#past my bedtime so probably not very coherent but i just needed to get this out | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

honeymoonjin · 3 years

Text

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ot7 x reader || ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 7.8k || ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut - rated 18+

<- prev || masterlist || next ->

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: threesome, nipple play, riding, unprotected sex, dom!taehyung, sub!?, restraints, blindfold, degradation, praise

A/N: it's my first time writing tgm smut in so long i hope it's okay ;;;-;

DAY TWENTY-SIX

Unable to fall deeply into sleep, when you wake fitfully at half past six in the morning, you decide to give up on it entirely.

A bath wakes you up slowly and gently, in no rush to clean yourself with a soapy loofah, the sweet smell of orange blossom lifting your mood just slightly. No matter how hard you scrub at your skin, Jin’s touch lingers beneath the surface like a tattoo, the reminder that you’d willingly chosen to cut him off from you that elimination day, and that your decision was keeping him from you.

The previous night, you’d spent hours with a hand cradling your cheek, trying to work out what the kiss even meant. A farewell, a consolation prize, a promise for patience? Either way, it just felt cruel to you. You rub harder, covering yourself in the foamed soap and watching it dissolve into the water.

By the time you dry yourself, well over an hour has passed, and the pangs of hunger start to flare off inside your stomach. You dress quickly, thoughtlessly, and sneak out of your door to the complete silence of the second storey. Nobody else seems to be awake yet, so you take your chance to go down and start on some breakfast.

The selection is relatively bleak to your lazy body, unwilling to make anything that requires the kind of effort the two eldest men tended to give for a meal. In the end, you tug some leftover curry from the back of the fridge, giving it a stir and setting it to heat up in the microwave.

The rhythmic whir and countdown combined with your lack of sleep is enough to have you feeling weak, slumping on the counter top. You rest your heavy head for a moment, pillowing it with your arm, and watch the dish turn around and around and…

“-matter, we’ll just wait and find out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust hyung. It’ll be fine. Can you pass me the- no, just beside it, the soy sauce- thank you. Should be ready soon.”

“Mhm, smells good.”

Adjusting to your sloped return to consciousness, it is the inviting smell that greets you after your hearing. A deep, meaty aroma is lifted with spices, making your mouth water.

The moment you shift, a sharp pain runs down your spine, settling at the back of your neck. You grunt, eyes squeezing shut at the ache.

“There she is. Must’ve been tired, poor thing.” The first one grows louder, sounding close to you as fingers reach out to tap your shoulder. “Wake up, sweetheart. Let’s get you something to eat.”

You groan again, lifting your heavy body up enough to prop your elbows on the table and press your hands against your eyes, willing coherence to sink back in. “Morning,” you croak, though by the way you feel, it could very well be evening.

The figure behind you - Yoongi, by his smooth rumbling voice - moves back around into the kitchen, and your ears perk up with the clink of bowls on the countertop. Blinking blearily, you yawn and focus in on the second person.

Jungkook is lifting a heavy saucepan and carefully pouring a stew into three bowls, the pink of his tongue trapped between his lips. “‘S that enough?” he questions, biceps flexing beneath his shirt as he hovers with the pan.

Yoongi nods once, fiddling in the drawer for spoons and chopsticks, and quickly hands you a set with your bowl, steaming lightly.

You smile gratefully, reaching out to feel the heat radiating off the ceramic. “Thanks, Yoongi.” The last of your sleep fades away, and you gasp suddenly, shooting up ramrod straight. “Wait - Yoongi, Jungkook! You’re back!”

“Keen eye,” Yoongi drawls sarcastically, but a fond smile plays on his lips nonetheless as he blows on a spoonful of broth. “Dad checked out of the hospital around 5. He’s doing really well.”

“Oh, Yoongi, I’m so glad,” you gush, relief filling your system.

Yoongi, however, seems to grow somber, eyebrows drawing together. “It wasn’t all good news, though.”

You freeze. “What? What happened?”

Like the news pains him, Yoongi grimaces. Jungkook, too, looks absolutely crestfallen. In unison, they open their mouths with matching frowns.

“The restaurant sold out of lamb skewers.”

“I didn’t see a single gho- Oh, yeah, the lamb skewers,” Jungkook tacks on, deflating. “But we stopped by a market on the way home to buy some lamb so we could make our own.”

“We?” Yoongi asks incredulously. “I didn’t see any ‘we’ when you refused to chop vegetables just now.”

Jungkook makes an offended noise in the back of his throat. “I just suffered a paranormal experience, hyung, I was too shaky to handle a knife.”

“You just said you didn’t see any ghosts.”

The youngest huffs. “I felt them.”

Your head darts back and forth, lamb stew forgotten as you watch the playful rally between the two men. Yoongi doesn’t miss a beat, raising a single brow. “What; was there a poltergeist petting zoo on the fourth floor I wasn’t told about?”

“Their presence, hyung. I felt their presence. Taehyung even said he could feel a chilling aura coming through the phone and into his body, but he thinks it could’ve just been Jimin’s feet.”

Yoongi presses a few fingers to his temples like he’s getting a headache. “You mean to tell me I had to get my sickly father to pretend you were his son all for you to stay the night, and the only thing that happened was Taehyung getting possessed by the ghost of Jimin’s feet?”

Jungkook blinks once. “There was a vending machine that gave out free lollipops,” he offers.

“A vending…” Yoongi sighs, eyes slipping closed. “Jungkook, I think that’s for patients who get low blood sugar. For emergencies.”

“Oh.” Jungkook considers this for a moment. “I took five of them.”

“Of course you did. Alright, eat up, please. It’s getting cold.”

You quickly thank Yoongi for the meal with a bemused smile, chest feeling light at having the two back in your company, and Yoongi in a visibly better mood than the past two times you’d seen him. The three of you fall into an easy silence for a few moments, but it doesn’t last long as the others in the house begin to wake.

Namjoon is first down, getting over his initial surprise quickly and rapid-firing countless questions to Yoongi about his father, ensuring he truly was alright. Taehyung and Jimin are next, the former just about barrelling into Jungkook and Yoongi, tugging them into a bear hug as Jimin watches fondly from behind. When a bleary-eyed Hoseok comes down, he notices the breakfast before the company, letting out a relieved groan at a mouthful of broth and promptly choking on it as he processes the presence of Jungkook and Yoongi.

Finally, it’s Jin that takes the longest to wake, and when he turns the corner and spots them, his only response is a wordless sigh, and a silent hug. Despite that, his emotions radiate off him in waves, and you don’t doubt there are unsaid words shared between him and Yoongi. To your surprise, he breaks away after a moment and pulls Jungkook into a tight albeit brief embrace as well, patting him on the back with a quiet murmur you don’t catch.

It feels right, comfortable and calming to have all eight of you back in the Villa together. The short absence feels so much more extended when you’re used to the same company twenty-four hours a day, and having them all back in your immediate vicinity again feels like a hit of some intense high. The relief rushes through your system, and you catch yourself unconsciously counting heads over and over.

“So I guess we just sit here?” Hoseok asks at one point, interrupting the blanket of quiet that had descended over you as you ate. “Do you think we should text Sejin and tell him to come debrief us or what? It feels like we’re in limbo.”

“No need.” A new voice resonates from behind you, Sejin himself walking through the doorway.

Taehyung narrows his eyes to the point of almost closing them, glaring first at the producer and then at the dormant cameras in the top corners of the room.

“Don’t worry, we aren’t rolling just yet. I’ve just been waiting a while for you all to get sorted. I figured you deserved to at least eat first, Yoongi, Jungkook.”

“Well, we’ve eaten,” Yoongi confirms, oddly stiff, an unreadable expression darkening his features. “I guess that means it’s showtime again.”

Jungkook looks up at him from his hunched posture leaning on the countertop. “I bet a lot of them missed you, hyung. The viewers. They seemed really worried on Twitter.”

Yoongi blinks, shifting. “Missed-? I- I suppose it was sudden. We should probably get this thing up and running again so they aren’t concerned.”

As Sejin nods in confirmation and pulls out his phone to relay the message, you nearly miss the quirk at Jungkook’s lips at changing Yoongi’s attitude so easily. The two of them seem at ease with each other like nothing you’ve seen before. No doubt due to the time they’d spent together last night, and it warms your heart to see them standing so closely.

“Come on, then,” Sejin announces, belatedly lifting his gaze and putting his phone back away, the cameras installed around the room blinking back to life with their steady red blip. “Let’s move to the couches again.”

“Just like the good old days,” Jungkook sighs dreamily.

Jin raises a brow, taking a seat in the center of the middle couch, the two youngest jumping in on either side of him like toddlers ready for a bedtime story. You do your best to ignore him, still feeling sensitive from the night before. “You mean ‘just like four days ago?’”

From his left side, Taehyung huffs lightly, though makes no effort to distance himself at all from the eldest. “Time is a social construct.”

“Can we make a start?” Sejin questions, perched on the corner of the coffee table with his hands on this thighs. “I doubt the viewers are here to listen to you bicker.”

“Right you are,” Taehyung notes, nodding sagely, “they’re here for the good stuff.” He shares a glance with Jungkook, and in unison the two of them place their hands side-by-side directly on top of Jin’s crotch, glancing up at the cameras expectantly.

Jin clicks his tongue like his dick being used as a prop is little more than a mild inconvenience, making no move to push their hands away.

They do, however, when Sejin flattens a stare at the two of them. The youngest properly chastened, the producer finally looks around at all of you as a group. “For the sake of continuity and coherence, we’re picking up where we last left off: Limited Edition week. Yoongi, you’re the only one to already have completed your prompt-” the man puffs his chest at this, sharp eyes darting to you as Sejin speaks, “-so you’re done for the week. Namjoon, Hoseok, Jungkook and Jimin, I’m afraid you’re left with very little time to complete yours. Because of this, you’re no longer required to wait for a text message to start your scenes, and I’m also postponing the Fan Favourite vote until Monday morning to give you some additional time. We’ll unfortunately have to merge it with the elimination meeting. Today is already Friday, so do the best you can.”

“We won’t let you down,” Jungkook promises fiercely, conspicuously glancing down at Jin’s lap as if he’s about to use it for emphasis again.

Sejin sighs, shifting back, continuing on as if he didn’t hear the strangely passionate pact. “If anyone has forgotten their prompt, don’t hesitate to ask, otherwise the show is back on as per usual. Producer Kang is coming in at midday to set up the confessional booth again, so from this afternoon onwards, feel free to use it again to share your thoughts. I’m sure the viewers will have their fair share of questions for you as well. Understood?”

Most of you nod, content with the update. You try and fight the sickly flutter of anxiety in your chest that creeps up at the reminder of elimination, focusing instead on the side of you that’s relieved to have this level of normalcy back, and secretly pleased to have your cards filled up for the next few days. It feels like it’s been longer than it has, and you shift in your seat wondering who will approach you first out of the four men yet to fill their prompt.

Perhaps it won’t be Jungkook; he pushes himself off Jin and tiptoes to Sejin’s retreating figure, asking for a reminder on his prompt with shy pink cheeks. The producer lets out a weak laugh of bemusement and guides him out of the front door to escort him to the producing van outside.

The others seem to know what they’re doing, and you spy Namjoon and Hoseok with heads ducked together, Hoseok grinning at something Namjoon’s saying. The two have been growing closer lately, almost out of nowhere, and you’re curious if they’ll stick as two peas in a pod when it comes to the game, too.

The four of you that remain chill for a bit, making lazy conversation on how strange it feels being back on the clock again. It’s nice, being able to enjoy the time relatively care-free. Despite the overall weirdness of the competition in context to real life, it’s become a comfortable familiarity, and you welcome it back.

You could happily spend the whole morning there, were it not for the sharp bolt of pain that rushes up your spine when you turn to listen to something Jimin has to say.

Gasping, hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck instinctively, you squeeze your eyes shut at the sensation. From beside you, it takes no time for Jimin’s hands to find you, gently settling on your back and arm as he asks you if you’re okay.

“I fell asleep on the counter this morning,” you admit, trying not to move your head at all as you speak, “I think it messed up my neck.”

As your eyes untense and open again, you see Jimin’s rounded in concern, first at you and then glancing over at Tae in sober worry. His teeth are running over his lower lip over and over, a habit that he does in moments of stress and helplessness, and through the ache you can’t help but feel warm at his reaction.

“When does it hurt most?” you hear Taehyung ask, and it’s habit that makes you turn your head to face him.

“Fuck,” you curse thickly, shoulders hunching up against the tight feeling, “just when I turn it. Feels like a tug that shouldn’t be there.”

Yoongi and Jin are silent, and from your new angle of vision, you can see their apt focus on you, Yoongi going so far as to be shuffled half off his couch, ready to jump up and give medical aid.

“It’s probably a crick in your neck,” Taehyung asks, and you spot his mop of browl curls fill your vision as he crouches in front of you and looks back over his shoulder. “Right, hyung?”

Yoongi hums in agreement. “Sounds like it. I can get a heat pack?”

“I have some upstairs,” Taehyung answers, “I think a massage would help a lot. Y/n, do you think you can make it upstairs?”

You take a moment to consider this, and gently shift your head around with small motions. Up and down seems to be fine, and left and right hurt the more you turn. “I think it’ll be okay,” you decide, “I didn’t really notice it that much until just now.”

“Okay.” Taehyung presses his lips together and stands up again, holding out his hand to you. Slowly, with several check-ins, he guides you upstairs and into his bedroom, assisting you in sitting down on the bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows. You leave Jin and Yoongi downstairs, but Jimin insists on following, his hand warm against the small of your back the whole way up.

Feeling a little embarrassed at the fuss they’re making, you nonetheless soak up the chance to be at the center of their attention, Jimin linking your fingers together from the side of the bed as Taehyung rushes around, grabbing a single-use heat pack and some massage oils.

“You’ll need to turn around so your back is facing me,” Taehyung instructs, getting on the bed behind you. It’s a little awkward shifting around with three of you on the bed, and you unable to really move as freely as you’d like, but after a moment Jimin has replaced your original spot against the headboard, your knees bumping his as you sit cross-legged with Taehyung behind you. “Okay, that’s good. Just relax.”

Your shirt has a relatively low, round neck, and even though it’s not quite loose enough to push past your shoulders, Tae doesn’t want to make you take it off and risk hurting yourself further, so he just makes do, warming some oil between his fingers.

The soothing smell of lavender fills the air, and your shoulders go lax as Taehyung slips gently presses down on them with his still-dry knuckles, thumbs sliding up to hold your neck steady. As he pushes the hem down as much as he can and begins to slide his fingertips over your skin to spread the aromatic oil, you fight the urge to let your head loll back. It’s been a long time since Taehyung gave you a massage, and though you have no doubt he’d do it anytime in a heartbeat if you asked, you always felt strange approaching it. A crick in the neck was not ideal, but certainly a nice excuse to have his hands on you again.

In front of you, Jimin watches you carefully for any sight of pain. While a month ago you may have been intimidated or even put off by his intense stare, you know he’s there to make sure you’re alright, and you’ve seen him vulnerable enough to feel okay sharing this with him.

It is still a little awkward, however, and as Taehyung lets his fingers dip as low as they can between your shoulder blades, you send Jimin a crooked smile. “Do you want some popcorn?”

He scoffs warmly with a shake of his head. “If I’m bothering you…?”

You almost shake your head, sucking in a sharp breath through your nose as you fight the automatic urge. “No, you’re fine. I just don’t think me getting my neck fixed is very-” Your voice is abruptly cut off by a staccato groan punched out of you by Taehyung pressing his thumbs right into the knots on either side of the base of your neck. He crawls them up carefully but confidently, beginning to smooth out the tension, and you can’t help your eyes fluttering shut. “Very entertaining,” you finish, breathier than when you started.

“That’s where I’d have to disagree,” Jimin responds in a buttery whisper. With eyes closed, you don’t see him move, and are caught off guard by the tickle of sensation that arises on the sensitive skin of your inner ankle as he slowly sweeps a single fingertip in lazy circles around the bump of the bone. The touch isn’t particularly sexy in its location, but nevertheless feels dizzingly intimate with the knowledge of whose finger it is roaming the fine details of your body.

“I see how it is,” you manage to respond, but the fight is drained from you from both ends; Jimin at your ankles, Taehyung at the nape of your neck. Taehyung’s touch is distinctly heavier and more decisive than Jimin’s, and it becomes harder to resist lying back against him as he works at the sore muscles of your neck.

“My clients aren’t normally so chatty with someone that isn’t me,” Taehyung remarks from behind you, lightly flicking the side of your neck in playful complaint.

“Client?” you question with a pout he can’t see but can definitely hear. “Are we not even lovers, Tae?”

He hums, so low in his chest that it’s a soft growl, and his hands converge on your sternum, face coming forward to press at the side of your cheek as he hugs you from behind. Your heart rate picks up at the proximity; his lips so close to yours, but impossible to reach from the angle. “You know I can’t touch you like a lover should. Not now.”

“Would it be so bad?” you wonder aloud, even as you recall the rule that would get him kicked out should he touch you intimately. The rule wasn’t so harsh were it you to touch him, however. “I could.”

