Michael’s powerful thrusts. With newfound freedom your left hand grabs at his arm- not to beg for air, but only for stability, to pull him closer. Just to feel the fabric of his coveralls under your fingers.

You blink, try to focus- and realize you’re drooling over your chin. A weak moan slips past his fingers, and he’s rutting into you. He grinds against your clit, fills you, rubs deep inside- over and over until it’s all you can think about. His chokehold steals all thought, everything beyond the torture he provides and pleasure that boils over.

It comes in waves, weak and distant with your oxygen-addled brain struggling to keep up between savoring the pleasure and processing the sharp snaps of Michael’s hips. You clench hard around him, vision going double and blurring. You twitch, fingers digging into thick fabric, left leg kicking against his calf. Each motion inside you drags it out, keeps you suspended somewhere outside yourself.

Through the haze you feel hot breath puffing on your cheek and hard grind of his hips. His hand tightens and your ears ring. Low, guttural grunting fills your head, warmth spilling between your legs.

His grasp loosens. Awareness returns with low, shallow gasps. You’re dead weight in his arms, every limb lax and useless, but he holds you aloft, keeps you pressed close to him. He stands over you, breathing slow and even through his parted, chapped lips. The same deceptive peacefulness has descended over his face; his eyes are closed softly, not pinched or pressed- the usual hard edge to his countenance is long forgotten in post-orgasmic bliss. Your free arm, because he still holds the other to the wall, wobbles, but you manage to reach the back of his neck, feel the short hair curl over your fingers.

His lids lift, dark eyelashes fluttering. He looks to you, and you cannot name what lingers behind the soft blue of his iris, but it settles deep behind your ribcage. You grin and know you must look half-crazed, loopy and drugged out and everything else you could call someone who smiles serenely at a serial killer. It doesn’t matter; a laugh burbles up through your chest, soft and airy, and tears prick at your eyes because he’s back and he’s real and oh my god your thighs hurt so much-

He tilts his head, confused by your strange display of mixed emotions- laughing and crying and wincing all at once. You shake your head, dismiss it all. “I missed you.”

His thumb rubs over your irritated throat, you think that’s as gentle as he can be.

He pulls out- you whine at the burning drag on your walls, the whisker burn across your labia and thighs. And wince at the soft, wet dripping noise from the floor. Michael lowers you and steps away- leaves you braced against the wall, struggling not to slide down to the floor. Something slides down your inner thigh and it stings.

Michael’s gaze stays on you for a long moment, watching the heaving of your chest, the absolute mess he’s made between your legs. He looks lower- to his cock. He’s softening already, but his head tips as he looks- and takes it in hand. He doesn’t stroke, but glides a finger over the shaft. You blink, squint, and look closer-

It’s covered in blood and cum. Long red streaks mixing into a milky pink mess of your mutual pleasure. You blanch, remember what had drawn Michael into fucking you in the first place. With what he’s done to your thighs, pads will be excruciating. You sigh, “We both need a bath now.”

His eyes lift and meet yours. Even now he makes you shiver with his intensity. The empty gaze has returned and you mourn for the strange, foreign look that surfaces from time to time. You know it’ll return. But now, Michael’s dopamine and oxytocin slurry has subsided back to his regular difficult self- and you watch, disgusted but not surprised, as he tucks his cock away into the coveralls and rezips himself.

And yet, it almost makes you break out into laughter again. He doesn’t even wipe his hands. He’s disgusting and you’ll probably fuck him again before the night is out.

“Okay, give me a minute then. There’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry.” You lean on the wall for support and navigate around him back to your room. For now, you leave your pants and underwear in the hallway- you’ll have to clean up later anyway. Footsteps behind you tell you he’s following you. Some things haven’t changed.

You retrieve underwear and a set of pajamas, keeping your legs pressed tight to hopefully minimize any drips. He follows you to the bathroom and stands in the doorway just to watch you clean up. It should be so much more embarrassing, but you’ve held his dick while he peed.

You pee, ignore the tiny smug upturn of his lips that does not disappear when you wipe and wince. In the stark bathroom light you can see the pink tinge that covers your vulva and thighs, along with the red outline of his teeth on your left leg. Honestly, it could be worse. From the first beginnings of a yellow-green shadow over your wrist, it’ll probably all darken more. Your throat throbs in reminder.

You’ll have to wear more scarves. You think that’ll be just fine.

Michael watches, face blank and inaccessible, as you press a pad into fresh underwear and carefully pull it up. It hurts, but you realize something as your skin complains: you’re not cramping anymore. There’s a dull ache behind your belly button where Michael’s dick has tried to pry you open further, but the rolling, sharp pains that would make you double over have ceased.

You change into the pajamas and drop your shirt- the only thing remaining of your earlier outfit- into the laundry hamper.

He follows you to the kitchen- and Michael’s stomach growls. His brows draw together in sharp disapproval of his own body’s noises and you struggle to keep your smile under control. At least he liked the smell. You retrieve two bowls, Michael watches from the hallway as you ladle out the pot roast- making sure to give Michael some vegetables in a vain hope he’ll eat some.

You offer him his bowl- and in the kitchen light you blush at his still dirty hands and the blood caked into his white stubble. Of course. If he can kill without being disgusted at the gore, this probably was clean to him. You shake your head and move towards the living room.