His breath comes out in a rush that tingles your jaw. “Don’t tempt me,” he warns, sitting back upright and pressing the sides of your neck to straighten you up again, “you’re injured.”

“I’m injured?” you retort, “I thought you were meant to be fixing me. You mustn’t be doing a very good job.”

This time, the sound that leaves him most certainly is a growl. His fingers dig into the dips in your upper spine with a ferocity that while measured is distinctly more authoritative. You feel manhandled into wellness, the pain malleable and easily manipulated by his touch. Your body is heavy, barely able to hold itself up, but inside you feel lighter than air, so thrilled to be at the receiving end of Taehyung’s dominance after such a long time under Jimin’s strong hand.

As if following your thoughts, Taehyung mutters out a low, “hyung?” Jimin hums in response, his fingers circling your ankle and letting the lax weight of his arm pin you to the mattress. “I want to touch her so bad.”

You let out an unfiltered moan as you hear Taehyung talk about you to the man on your other side as if you’re not even there, though his fingers never stop for a second, leaching away every last ounce of pain.

“You can’t,” Jimin replies simply.

“But you can,” Taehyung fires back. “Do you trust me?”

Your eyes open wide as you hear the hidden meaning behind his words. Jimin seems to recognise it, too, as he looks past you with lips parted in surprise. It takes him a moment, but he eventually does respond. “I trust you.”

“Get the blindfold.”

It’s clear Jimin is hesitant about letting Taehyung take control. Not the kind of resistance you’d expect he’d give someone else trying to dom him, but simply the delay of uncertainty, of inexperience. He gets up on his knees after a moment to reach into the bedside stand’s drawer, pulling out a soft black sleeping mask.

Taehyung’s hands finally slow, fingertips slipping just under the hem, fiddling with your bra straps. “Put it on, hyung.”

“Tae,” Jimin breathes, eyebrows furrowed in worry, but he goes along, slipping it over his head and adjusting it, lips pursed. You see the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a harsh swallow, his toes curling and staying tucked.

“How’s your neck?” Taehyung asks you, and in your daze at seeing Jimin gingerly submit, it takes you a second to even realise he’s addressing you. You quickly assure him it’s fine, and feel your heart race as he takes his hands off you and backs away, pulling you backwards as he does. “Lie down for us,” he commands softly.

Your breathing is elevated, and you can’t seem to calm it as you watch Taehyung in your peripheral pull up a chair to the side of the bed. His knuckles are white as he clutches the arms, but his face is darkly focused.

“You can’t fuck her with all those clothes on, hyung,” Taehyung states simply, and you can see the way Jimin’s brows lift above the blindfold.

Obediently, Jimin moves towards you, but with his vision obscured he pats around to find you, fingers running blindly up your side to seek out the lower hem of your shirt and lift it over your head. There’s something strangely exciting about Jimin being the one to disrobe you, when only Taehyung will see your naked body, and the clumsy way the older man fiddles with the zip on your jeans before slipping them off makes it feel like he’s touching you for the first time.

It takes him no time at all to unhook your bra once he finds the hinge, and soon enough your panties, the only scrap of fabric left on your body, are being tugged down your legs impatiently. Once they’re gone, however, Jimin’s hands hover uncertainly over you, awaiting further instruction.

Taehyung grins, though Jimin won’t see it, and wets his lips. “So you can be a good boy, hm? Who would’ve thought the big bad wolf was just a little puppy?”

Jimin swallows, nostrils flaring as he struggles with his own submission. He offers no answer, but Taehyung doesn’t seem to mind, sitting forward in the chair.

“Are you hard, Jimin?” The blue-haired man grits his teeth at the intentional lack of honorifics, but confirms reluctantly that he is. “Show us.”

After opening and closing his mouth, Jimin swallows hard again and his fingers pat against his waistband until he reaches the button, undoing it and dipping a hand in to release his cock. True to his word, he’s hard, the tip glossed with precum and angry red.

A wave of arousal rushes through you so strong that you clench around nothing, wanting nothing more than to push him back and take what you need yourself. But it’s fascinating seeing him like this, and you don’t want to even speak, too scared to break the spell Taehyung has somehow constructed.

The younger man just lets out a flat noise as if unimpressed. Jimin’s dick twitches as his cheeks heat in shame. “Tae,” he breathes, fingers digging into the tensed flesh of his still-clothed thighs.

“It would benefit you to give my name more respect than that. I’m not your boyfriend now, not your pet. I’m your boss. I say what you can and cannot do. So what do you say to me?”

Jimin’s lips are parted, a pretty pink that trembles if you look closely enough. He stays silent for a moment, thinking it through. “Mister Kim,” he says, going so far as to duck his head shallowly in an imitation of a bow.

A dark smirk tugs at Taehyung’s lips. “I like that,” he decides, “good boy. Why don’t you touch our girl, then? She’s arching so nicely for you, Jimin, I think she wants to feel you on her pretty little tits.”

Your eyes couldn’t be wider if you tried, fingers twisted harshly in the bedsheets on either side of you. It’s true, your back hitching off the mattress in need. Truth be told, you’re shivering in the desire to feel him anywhere, but the thought of him flicking at your sensitive nipples has you letting out a shaky whimper.

It’s not Jimin’s hands that greet you, however. Instead, he uses them to catch his fall when he hangs forward, face burying in the soft skin close to your right hip. You can feel the hard tip of his nose, the tickle of his eyelashes, and the plush warmth of his lips.

You tremble beneath him at the way his breath heats your naked skin in pants. Jimin navigates higher with his nose, running it over you, lips dragging against you just enough for you to catch scrapes of his bottom teeth occasionally as he works from left to right, seeking out the swell of your breasts.

It’s not long before he crawls high enough, but it feels like an eternity of absence has been broken when it’s not his fingers but his hot, wet mouth that closes over your nipple, sucking it in like a man starved.

You gasp at the sudden bloom of sensation, a moan getting clogged in your throat. Once Jimin reaches you, you can feel the confidence of his usual dom persona return in the intense way he laps and nipples at the stiffening peak, but the hastened breaths that have his chest heaving above you are entirely due to Taehyung’s invisible grasp on the both of you.

It’s not until Jimin fastens his teeth around your nipple and tugs once, harsh enough to make you keen and grab at his shoulders, that he moves to the other side, repeating the previous treatment with twice the hunger and desperation as before.

“Mm, atta boy,” Taehyung praises in a borderline sarcastic drawl. Jimin huffs through his noise noisily against you as he places sloppy kisses on the pebbled skin around your nipple, and your eyes roll back at the overwhelming situation you’ve found yourself in. There’s something unbelievably obscene about being at the whim of Jimin touch but Taehyung’s command, of hearing and seeing and feeling Jimin be just as affected by Tae as you are.

Jimin’s still mostly dressed, but you can feel the heat radiating from his unsheathed cock as it presses against your leg, and you will Taehyung to demand Jimin fuck you, feeling out of your mind with need.

“You want to taste her somewhere else, don’t you?” Taehyung asks after a few moments of ecstasy. Jimin groans lowly against you, and you feel his hair tickle your breast as he nods. Taehyung’s voice hardens. “That’s a shame. On your back, Jimin. Clothes off.”

You and Jimin whine in unison as you’re parted again, but the latter wastes no time in undressing, throwing his shirt, pants and underwear away blindly, almost hitting Taehyung with them.

Taehyung lets out a cheeky smile as he ducks out of the way, before steeling his expression again and standing up to join you at the bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch as Jimin lies down beside you, head propped up on the pillows.

Making him wait in silence and darkness for a moment long enough to make Jimin hold back another whine with a bit lip, Taehyung suddenly reaches out and rakes his nails up Jimin’s chest from his lower stomach to his collarbones, flicking his nipples on the way.

Jimin hisses and almost comes clean off the mattress, arms flying down, but Taehyung catches him at the wrists and tugs his arms up with a roughness that takes Jimin by surprise, leaving him pinned open with reddening lines across his torso.

“Fuck,” he curses, head thrashing back and forth once in frustration. He looks overwhelmed already, though you’re beginning to suspect this is his first time subbing, at least in many years. “T- Mister Kim, Mister Kim, please.”

“Y/n’s going to take what she wants now, Jimin,” Taehyung instructs gruffly, sending you an expectant gaze for you to get up, “and you’re going to give it all to her. Isn’t that right?”

“Please,” Jimin repeats brokenly, fingers curling in the open air as Taehyung holds his wrists up.

Heart racing violently in your chest, you find yourself straddling Jimin with barely-restrained excitement. His cock is lying against his lower abdomen, leaking steadily, and the moment you reach out and take it in your hand he lets out a low, keening sob, thighs lifting as if to curl in on himself.

“Colour, Jimin,” Taehyung demands, loosening his hold on the man’s wrists briefly.

Jimin lets out a frustrated whine, foot stomping against the mattress. He’s panting like he’s run a marathon, even with your hand still on him, and it almost seems like he’s about to end the scene with the pained look on his face. “Dammit, green. Fuck.”

Taehyung pauses for a moment, but suddenly a booming laugh is leaving him as he stares down at the figure on the bed below him, with restrained arms hanging uselessly in the air. “Oh, you dirty fucking boy,” he gushes, bending down to nip at the already-swollen flesh of Jimin’s lips, making the older boy whimper, “you love this, don’t you?”

Shaking his head, Jimin can’t hide the way blood rushes to his cheeks, tinging his face and neck pink as his cock pulses in your grip. It encourages you to move again, and you lean down to spit on it, hearing him hiccup wetly at the feeling of it before you’re jerking him off steadily to spread the slick around.

As much as he tries, Jimin can only hold back the sounds of pleasure for so long, and by the time you’re straddling him, lining him up at your entrance, his chest is heaving and every breath out is tinged in a moan. He all but trembles in anticipation as his tip bumps against you, and you suck in a single slow breath to prepare yourself before you’re sitting on his cock, feeling it part your walls deep inside.

Jimin shudders, and his arms, still in Taehyung’s grip, tug towards his own face to cover it, fingers curling into claws at the flood of sensation.

“Is it good?” Taehyung asks rhetorically, allowing Jimin to pull his hands over his face before cruelly spreading them wide again, leaning down until their noses touch, voice dipping to a gruff whisper, thick with arousal. “You don’t get to hide from us.”

You’re propping yourself up with one hand on Jimin’s heated chest and another on the mattress, letting yourself adjust to the intrusion, and you see the way his lips tremble every time you clench around him.

Though it hasn’t really been that long, you feel the stretch more than usual, especially without the foreplay involving any fingering. But, if you’re honest with yourself, you wouldn’t want it any other way.

There’s something so divine about rocking your hips against him and having his cock open you up through your own movements. You control the pace despite the whines and weak growls of complaint, and you take your time with it. While Jimin might prefer more friction, more motion, you’re enjoying the deep grind, his pelvis pressed to your clit every time you lean forward.

You look up from him, at Taehyung holding him down for you. His hair is messy, but no more than before, and he’s still fully dressed. His eyes are dark with lust and glimmering with excitement, and once he feels your gaze he looks up at you sharply. Your heart jumps, and you squeeze unintentionally around Jimin, making him groan.

Still looking at Taehyung, however, at his sculpted lips, strong gaze and hooded lids, you’re overwhelmed with the urge to lean forward and kiss him. It’s like a string is tied between the two of you, being cranked tighter and tighter. It would be so easy just to give in and-

“Don’t be mean, Y/n. Jimin is being good for us.” Taehyung grins at you, teeth glinting. “Make him come.”

Jimin’s chest hitches, and his hips rock shallowly up at you, unable to get the momentum to do much more. Still, it causes him to drag against your walls, and the pleasure shoots up your core at the feeling. Inspired by both your own pleasure and the need to please the two men with you, you steel your thighs and begin to ride Jimin in earnest.

It’s harder than you expect to keep a rhythm up. Every time you get a good downstroke that reaches your g-spot, it makes your legs tremble, and before long your thighs begin to ache. Nonetheless, you’re determined as you watch Jimin’s blindfolded face contort in pleasure, and you shift your position and bounce harder.

In the back of your mind, you hear Taehyung praise you, but you barely spare him a glance, chest lowering so that you can put all your energy into the tight motion of your hips. Your fingers dig into Jimin’s shoulder, and his muscles tense beneath them as he tries to reach out for you.

Every time he’s reminded of the grip Taehyung has on his arms, Jimin thrashes just a little beneath you, but his cock just keeps on getting stiffer inside you, and as you suck in harsh lungfuls of air, you know he’s getting close.

The sounds that leave his parted lips are nothing short of pornographic, losing all sense of shame or hesitation as he approaches that peak.

You fight off your own orgasm, tightening around Jimin as you try and hold back and distract yourself with him. You’re losing stamina quickly, the rhythm falling apart into unsteady jerks and bounces.

Taehyung watches you carefully, before bending down again and biting right into the plush flesh of Jimin’s cheek, addressing him only after he soothes the blooming red with his tongue. “Why don’t you return the favour and fuck her a little, my good boy?”

Jimin sobs, and his abs tighten as he attempts to get up, but Taehyung just tuts, instructing him to do it right where he is. Clearly too far gone to protest, you feel Jimin prop his feet up against the mattress with a shaky sniff. That’s your only warning before he makes full use of his core strength to piston his hips up into you with toe-curling speed, purely seeking out his own end.

You cry out, knees buckling at the first thrust, and your chin hits his shoulder awkwardly, almost biting your own tongue. Clutching at his arms, you attempt to hold yourself up enough not to bear your dead weight on him, and go along for the ride.

Even from his unwieldy position, Jimin manages far better than you did, and his his moans quickly raise in pitch and shorten in length, until he’s whimpering in desperate yips, thrusting up into you with such ferocity that your teeth chatter.

He’s deep inside you, deeper than he’s been before, and your eyes begin to well at your own impending orgasm.

Closer than you, however, Jimin freezes for a split second before he’s shuddering violently and spurting inside you. Taehyung holds onto him for a moment longer before he releases his wrists, and suddenly you’re being caged in by Jimin, his arms holding you flush against his heated torso as he grinds his cum into you, still blindfolded and barely able to catch a breath.

It’s this rocking motion that tips you over the edge, your clit gaining enough friction to break the dam, and you sob hard as the pleasure wracks through you. There isn’t a single inch of space between you and Jimin, and just as you think you’re in pure ecstasy, you feel Taehyung’s hand tangle in your hair, stroking it as his lips brush the shell of your ear with praises intended for the two of you.

Your face is wet and your body is trembling uncontrollably as you let your climax run through you, and when it fades you feel hollowed out, boneless.

Jimin is clearly the same, because he quite contentedly lets you lie atop him, panting just as hard as you are. His eyes remain closed long after Taehyung slips the blindfold off, pressing kisses to Jimin’s eyelids and the flush on his cheeks.

After a sweet eternity, you gather enough energy to roll off Jimin and sit up, separating yourself from him. He sighs out weakly, and you’re shocked to see just how drained he seems. For a moment, your heart stutters, but as you reach out and grab his hand, matching Taehyung who has his other one sandwiched between his, a drunken smile stretches across Jimin’s face.

“What the fuck?” he asks breathily, chuckling slightly despite his exhaustion. A single eye cracks open, looks up at the two of you with a warm gaze, before slipping shut again. “Oh my god, I can’t believe… I can’t believe that.”

“Can’t believe you liked it?” Taehyung questions, and even after the scene you hear a tinge of nervousness in his tone.

“God, Tae, I think I get it now,” Jimin gushes, voice lowering into a sleepy slur, “it’s- that was fun.”

Taehyung beams, squeezing Jimin’s hand fondly.

Jimin sighs in bliss. “And next time I’m going to edge you so much you cry, Mister Kim.”

The smile drops off Taehyung’s face in an instant. “Hey! That’s not fair. I let you come.”

Whatever protest Jimin would normally fire back is dissolved in his post-orgasm bliss. Instead, he just hums sweetly, entirely unbothered by the sticky mess his lower torso has become.

“Come on,” you jibe softly, feeling your own skin growing tacky, “let’s get you in the shower.”

Jimin groans at the thought of standing up, but Taehyung is having none of it, digging his hands under Jimin’s back to lever him up like a crowbar. “Yeah, we’re not gonna stop taking care of you just because you busted a nut, asshole. Get up and let me clean your dick like the good dom I am.”

Though Jimin huffs all the way to the shower, as the two of you clean him up, dry him off and dress him in a pair of Taehyung’s sweats and a baggy shirt, his eyes never stop gleaming for a second, not-so-secretly enjoying every minute of it.

The three of you spend an hour or so post-shower chilling in Taehyung’s room before hunger overcomes you one at a time. You’ve certainly missed lunch, but there is plenty still left in the fridge, and Jimin takes on the duty of reheating it as a silent thank you for the scene.

He’s quieter than usual, and you know it has to do with the intensity of it, at least for him. It was a big deal, actually submitting to another, and both you and Taehyung keep a close eye on him, filling the silence between the two of you so he doesn’t feel the need to exert himself, but keeping him close nonetheless.

At one point, Jimin goes upstairs to take a nap, insisting he’s fine on his own, and Namjoon and Hoseok return inside from where they’d been having a picnic of sorts (or perhaps fucking on the lawn, though they refuse to deny nor confirm your teasing accusation). The four of you put on a random reality show you’d been meaning to watch, and it isn’t long before Jungkook is joining you too, piling on the couch between the two subtle lovebirds. When Jin comes down, he half-watches from the kitchen, preparing some side dishes for dinner, but Yoongi is nowhere to be seen.

Your mind doesn’t linger on the thought for long, getting distracted by the dating show that somehow is just as ridiculous as the one you’re on, and you let the time slip by as you watch episode after episode. It’s nice to rest up, aching a little bit in a new place than before, but satisfied.

When Yoongi comes down, you’re so caught up watching television that you don’t even see him. It’s not until he cuts into your line of sight and holds out a decisive hand that you blink into focus and notice his presence.

“Y/n. A minute.”

You stare at him for another minute, brain not catching up. Yoongi huffs and bends down, grabbing onto your hand and tugging you up off the couch.

The others stare at you in bewilderment, and you return the confused gaze over your shoulder as he tug you out of the room.

Stumbling through the hallway, you furrow your eyebrows as he leads you up the stairs, almost frantic in his pace.

Arriving at your own door, he throws it open and pulls you inside and shuts it behind you. Your brain catches up, and you let out an uncertain laugh. “Yoongi, you already did your prompt, you don’t have to-”

You’re cut off by a pair of lips on yours.

Yoongi’s body knocks you back and pins you firmly to the door as his mouth slants against yours. Both hands cupping your face, he kisses you like there’s no tomorrow, tongue darting out slightly to flick at your lips.

You let out a surprised moan that gets entirely swallowed by him, knees weak and held up only by his hold. Frantic, hurried, his kisses convey a thousand praises, and your mind whirls with the sudden passion.

This close, you can smell the musk of his cologne. It dizzies you, and you feel as if his hands on your cheeks and his lips on yours are the only thing anchoring you to the world. They move against you, exploring your mouth with a desperate sweetness. You can’t wrap your head around it, can’t catch up, and so you let yourself drown in it instead, clasping at the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt to hold yourself steady.

When you finally part, he rips himself away with dazed eyes, pupils blown with desire. “Y/n,” he breathes, staring at you in wonder as if for the first time. He steps back again, after a moment, touching his swollen lips with a disbelieving smile. “I really tried, you know.”

You frown in confusion, stepping forward to get closer again. “Tried what? Yoongi, I don’t understand.”

“I tried not to fall in love with you like the rest.”

You have no words, mouth hanging open. Before you can think of anything to say, he’s moving past you and letting himself out of your room, the door half-ajar as his footsteps recede into silence.

You stay up in your room for what must be hours, replaying his words over and over in your head, lips tingling.

You miss dinner that way, too occupied in your own thoughts to even notice the knock at your door. Even as the sky darkens outside your window, you feel too wired to sleep, running through every single interaction you’ve ever had with Yoongi. Reading them in every possible way you could.

Working out if you would be telling the truth to say it back.

Your mind runs in circles, unable to land on a single answer, on a single perspective or truth or belief.

Late into the night, and further to the early hours of the morning, you force yourself to think about every other member in the house, too. About how they treat you, how kind they are to you, the way they look at you.

About the way your heart races when you’re around them, even as they comfort you with their presence alone.

You manage to fall asleep shortly before sunrise, eyes aching and body exhausted, every line of thinking and internal interrogation whittled down to a single two words.

I’m fucked.

#the gentlemen #bts smut #bts x reader #jimin smut #taehyung smut #jimin x reader #namjoon x reader #taehyung x reader #jungkook x reader #jin x reader #hoseok x reader #yoongi x reader #tgm

464 notes · View notes

sharkface-daydreams · 2 years

Note

character ask: Church! (alpha)

(i appreciate you specifying, this would be much different if you’d said epsilon. Also i hope this is coherent because it’s like. Very late and i am very sleepy)

Why I like them: He’s so chewy, he’s like a little chew toy for my brain. *slaps the roof of his helmet* This bad boy can fit so much hypocrisy in it! He cares too much and buries it under bitching and insults and complaining. He’s exhausted and worn the fuck out and can’t be arsed about anything and god if that isn’t a fucking mood. Worn out from shit he can’t even remember! They took so much out of him it’s a miracle he’s still conscious. I get a lot of like. Protective feelings about him I guess? Probably because system feels. anywho-

Why I don’t: I don’t not like him, in any way honestly. I doubt we’d get along irl but as a character? I love him don’t change a thing.

Favorite episode (scene if movie): I genuinely cannot pick. Season one had a lot of good ones. Maybe, if I absolutely had to pick, gun to my head, it’d be one of the ones where he’s looping through time trying to fix things, where he realises he’s a huge fucking dork.

Favorite season/movie: Season 6 was a masterpiece, but I am also extremely fucking sad about the state he was in after being relocated and isolated :(

Favorite line: I thought we'd established by now, I don't like either of you, okay? So competing for my attention is not gonna do ya any good.

Favorite outfit: Honestly I like his ‘ghost’ outfit in season 1 lol

OTP: I do love some good old fashioned Chex, and Churboose is good, Chucker… hmm. ChurchNut is pretty cute too.

Brotp: Church and Tucker bros 4 lyfe *dabs*

Head Canon: I like to think when he jumped into Meta’s head where all the other fragments were waiting they were able to have just a tiny bit of a happy reunion before the Emp went off :’) oh god. Hang on i’m gonna cry. Hang on. Just a minute. Hang on oh god

Unpopular opinion: I don’t know if I have an ‘unpopular’ opinion? It’s 1 am and way past my bedtime so the first thing that came to mind is ‘Church is a 5 foot Jewish bitch and I love him so much.’ @-@ short king~

A wish: I wish they hadn’t isolated him. I wish Church had been able to say ‘no you need to let me look after caboose because he got his head fucked up for YOUR stupid war’ and they’d sent him to Rat’s nest with his friends because jesus god that’s the worst fucking possible thing to do to someone that traumatized is rip him away from his support system, shitty people though they are. DEATH TO DIRECTOR!! DEATH TO DIRECTOR AND COUNSELOR TEN THOUSAND TIMES!!! Thank god for everybody lives AUs tho amirite

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen: It already happened :’) ^

5 words to best describe them: cranky, bastard, Tired™, sarcastic, reluctant

My nickname for them: Le Nerd. Sometimes Lennie if I’m in a mood to be poking fun at him ^^

#we just got a letter #ty for the prompt :D #im lov him #asshole: the original #rvb ai program alpha

20 notes · View notes

ravenclaw-questions-gone-writing · 3 years

Text

Outline # -1 Abandoned Lore (Trinity)

@fanfics-and-fangirling

I have learned my lesson, I will be writing these on Google docs and then copy-pasting onto Tumblr. While I am on GD, I figured I might as well open the docs I used to write the actual fic. Man, I went through a ton of hoops to get where I am. I will be using the most coherent ones for reference.

I can literally track my thought process as I went through writing all the different versions and I still have no idea how tf I went from this to dropping a flaming papermache whale on Ra’s Al Ghul. And I will die mad about it. Which means more meticulous notes in the future I guess.

Also, I’d like to apologize for how long it took to get this out, I have no sense of time whatsoever and as always, there’s a lot more than expected. This was 7 pages long

Original Ramble Post

Like most of my stories, the MC is an OCI - reincarnator brought into a fictional world they once watched. (Because I am obsessed with that trope.)

I now find the original name I had for her cringy and out-of-place given these are norse gods. So, from now on her name is Lokka, which is the female version of Loki

There’s a whole ass backstory about the transition of godly names and power I won’t go into. Just think Thor and female Thor kind of thing I guess. She’s basically seen as a spare Loki but it’s also a respected position.

Was tempted to name her Sigyn since Marvel doesn’t care about actual norse myth relations. No, Idc that there’s a canon Sigyn.

If you’re curious, the original name was Aradia. Yes, like the queen of witches.

MC is an asgardian, the daughter of the librarian in the royal palace and a blacksmith

She managed to get an apprenticeship under Loki and is occasionally taught by Frigga. She also learns under Eir when both her royal teachers are busy.

Lokka found her way into the central plane, probably having found it’s location from Loki’s notes and is unaware that it’s unstable.

So, Lokka is in the central plane, having the time of her life exploring new lands when she stumbles across a crying Marinette who is very lost

Unlike Lokka, Marinette does not know where she is or what is going on. She literally just tripped into a portal and has no way home.

Lokka takes Marinette under her wing and promises to help her find a way home

Problem is, she doesn’t know which of the three universes Marinette is from.

Even if/when she finds out that the girl is from MLB-verse, she still wouldn’t know which one that is because she has no reference to which world is which. Only that Marinette is probably not from Asgard.

At this point, she is unaware she lived in Marvel, she just knows Asgard is Norse Mythology.

So they continue to wander the central plane, Marinette ends up picking up a card guardian for a pet, accidentally becoming a cardcaptor.

Marinette has trouble pronouncing Lokka and Lokka gives Mari permission to call her Cosette (pre-reincarnation name)

Meanwhile, Ra’s sends Damian and Talia into the Central plane for combat experience and resource gathering.

Ra’s might be 700 years old, he might have access to the Central plane but he sure doesn’t know about magic or how it came to be or the current state of it. He might know something’s off because all the inhabitants have been increasingly on edge and the weather’s been stranger than usual but he didn’t deemed it important

Notably, he has never seen anyone other than those who he’d sent in himself in the central planes (CP, from now on bc I am getting tired of typing the entire thing out) so as far as he knows, the CP’s only entrance point is under his control.

Talia and Damian, who’s still going by Hafid, go hunting for resources and training

They separate for a bit for individual hunting/training time

Marinette and Cosette (Lokka) stumble across Damian’s camp

Misunderstandings occur, Damian fights them, more accurately he fights Cosette

Cosette tries to protect Marinette while also making sure not to harm her opponent

It was harder than she expected considering her opponent was a child

Asgardian training pulls through and she is able to do both

Damian’s tied up, Marinette is confused, and Cosette does not want to deal with this

Negotiation time

Marinette can’t speak Arabic, Damian doesn’t know french, and Cosette has all-speak

This means Cosette’s sitting there, having to repeat everything the kids say to each other for translation’s sake

also misunderstandings before the kids realize allspeak is a thing

Cosette is stuck with two kids who don’t like each other, one of which barely puts up with her so she does what most adults do when kids are too troublesome

Distract them: she does magic tricks with actual magic

Damian+Marinette are fascinated, Cosette accidentally gains two magic students

even though she’s still learning herself and all she has for guidance right now are Loki’s and Frigga’s notes

So, the trio end up travelling together

Damian demands Marinette should at least be able to fight so they train her too

They also figure out that Marinette and Damian’s worlds are not the same.

Cosette drills some value of life, basic morals, and feminism into Damian’s head

Marinette and Damian (Hafid) have trouble pronouncing each other’s names

They chose nicknames for each other from Cosette’s bedtime stories

Marinette is obviously angel or Tenko

Damian is gets Kabane, the name of a half demon

Kabane later changes to Kasane, protective blade

Yes, Cosette was/is a weeb and yes, they still mispronounce names which defeats the whole purpose but at least they kids don’t notice now even if Cosette is cringing every time they

They run into another card guardian and this one goes to Damian.

Cosette does not pout about this, it would be very immature

One training montages, several fights, a couple language lessons, and an abandoned (and Cosette-raided) house later, Cosette gets to the part of Loki’s notes where she figures out that the CP is collapsing in on itself and uh-oh

She tells the kids the gist of it but they’re too smart, ask all the right questions, and end up figuring out the important parts of situation that she’s trying to keep from them

Cosette is both impressed and a little put out, mostly impressed because not only did they figure out extremely complex magic, they also mostly remained level headed.

Marinette wants to rescue the card guardians and for once Damian is backing her up so Coestte gives up the notion of returning home and they go collect the guardians.

Remember, DC and MLB universes are closing in on each other

MCU is drifting away

If they don’t collect the guardians, Cosette would have the time to just drop them off at their world collection points and head back to hers

After collecting a couple guardians, they end up finding Talia and explain the situation to her.

Talia joins the gang, she may or may not be plotting a marriage

They raid a couple more houses, collect the 54 card guardians, and complete the power transfer ritual (replacing the Yue’s trial because the cards are the guardians)

The cards end up latching onto the three kids.

Marinette gets the Mistress title, Damian gets Sun Guardian, and Cosette gets Moon guardian.

Originally Cosette was going to be the mistress and Marinette the Moon guardian but because of the way I’ve decided magic works in this world - explaining that will need a whole other post - if Marinette is the moon guardian and gets the Ladybug miraculous, she will - for lack of better word - get sick and possibly die... or not.

Y’know what, it made sense at the time. But now that I think about it, we’re going back to the original idea.

Cosette’s the Card Mistress, Marinette’s the Moon guardian and Damian’s the Sun guardian.

Spoiler alert: that is a plot point for tropes-verse.

The completion of the ritual breaks puts CP deteriorations in high acceleration

Damian and Talia get into their circle, Cosette and Marinette in the other

Damian doesn’t have any cards bc he doesn’t want his grandfather trying to get to them. He and Talia agreed Ra’s would only know about the CP’s destruction. He does, however, have a CP beast that they picked up.

CP beast: magical creature that was born of CP’s magical residue or smth

Damian’s looks like a Teddiursa (Teddy bear pokemon) it is not

They have a notebook from a raided house detailing CP’s deterioration for proof

Cosette goes with Marinette because she can’t make it back to her universe and in the event that Marinette’s also from Cosette’s universe, she won’t be alone

They separate with the promise of meeting again.

At this point, I have had several differing ideas

They all go into DC world because they aren’t sure of Marinette’s world

Child trio goes into MLB world and Talia tells Ra’s Damian died

Everyone goes into MLB and Ra’s finds out about the collapse when he tries going in himself and finds out he can’t and just assumes they died

Y’all, I’m starting to see why I can’t do one-shots…

One of the things I forgot to mention in the rambling post is that while Marvel-verse was pulling away, it also messed with the time regulation thing, a day in the Maribat-verse will

Time in CP was very messed up

Kind of assumed readers could piece it together but I figured might as well make it obvious and straight up say it

MLBU: Cosette and Marinette arrive safely

Marinette is delivered home and Cosette has to figure something out

They find out Marinette has only been gone for a week

Marinette has some separation anxiety for about three days

Cosette slowly realizing this is an MLB universe and having a crisis

Cosette gets adopted by the Dupain-Chengs and starts working at the bakery

I have not figured out ages for Cosette

MLB goes like most Maribat fics pre-gotham because I’m lazy

Will likely be adjusted if I ever actually write this fic

Except Cosette steps in when things got too far and Paris has 3 heroes

Cosette is the known as the Sorciere or Lokka

Her uniform is just her asgardian armor

Good but misguided Adrien, Cosette probably adopts him too

Love square goes platonic and Cosette is glad this rom-com is over

Magic tutoring continues

Cosette is neutral with Fu and fascinated by the miraculous

You remember those ghost interactions? Those are filtering in

One of the first things to merge is the internet, because it doesn’t have a physical body and it’s just waves of information

News and discoveries between the world are being swapped

Given what I remember from DC and dimension travel, it wouldn’t be surprising if they figured out universes were merging.

The news about JL and Paris’s situation are causing all kinds of confusion

Cosette beings looking for information on Damian

As the physical world begins merging, there’s pockets of space where you can slip from one world into another; not quite portals but close

Eventually the trip to NY became a trip to Gotham because their plane slipped between planes (sorry, I saw the chance and I had to take it.) but yeah, that happened.

There’s quite a few details I’m forgetting

DCU: Damian and Talia arrive ok and report bare basics to Ra’s

It has also only been a week

Ra’s is displeased to find them back until they report the state of the CP

There’s the whole coup not long after and Damian is sent to Bruce

Damian is much more innocent looking when he’s bringing what appears to be a teddy bear with him

It’s name is Abd and it has grown wings by now. Actual name pending.

He gets teased about it, but under Cosette’s teachings, he has learned the virtue of patience, underestimation, and getting revenge with a side of entertainment

He does not try to kill Tim either

He also has to make the choice of bringing Abd with him as Damian or as Robin

He choses to make a side company for WE making toys based off creatures from the CP so Abd wouldn’t look too out of place

It takes two weeks for the bats to realize there’s something off about the Abd

They are convinced it’s haunted and Damian is very entertained

Abd only moves in daytime when no one - Damian excluded - can see it

Movement can expel magic that interferes with recording tech

Alfred is the first to figure it out and surprise, surprise, he has some magic books for Damian to learn from

It’s from the Wayne family library and they just assumed the language was lost to time. At least three are from Alfred’s own family.

Bat brothers spend the next 6 months trying to convince Damian his magical pet bear is a haunted doll.