It’s still dark, illuminated only by the television playing an evening police drama. You step towards your normal chair in the corner, only to find Michael’s hand at your side, pulling you with him. You blink up at him in the darkness, but his hand falls away when you stand in front of the couch. He sits and immediately begins devouring messy spoonfuls.

You sit next to him for the first time, feeling the casual touch of your leg against his, the warmth that radiates off him now that he’s out of the snow. You watch him as he stares at the screen, apparently taken with whatever show was playing- and you wonder if this is what he feels like. Watching, wondering what goes on in other peoples’ heads.

Your bowl sits warm in your hands, the thick, hearty smell drifting to you and making your mouth water. You smile at him and lay your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes and enjoying the touch for a moment. The motion of his arm as he eats, the soft noises of his breathing, nearly drowned out by the television.

With your curtains drawn, nobody will know he’s here. Fresh snow will cover his tracks. Nobody will come looking for him. You sigh, open your eyes again- and find the mixed blue and white looking down at you. You press closer, rub your cheek over the thick, rough material of his coveralls, feel the shape of his arm beneath. Three words slip from your lips.

The strange softness returns to his eyes.

=====

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#Michael Myers #michael audrey myers #michael myers x reader #michael myers x you #nsft #citrus #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slashers x reader #slashers x you #rest for the wicked

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star-trekkin-across-theuniverse · 4 years

Text

Red Light, pt 1

Hockey AU - Featuring Star Trek AOS, first person OFC.

XXX

There was something about the smell of freshly cleaned ice that instantly transported me back to my childhood, and every time I came in to work, that reminder of happier times made the stress of this job worth it. It wasn’t that I disliked my job - in fact, I loved it. But it was stressful managing publicity and media for a hockey team.

The San Fransisco Enterprise has been the best team in the United Federation of Hockey for the past four years. After the retirement of General Manager Christopher Pike, however, the team had been struggling. There were new players, and the team just wasn’t gelling under team captain Jim Kirk. The starting line-up was a hot mess. Kirk was at centre, and a new trade, Spock, had traded in at season start with a personal record for goals from his team on New Vulcan. Spock was a precision player, head always in the game, brain always four passes ahead. Kirk, on the other hand, was a cowboy. He played tight in the corners, and was a hard hitter, but his strategy was better summed up as flying by the seat of his pants. The men had nearly come to blows in practice, and barely tolerated one another on the ice. That conflict made for an uneasy team all around.

Team morale was worsened when ‘Doc’ Puri, the journeyman goaltender who seemed to be able to stop anything, blew out his knee on a road trip. It was a career-ending injury, despite the advances to medicine that had come in the three-hundred plus years since the game had been invented. The new GM had to find another goalie, and quick.

Which is what had been the biggest thing on my plate for the past week. Geoff M’Benga, the second string goalie, was in his first year in the pros. He was competent, but lacked the confidence to truly take the reins as the lead goalie. Talks had been heated, but finally, a trade was made with the Proxima Bees. The Enterprise’s draft pick for star goalie Leonard McCoy. McCoy was considered the best in the league, although his year had been off to a rough start. The man could stop almost anything, but the Proxima defense lines were weak and when they allow fifty plus shots on goal per night, there’s only so much one goaltender can do. McCoy was happy to be traded; the Enterprise had a solid defensive corp led by Montgomery Scott and Pavel Chekov, and the rumour was his marriage had just fallen apart and he was longing to get away from the drama.

I cleared my head of my musings, and filled my coffee cup at the pot in the corner of the office. The rich aroma of the coffee, countered with the cool tang of cleaned ice focused my thoughts on the day’s tasks. The press conference to announce the acquisition of McCoy was scheduled for 10. I needed a tight media release and some smiling players to welcome the new goalie. I pressed the button on my communicator to connect with the changeroom.

“Kirk, Spock, please come to the administrative offices when you’re done showering,” I announced. The loudspeaker in the changeroom would be amplifying my voice over the din created by the showers, and I knew I could expect the men to arrive shortly. I logged into my PADD and pulled up McCoy’s current stats to begin the media release.

“I’m afraid Kirk is outside signing autographs and flirting,” Spock announced as he walked into the office. “I let him know you wanted to see us, and he said he would be up shortly.”

“How are you settling in, Spock?” I asked. The team was ten games into the season, and I’d been hoping to see a more cohesive group by now.

“I’m starting to understand Kirk’s playing style,” he admitted. “It’s not to my liking, but his recklessness does have some advantages.”

“You guys need a team-building retreat,” I laughed. “Strand you on an island so you have to cooperate to survive.”

Spock looked horrified at the suggestion. “Every practice is an opportunity to build our team,” he protested.

“Yeah, but part of what makes a team work is when you like each other. You have to be able to see your strengths and weaknesses and figure out how they complement each other. That’s easier to do when you are not only teammates, but friends,” I offered. He shrugged.

“I’m not sure that Kirk and I are destined to be friends,” he replied, without a hint of malice. “I fear we are too different.”

“More alike than you realize,” I countered. “But I have faith it’ll come.”

“We will see. As interesting as your perspective is, I hardly think you called us in here for a pep-talk,” he changed the subject quickly. The doors behind me opened and Kirk strolled in. Spock must have seen his approach.

“Leonard McCoy should land at nine this morning, and we have a press conference scheduled for ten. Marcus wants a couple of players at the scrum to welcome him. As top scorer and team captain, I felt you two were the obvious choices.” I directed my comments to both men. Kirk smiled his lazy, handsome smile and sat on the edge of my desk.