Damian sort of getting along with Poison Ivy because his Sun magic is very compatible with plants and they love him

On an unrelated note, the plants seem to refuse to attack the new Robin

Damian randomly, unconsciously humming to songs Cosette and Marinette sang

Damian just vibing with the magic users of JL and Teen Titans

No one took him seriously at first but he pointed something out during a conference

“Robin, stand down and let the magic users handle this” - Green Lantern, probably

Constantine who actually knows what he’s talking about “No, no, let the boy talk.”

The plan was twice as efficient after Damian was through with it

Now Constantine’s trying to adopt Damian as an apprentice, he’s failing bc the bats are protective and possessive of what is theirs

Reminder that Damian brings Abd with him everywhere and he’s still getting teased about it from anyone who is not a bat (still convinced the thing is haunted)

The only thing the magic users have picked up about Abd is that he’s a magical construct which could mean a number of things but they brush it off as just a doll.

No one is prepared for the thing to come to life, multiply in size, and start spitting ice, sleep sand, and illusions. (Hiccups bubbles and can also turn into a cloud.)

They are also not prepared for the thing to quadruple in size and for Damian to ride it like a horse into battle. Reminder that Abd has wings and can fly.

Confusing talk about what’s going on in Paris and some other parts of the world

JL slowly figure out the universal merger that Damian already knows about

Damian is not impressed, it took him and Angel about 2 hours as 9 year olds

Somehow, Damian still has the ice prince image, less demon spawn though, that goes to Abd

Time moves on and one day, a plane from the other world arrives in Gotham

There’s a bit of confusion but it’s not exactly the first time something like this has happened at this point

WE steps up and offers jobs and a tour and all the usual Maribat plans (not just for the kids but all the other people on the plane)

Given the merger of the internet, MLB class and crew have some idea who the Waynes are and they accept.

Estimated about 6 months for full merger so people from MLB world are kinda just stuck there until then

Lila literally cannot lie about knowing the Waynes personally but she sure can lie about other things.

Dick and Damian are sent in to monitor the group

The reunion is awkward given they can’t freely interact and are not supposed to know each other.

While Dick is talking, there are just wide eyed staring between Marinette, Damian, and Cosette. With something a little extra between Marinette and Damian.

Cosette is torn between laughing and groaning at another rom-com trope coming in fast.

She ends up filming it bc blackmail is always good to have

Adrien is confused and quite frankly, he’s really just there to cover for them

The tour begins and about five minutes in, the trio breaks off and exchanges stories and names.

Cosette hears about Batman and has a dawning realization of what this world is, mentally nopes out, later digests that they are going into Maribat verse

Starts checking off Maribat tropes they’re coming across bc she might as well have fun with it

They continue to meet up

Batfam thinking Damian somehow managed to get two girlfriends

Damian choking on his breakfast when it is brought up

The girls are invited to dinner and Damian is just dying inside

Cosette blatantly hitting on all Damian’s brothers in the first 5 minutes

Damian screaming internally while Cosette cackles

Dick is awkward until he realizes it’s a joke, Jason plays along, Tim has an awkward bean crisis

Tim x Cosette? Maybe.

Cosette does that sit and repeat thing at least three times out of habit

Batfam gets full explanation about how they met and everything

I have played with the idea of Cosette getting fear gassed a couple times and Idk how it would go tbh.

That’s as far as I got with this version, so shenanigans ensue

Pretty sure they used the cards and magic throughout even if I didn’t mention it

Absolutely would be useful for being in two places at once

I later changed so the merger happens and then Paris’s heroes meet the Justice League

Damian immediately recognizing Cosette but not Marinette bc magic

still effective but weaker because of Damian’s magic type

He later recognizes Marinette later when she pulls off a move he taught her way back in CP

Nickname confusion for everyone else

Cosette vs Constantine on who gets to teach Damian magic

Damian goes to Paris. They beat Hawkmoth and then go to Gotham.

Also had a general idea of a plot with LoS that never got fleshed out past existing

If we’re going for the rebound version: Cosette reunites with Thor and Loki during the Avengers movie

Also, poor Heimdallr. He probably had a lot of headaches with the universe crash

Accelerated merger because of the convergence in the dark world.

I wanna go with 2012 Avengers towers shenanigans. + Loki and his sort-of but not really daughter

Cosette vs Antman, shrinking/growing, science vs magic.

And then there’s the whole Ironman vs Batman vs Arrow rich boy fight

Hammer x Luthor or Hammer vs Luthor?

Also, Cosette just staring at her home universe in betrayal and being insulted she didn’t think of it earlier because classic Nordic myths had Loki as Odin’s brother and not his son among other things but still

Fight against Thanos is a bit anti-climatic when you give a gremlin murder child magic and a sword that can through anything, including magical artifacts.

this baby boy can and will fight God and Cosette’s not really the kind to hold him back

If I actually wrote this, a lot of things would probably change because I’d actually have to put more thought into logistics and how things work

#Maribat #Daminette #multi-crossover #Ven's ideas #Ven's rambling #Abandoned Lore #Ven's idea outline #feel free to ask questions #maribat x CCS #mlb x dc x marvel x ccs #I gave up editing #I only have vague recollection of what is actually written here

39 notes · View notes

theastrophilearchitect · 3 years

Text

I started writing a book.

And I’m mad about it, because I just started this post, brought up a new tab and lost it because I didn’t save my draft.

Anyway. That’s a thing I did. Wow.

As of this moment, this post won’t be going up until April 19th, but I’m starting writing this at 10.30pm on Sunday, February 21st, 2021. I’ve done a lot in the last couple weeks, and I want to have some record of all I’ve accomplished without just letting most of it fade over the next two months.

I’ve always wanted to be an author. From when I was reading under my covers with a torch past bedtime, through the years I wanted to be an artist, through the years I wanted to be a lawyer. It’s always been there - no matter what primary career path I went down, I wanted to be an author. The last few years, I’ve been invested in becoming a biologist, and that dream really took a backseat.

In the start of this lockdown, my mental health went downhill, and some advice my therapist gave me was just to prioritise myself. It sounds simple enough, but, even in my free time, I’d been focusing on schoolwork - revising constantly for exams I’m still not sure are actually happening. (Boris Johnson is apparently making an announcement tomorrow about beginning to ease lockdown, but we’ll see) So, on Saturday, February 6th, I started an attempt to coalesce the ideas I had floating in my head into something tangible.

I’ve tried to write books countless times (not technically countless - I have all the documents on my laptop, so I could if I wanted to), but mostly, I’ve never gotten further than a couple bare plot points and some characters, maybe some ideas for subplots, before I’ve stagnated and given up.

Three times, I’ve finished a skeletal outline. Twice, I’ve started to go back over those outlines only to realise they made no sense or just seemed week, and simply not cared enough to fix it. Until now, I guess.

February 6th, 7th, and fast-forward to my week off beginning the 15th, up until the 19th, I kept developing this concept I’d managed to form, but I was struggling to establish a coherent plot. I had up until and including a midpoint (which was later condensed into just a first act), but everything after that was just a void. I began searching for some skeletal structure I could apply to it, both to work on pacing and fill in the blanks. I tried several, and got a little further, but was about to give up hope.

Then I remembered a video by Katytastic I’d watched years ago about the 3-act, 9-block, 27-chapter structure she used, and couldn’t see the harm in giving it a go. And something clicked.

You can find the video here - the structure’s detailed and easy to follow, plus she even gives an example of using it to generate a plot.

I started binge-watching her writing vlogs in the background, and even started using her same writing program, Scrivener, which just made every a thousand times easier by taking away the need to juggle a billion Word documents. It’s fairly pricey, but I’m currently using the 30-day free trial - it’s 30 days of use, not of ownership, too: if you use it every day, it lasts 30 days, but if you use it once a week, it lasts 30 weeks.

Where Kat used the 27 parts the structure broke down into as chapters, I chose to refer to them as beats, and separate chapters later.

On Saturday the 20th, I finished defining my scenes and started writing an actual draft. I wrote two scenes, putting me at a collective word count (not including notes, synopses, etc.) of 2,580 words.

This morning, Sunday the 21st, I started over. I hated my opening. I’m not going to go through the mess of today’s process, but I currently have around 80 one-line-outline scenes, split into 3 acts. I wrote a draft of my prologue and detailed-outlined (which I’m mentally referring to as zero-outlining because it’s similar to how Katytastic does what she calls a zero draft, but is very much outlining, not a draft) two and a half other chapters. Scriver also tells me how many words I wrote in total, across notes, character profiles, location lists, a document I’ve named ‘Train of Thought’ for my ramblings as I go etc.

Today, I wrote a grand total of 4,141 words, which, rather counterintuitively, puts me at a draft total of 2,598. That makes sense. Anyway.

There are a lot of unknowns in the world right now, and I have no idea how much time I’ll have in the next six months to invest in this project, but I’d like, at bare minimum, to have one complete draft by the start of the next school year in September, which gives me just over 6 months. Which is probably too much time to actually motivate myself, but that’s not the point.

A manuscript needs to have a minimum word count of 50K words to be considered a novel, so, even though my ultimate goal for this project is around 80K words, 50K is going to be my goal for this draft.

I’m being optimistic about sticking with this.

Tuesday 23/02/2021 - Word Count: 3,099 I wrote nothing yesterday; planning to focus writing solely on days off rather than work days, but last night, watching through the incredibly long queue of Alexa Donne writing videos, I came to the conclusion writing every day, even just a little, would be the best way to ensure I keep working on this, so I set myself a goal of just 500 words a day.

Wednesday 24/02/2021 - Word Count: 5,350 After doing a little bit of maths as to how long this outlining and draft would take me if I were to only write 500 words a day, I decided to boost that goal to 1,000. I got started around 1pm today, online school draining me so much I couldn’t face another two hours. I worked on and off until 6pm, and around 4.45pm, I finished outlining Act One!

Thursday 25/02/2021 - Word Count: 7,022 I continued my scene outlining into Act Two, but I hit a brick wall around the midpoint. I have to write chronologically - some people jump around, but I have to write linearly, or it feels like I’m trying to make something in a void. It just doesn’t work. I didn’t know how to get from one scene to the next - there were so many things I needed to establish to get there, but I didn’t want to backtrack. I decided to re-jig the whole thing, but, after dinner, I realised I didn’t have to, and instead, decided to just start a draft, conscious of the things I need to establish as I go.

Friday 26/02/2021 - Word Count: 8,208 Starting draft one, I rewrote the prologue I’d already written, technically putting me to my second draft of it, because I’d been thinking about it for days and just wanted to revisit it, and it was so much better. Then I moved on to chapter one, but decided I wanted to re-jig my chapters. While outlining, I’d split the whole book into only about twenty chapters, but decided to go for shorter ones for more effective divisions of the story. I got most of the way through the first scene of chapter one, but basically ran out of both time and motivation, since I hadn’t heavily outlined that scene. in total, I wrote over 2000 words today, but because I only increased the prologue word count by about 100 words, it didn’t do that much to the total count.

Saturday 27/02/2021 - Word Count: 11,050 I got some chores done Saturday morning and focused on finishing my book so I could include it in my February wrap-up, but I still had time to get some writing done around mid-day. My goal was just to hit 10K this weekend, but I though I could do it in one day. I wrote about 1,000 words before feeling a little word-drained, but took a break for lunch, got back to it and wrote 2,400 words. Though that only added a little over 2,000 to the word count, it took me to 10K! I’m 20% of the way to being able to call it a novel! We’re in quintuple digits!

And then eight hours later, I wrote another thousand words and got to 11K.

Sunday 28/02/2021 - Word Count: 13,722 I spent most of my Sunday morning writing, though it took me more than two hours to write about 1500 words, though it only added about 1100 to my count. I decided to set myself an overall and weekly deadlines to hold myself accountable. Due to the fact I don’t yet have a clue how many words this will work out as, I decided I wanted to have either a complete first draft or 100K words (which I doubt I’ll reach, but it seems like a good way to make myself finish the draft before my deadline) by the end of April. Which works out to a little under 1500 words a day, or just under 11K a week, which is perfectly doable. Bearing in mind my current word count is including outlines, but I still believe in myself.

I wrote another 1600 words later, which took me to 14K, until I deleted the 300 word outline I wrote for one scene, but I worked out my words per day for the next two months with the assumption of a 10K word count as of March 1st and a target of either a complete draft or 100K words by the end of April, so I’m nearly 4,000 words ahead of schedule. Which gives me 6,606 words to write this week, instead of 10,328. (If you couldn’t tell, I like numbers. They just make sense to me.

Monday 01/03/2021 - Word Count: 15,005 I didn’t quite hit my daily goal, but I was completely leached of motivation today, I’m ahead of schedule anyway and I was only under by less than 200 words. It’s alright. But, hey, we hit 15K! Two days after hitting 10K!

Tuesday 02/03/2021 - Word Count: 21,119 This was an insane writing day. My end-of-day target was only 16,480, and that was still ahead of schedule - if I was sticking to the 100K by April 30th, I’d only actually need to be at 12,950 today. This was the best writing day I’ve ever had. I wrote before school and during breaks, which kept both my writing and working momentum up.

I didn’t read a page of my current read, but I wrote a total of 7,681 words and increased my wordcount by 6,114 words, or literally an additional 40.75%. I hit 20K three days after hitting 10K, and am 42.238% of the way to being able to say I wrote a novel, be it a shitty first draft that won’t be complete at 50K words.

I also finished chapter three, which I’ve been working on for three days and came out ~5,000 words, and wrote chapters four and five in their entirety.

Note to self: this is day 10 of vaguely outline-drafting this project.

Wednesday 03/03/2021 - Word Count: 23,364 I've only written 490 words today, as of writing this update, but I just wanted to make note of the fact I've done some calculations, and can reasonably finish my draft this month. I'm still not completely sure how long it'll work out to be, so I can't quite work out my daily words to finish on the 31st, but if I stick to my current 1,475 words a day, I'll hit 63,894 words by the end of the month, which is a little less than I imagine this draft will be, but if I stick to that as a minimum, my first draft won't have to go into April.

I'd like to post this later this week, but I already have a post for this Friday, so God only knows how long this will be by the time it goes up. So far, I've written 1,900 words today, and I don't think I'm out of fuel yet, but I'm stopping because I need to read today, and I'd rather not burn out. I'm over my goal, anyway.

Oh, also, I'm nearly at 25K, which is halfway to a novel, but I haven't broken into Act Two yet, which means this book will be 75K minimum. I'm going to do some maths and work out how many words a day to hit 80K by March 31st. 2,030. That's doable. So I haven't read, but back to writing for like ten minutes.

I've now hit an additional 2,245 words for the day, though I wrote a total of 2,663

Thursday 04/03/2021 - Word Count: 25,415 I've decided to work out how many words I need to write each day to hit 80K by March 31st, and watch the fluctuations. (I like statistics). It should steadily go down throughout the month if I surpass it each day. Today's minimum word count is 2,023, already seven words less than yesterday's. How exciting.

The last scene of Act One was very heavy on world-building I haven't yet figured out, so I stuck what was meant to happen in brackets and just moved on, meaning I have now broken into Act Two!

I think, during the week, I'm going to focus on just meeting my minimum word count rather than exceeding it, just to save fuel for the weekends, when I can write so many more words.

And, we hit 25K! I'm halfway to a novel!

Friday 05/03/2021 - Word Count: 26,693 In complete honesty, I'm beginning to lose momentum. Maybe it's just today, but I don't really want to write and feel like I need a break, but I'm going to make myself write anyway. I'm going to make myself keep writing until this draft is done, however shitty it may end up. I really hate first drafts.

When you say 2,000 words is only 7-8 pages, it doesn't sound like that much to write per day but my god. Luckily, most of the stuff I've had to save to a Pinterest board called 'Writing Motivation' says if you write when you don't want to, it should pass instead of worsening. I wanted to hit 35K this weekend, but I'm not sure I'll have the momentum. I'll at least hit 31,270, though, which is my minimum goal for this week. I'm still over 700 words off my goal for today, but I'm taking a break because my head is foggy and there's still eight hours left in the day. Besides, 700 after dinner is easy. She says, realising she's probably jinxing it. Oh, well. 80K by March 31st would be difficult, even if I weren't going back to school soon, but that's a stretch goal. 100K by April 31st is my minimum, and I'm 9,000 ahead of where I need to be for that.

I think I’m stagnating because I’ve hit the ‘Fun and Games’ section, which I find really boring. I’m going to try to keep going with it, but I may just skip it and come back later.

Saturday 06/03/2021 - Word Count: 28,150 So, I did not get the extra 700 words in. Before dinner, some stuff I had to deal with came up, and by the time it was done, I just wanted to go to bed, so I did. Today, I'm going to try to make up for it, which I think is reasonable because it is now the weekend. I'm still kinda exhausted this morning, but I'm going to do my best, and my wrist hurts, but I'm not sure why. You'd think it would be from all the typing, but only one wrist hurts - you know what? Never mind. They do both hurt. I'm just not sure why, but it doesn't hurt typing this, so that doesn't make any sense. Anyway, to hit my word count for the day, I need to write 2,555 words, which doesn't sound like too much, but it kinda is because I'm primarily writing Act Two at the minute, and for every thousand words I write, I lose like 400 from my outline. You'd think I'd just not include my scene outlines in the word count, but it's too late for that now.

I'm thinking this over, and I really don't think trying to write 80K by the end of the month is going to be good for either my motivation, mental health, or ability to function back at school, so I'm going to stick to 100K or a finished draft by April 30th, and re-work out my goals from there, based on yesterday's word count, so I'm not making myself do catch-up today.

So, to hit 100K by April 30th, I only need to write 1,309 words each day (which will decrease over time because if that's my minimum now, I'll probably surpass it, decreasing the amount of words left etc.). That's so much less pressure.

God, I really don't want to write today. I just want to watch YouTube and Netflix and read.

Okay, so here's the thing. I've been working on this story straight for three weeks and I'm kinda exhausted of it. I'm not done with it, not at all, and I want to keep working on it because it exists, which makes it workable.

I watched a writing vlog by ShaelinWrites yesterday, and she said she writes different projects at once, alternating in week- or multi-week-long blocks. I think I might try that.

My plan with this post and the following updates was to keep updating it until the day it goes up, the day after which is when I begin drafting the next, but, since I may be switching projects for a while and this is really about the project I've decided to dub 'Bay Tree' (which is just, I guess, a pseudonym for here because while I have no idea what it would eventually be called, I know that's nothing like the title I'd want to give it) so I'd want to start a new post for a new project.

I'm now doing a little outlining instead of actually continuing writing, but I think this will help me, though I'm still not certain about whether or not I'm going to directly continue with this specific project for the minute. Instead of setting daily goals based on a target, I'm also just going to say 1,000 words a day, and see where that takes me.

I've just been outlining into Act Three, and I've met a major plot stumble, but I'm going to work that out and explain what I'm doing in my next writing update.

So, go drink some water, eat if you haven't eaten in the last few hours, stand in front of the mirror and tell yourself how wonderful you are and how much happiness you deserve, and, if you want to write a book, stop thinking about it, and go write.

#blog #blogging #blogger #blogpost #blog post #writing #books #book #reading #read #write #writer #author #draft #first draft #story #writing blog #writerblr #bookblr #novel #debut

3 notes · View notes

lyssismagical · 5 years

Text

string along my soul, dear, ‘til my breath feels useless

Whumptober Day Eight - Stab Wound

Read on AO3

Tony had been having a relatively good day, all things considered.

Morgan had slept in more than she usually does. It’s the weekend, so they don’t have any responsibilities beyond the weekly tea party and swimming. (Tony doesn’t know how he’ll break it to Morgan that by the end of September, it’ll be too cold to go swimming in the lake. For now, he’ll let her swim to her heart’s desire, though.)

The only thing that really burdens him a little bit on this fine Saturday, is how much he misses two of the most important people in his life. Peter’s off at MIT, having the time of his life according to their call last night, and Pepper’s been busy upstate with the company for the past few days. Some big emergency they needed her for.

Tony’s more than capable of taking care of Morgan by himself, despite what lots of people believe. He doesn’t need Pepper or Peter to help him, he just enjoys it a little bit more when he doesn’t constantly have to be the responsible adult.

“Daddy?” Morgan says. She’s lying flat on her back on the carpet in the living room, coffee table pushed to the side so she can see through the skylight he added when building the house. (Mostly he was thinking about Peter’s love of space.)

“Yes?” Tony replies, turning his full attention on Morgan.

She turns to him, eyes big and sparkling in the sunlight. “Why is the sky blue?”

Tony smiles. “Because I said so.”

“That’s a lie,” Morgan replies, rolling her eyes. “Why is it actually?”

“Because Mom said so?” Tony tries. He could try to explain, and he’ll probably tell her for bedtime stories tonight, but she’s had too much energy this morning to really hear his explanations.

Morgan thinks about it for a long few moments, eyes squinted in concentration before she nods decisively. “Okay.”

“Why does Mom get to make the rules, but I don’t?” It’s meant to be a rhetorical question, but Morgan stares at him perplexed.

“Because Mommy is… She’s mommy. She makes all the rules.”

“And what? I’m just her servant? I don’t get to do anything?”

Morgan nods. “Obviously. Mommy’s the Queen, I’m the princess, Petey’s the prince, and you’re the horsey.”

“I’m the horse. Oh my god, child, why are you so mean to me?” Tony gasps, pretending to be offended by his daughter’s words.

Morgan sits up, rolling her eyes again. It makes her look so much like Pepper. “Can we go swimming?”

“It’s barely nine in the morning, piccola. You wanna help me make pancakes for breakfast?”

“Only if there’s chocola’e chips!”

It’s not surprising when he gets a call from Peter around noon that day.

He’s sitting out on the back deck, a glass of lemonade on the table beside him, a pair of sunglasses, for once being used for their purpose. Morgan’s playing by her tent, following all the rules of playing outside, Tony hasn’t had to remind her once.

“Hey, Pete. Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you for another couple hours. Thought you had that project you were working on with that new friend of yours,” Tony says peacefully.

But his peace is almost instantly broken.

“Tony?” Peter’s voice is too quiet, fear filling the short syllable to the very brim. He coughs, crackling in the phone.

“Pete?” Tony echoes, worry very suddenly coloring his voice. He sits up in his chair, keeping his eyes trained on Morgan. “Everything okay?”

“I- I-” There’s an awful choking noise and then static fills the phone.

“Fuck, jesus fuck- FRI, get it- fix the connection. Get Peter back on the line,” Tony demands. With the hand not holding the phone, he waves Morgan over urgently. He needs to get to Peter.

A parental instinct has filled his chest and all he knows is that he needs Peter. Now. And there’s no way in hell he’s letting Morgan be anywhere but at his side.

Morgan doesn’t say anything as she warily wanders over, somehow understanding her father’s fear and seriousness.

“Grab a backpack, honey. We’re going on a little trip, okay?” Tony tells his daughter, waiting anxiously for the phone call to reconnect. “Put your shoes on and wait at the front door for me, okay, piccola?”

“Wha’s wrong?” Morgan asks, eyes wide and scared. Tony hates it and he hates that he doesn’t even have the mind to fix the fear, he’s too busy focusing on his other kid. “Okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay, little miss. Go get a backpack and your shoes on.”

This time, Morgan doesn’t try to ask any more questions, just races into the house. Almost as soon as she’s gone, the call finally reconnects.

“Peter? C’mon, kiddo, talk to me,” Tony begs, following his kid into the house on shaky legs. He needs to find car keys. One step at a time.

“M’ster S’ark?” Peter slurs through the phone, crackly and thick.

“Yeah, kid. I’m right here. I need you to talk to me. What’s going on?”

Peter makes a noise, somewhere between pleased and pained, if that’s even possible. “’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry, Pete? What’s going on? Please, kid, I need to work with something here.” He pulls the phone away enough to speak to FRIDAY without Peter hearing. “FRI, hack into Peter’s watch or his phone or something and get me his vitals. And his location. Just because I live in a cabin does not mean I’m not Tony fucking Stark.”

“He is located in Massachusetts. A block away from his dorm building on campus,” FRIDAY informs. “I am unable to reach his watch or any accurate vitals from his phone.”

“Fuck, shit, jesus christ, Peter, what the fuck happened?” Tony knows he shouldn’t be swearing this much in front of both his kids, but he can’t help it. His stress levels are through the roof and he’s scared one of his children are dying, he thinks that warrants a little bit of cussing.

“Hurts, please,” Peter cries, sounding more like Morgan than himself with how whiny his voice has gotten. “Please, m’s’er s’ark, please.”

Tony finally finds his keys and shoves on a pair of shoes, keeping up a litany of reassurances and soothing words, getting to the car at the same time Morgan comes racing out of the house, an Elmo backpack bouncing on her back.

“Peter, I need you to listen to me, okay?” Tony says, starting up the car, and barely having the mind to check and make sure Morgan’s strapped into her seat, before he takes off down the street.

Peter makes a noise of affirmation.

“You know how long it takes to get to Massachusetts? We timed it, remember?”

“Mm,” Peter says, probably not coherent enough to remember any specific numbers. Three hours and forty-seven minutes, remember?” Tony says. He continues without waiting for a response. “Be honest with me, bambino, can you wait nearly four hours for me?”

Peter sobs in response, broken and hopeless. “Hurts, T’ny. Can’t- I can’t-”

“Okay, kiddie, okay,” Tony says, nearly crying himself, but he can’t afford to cry. If he cries, Morgan might freak, and that’ll make Peter feel worse, and Tony can’t possibly to deal with both of his kids at the same time.

“Petey okay?” Morgan says. She has her tablet in her hands, playing a game already, but the worry is still marring her innocent face.

“Yeah, it’s okay, honey,” Tony says quickly. He’s already on the verge of panicking, he needs to focus and drive. “Pete, kiddo, I love you, okay? But I have to get off the phone for just a second, okay? I have an idea. I’ll call you back in just a second.”

“Mmkay,” Peter slurs.

“Don’t fall asleep, kid, please. I’ll call you right back.”

He hangs up the phone as he merges onto the highway, speeding the car up to at least 1.5x the speed limit, trying his best to keep his eyes on the road as he dials a new number.

“Hey, Tony, I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you for at least-”

“Fuck, Steve, where are you?” Tony demands, jerking the wheel to stay in his lane. His kid sounds like he’s dying and he’s four hours away. Fuck everything. “Please tell me you’re near Massachusetts.”

Steve doesn’t respond for too long and Tony worries he’s going to need to pull over, tears blurring his vision.

“Sam and Bucky are in New Hampshire, Dover, if that helps,” Steve finally says, “I’m in Brooklyn. They had to go on Shield business.”

“Tell them to drop everything. And I mean everything and get their asses to MIT. Peter called me and he’s hurt and fuck- I’m too far and he needs help, Steve. Please.”

Morgan gasps in the back of the car. “You lied? Petey hurt?”

“Yeah, of course, Tony. They can be there in like half an hour if they take the bike. Text me the coordinates.”

Tony hangs up and drops his phone into the passenger seat, knowing FRIDAY will take over with everything else. He focuses his attention on the road, steadily climbing in speed. He doesn’t care if Sam and Bucky can be there for his kid, he needs to be there for his kid.

Finally, the call reconnects.

Tony slips the Bluetooth piece into his ear to make sure Morgan doesn’t have to hear Peter’s end of the conversation.

“Pete, kiddo, talk to me,” Tony begs, glad he’s got FRIDAY on his side. A car honks at him as he swerves into another lane to avoid having to slow down. He’s putting Morgan in danger by driving so recklessly, but he can’t stop-

Peter doesn’t respond, only sobs in response, an awful gut-wrenching noise that makes Tony want to explode.

“Daddy?” Morgan pipes up from the backseat. She looks too old all of a sudden, no longer with the six-year-old bright innocence, but more like Pepper, face drawn in worry and fear. “You’re going too fast.”

“It’s like a rollercoaster, Morguna,” Tony replies half-heartedly, too focused on Peter and his cries of pain.

Morgan’s face crumples. “I don’t like ro’ercoas’ers.”

His knuckles are white from how tight he’s gripping the steering wheel and the cars are honking and Morgan’s starting to cry and Peter’s choking on his sobs and Tony can’t breathe-

He swerves too suddenly, slamming on the brakes, his heart aches when he hears Morgan let out a whine of surprise at the sudden movement. As soon as the car is stopped, he mutes his end of the earpiece and falls onto the gravel on the side of the road.

His body won’t stop shaking, he can’t stop thinking that his kid is dead or at least will be if he doesn’t make it there to him and he’s going to kill his other kid with his reckless driving or he’ll get arrested and he’ll never make it to Peter.

And then, like a beacon of hope, a second car pulls up behind them, and Rhodey’s running towards him.

“You need to breathe, Tony. C’mon,” Rhodey says, dropping to the ground beside Tony. “What the hell is going on?”

“Peter- he-”

“Breathe first, Tones. I know you can do it.” Hands are on his shoulder and chest and then the earpiece is gone, taking Peter’s cries away with it. “Breathe.”

It takes a few panicked minutes before Tony finally has his breathing under control, but when he does, he’s immediately reaching for the little white piece again.

“Tell me what’s going on first,” Rhodey demands.

“Pete- the kid, he’s hurt. He’s- I don’t know. I have to get him. I have to- I-”

“Barnes sent a message,” FRIDAY interrupts. “We’re on our way. ETA twenty minutes. Stay calm. I’ll fill you in as soon as I can.”

Rhodey offers a reassuring smile. “Barnes is getting him. It’s okay, Tony. It’s all fine. You just need to breathe and apologizing for scaring the little one.”

“He’s my kid!” Tony’s hands flail with his sudden anger, nearly hitting Rhodey. “I should be- I should- He could be dead, and I- I’m not there for him.”

Rhodey’s hands are grounding and strong on his shoulders. “He’s okay. He’s Peter Parker. He’s made it through a shitload so far, this won’t be the end, Tones. He’s going to be okay. He always is.”

And even if his words might make sense, Tony can’t comprehend much more than the idea that Peter’s hurt and alone.

Eventually, Rhodey convinces Tony up off the gravel and into the backseat of the car, pushing the earpiece into his best friend’s hand.

“I’ll drive. You take care of your kids,” Rhodey instructs and the car takes off again, nowhere near as fast as Tony was going, but still fast enough, Tony hopes.

“Peter?” he calls out gently when he gets the earpiece in again. “Pete, you with me?”

Peter’s making a scary gurgling noise, breaths few and far between. “T’ny- T’ny- Please-”

“I’m right here, bambino,” Tony reassures, keeping one of his hands holding onto Morgan’s. “I’m right here, I promise. You’re going to be just fine.”

Peter coughs wetly and when he gets control again, he sounds hopeless. “’m sorry. I- I love you. I need- I don’t-”

“You’re okay, kid. I promise. Everything’s going to be okay. Just hang on for another few minutes, okay? Bucky and Sam are going to get to you and I’m coming too, okay? I just-”

Tony’s voice is cut off by a blood-curdling, desperate cry from Peter’s end.

“Fuck, you were supposed to die. You’ve seen my face. You- you know things you shouldn’t,” a new voice is saying, far away from Peter’s phone. “You were supposed to stay quiet.”

“Please,” Peter begs, voice wavering. “I don’t- I don’t wanna die. Please.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that sooner.”

“Please-”

The line turns to static.

It takes too long. Much, much too long to arrive to the hospital near the campus.

Tony and Rhodey have been to this hospital one too many times, not for Peter but for Tony’s drunken nights taken too far back when they were in MIT.

Morgan clings onto Tony, arms and legs wrapped around him like a koala, as they rush into the hospital together. Her face stays hidden in the crook of his neck and he vaguely worries what kind of emotional toll this is going to take on her in the future.

“Stark, thank god you’re here,” Sam says, standing from one of the waiting room chairs.

"Where’s Peter? Where’s my kid?” Tony says, voice falling into a plead. “Please, is he okay?”

Bucky stands, bloodshot eyes finding Tony’s. “We don’t know yet. They took him into the ER, and we haven’t heard anything since. It was- It wasn’t great, if I’m being honest. But I think, I hope, he’ll be okay.”

Tony almost drops Morgan when he sees the blood caked under their nails and staining their hands, nearly up to their elbows in blood. Peter’s blood. Their clothing is bloodstained too, covering them from head to toe in blood. So much fucking blood.

Rhodey quickly takes Morgan from Tony, and Sam and Bucky gently help him sit in a chair.

“He’s going to be okay,” Sam says. “He’ll be just fine.”

Tony wants to argue, but there’s no fight left in him. He doesn’t even want to think about the possibilities. He has to be okay. There’s no other option.

“C’mon, Tony. Up and at ‘em,” Rhodey says, shaking Tony’s shoulder.

The billionaire shoots awake, rubbing his eyes. “Is he okay? Do we know-”

“Before you have an aneurysm, yes, Peter’s okay. They’re letting us go see him,” he says.

“Where’s Morgan?” Tony demands, finally feeling a little bit of relief loosen his chest.

Rhodey helps Tony to his feet. “Pepper came and took her home. Said you were absolutely insane for taking her all the way down here, but she’s not mad. Sam and Bucky are staying at a nearby hotel for the night. C’mon, room one eighteen.”

The door pushes open with a soft creak, revealing a hospital room not too different from the ones Tony remembers waking up in all the time after binge-drinking or OD-ing. He walks into the room, wincing at the stained blue tiles under his shoes. He only now realizes he’s wearing a pair of Peter’s high tops.

Peter looks much, much worse for wear. An oxygen mask covers the majority of his face, strapped in place and pushing his hair down in weird places. His eyes are closed, but there’re dark shadows underneath them and visible, recent tear-streaks down his cheeks.

His shirt is gone, revealing a thick wad of bandages in the center of his chest. There are some leftover streaks of dried blood over his stomach. A hospital gown is pushed down to his waist, away from the wound on his chest and his legs are covered by a thick heating blanket.