“Is that the only reason you picked me?” He asked. I raised my eyebrow in question and then realized he was trying to flirt. I sighed and rolled my eyes.

“I’m not one of your puck bunnies, Jim,” I reminded him. “I’m immune to the charms of hockey players.”

“I keep telling you that if you just give me one chance, I can change your mind,” he teased. I laughed in response.

“And I keep telling you, I am a professional, and cannot compromise my integrity by carrying on with someone at work.”

“That’s kindest way I’ve ever heard someone say that I’m not their type,” he winked.

“I appreciate that you recognize it as that,” I laughed.

“I appreciate that you allow me to continue to flirt with you,” he shrugged. “Keeps my skills up.”

“As if you need practice, Jim Kirk!” I shook my head again, but couldn’t help but smile. Of all the hockey players I’d ever interacted with, Jim Kirk was the safest. He loved to flirt, he loved to play the romance card, but he always respected the women he flirted with, and never went too far, never made anyone uncomfortable. “Now, scoot, both of you. I have work to do.”

XXX

I checked over everything that was needed for the press conference. Media release was ready, the new jersey for McCoy had just come up from having his name and number sewn on, scrum room was clean, chairs out, mics working. I placed the script for the GM on the prompter, and made sure it was running at his speed, and then double checked it. Marcus was not the kind of leader to make friends, and he ran a tight ship. He made me uncomfortable, and as a result, I actively sought to minimize our interactions. Being called on the floor because I’d screwed up something simple was not on the agenda.

I was waiting at the zamboni bay doors for the arrival of the new goalie, to bring him to the press conference. The shuttle arrived from the airport just moments after I’d stepped outside. Leonard McCoy stepped out, ballcap pulled low on his brow. He swung his equipment bag over one shoulder and grabbed his stick bag with his free hand. He scowled at me as he approached. I reached for the stick bag and he pulled back.

“I can manage my equipment just fine, sweetheart. Just tell me where it goes,” he growled. I cocked my head to one side and gave him a hard look.

“My name is Samantha Nelsen, not sweetheart. You are welcome to call me Sam, or Ms. Nelsen,” I corrected sharply.

“Where do I stow my equipment, Sunshine?” he snapped.

“I was under the impression this move was a happy one,” I countered, my tone equally sharp and I gestured to a dolly sitting just inside the doors. “Perhaps you can put on your big boy pants before the press conference? You have five minutes.”

He dropped his bags with a heavy sigh and turned to face me. He looked exhausted. His jaw was covered in a three day growth of stubble, and there were bags under his eyes that appeared to be packing their own bags. Aside from that, he was as undeniably gorgeous as all his headshots had made him out to be.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. I’m running on empty,” he apologized, pulling his ballcap off and rubbing a hand across his forehead. “Lawyer met me at the airport this morning to give me all the paperwork on my divorce. She took everything, the house, the car. She may as well have taken the goddamn team and the whole damn planet. All I’ve got left is my bones.”

“And a shiny new contract with the Enterprise,” I reminded him. “So let’s go counter some bad press with some good, shall we?” I offered a smile, hoping he realized I was effectively erasing his bad first impression. I headed toward the elevator, my heels clicking smartly on the hard cement.

“So you’re the media gal?” He asked, catching up with a quick skip. I pursed my lips and nodded.

“I prefer Manager of Broadcasting, Communications and Public Relations, media gal is kind of old fashioned,” I corrected with a wink, wondering exactly how many times I was going to have to straighten up this man’s language and bring it into the 23rd century.

“Of course, ma’am,” he nodded and bit his lip. I wasn’t sure if he was trying not to smile, or trying to bite back a smart comment. I suspected it might be both. I stepped on the elevator and held the door for him. As the doors closed, I turned and looked him over.

“We need to stop in the office and grab you an Enterprise hat. Get rid of that ratty old Bees one. You glad to be back on Earth, at least?” I asked. He pulled his hat off again, and scrubbed his hand through his short, messy hair. I led him from the elevator to the office and pulled a hat out a closet full of swag.

“I’ll let you know after I’ve had some actual sleep.” He pulled the hat on and checked his reflection in the mirror by my desk, slapping his cheeks a little to wake himself up. “This old face has a few more miles in it, anyhow.”

“Yeah, doesn’t look like you’ve stopped many pucks with it,” I teased, tipping my head toward the doors leading to the media room. He smirked.

“Why, Ms. Nelsen, I’d hazard you just told me you find me handsome,” he teased, meeting my eyes. With his temperament improved, and warmth in his eyes, it was undeniable, the man was stupidly hot.

“Focus on the press conference, pretty boy,” I laughed, opening the door for him. He walked in to the press conference, and I headed to the back of the room to manage the media.

#star trek fanfic with OC #star trek hockey AU

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sidespromptblog · 5 years

Text

The Past: Part 6

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Seven, Eight, Nine

Summary: Logan doesn’t recall being Apathy, he can’t remember a single instance in his life where he was the dark side Apathy. As far as he’s aware he’s always just been... Logic, Thomas’ Logic to be more precise. He lives and he breathes as Logic and nothing more.