The worst, though, is the thick bandages encircling Peter’s throat, blood dotting through the white gauze.

“What happened to him?” Tony asks slowly, refusing to move any closer.

Rhodey’s face is drawn, forehead creasing. “Police checked the security tapes. Peter was walking home when he was stopped in an alleyway. A mugging. His wallet and watch were taken. Peter tried to fight back, you know, with his training, but he didn’t realize the man had a knife. Stabbed him right in the middle. Punctured one of his lungs and narrowly missed the other. The mugger came back for whatever reason and when he saw Peter was still alive…”

“He- fuck, Rhodey, his throat?” Tony exclaims, voice breaking. “How is he not-”

“Bucky and Sam got there right when it happened. They fought the mugger, nearly killed him with how angry they were. They helped stop the bleeding and got Peter here in just enough time.”

Tony’s knees are shaking and the last thing he needs is to collapse right now, so he forces himself to take the few extra steps to get to Peter’s bedside and sit in the chair.

Peter’s eyes blink open almost instantly like he could sense Tony’s presence. His eyes widen, panic glazing over him. He tries to push himself up, a hand fumbling for his oxygen mask and for his neck, but the movement obviously pulls at something because he cries out quietly in pain behind the oxygen mask.

“Hey, hey, hey, woah there, Pete. You’re okay,” Tony murmurs, gently pushing on Peter’s shoulders to get him lying down. “You’re okay. You’re in the hospital, but I’m here now, okay?”

Peter opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t from behind the mask. His eyes are welling with tears and it hurts Tony so badly to see him hurting, but at least he’s safe. At least he’s alive.

“You’re okay, bambino. You’re okay,” Tony repeats, gently pressing a kiss to Peter’s forehead and taking his hand. “It’s alright now, you can breathe, kid. Relax.”

The fight and tension leaves Peter’s body on command, slumping into the bed. His fingers fumble with Tony’s until he can tap on Tony’s palm.

H.U.R.T.S

“I know it hurts, kiddo. Your spidey-metabolism probably isn’t very good for these drugs, huh. But I planned for that, don’t you worry,” Tony says, digging through his pockets until he finds a hand-sized needle. “Bruce whipped this up for you a few months ago. Rhodey, you wanna do the honors?”

Rhodey doesn’t want to, but he will. And once the drugs have been injected into Peter’s arms, he excuses himself, saying he should probably call everyone and let them know the kid’s okay.

T.O.N.Y

“Yeah, bambino, I’m right here. You’re going to be okay. You’re safe now.”

S.C.A.R.E.D

D.O.N.T W.A.N.T. D.I.E

“You’re not going to die, kid. Not on my watch. I told you I’d protect you, and I will. Even if I have to do it through the other avengers. How would you feel about in impromptu vacation once you’re healed? Maybe Italy? May, Morgan, me, you, and Pepper. Italy for a few weeks. That sounds nice. Didn’t think my heart could deal with that kinda stress anymore, but I guess we’re all full of surprises, huh?”

There are a few seconds of nothing from Peter before he taps three times on Tony’s palm. It’s his way of saying I love you. They’ve been doing it since after the snap and Tony was the bedridden one. Peter would tap three times against Tony’s real hand.

Tony taps three times in response eliciting a little smile from behind the oxygen mask.

T.H.A.N.K.S

“You never have to thank me for helping you, kid. I wish it would be about crushes or homework, but I’m here for you, Pete. Always.”

Peter taps three times again.

“I love you too, kid. Get some rest.”

N.I.G.H.T

Followed by three more taps.

“I get it, kid, we’re sappy and lovey, but seriously, Goodnight. I love you too.”

Tony doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of saying it.

#whumptober2019 #no.8 #stab wound #tw: swearing #tw: panic attack #tw: blood #irondad #i refuse to believe endgame happened #lyss writes

62 notes · View notes

meteoratdusk-blog · 7 years

Text

RvB Bingo Wars: Junior entry

Title: Goodnight Sun

Summary: Night watch in Blood Gulch might be the most boring thing ever, but Church gets a midnight visitor that he didn’t expect.

Word Count: 1.7k

Notes: no warnings except maybe Church’s joking thoughts about self-harm, but as always let me know if there’s anything else I need to tag!

Goodnight Sun

It was night in Blood Gulch, or what passed for it. At some point in their history the Red and Blue bases must have agreed on synchronizing their clocks or something, because when “night” fell in the canyon everything went dead. Well, usually. A few weeks ago Sarge had decided that canyon after hours would be prime infiltration time, but stealth and the Reds had never exactly been best friends, and you couldn’t really call it a sneak attack when everyone in the base was waking up at 0400 to the sound of Grif and Simmons bickering in the hallway or Donut complaining about the décor.

After the third time they were forced to surrender all of their Oreos just to get some sleep, the Blues had decided that maybe posting a watch would be a good idea. For the first few nights, the watch had been taken by Sheila, and suddenly the Reds were a lot less interested in sneaking in.

Of course, all that really meant was that now that it was Church’s turn to stand watch, it was really, really fucking boring.

Church sat on the edge of the base’s roof and wondered how much damage he would do to his robot body if he threw himself over the edge, just for a distraction. He was already dead so it wasn’t like it could kill him, and it wasn’t actually that far down anyway, only about twenty feet or so.

Probably better not to, if he broke himself in a way he couldn’t fix he’d have to try and find help. The Reds would make ludicrous demands just to loan him a wingnut, and Tex would laugh at him and then say he owed her a favor, which was even worse. The last time Tucker tried to help with robots he deactivated Church’s legs, he didn’t really want to know what Sister might do with a wrench, and Caboose… the less said about Caboose, the better.

The wind would whistle and a tumbleweed would blow past right about now if Blood Gulch ever had wind. As it was the air was dead and hot, the sun beat down like a punishment, and Church was just looking forward to taking his metal body inside the shade of the base and listening to it cool down with soft pings and ticks like a fucking car.

He’d never felt like he and Sheila had so much in common.

Sheila had put herself into stand-by mode, unfortunately, so he couldn’t tell her about the newfound camaraderie. Tex had just laughed at him when he suggested they sit out under the stars together. Everybody else was organic, and therefore asleep.

He’d revel in the peace and quiet, but after several hours it mostly felt like tedium.

Shhh, shh, ssshhhlk.

Church almost didn’t hear the faint noise, but as soon as he did he grabbed his sniper rifle, assuming it was the Reds dragging something big and inconvenient across the canyon, or—

Shhh, sshhhhlk.

—that sound was coming from behind him.

Church whirled around, the sniper rifle pulling up, even though it wasn’t really meant for targets at close distances, and fuck if he’d ever managed to hit anything with it anyway—

Large, wide, alien eyes looked up at him, a tiny hand stuffed into a collection of mandibles, like a child sucking his thumb except with a lot more teeth that weren’t sucking so much as gently gnawing.

Junior.

Church lowered the gun. Then he looked behind the little abomination, but Tucker didn’t seem to be anywhere nearby. It was just Junior, standing at the top of the base with his chubby fingers in his mouth—mouthparts?—and something big and white dragging on the ground behind him.

They stared at each other.

“What… the hell do you want?” Church asked, his tone more puzzled than acerbic.

“Blaaarg,” Junior replied, taking his fist out of his mouth.

“Uh…” Church said. He still hadn’t figured out if Blarg meant “yes” or Honk meant “no,” but neither one of them made much sense in this context. “Isn’t it past your bedtime or something? Oh shit, did you have—do aliens have nightmares? I don’t—do you want me to… get your… dad?”

He didn’t know what you called someone who carried a parasitic alien embryo to term, but Tucker seemed keen on being a father all of a sudden, so what the hell.

“Honk! Blarg honk!” Junior said, and it was pretty clear by the vehemence in his tone that he meant no.

Junior slept in the same room with Tucker, so probably if he’d wanted to wake him up he would have just done that and not gone all the way outside into the hot sun for no reason. Maybe he wanted to make sure Tucker stayed asleep. His dad was still kind of worn out after Junior’s birth.

“Okay so… what the hell do you expect me to do?” Church asked. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping like everyone else?”

Junior blarg’ed miserably and then, after a moment of hesitation, held up the thing he had dragged there with him.

“What is that, a book?” Church asked. “A really… really shitty book?”

“Blaarg,” Junior insisted, holding it out to him.

Church put down the sniper rifle, and took the messy collection of pages from him.

“Okay, now I have your really shitty book. Is that—are we done now, will you leave?”

Junior gave him a look that was wholly unimpressed, which was a real feat for an alien toddler.

“Honk blaaarg blarg blarg honk,” the kid said, gesturing at the book.

Church looked at the book. He looked at the alien child, who waited surprisingly patiently for a Tucker, and he looked back at the book. He groaned.

“You’re not going to go away until I read this to you, are you?” he asked.

“Honk.”

Church checked the time function in his robot body: 0330. Three and a half more hours before it was what they called “day” again. He looked around the hot, empty canyon, devoid of anything interesting to look at that he hadn’t seen a thousand times, and back at the book and the little alien with the disturbingly cute puppy dog eyes.

He had wanted a distraction.

“Ugh,” he muttered, but he moved his gun aside and plopped onto the base’s roof with the sound of creaking metal. “Alright, fine,” he told the little abomination, “I’ll read you the fucking book, but only once and only if you stop making that face, it’s disturbing as hell.”

Immediately Junior’s pleading expression morphed into something that looked outright smug.

“Yeah, alright, that one’s not any better,” Church complained, but he opened the book anyway.

Honestly it could barely be called a book. It was a bunch of large sheets of paper stacked on top of each other, about an inch of the left side folded in on itself in a sad attempt to keep it all together. It looked like just holding it the wrong way would make it spew pages, although it was anyone’s guess whether that would make it less coherent.

“A Young Alien’s Guide to Making Friends,” Church read. “By Frank Dufresne. You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Junior honk’ed and it sounded annoyed.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it,” Church griped, turning the page. “Oh. It’s illustrated. In… crayon? God, I hope that’s crayon, if Caboose has found the catsup again I am not cleaning it up.”

“HONK,”

“Right. Uh… The first thing you should know about making friends is that you can’t judge a book by its cover. Yeah? Because the cover of this book told me it was terrible and so far you have not proven me wrong. This is always a good lesson! You should always give people a chance, no matter what their color or creed. Oh wait, there’s a note underneath it. Is that Tucker’s handwriting? Unless they’re Reds, because they all suck. Useful insight, Tucker, very original.”

“Blarg,” Junior said, pointing to lower on the page.

“Oh shit, you’re right, there’s another note. What does that… but…pats…pastries are dill… delicious. …is Caboose vouching for Donut here, or what?”

Junior just honked, and so it went. Church didn’t even know how long they spent on the roof of the base trying to parse that cobbled together book before they were interrupted.

“Sneaking… sneaking…”

Briefly Church considered whether or not ignoring the extremely loud whisper would make things better or worse.

“Sneeeeaaakiiing…”

“Jesus Christ, Caboose,” he said, breaking almost immediately, “just get over here and shut the fuck up, it’s story time.”

“Okay Church!” Caboose said, far too loudly for four in the morning. He plopped himself down on Church’s other side, away from Junior and his teeth. “I will be quiet as a mouse and they are very quiet.”

“That’s great buddy,” Church grumbled. “You do that.”

“OKAY!” Caboose yelled and then, in an exaggerated whisper. “Okay.”

“Alright, so chapter two—”

“Oooh, this is my favorite chapter,” Caboose whisper-yelled, creeping closer and draping himself over Church’s shoulder so he could better see the pictures. The ones Caboose had drawn himself.

Church just rolled his eyes and kept reading.

When Grif found them, wandering over about an hour later, both Junior and Caboose had fallen asleep and Church was no longer capable of moving his arms. Caboose was just heavy, and it turned out that Junior had quite a grip for a toddler when he thought you were a teddy bear.

“Uuuhh….” Grif said, and helmet or not Church could hear the raised eyebrow.

He glared at Grif.

“Don’t fucking start with me,” he hissed quietly. He didn’t want to wake them up. They might make him read to them again. “Scram, Red.”

“Okay, but we’re out of Oreos again and I’ve gotta tell you this is amazing blackmail material—”

“In the cabinet over the stove,” Church said immediately. “Now fuck off, and if you ever mention this again—”

“Whatever you say, dude…” Grif said, wandering away, but Church could hear him laughing.

Church shifted a little, but Junior made a sad, sleepy blarg-honk noise and just clung tighter, and Caboose didn’t even stir. He sighed, and settled in for the rest of the night.

He’d never admit that it was actually kind of comfortable.

#RvB Bingo Wars #Blue Team entry #Red vs Blue #rvb #rvb fic #my writing #self harm #sort of? I don't know if I need to tag it but I'm half asleep so I'll be safe #why do I always post these things at 3 in the morning #inspiration obviously from Caboose's Guide to Making Friends #Caboose decided he could do a better job #Doc's book had needed so many annotations #it was kind of a mess by the end #(Church ended up making some notes as well)#this is the first time I've ever written Junior #I hope I did okay

40 notes · View notes

mintypothos · 7 years

Text

vamp burr 2

hi i still have no idea how I’d actually separate what I’m writing into reasonable chapters.

Obviously, Aaron could not provide a better lie than the one he already gave. The night grew later, and Hamilton kept plying him with drinks. Aaron lost count eventually, not because it did anything, but because it wasn't worth paying attention to, in the face of being trapped by a half unwitting, half all-too-knowing captor.

“Just tellll me,” Hamilton whined, at this point genuinely wasted. Aaron didn't bother making a comment about responsibility, Hamilton would just repeat that it was Friday, as if that excused everything. Likely, it was a half thought out plan to get Aaron himself loose enough to spill his secrets.

“Tell me I can leave, and I will,” A complete lie, but Hamilton was drunk, and if there was any justice in the world then Hamilton's plan would work in reverse as well.

Hamilton grumbled unintelligibly, straightening in his chair and placing a hand on the table for stability. “Nope. Lie.” Hamilton slumped again, ruining his attempts to look presentable from mere seconds ago. Of course there was no justice in the world, why would there be for Aaron?

A wave of exhaustion settled over him like a gentle blanket. Aaron sighed, checking the time. Right on time, it was approaching an hour to midnight. His usual bedtime. Aaron shot another look at Hamilton, who was apparently lost in thought again. He probably wasn't going to be any less stubborn than he had been the entire forced evening. Aaron didn't like it, but it looked like he was going to have to stay the night and let a good night's sleep impress on Hamilton how ridiculous he was being. “Hamilton, say goodbye?” Aaron asked, just to get one more attempt out.

“Narp,” Hamilton snorted at his own not-word. Aaron scowled, not that he'd expected much else.

“Fine, then you're going to bed.” It was amazing how quickly that, of all things, got Hamilton to shoot up in outraged energy.

“What? It's only,” Hamilton fumbled for his phone, dropped it against the hardwood floor with a hard smack, then folded himself over inelegantly to retrieve it. “It's not even eleven! What kind of old grandpa are you?”

Aaron sighed. “It's five-to. I've had a long day, and you're far too drunk.”

Hamilton met the statement with suspicious eyes. “You ought to be too, you know.”

“Maybe I just hold my drink better than you,” Before his vampirism, Aaron was actually impressively lightweight, but it was an explanation that both covered his ass and would piss Hamilton off. Sure enough, Hamilton wrinkled his nose in offense, shooting Aaron an annoyed scowl. Now, to push. “Whatever you decide Hamilton, I'm going to sleep. This is your last chance to kick me out, or I'm stealing your bed.” Aaron didn't even want the bed, but hell if he didn't make things at least a little inconvenient for his captor.

Instead of complaining, Hamilton laughed. “Woo, sleepover!”

“Woo.” Aaron returned in his driest deadpan. He was definitely hiding all the headache medicine.

Aaron did not take much time to fall asleep, even though he was using a strange bed in a strange house. Like clockwork, his eyes opened a good hour before sunrise. Less like clockwork was the telling headache behind his eyes. Aaron had judged correctly about needing blood last night, the feeling of blood-hunger was very familiar by now.

Aaron would be fine though, the headache would clear up easily so long as he actually got some blood. In the meantime though, he had to watch out extra for the sun, it's effects far stronger in this state. Aaron rubbed his eyes, trying to chase the sleepiness away. The fact that he was wired to be nocturnal now and had to fight it like a human on permanent night shift was usually the most inconvenient vampire trait, but right now he had bigger things to worry about.

Bigger things, like the lump of warmth Aaron fell into when he tried to roll over. “Wh-Hamilton!” Aaron scrambled back, pushing the blankets and Hamilton across the bed with a sharp kick. Hamilton groaned, long and low but with hardly any volume. “What are you doing, I told you I was stealing your bed.”

“Mmmm,” Hamilton vocalized, somewhere between a whine and an agreement. “Fuck th' couch. My bed.” He shifted under the covers to bring a hand to his head. He was clearly only saying as few words as necessary, taken by what promised to be a giant hangover, but Aaron understood enough. He let out a short groan of annoyance in turn. Honestly, it was stupid not to take Hamilton's brazenness into account. Or, the probable fact that he would have done it just to spite Aaron anyways.