Except...He’s certain that he isn’t supposed to have emotions, that little things like being called stupid and having the word infinitesimal thrown at him aren’t supposed to hurt the way that they do. He’s certain that he was never supposed to feel, let alone everything that he does now. He just doesn’t understand these feelings, not to mention the dreams of a blank white tie that was folded to crisp perfection. He doesn’t understand the dreams in which he stands before Deceit and the others, with such a tiny smile, but a smile nonetheless.

He doesn’t understand, why when he looks at his friends... and he feels nothing but fear and anger.

There wasn’t much sleep to be had that night, not as Logan had groggily picked himself up from his floor feeling detached from his very body as the tears continued to numbly drip down his cheeks. He barely felt a single thing as he went about picking up the fallen plate that thankfully hadn’t spilled any food, not that he was feeling particularly hungry right now… or feeling anything at all. It was like that one conversation from Patton had stripped everything from him, all of his energy and the energy to care about the fact that he was so damn tired now. He didn’t even bother taking his shoes off as he slumped against the mattress of his bed, barely able to summon enough strength to wrap himself up in his blanket.

With his face pressed against his blessedly cool pillow, Logan closed his eyes that were still flooded with tears willing sleep to come to him without the extra baggage of dreams.

If only.

“You’re thinking of doing what now?” His arms were crossed as he looked back at the young Deceit, the side who fiddled with his hat refusing to meet Logan’s icy stare. He looked different, different in a way that Logan couldn’t even recall. His caplet was a mere cape that trailed down to the dishonest side’s ankles with a collar that poked up like the most generic of villains. But right now… he looked like a child playing pretend during Halloween, he was far too sickly looking to even appear like he suited such a garb. “Deceit you kno-”

“I know!” Deceit stamped his foot for a second, an angry flush rushing over his cheeks before he looked away as soon as Logan raised an eyebrow at his actions. “I know Apie.. But I at least want to try before I have to give up entirely, they get to be out there! They get to have Thomas loving them and everything! Why aren’t we allowed to have that too? Why can’t I have it? Why can’t Remus have it? Why can’t you hav-”

“Because we don’t deserve it!” Logan harshly cut in emotionless ice coating his words, ignoring Remus’ head poking out from around the hallway corner, watching everything that was happening. “You know damn well why we can’t show ourselves! We are who we are, and nothing can change that! This is not a topic that I want to come back to Deceit, but since you are so keen on bringing it up again… Morality has decreed it that we are wrong. Do you want to argue with him?”

The color drained from Deceit’s face as the dishonest side’s bottom lip wobbled and his eyes grew glassy and wet. Almost immediately Logan knew he had made a mistake, as Deceit stepped back from him a look of hurt spreading on his face.

“Maybe you’re just scared of actually trying.” Deceit hissed sourly as he stubbornly attempted to scrub away his tears, and before Logan could so much as reach out to him, the other side jerked back, storming back to his room with a huff and the sound of a slamming door ringing through the subconscious mindspace. The sound made Logan flinch, just the tiniest bit and before he knew it… something splattered against his shoe.

Looking down, confusion swept through Logan as he stared at the water droplet. But pressing his fingers to his face, a numb horror swept through him and punched him solidly in the gut as soon as he looked back at his fingers and seeing that they had come back wet.

Was he… crying?

“Apie?” Logan’s head snapped over to Remus at the sound of the other’s voice, he couldn’t understand the wave of emotions that flew over Remus’ face as soon as the creative side’s eyes landed on his face. He didn’t understand what was going through his mind, or what he was even feeling. But he did understand the wild almost feral edge that Remus’ eyes took on as soon as they landed on Logan’s hand, still wet from the tears that he was still crying. He understood just how Remus’ lips peeled back into a snarl, and how his hands clenched into fists. But… that was it, that was all he understood. “I’ll kill him for you,” Remus stalked forward, looking as intimidating as one could in a dinosaur onesie. “I’ll rip off his dick and shove it down his throat, I’ll-”

“Don’t.” That unbearably soft whisper alone was enough to stop Remus dead in his tracks.

“But Apie,” Remus whined, standing in front of Logan before gingerly raising his hand, wiping at Logan’s cheeks with his sleeve. Leaving only a smear of tears in its wake. “He made you cry.” It shocked Logan, the amount of genuine softness in Remus’ voice, much less the fact that Remus continued to wipe away the tears, no matter how many rained down on Logan’s face.

“It's probably what I deserve.”

Remus’ face twisted again, a smaller snarl, but a snarl nonetheless curling on his lips as a fire burned in his eyes. If looks could kill, then someone would certainly be dead by now. “Lo-”

“Logan? Logan, you need to wake up, wake up! You gotta wake up!”

The logical side in question jerked awake at the feeling of someone hastily rocking his body back in forth, for a split second his arms jerked in front of his face, almost as if on instinct to protect himself from some kind of blow or any kind of harm that would come to him. Just to stop himself dead as soon as he saw Remus’ terrified face peering back at him through the gape in his fingers, the look on the creative side’s face was drawn and worried, and the look in his eyes… it was a look that Logan could only equate to having something that you love torn apart right in front of you in a horrifically slow fashion.

Sunlight was shining through the windows, and his clock on the nightstand showed that it was already well past midday. He had… slept in.

Every part of him felt worn out and rough, as if his body had just run twelve miles, while his mind had been forced to take an SAT for every mile that his body ran while having a set of manicured nails raked against his head like a cheese grater. His eyes felt dry and sandpapery, even though his cheeks were as wet as could be. He felt… awful. He wanted nothing more than to go back to the numbness of last night, to feel nothing as he just went about doing everything that he had to do.

As dry as his eyes were… they had no problem releasing more tears.

Remus’ expression crumpled, like a tissue that had been dunked in water. “Hey hey hey,” He mumbled, hastily wiping at the tears with his sleeves, smearing the tears all over Logan’s cheeks, the hopeless expression making Remus forget all about the story that he had brought Logan to read, instead making something catch in his throat. “What’s wrong? What happened? Was it a nightmare?” God, if any of the other sides were to hear him talk like this, they would have thought that he had been replaced by an alien or something, or that somehow Logan was… curing him. It was a thought that he swiftly shook away, as he dried the tears on Logan’s face. “What’s wrong?” He gently asked again, as if two weeks ago he hadn’t ripped out Logan’s teeth and shoved them up his nose, and that he hadn’t temporarily killed him.

He could have stabbed him. He could have bludgeoned him to death with his morning star. He could have replaced Logan’s internal organs with confetti. He could have stabbed him in the heart while looking right into his eyes and-

“I… think I’m broken.” Logan’s whispered words sent everything to a screeching halt, as Remus’ head tilted so hard that the both of them could hear the sharp cracking noise that it made. A cold fury bubbled up inside up Remus. “My apologies,” Logan hastily apologized, batting at Remus’ hands as he attempted to scrub the evidence of his tears away from his face. “You did not visit me today just to have to deal with this, give me a moment and I’ll be more presentable and we can get on with whatever you want to-”

“Don’t apologize,” The cold fury burned brighter and brighter inside of Remus, who was it? Who was it that was making Logan feel as if he was broken? He would break them, he would break their bones twice over and then again for good measure. Was it his brother? Never knowing when to keep his mouth shut? He’d stitch it for him. Was it Virgil? The traitor? He’d break his legs. Was it...Patton? Something deep roared in Remus’ chest at the thought, he’d kill. He’d kill.. Kill. Kill. Kill. “Don’t you ever apologize for having a reaction to something emotional, ever. Just tell me what’s causing it, I’ll…”

He’d fix it? No, he’d kill it.

Logan rubbed at his eyes, as if that would somehow stall Remus and stop him from going at whoever was responsible like a wild beast. “I…” The words stalled themselves even more, because… honestly, how was he supposed to explain this without sounding ridiculous? Dreams were Roman’s department.. and nightmares were Remus’. How was he supposed to explain the feelings that stupid dreams made him feel, how he couldn’t look at Patton without feeling like he needed to run for his life? Who would understand that? “Lately… I’ve been feeling things.” He lamely said, scratching the side of his arm as he looked away, could he have said that in a worse way? What was Remus supposed to get from that? “Bad things, fears that I’ve never felt before.”

Remus’ head tilted again, as his lips curled back into a snarl. Logan was almost certain that he could see the faintest bit of drool, very much like a dog primed and ready to attack. “Towards who exactly?”

Shame curled inside of Logan, the name on the tip of his tongue. Did he want to tell? Did he want to set Remus off on Patton? Did he want Patton to get hurt? Or… did he even want someone to know? Did he want a protector? Did he want someone who wasn’t scared of Patton to step in whenever the moral side tried to touch him? Did he.. did he want someone who would listen and understand him and his fears?

“It’s.. it’s Patton.”

Yes, yes he did.

#logan sanders #logic sanders #remus sanders #ts remus #deceit sanders #ts deceit #questionable patton #logan is apathy #apathy au #intrulogical #lomus #sympathetic deceit

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soniavme · 4 years

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How Men’s Fashion and Style Has Evolved Throughout These 100 Years?

Whenever we look back to research on any particular subject to write on, we find something beyond our expectations that surprises us. Today, we have gone back to the past to research men's fashion and style and check where men fashion has reached today.

Well. The idea of an ideal fashion has run from long into our vein that is unbelievable and has taken a great amount of space into our own lifestyle from the very past. Today, we shall talk about how men's fashion has taken great evolution from the idea of formality to the comfort level. Let’s go back!

The Era of Class, Proprietary and Formality (1910-99)

This decade was known for its class and elegance with proprietary and formality. Earlier, fashion designers were using shoulder pads to emphasize the clothing look and give a robust look to men.

The Jazz Era (1920-29)

During this era, men's pants style reflected optimistic vibes with shades of charcoal, black, grey, and dark colors with slimmer and simpler looks. They used to like fitter pants, jackets, shirts, and sloping shoulders. However, to enhance their looks they used bow ties, which were made of silk.

In the consequence of the fashion, by the mid-20s, detachable collars and button-down shirts were in trend. There were also other collars as well such as scrub collars with Windsor tie knots and club collars.

Trousers came with front creases and cuffs without using belts. However, this was the era when men used to walk on the streets without hats with high boots. Soon, leather jackets, white scarves, and driving caps took place in men fashion clothes.

The Economic Crises and Fabric Era (1930-39)

However, during this era, thin waist-ed coasts, broad shoulders, and tapered legs were famous. The men's suit jackets were pointed, wide and elongated lapel. Though this happened because of the great economic crises, and the suits were then grown thinner and dark shades were worn to take care of the situation and finance. Then, they used to wear low-cost fabrics such as linen, tweed, flannel, and wool.