“Alright, Hamilton, you've had your fun. It's time for me to go.” Aaron kept his voice clear and authoritative, not giving his hung over host any room to argue. There was no way he'd want anything other than for Aaron to leave now, to let him suffer in quiet peace.

Hamilton shifted again, an attempt to burrow under the covers. Aaron ruthlessly pulled them back, preventing escape. Hamilton wiggled again, looking more like a belligerent child than the young adult he was. “No,” He whined when Aaron lightly nudged his shoulder. “Make me breakfast first.”

Aaron resisted the urge to throw something, preferably Hamilton. But Hamilton was insistent, refusing to make another coherent word no matter how much Aaron shoved at him. Fine, then. Aaron would make breakfast.

Five minutes later, Hamilton shot up with a shout as Aaron dumped a bowl of cereal and cold milk over his head. “Burr, what the fuck!?” Hamilton scrambled out of bed, frantically wiping cheerios from his hair and only succeeding in spreading the milk around.

“Breakfast,” Aaron replied with his best customer service smile. His steady expression was punctuated by the steady dripping of milk onto the hardwood floor.

“Oh, fuck off.” A plain insult rather than permission to leave. Aaron's jaw flexed. “I'm taking a shower,” Hamilton shoved Aaron out of the way, rather ineffectively. Aaron may have been a weak vampire already, and further weakened by going a bit longer without blood than usual, but he was still a vampire and the sun wasn't up yet- Hamilton's weak push was nothing. Aaron moved anyways.

While Hamilton was in the shower, Aaron considered his options. First, he checked the pantry and fridge for actual breakfast. As expected, there wasn't much, but Aaron did find eggs, bacon, bread, and cheese. If he stacked enough protein, it would cut the edge of the headache, Aaron knew. Unlike the first few days after a blood feeding, it would do nothing for the weakness and quiet ache that would only grow.

Aaron really should stop leaving feedings to the last possible day, for circumstances exactly like this one. He resolved to do so as soon as Hamilton freed him. The shower stopped, surprisingly quick- Aaron had always taken Hamilton for a long mornings shower person. Silently blessing his vampire hearing for the warning, Aaron quickly cracked as many eggs as he could eat in a sitting into a cup and dropped the last two behind the stove, where hopefully they would rot and stink the place up.

Breakfast was cooking when Hamilton lumbered in, humming at the pleasant smell. He sat heavily into one of the kitchen chairs and rested his arms on the table, head following soon after. Aaron rolled his eyes, and said nothing.

Aaron also said nothing as he assembled his breakfast and sat opposite Hamilton. He was right, the food eased the sharpness of the headache and made things a little better, but the hunger remained despite the bloated fullness of his stomach. Hamilton, somehow oblivious, waited until Aaron was nearly finished before lifting his head with a confused expression.

“Where's mine?” He sounded baffled, like there was no possible reason Aaron wouldn't serve him alongside himself.

“Waiting for you to make it.” Aaron finished clearing his plate, and stood up to leave it in the sink.

Hamilton groaned. “What kind of hellish punishment is this. Burr, you don't use a man's food to make breakfast and not give him any.” He pulled lightly at Aaron's shirt as he walked past to the sink, but his hand fell away again at the slightest tug.

“If you feel I'm being a bad guest, you could always ask me to leave at any time,” Aaron reminded. “I promise I would respect your wish.”

Hamilton's head swiveled in Aaron's direction. “Oh, is that how it is.” His tone was not encouraging. “Fine. I'll make my own breakfast.” Aaron left him to it. “Hey, where'd the eggs go?”

“Finished them,” Aaron called, taking a seat in the living area.

“The bacon?”

“That, too.” Half the package, anyways. The rest was now stowed under the fridge.

From the kitchen, Hamilton let out a loud, frustrated “ugh”, drawn out and guttural. Aaron heard him take out a glass and milk from the fridge instead. Then, the opening of cupboards.

“Where the fuck did the tylenol go?” Hamilton muttered under his breath, too quiet to hear if Aaron were a human. Aaron grinned to himself. Hamilton didn't know what he was in for, keeping Aaron here. He'd beg for Aaron to leave soon enough, even if Aaron had to pull out every obnoxious roommate prank in the book.

#vampburr au #fic #aaron is confident he can out-annoy hamilton #can he????#(((no he cant))))#shh dont tell him that tho #hamilton is still convinced this is some confusing weird battle of wills #and it kind of is but not in the way hams thinking #if burr was physically capable of giving up and going home without the permission/goodbye he def wouldve by now

29 notes · View notes

janeyland · 7 years

Text

Starting to Talk

Thorny’s speech hasn’t developed in the way I imagined it would. Actually it has been so fascinating; Tom and I are both talky-talkers so I guess I assumed Thorny would be quick to speech, but he hadn’t been, really. If anyone were to ask I would probably describe him now, at two and a half, as non-verbal. But this isn’t really true. He has loads of words; his language is developing rapidly, exploding out on a daily basis, but it is indistinct and it would be hard for an outsider to understand a thing (although I am always impressed by how much they understand at nursery). The way it happens is fascinating. The way that words come is by clarifying themselves gradually out of his general babble (not a word I like but it is functional enough) - so it feels like he has been saying them forever, but we are only just understanding them. One example would be his counting. He can count past 20 (the other day he counter to 20-10!) but not many people could identify it as such. 1-10 goes: Bah, ooo, wee, oon, fuv, eex, gyeven, ah, gah, GAH! Five started off as ‘bung’ and seamlessly morphed into ‘fuv’. It was really interesting to watch because I knew that Thorny develops his words by refining his babble, and bung seemed so far removed from five that I didn’t see how he could do it. But he did. His teen numbers are amazing too: Buh-gie, boogie, bib-gy, gig-gy, giragee, aggy, gaggy, GAGGY! (There is always such a celebration at the end of each round). When he first started his voice mimicked the teaching tone we clearly used: O-ne, tw-ooo, the-reeee, go-ur, FIIIIIVE! It was amazing his mimicry does make you more aware of your foibles.

So, while I describe him as not talking, he is, really, more and more. The other day he came upstairs after a nap and said ‘gaga aslip’ as Tom was still asleep. He describes all hills as 'a bit steep!’ And some of his towers too! He can tell me when he has put pepper or corn or peas in his water, which he does to annoy me, mainly I think. He has words for the colours, most of which are recognisable, except maybe for orange which is ooh-ma. That is changing though and mysteriously will reveal to me that it was, all along, orange in disguise. Banana recently went from bayaya to banana. He has the same word for dinosaur and ketchup (giron). His most magical sequence of words, as far as I’m concerned, is his words for 'square, circle, triangle, rectangle’ which are, unchangingly, 'bah, gagen, gagenagen, begagen'. Always said together, and increasingly fast. It is musical! His difficulties with pronunciations are very consistent. He can’t say ’d’ so daddy is gaga (more commonly gaggy nowadays actually, which is lovely), red is reg (with a hard g) down (from 'baby down’ is gown. He has troubles with some Ns so nanna is yaya. He calls Lyra Yi-wa which is wonderful. He often sounds South African with the harshness of his sounds, which I love - particularly the alphabet, which is really his thing right now - but his 'big’ (beeeeg) which is his new main descriptive word, is decidedly continental. His word for me is still not one I can fully spell or even understand all the time - he often has to poke me to let me know it’s me he means. It’s a bit like 'Bubby’ I think, because I always think he’s talking about bunnies. On the subject of bunnies, he often tells me he’s a 'slippy bubby’ and curls up on the floor for a pretend rest. He will sing enthusiastically along with so many songs -it is so wonderful - he sings raucously along to Shake It Off, for example, using, presumably his words, but it is hard to tell. I can hear him singing 'work that booty’, regretfully, from Boom Shake The Room. From Cake he can sing most of Jolene 'get up, get down’ If you ask him to say something he can pretty well mimic an approximation, but generally you know it is not his word yet. He had the words he needs and as his needs continue to grow, presumably his words will as well. At the moment we love App-ul and Graf (grape). He can in the other day from being out with Gaggy and yelled out 'Hai Bubby’ which was the first time that has ever happened (mainly maybe because it is usually me out with him. It was a great feeling! (His 'hi’ genuinely is 'hai’ and his 'bye-bye’ is happy and sing-song regardless of his emotions at the time. He gets ritually into things too. One day while we were out I said to him 'oh no, I forgot to get diapers!’ Then, after considering what to do I said 'it’ll be ok’ and he has said that over and over ever since. Often also he repeats what you have said back to him, which is often quite frustrating when it is a question. But I think he does it when he doesn’t know the answer as it often has a shy and cheeky smile too: 'what song would you like to listen to?’ 'What song would you like to listen to?’…sometimes I think there is a comprehension issue there too, but I don’t know. He calls himself Boogie and water Booga. Jelly, and, insultingly, my belly, are 'wibble-wobble’. He has Up and Down (well, gun) sorted. He tells me 'Lyra’s diaper’ when I tell him I need to change his. He is into re-directing me already! His comprehension of everything is excellent. You can ask him to do anything and he will understand. He is certainly frustrated by the limitations of his speech. His rage is sudden and profound when he is not understood and my hopelessness means all I can do is comfort him. Many of his words ARE very similar sounding, even to the best-trained ear. He talks and he talks though! We make up bedtime stories for him - mine are usually about T-Rex and Pterodactyl, two best buds who have suspiciously toddlery lives. After I’ve told him a story he will tell me a story about them too. Usually the same story - out of the mass of words I can pick out a few coherent ones which allow me to recognise my story. He has amazing intonation and cadence - you can tell when a character is talking and his voice swoops up and down the scale with his story. Then he always ends with a chipper 'E A!’ (The End!) E A!

#Thornton Dimitrios

1 note · View note

weightlossfitness2 · 4 years

Text

Don’t Snooze on Dream Psychology

Picture it, fall 2011: A brilliant-senior English main drawn to the metaphysical, mystical, and downright mysterious enrolls in an elective course on dream psychology. Little did she know that these new learnings would offer her with the instruments to achieve illuminating, actionable solutions to a situationship on the outs and different urgent dilemmas her overactive thoughts couldn’t fairly clear up.

Yes, mentioned co-ed is yours actually, and this course was arguably the very best I’d taken in my eight years pursuing larger schooling. I used to be lucky to reconnect with my former professor, psychologist Patricia Simko, PhD, who nonetheless teaches in regards to the psychology of desires at The New School in NYC. Here, she helps elucidate what desires are all about and why they’re way more essential to your well-being than you could notice. Plus: information and interpret your desires to seek out readability and launch concerning real-life issues.

The Science Behind Dreaming

Some sleep scientists might even see desires primarily as a neurological operate. But psychologists and the spiritually inclined usually see their deeper which means. “Dreams are a snapshot of what’s going on in our lives: what we’re doing, what problems we have, who we love, what occupies our time, and other messages,” Dr. Simko explains. “It’s our way of communicating with the unconscious mind.” Dream content material can embody unfinished enterprise for which we search closure, in addition to every day residue and upcoming duties or occasions.

Dream Mechanisms

Aside from a small inhabitants bothered with issues together with Charcot–Wilbrand syndrome (CWS), everybody desires. Dreams happen through the REM (speedy eye motion) phases of sleep, which happen in cycles all through the night time. (R.E.M can also be a killer tune by Ariana Grande, however I digress.) “REM sleep isn’t particularly heavy sleep. It’s characterized by low amplitude, high frequency energy waves,” Dr. Simko explains.

Next, she continues, “Dreams are a result of energy firings near the visual cortex at the base of the brain, which may explain why dreams are typically visual in nature.” Another enjoyable truth she mentions is that our main muscle teams are briefly paralyzed whereas dreaming. Thankfully, our our bodies have developed this adaptive mechanism to maintain us from bodily enacting this interior exercise.

The Importance of Dreaming

In addition to offering the potential for psychological perception, dreaming is a vital operate important to our well being and well-being. Dr. Simko refers to seminal research on dream psychology displaying that we endure from dream deprivation even earlier than from sleep deprivation. She additionally notes that newborns spend round half of their sleep time in pro-dreaming REM states, which is twice that of adults. This discovering exhibits optimistic correlations with infants’ cognitive growth, reminiscence and language formation, and extra.

More lately in 2017, psychologist Rubin Naiman revealed a paper entitled “Dreamless: The Silent Epidemic of REM Sleep Loss.” He explains that fashionable people are dream-deprived, noticeable penalties of which can vary from irritability, despair, and weight acquire to compromised reminiscence and immune features. In sum, full sleep cycles and wholesome habits that promote dreaming are important for the right functioning of our minds and our bodies alike.

What are the advantages of studying ABOUT DREAM PSYCHOLOGY?

For many, desires are sometimes complicated or incoherent. “Time and space don’t exist in the unconscious,” Dr. Simko explains. “They’re structures in the material plane, created to help navigate our material world. Alternatively, the unconscious doesn’t know about such structures and doesn’t need it.” Hence why, as a rule, desires don’t sometimes cohere to logic and rationale. Another motive why desires appear nonsensical? “A lot of dream content comes across via symbols and other disguises,” she continues. Essentially, the underlying messages of your desires don’t usually correlate to that which meets the (resting) eye.

By studying extra about dream psychology, you will get a deeper sense of what’s happening with your self and others, illuminating what’s unclear in your acutely aware thoughts in waking life.

Dream Psychology 101

Origins of Dream Theory

Dream principle started with Sigmund Freud, the daddy of psychoanalysis. “Freud knew that dreams came from the unconscious, in which we can’t know explicitly what goes on,” Dr. Simko explains. But even additional, “he believed we’re governed by forbidden instincts—mainly the sex drive and libido—and felt that dreams carried hidden messages of desired sexuality.” Freud’s up to date and longtime champion, Carl Jung, acquiesced to Freud’s dogma till he realized that Freud himself refused to stick to the introspection he demanded of others. Contrarily, Dr. Simko summarizes, “Jung theorized that dreams aren’t just meant to disguise sexual longings, but open up the whole of the unconscious mind.”

Call me biased, however total, I discover that Jung’s tackle dream psychology is extra constructive and humane—and fewer restrictive and gratuitously taboo—than Freud’s. At any fee, each have contributed unparalleled perception into the sector of psychology and the area of interest of desires.

Key Concepts

According to Freud, desires include each manifest and latent content material. Manifest content material is the precise subject material of your desires, whereas latent content material dives deeper into symbols, associations, and different meanings past the superficial. Even additional, he theorized different disguises that may cloud reasoning in desires. “Condensation takes traits from a number of issues or individuals in life and places all of them collectively in a single dream image,” explains Dr. Simko. For occasion, when you dream a few buddy sitting at your boss’s desk along with your mother’s purse, that dream individual may doubtlessly signify all or any of these three individuals. Next, she continues, “Displacement is one other dream software whereby we take a attribute that’s essential to us and exchange it with one other, much less conflictual one.” Prime examples of displacement embody something express that’s then recalibrated for PG-friendly viewing, or changing one thing that induces worry with one thing else inoffensive.

Common Dream Symbols

There are infinite dream symbols and explanations thereof. But as a primer, maybe essentially the most noteworthy symbols are these involving a home and a automobile, which Dr. Simko says signify the self: “The condition of each points to your own. Is the house beautiful and in a nice neighborhood? Are there unexplored rooms? These answers all point to subjective reality.” Similarly, she continues, the automobile factors to the self in movement. “If the car is nice, you probably feel pretty good. If it’s rundown, you may be as well. Or if you’re not even driving it, someone else may be calling the shots in your life.” Other *elemental* dream symbols contain climate and nature, which mirror your emotions. A sunny day will typically be optimistic, whereas rain can maybe point out disappointment or perhaps a clear slate.

How to GUIDE and Interpret Your Dreams

Adopt Proactive Bedtime Rituals

Before sleeping, Dr. Simko suggests setting the scene for a fruitful night time of dreaming. “The unconscious is highly intuitive and open to suggestions,” she says. You can repeat affirmative ideas, comparable to I’ll know I’m dreaming tonight or I’ll dream about X to know Y. Next, she says it helps to examine desires to essentially get in the appropriate mind-set. To be taught extra about dream psychology, Dr. Simko extremely recommends the next titles:

And after all, it’s at all times good to comply with wholesome p.m. protocol. Avoiding alcohol, abstaining from display time, and meditating are only some tried and true bedtime habits that may result in rewarding desires.

Ask the Right Questions

Upon waking, write down your desires earlier than you neglect them. (And sure, neglect you doubtless will with out actively and purposefully recalling them.) When Dr. Simko’s sufferers and college students search to interpret their desires, she at all times asks the next questions:

What involves you, and what are your associations?

“Look at the story of your dream. Make a simple summary and then associate,” Dr. Simko advises. While she says it’s useful to base your interpretations in established paradigms of dream principle and psychology, she notes that symbols received’t be the identical for everyone. Some are common, whereas others are extra uniquely decided by the person. “A rose, for instance, would have a similar connotation for most people, whereas a river might not,” Dr. Simko explains. Within this instance, a river would possibly invoke calm and serenity for some, however can sign worry for individuals who can’t swim or if the waters are turbulent. Learn what such symbols imply to you, after which make associations from there.