Additionally, this was the time, when bush and polo shirts, Ivy caps, rubber-soled shoes, and loafers were introduced in the market.

Then, zoot suits came with floor elements or designs. To enhance the look, men were wearing tight pants at the waist hanging a keychain and doped by a hat with feather.

Trendsetting Era (1940-49)

It was the time when the world was facing other great crises, the world war. Society was on the nook of sword and fashion had to be cut out in order to support patriotism. Again, the fashion had to cut costly and luxurious fabric and had to cut pocket flaps, vests, trouser cuffs, etc.

However, after the war, the fashion had come back to its old track, and then wide trousers, silk ties, decorative tie pins were added to the trend. Also, the Hawaiin trend knocked the fashion world with its easy and casual looks.

The Elvis Presley Era (1950-1959)

This era brought businessman idealism by creating slimmer dark flannel suits. Men were used to wearing pronounced shirt collars and ties to add a formal look in their apparel. And this was ideal clothing for comfort and leisure look. Further, shorts grew shorter and blazers became more comfortable in shape, and sunglasses hit the fashion market with greased back hairstyles, just as Elvis Presley did.

However, new trends flourished such as—baseball t shirt, black t shirt, ringer t shirt with black or blue denim, leather bombers or jackets, army boots, and so on.

The Beatles Fashion (1960-1969)

This was the age of The Beatles, where people like to wear relaxed and casual looks. Men were wearing denim jackets, army coats, skinny ties, straight cut suits, and the Beatles signature haircuts. This kick-started the time of casual looks.

The Fast-Evolving Fashion (1970-79)

After the years of fashion trends, finally, men fashion came in the wash and wear scenario. This was the age when bell-bottom trousers, disco suits, sports shoes, tracksuits came in. Now, men were free to choose bold colors and patterns. And, tracksuits were not linked to sports and athletes anymore.

The Decade of Quirky Fashion (1980-89)

While leisure got a spot on the men's fashion, it was now, then branded clothes were the thing that took place of status in the society and brands began to matter in people’s life. Over the end of the decade, suits, clothes were knitted square bottom, skinny and neutral, graphic prints came in light.

The Casual Era (1990-99)

This was the decade of youth, was known for casual and minimalistic looks and were high to grunge, hip-hop, and rave. They liked to wear shorts, t shirts, sweatshirts, and hoodies. Well, the change didn’t stop here; the youths were rushing with new trends of piercings and tattoos. Knitted sweaters, leather jackets, and baggy denim too added men's fashion to the new height, now wearing caps outside the baseball game was a cool thing along with shorts, parachute pants, manpris, jeans with graphic t shirts, and sneakers.

During this era, west fashion traveled down throughout the world too and now, jeans were no longer a taboo to wear for men, however, women were still not allowed to wear it.

The Fusion Era (2000-2010)

It was an era of fusion, where men wore high and low trends, leather jackets, Rockport boots, tracksuits, rust and beige, and forest green colors. This was also the era of light color polos, jeans, cargoes, and khakis. And these all looked sophisticated on people.

Though the pantsuits were still in and didn't go out of fashion, come in charcoal, black colors again with a Mandarin or Nehru look.

Casual and Classy Look (2010-2019)

After witnessing the years of fashion, this era added some casual yet classy looks to men's wardrobe and added athleisure with rave and charming sneakers. However, designers used to manufacture hoodies, jackets, leather jackets without a collar and made men wear it with style. It gave a formal yet casual and classy look. The designer, men's fashion and the vogue world and their experts began to give lessons on how to dress casually to express fashion beyond and leave a legacy behind.

#men's fashion #style #fashion #dress #lifestyle #vests #t-shrit #looks

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winchester90210 · 5 years

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The BH 90210 Rewrite. 1x09: The Gentle Art of Listening.

Rewrite Masterlist

Read the previous chapter here!

My work is not to be reposted and/or edited without my expressed written consent. (Reblogging is fine and encouraged!!)

Chapter Summary: Who the hell is Nina?

Warnings: Mentions of sex, jealousy, swearing.

Word count: 2,200

A/N: I did skip 1x08 due to there not being a ton to do with it, and if I did write it, it would have been reeeaally short haha. But that means there’s a bonus chapter of some kind coming soon! Next week we’re tackling 1x10: Isn’t It Romantic? which means the start of Dylan and Brenda!

Feedback is incredibly appreciated!

Crowds of people gathered around the schoolyard, hip-hop music booming and people cheering as the cheerleaders carried on their routine.

“Brandon, did you sign up for Battle of the Beverlies?” Steve taps his friend on the shoulder as he walks up, sun beaming brightly onto them both. His blonde curls were firm in their place, thanks to the substantial amount of hairspray he applied this morning.

“I would have, but since I work nights it’s difficult. What about you?” Brandon’s dirty blonde hair blew in his face, making him crinkle his nose.

“I’m in the uh, coed tug of war,” He smirks.

“Well, aren’t we all?” Dylan sneaks up behind them, in his usual white tee and leather jacket.

“Hey Dylan, I didn’t think grudge week would be your kind of thing,” Brandon greets.

“Grudge week is every guy’s thing,” Dylan chuckles as Steve snickers and puts on his sunglasses.

“What? I don’t get it,”

“Well, a lot of the girls get into the uh, the spirit of the scene and try to pick up older guys,” Steve grins, “Looks like Y/N’s enjoying this tradition herself.” He nods his head over to where you are– leaning with your back against the lockers, hip jutted out, twirling your hair as you talk up some senior jock. “Brandon, I thought you locked her down already?”

“Nah, she… we… agreed to be friends,” he explained for what must have been the umpteenth time that week. Brandon stiffened as he watched you over there with him, as the guy scribbles something down on a piece of paper and hands it to you.

“Mom, this is not funny,” Brandon gripes as his mother scrubbed at the dishes. He adjusts the cap on his head and starts chopping up a tomato.

“I didn’t say it was funny, it’s adorable!” She fawns.

“Adorable? How about psychotic?” He argues.

You roll your eyes, “Brandon, she has a crush on you! It’s cute!”

“Right! You should be flattered!” Mrs. Walsh smiles.

“Flattered that a 14-year-old follows me around all day?! And, you know, the worst part of it is, if I accidentally make eye contact with her she pretends she’s looking over the rainbow or something!” You instinctively roll your eyes for the second time. Boy, he was melodramatic sometimes.

“She’s just shy, honey, that’s all. What’s her name?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care!” He sure acted tough for a guy that was helping his mommy make dinner. And he sure was cute. Even with that dumb blue backwards hat on.

“Oh, you’re such a heartbreaker!” Cindy jokes, moving to set the table.

“It’s because he can afford to be,” you quip.

“So, d'ya hear about what Brandon got up to last night with Nina?” Steve wiggles his eyebrows as you both walk through the halls together.

“Nina?” Whatever. You’re friends. And he can talk to other girls. Nothing wrong with that. You don’t care. Nina who?

“Just this incredible older woman he met at the peach pit. They spent some time after work together. Brandon was… pleased,” okay, so you care a little bit.

“And? What’s your point?” You try to hide the eagerness in your voice.

“Get this! She gave him… a foot rub,” your hand immediately comes out and smacks him hard on the shoulder.

“Don’t scare me like that! You think I care if he’s getting massages from people?” You stare at him in disbelief and he laughs, happily.

“That might not be all he’s getting from her soon Y/N/N,”

Striding down the hall with Dylan, he begins to speak.

“Y'know, Brandon was asking my advice on making it with an older woman… I’m gonna guess that he wasn’t talking about you,” He grabs your book from you as you walk to study hall in the library. Tread lightly, Y/N. Dangerous territory. Be calm. Cool. Uninterested.

“And? What’d you say?!” Dammit.

“I told him what he wanted to know,” he shrugs.

“No! Don’t do that!” You’re doing great. Super chill.

“It’s fine, the guy has no idea what he’s doing!”

“But you still encouraged him,”

“What should I have said?”

“Anything! "No” or “Stop” or “Hey! What about Y/N?! Do her!”“

"Uh-huh,” the smile on his face was amused, with a familiar yet unknown sparkle in his eye, “And you do realize that would require actually telling him how you feel, right?” You sigh.

“I just can’t believe him, y'know? He refused to sleep with Sheryl because he wasn’t in love with her, but now he’s ready to give it up to some old lady masseuse?”

“…How’d you know she was a masseuse?”

“Steve likes to update me on all things Walsh, whether I want him to or not,” you both enter the library together, quiet chatter fills the room.

You loved talking to Dylan, whenever you talked he listened. Truly listened. He absorbed every single word that fell from your mouth– carefully, intently. It was so drastically different than talking to Steve, who loved annoying you, or Kelly, who you felt was too shallow at times to have a serious conversation with (Okay, it’s not that she’s shallow, she’s great! But she doesn’t like talking about anything more complicated than the sale at Henri Bendel’s or Donna’s impending nose job.)

And… Brenda? You loved her, but you couldn’t talk to her about the raging feelings you had for her brother. And you definitely couldn’t talk to her brother about it, either. Dylan on the other hand… you got each other. As cheesy as it sounds. He could come to you with anything, and you could come to him. And it just worked. You clicked. In like, a total friend way though.

“What about the time he spent the night with you? You weren’t complaining about his pre-marital exploits then,” His eyebrows go up as you both pull out your chairs from the wooden library table.

“Dylan, we didn’t have sex! We talked and I fell asleep in his bed. Fully clothed, platonic, unproblematic,” You sigh defeatedly, resting your chin in your hand, “I haven’t been able to get myself into the peach pit for a few weeks. Because then I’d have to see him in that stupid all-white uniform, looking all… Brandon-like and I don’t know what I’d do with myself. On one hand, I’m totally cool being his friend and on the other… I’m a wreck and I’m missing out on Nat’s apple pie because of it,”

“Well, how about this? We go to the pit around 5, and if you still feel awful after Nat’s apple pie then we can retreat back to my place and watch Animal Crackers. Deal?” You pause.

“You’re on, McKay,”

You, Kelly, and Brenda lay on Brenda’s bed, with you in the middle, watching the wooden ceiling fan swirl around and around and around.

“Where do you think we’ll be in 10 years?” Kelly’s voice is quiet under the whirr of the fan. “Like, do you think we’ll be in a good place? Happy?”

“I hope so,” you mumble.

“I’m sure you’ll be in Paris or Rome, with a fashion empire and a gorgeous husband,” Brenda smiles.

Steve and Brandon hold their ears to the bathroom door that connects the two bedrooms.

“Steve, I really don’t think this is a good idea–”

“Relax, it’s a great idea. It’s the only way to hear what actually goes on in there,” Steve scoffs, “Haven’t you spied on your sister before?”

“Yeah, when I was 12. I’m 17, dude,” He scolds him in a whisper as you and the girls chatter on the other side of the door.

“Do you think we’ll be married?” Brenda rests her hands under her head, her brown hair shiny and soft under her palm.

“Oh, totally! Or at least… close to it,” You smile.

“Bren, your husband is gonna be totally cool– like a musician or a race car driver or something. And Y/N/N, your husband’s… ” Her genuine smile morphs into a mischievous smirk “Steve.” You give her an offended gasp as you all erupt into giggles.

“No amount of money in the world, Kel,” you shake your head and sit up against Brenda’s headboard.

Brandon silently cracks up at his friend’s misfortune and perfect timing, and Steve delivers a hard hit to his shoulder.

“Actually, y'know who you’ll probably marry? Brandon,” You’re drop-dead silent. Brenda notices the look you’re giving her and she continues, “No, I’m serious! You guys are like, meant for each other. You’re basically the girl version of him– just prettier, funnier, less annoying, and…actually, majorly out of his league… but still, I think you guys would totally work.”

“There’s no way, he’s too… Brandon,” you reject, “And he’s your brother. I couldn’t do that, Bren. It’d be like Kelly dating my brother!”

“Well… is he cute?” Kelly smirks, blonde hair blowing softly under the fan. “Oh! You got that senior’s number for me, right?”

“Come on, I feel weird doing this,” Brandon protests, “If I want to know something I can just ask, I don’t have to invade her privacy.”

“It’s not like we’re watching them through a window, we’re just listening,”

“Look, you stay here and be creepy, but I have to get ready for work,” He stands up with a huff, leaving his tempestuous friend to his own devices.

“So?” Dylan folds his hands as you take your last bite of pie.

“You were right,” You concede, sliding the empty mini tin away from you, “You could say this pie was the answer to world peace and I’d believe you.”

“Want one more?”

“Ah, no I couldn’t. I should probably get going,”

“Crazy, have one more! On the house!”

“Really, I couldn’t,” you insist. Dylan holds up a finger and mouths “One more” and Nat is off into the kitchen.

“The secret is the sour cream,” Nat smiles, small pie in hand.

You look to Dylan, then to Nat. Why are they forcing pie onto you?

“Look, if it’s too much we can share it,” Dylan shrugs. You hand him a fork and leave yours on the counter.

“Brandon should be here soon if you want to stay a minute, I’m sure the kid would be happy to see you, you know… considering,”

“Considering?” You sip from your glass.

“Considering,” he winks, and in one swift motion he’s gone with your empty dish. Okay, you were sure of it. This entire town was on drugs.

Not even 5 minutes later, Brandon comes in through the back, all-white clothes adorning his figure. Heart be still.

“Oh, hey!” He smiles brightly, the scent of his cologne immediately apparent. (When did he start wearing cologne?)

“Oh, hi,” you take one last sip of your water, “I was actually just on my way out.”

“You haven’t even touched your pie yet! You love my pie!” Nat interjects.

“You sit and eat, I’ll be right back,” Dylan’s off into the bathroom and Nat’s disappeared suddenly into one of the booths.

Those bastards.

“So, what’s been going on, Y/N/N?”

“You saw me yesterday, not a ton,” you shrug and stick your fork in your pie, “Hung out with Brenda and Kelly, took a biology test, bought street drugs off some guy in a van,”

He chuckles brightly, “Productive day, huh?” He leans down, propping himself onto the brightly colored counter with his elbows.

“Oh yeah, this might be my favorite part though,” you barely nod as your eyes meet.

“Mine too,” He smiles bashfully, that twinkle in his eye going strong.

“Uh, the– the pie, obviously,”

“Oh yeah, no, the pie’s fantastic,” He grins, “do you want some ice cream with that?”

“Yeah, why not?”

The regular hustle and bustle of the hallways was a-go as Steve and Brandon trailed down them.

“Hey Brandon, whatever happened to that older chick that was coming onto you?”

“Oh, we’re just good friends,” He shrugs.

“Face it, you blew it!” Steve shakes his head as he speaks,

“Nothing was blown,” Brandon argued, “I decided against it and called it off.”

“You know what your problem is? You’re hung up on this age thing. What you need is a girl your own age! Someone spunky… annoying… hot, maybe midwestern!” Although those wouldn’t necessarily be Brandon’s choice of adjectives, he knew what his friend was getting to.

“Steve–”

“No, Brandon. I’m sick of you bitching and moaning about this girl, and I’m sick of her bitching about you. Look, I mean this in the friendliest way possible– it’s annoying and you’re both pathetic,”

Brandon’s brows furrow together, “Gee, thanks,”

“No, look, what I’m saying is… Instead of moaning apart… moan… together,” Steve’s eyebrows bounce up and down as he finishes his sentence, paired with his signature Cheshire grin. How long had he been preparing that line for?

“Y'know, that’s very insightful, but I think I’ve got it covered,” Brandon laughs, “But seriously, never give me relationship advice ever again.”

Taglist: @be-patient-be-good @mpmarypoppins @bevelyhills90210 @blueoz @harleylilo88 @princess-ghost-alien @hueycat2004

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