What did you’re feeling and sense within the dream?

“Feelings aren’t disguised in dreams,” Dr. Simko explains. So when you’re unhappy, scared, or joyous in a dream, it’s a mirrored image of your precise emotions IRL—even when you don’t notice it when awake. Once you hone in on these dream emotions, she advises that you consider what they remind you of, and what in your life makes you’re feeling the identical method. From there, you may synthesize key takeaways and motion factors.

Final Thoughts

Sure, naysayers might even see this all as hocus pocus. But I’m nonetheless in awe, almost a decade later, of the profound affect immersing myself in dream psychology had throughout a troublesome stage of my life. It allowed me to return to phrases with strained dynamics that may in any other case take hours of remedy and prolonged bathe cries to excise out of my system. Nostalgia apart, I eagerly encourage you to present dream psychology a go. Who is aware of? You may very well be snoozing on a world of untapped potential that’s totally inside your very self.

The post Don’t Snooze on Dream Psychology appeared first on Weight Loss Fitness.

from Weight Loss Fitness https://weightlossfitnesss.info/dont-snooze-on-dream-psychology/

1 note · View note

albanlakepublishing-blog · 6 years

Text

February Alban Lake Spotlight

Mike Morgan, Author

For our very first interview, we have Mr. Mike Morgan, a prolific and excellent author. He was kind enough to take time to answer our questions; but first, a quick bio for Mike:

Mike Morgan lives in Iowa with his wife, two children, and increasingly infirm cat. After careers in the UK, Japan, and Texas involving accountancy, freelance illustration, non-fiction writing, and teaching, Mike now does improbably complex things on computers for a living. When he's not worrying about the cat or tidying up his kids' toys, Mike gets overwrought about politics and attempts to write short stories. It's possible his two hobbies get muddled up from time to time. He has written for several publishers in the UK and the USA, with pieces in anthologies, comics, and magazines. Follow him on Twitter as @CultTVMike, where he posts about all things sci-fi. Oh, OK, it's mostly Doctor Who.

My website is: https://perpetualstateofmildpanic.wordpress.com/

My latest project is this month's Outposts of Beyond.

And on to the interview . . .

Q: When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

A: I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. I looked at book covers as a young child, maybe five or six, and thought, "I want my name on a book." When I got into comics with 2000AD and then Star Wars Weekly, this would be when I was 7, that desire spread to wanting to be in the credits boxes in comic books, too. Unfortunately, as I got older, it became apparent that selling work wasn't going to be as easy as I'd initially thought.

I tried for a sustained period in my twenties to break into comics, but never got anywhere. At one comics convention in Bristol, while hauling my portfolio around, I got chatting with Matt Brooker, who was brutally honest with me. "Look," he said, "There's nothing particularly wrong with the way you draw, but there just aren't any openings. We hire on maybe one or two new freelancers a year and they have some quirk. You draw well, but there's nothing unique. To develop that style, you need to put in thousands of hours of practice, and you're not going to get paid for that. You don't strike me as independently wealthy, so I doubt you can afford to do it for free. So..."

He was right. I was dirt poor. I got a job in accountancy, which I hated. But at least I could go back to affording food.

Later, after years of doing things I loathed, and then teaching for several years in Japan, I immigrated here to the U.S. Starting a new career in Texas, I worked for seven years as a technical writer and editor, which helped me fine-tune my knowledge of English grammar and punctuation and gave me first-hand insight into how hard it is to express complex ideas in plain, no-nonsense sentences. I got enough feedback to sink a fleet of Titanics and developed a tough skin to criticism. I also learned how important it was not to treat my fellow writers the way I was treated, and I became a mentor to some of the newer team members. Although the working environment was hostile, I did love the act of writing and I found joy in helping others improve their written work.

While all that was going on, I was continuing to put out one or two pieces of my own writing. Teaching in Japan gives you a lot of spare time, so I'd started floating a few things past publishers. Moving to Texas, I was determined to keep that up, but stuck in a car for three or four hours a day on a hellish commute, working tons of extra, unpaid hours, and starting a family didn't leave a lot of spare time. It was only with our move to Iowa, where I still am now, that I found a better work-life balance and was able to kick the writing into high gear. To my inordinate surprise, I discovered that publishers wanted to print my short stories. Not only that, but readers showed every sign of liking them. I was flabbergasted.

I look back now and I see my name on a book cover and my name in a comic book credits box and I'm glad I never completely gave in. One of my best friends, Kath, said this to me years ago and it stuck with me: "What I like about you, Mike, is that you keep on trying." I'm sure she's forgotten ever saying that to me, but I remembered, and I've tried to stay that way.

Q: What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

A: Oh, a 'quirk'! I have yet to develop one with my drawing, but with my writing...? Editors have often told me, in withering tones, that I over-write. You only have to glance at the length of this interview...

Also, as part of over-egging a box full of puddings in every story, I tend toward the proliferation of pleonasms. And uncalled-for alliteration.

If you catch me doing it, slap me.

Q: What do you like to do when you're not writing?

A: I watch lots of science fiction and read comics. I really enjoy reading stories to my two kids at bedtime, too. Honestly, with two young kids in the house, I spend a lot of time taking endless delight in everything they say and do. I try to carve out a few moments every day to remind my wife how much I appreciate her.

Q: How many books have you written? Which is your favorite?

A: I've had 10 short stories published professionally, with two more coming out in the next couple of months. A couple of those were my Titanville stories, which were published together in an e-book by Nomadic Delirium Press, getting me my first solo front-cover credit. I have a dozen more stories in slush piles as we speak, so one or two more will probably work their ways through to acceptance this year – that seems to be the typical ratio of stories sent to stories accepted.

I've also had a few stories in charity anthologies, and a couple of poems (one was about Star Trek and was printed by Iron Press in a collection sold throughout a major high-street chain of bookshops in the UK), a few non-fiction articles about the long-running BBC TV series Doctor Who in various tomes, and a comic strip script in the British small press comic Futurequake. Another comic script is being drawn now, as it happens, for Futurequake. We're hoping it'll be included in the Spring issue, but we'll see how that goes.

Oh, and I worked for a short while at an online word mill, putting out articles about sci-fi. You can find them at WhatCulture.com. They accumulated about three million page-views, I think.

Q: What inspires you to write?

A: I am drawn to the act of wrenching something into existence through the blunt application of imagination and willpower. I am compelled to create. For better or worse, you guys are on the receiving end of that compulsion.

When it comes down to deciding what I'm going to write about, I think there are some themes I keep returning to: the beauty in the world, the triumph of love and kindness over indifference and cruelty, the eternal fight against injustice, how any attempt to simplify the complexity of the real world down into stark black-and-white concepts will lead to hate and death...

Also, I love writing characters who are flat-out wrong. There's nothing more fun and more human than someone who is utterly convinced about the rightness of a cause, and that cause is based on an utter misunderstanding. Really, that type of thinking characterizes most of our species' history. People who are wrong deserve our sympathy, our help, our love, not our derision. Anyway, that's some entertaining stuff to write about.

One final thought – I don't want to be a downer but I do feel time pressing on me. Nothing like worrying I'll be dead in a few years to spur me to get some writing done.

Q: Do you set a plot or prefer going wherever an idea takes you?

A: I try to have a clear idea of what the story's about before I get too far down the rabbit hole of writing. Preferably, I have an end worked out as well, even if that ending changes by the time I get to it. Sometimes, I'll start the story with the end and work my way backward to the beginning. But there should always be a purpose to a story, even if that purpose is to have fun.

Every time I carve a tale out of the disorganized mess of my thoughts, the process seems different. One time, the whole story will spill out of me in a rush. Other times, I have to sit down and think through what I'm trying to express.

Every now and then, a neat idea will occur to me, but I can't find a way to get a coherent plot out of it. Then, a second, entirely different idea will come to me, and I find mashing the two disparate strands together into the same reality brings the whole thing into focus.

For example, someone having giant spiders in her home and not being bothered by them because they're not in any way dangerous is a neat mental image, but it's not a story in itself. But, add a second strand: imagine there's a neighbor whose job is to twist facts to meet political dogma and that neighbor comes into contact with those spiders... what happens? Does she believe the objective truth that they're completely safe to be around, or does she react with emotion and twist reality to meet that baseless viewpoint? After all, that's her job.

Boom – you have conflict. The wrong-headed, fact-denying neighbor suddenly at war with nice, harmless giant-sized arachnids. For no other reason than she can't see the truth in front of her face, which is a very common and very plausible failing. What's more, the story takes on a greater message: we shouldn't twist facts to meet our prejudices, no matter how tempted we'd be to do that if we were in the neighbor's shoes.

That's where A Spider Queen in Every Home came from, the mingling of two ideas that, on the face of it, can't coexist in a single narrative; but, they can, and that story was picked up and published in More Alternative Truths by B-Cubed Press.

Lastly, some publishers require that you pitch ideas. There, you have to submit a complete plot, along with character notes, up front. If a pitch is accepted, there's no scope for changing details along the way as you write the actual story. For all you know, by altering the agreed-upon tale without consultation, you might be encroaching upon territory occupied by another story in the same collection.

When fleshing out a pitch, it can feel like you're working while wearing a straightjacket. But it's an opportunity to find ways of making the piece as entertaining as possible without venturing beyond the plan you gave your word on. I've written a couple of stories based on pitches. Unto His Final Breath in Uffda Press's King of Ages: A King Arthur Anthology was created that way, and it garnered some nice reviews. I really like the world building I got to do in that short story.

Q: What types and forms of writing do you do? If you're also an editor, what is your niche?

A: I mostly write short stories these days, but I toy with novels. I do have a novel I'm working on (doesn't every writer?) - but, it's the short stories that sell. I am sneakily putting together various stories that work as elements within a greater whole, so that by the time they're all published you'll find they're a novel-length narrative printed in discrete parts across multiple publishers, books, and media. That's the idea, anyway.

For example, the Titanville stories stand alone as individual tales, but the intent is to have themes and sub-plots that build as time goes on, without requiring the reader to be familiar with every installment. The Age of Asmodeus stories have a similar approach; there's a history to that world, and each story explores a different sliver of it. As those stories go on, readers will see various characters moving in and out of segments of the series or they'll be referred to. Again, the readers won't need to read every story, but there'll be a sense of events moving forward for those who do.

With the tales featuring Professor Lazarus, the cumulative narrative will unfold using text-based stories and comic strips. Again, that's the hope. Futurequake, a British comic, has printed one story so far and has another one being drawn at the moment. With the short stories, I've had some luck; Flame Tree Publishing printed Fishing Expedition a while ago. I've written a couple more Lazarus stories since then that I'm waiting to hear back on, so we'll see how that goes.

But you were asking about types of writing. Occasionally, I have a poem published. More often, I'll get non-fiction pieces accepted. I contribute on a semi-regular basis to the range on media and culture put out by Watching Books. This year, they're printing a volume called You on Target about the Target series of Doctor Who novelizations, and I have two essays in that.

With editing, I offer my services to small presses who print my stories, with regards to proofreading or checking formatting. I'm always willing to help put out the best publication possible.

Q: What is your area(s) of subject matter expertise? How did you discover this niche? What intrigues you about it?

A: With living in Japan for several years, I found writing stories set there pretty easy. Not much research required! There's a story of mine being printed soon by you fine people at Alban Lake Press set in Japan. Kuro no Ken (The Back Sword) is slated for the next issue of Outposts of Beyond. The scenes in Ise City take place twenty minutes down the road from where I lived for three years, and the part in the vast cemetery—I've visited that cemetery and it really is that creepy. I love Japan. Those were some of the happiest years of my life.

Having said that, I lived for longer in Stoke-on-Trent in the UK, and that was the setting for Reverse Horror Story. Your fine company published that piece in Bloodbond just last year. I had way too much fun putting Stoke-themed jokes into that monster-mash-up. I guess, to answer your question, I'm an expert at shoe-horning places I've lived into my stories. I find having a deep knowledge of the settings makes them feel more authentic.

But, to be clear, I've never lived on the enormous asteroid Ceres, the setting of The Library of Ice in this month's Outposts of Beyond. I'd be willing to give it a try, though.

Being serious for a moment, I keep writing about people who are struggling because I've been through that. Want to be an expert on the poor? Try being unemployed for years on end, not having enough to eat and worrying about losing the room you're renting. That'll give you an understanding of what that life is like. Newsflash – it's really stressful and depressing.

Q: How do you balance your creative and work time?

A: I have yet to find any balance, but live in hope. I get the kids to bed in the evening and then try to write. Sometimes, I even succeed.

Q: Where have you been published? Upcoming publications? Awards and other accolades?

A: Other than the things I've already talked about, I'd like to mention Nomadic Delirium's Divided States series, which explores a post-USA North America. My contribution to this excellent range was The Wall Is Beautiful. I hope to finish a second story in this shared universe. I was also fortunate enough to have submissions accepted in their Martian Wave and Disharmony of the Spheres collections.

One other project I'm very proud to have participated in was Metasaga's Futuristica anthology. I had Something to Watch Over Us included in that amazing collection. I can't heap enough praise on that spectacular book; if you like science fiction, you need to own it.

As far as upcoming releases go, that I haven't already called attention to, I have a story called Buddy System accepted in Myriad Paradigm's upcoming Mind Candy anthology. The intent is for that book to be released in the next few months. I also have something in the editing pile with Red Ted Books, which should be advancing toward publication this year.

And, yes, it's a fanzine, but I like fanzines, I'm working with the wonderful people who put out the Doctor Who-themed Fannuals to see what they might want from me for their next volume. I'm so in love with the Fannual project; it's incredible fun. It's actually what I'm starting work on after finishing this interview.

Q: What are you working on now?

A: Well, Alban Lake announced they were going to do something with ghost stories, so, you know, I thought I'd try to submit to that. *Grins*

In the pipeline are more Age of Asmodeus tales, more Titanville, more Lazarus, more space opera antics, more of everything I'm obsessed with.

Q: Who are your favorite characters to write? How did they come into being, and what do you love - or loathe - about them?

A: I love writing about Professor Lazarus. She gives her life in every story, usually to save the world from some terrible fate. Then, next story, she's alive again, in a world that's transformed. It forces me to reinvent her and her milieu every time. And there's a point to all her deaths; it's leading to something.

She came into being because I thought, "Hah – killing the lead character every time would be funny." Then I thought, "What if it's the same lead character every time, and there's a reason she keeps coming back?" How does knowledge of her deaths affect her? Where, at a character level, does that propel the over-arching storyline?

Another fun character was Silas Smith in The Man Who Killed Computers (published in Disharmony of the Spheres). He's able to lie to computers and have them believe what he's saying. Once you realize how he's doing that, it's less amusing, because you also realize that he can manipulate the humans in the story. I love the ambiguity of his character. He tries so hard to convince everyone he's a hero—the story revolves around how others respond to his claims.

Q: Any advice you would like to give to aspiring writers?

A: If someone says you need to improve, he or she is probably right. Every writer needs to improve, every day. It's a process that never ends.

Don't take rejection personally. It's the work that sucks, not you.

Keep trying. Stories are only published if they're written and then submitted.

Realize that even after you've had a pile of stories published there will still be more defeats than victories. And that it's OK.

Anything else you’d like to add that I haven’t asked? For example, what would you like to see more of in your specific genre? In the publishing field?

We all like to get things for free. But—! Readers: try to pay for that fiction you're consuming. The more the publishers earn, the more they can pay the writers. The more the writers earn, the more they can write. It's a virtuous feedback loop. If you can't find good fiction out there, it's because you won't pay for it.

Or, you know, you haven't been to Alban Lake's store. There's lots of good writing there.

Once again, we’d like to thank Mr. Mike Morgan for his time and to thank all of you for supporting Alban Lake and all of these awesome authors and artists.

0 notes

originaldetectivesheep · 7 years

Text

The Thirty and One Nights' Momentary Diversion - The Curse of the Unblessed Dead

Tonight's story leans hard on hot buttons: life and death and the truth of religion. And if that's not bad enough, with this subject matter, how in the heck is this supposed to be a bedtime story?

The Curse of the Unblessed Dead

Elliot raised an eyebrow as he came through the open door of the Pond Street Laundry & Apartments, lifting his laundry basket up onto his shoulder to step sideways around where Anita was taping the sign into the side-street window: #BringBackFatherPat – No to Reassignments! He nodded an acknowledgment to Officer Curry, leaning against the reception counter with his coffee in hand, and shook his head. "Man, now I have seen it all," he said, nodding back at the sign. "A yard sign Twitter campaign to un-reassign a neighborhood parish priest? What's next – the pope sliding into your snaps with a blessing?" The police officer rumpled his brow, nettled, and Anita pushed back from the window with a sigh.

"Elliot, I know you're not a believer, and I'm not telling you you've got to come to Jesus, but I do have to keep telling you not to mess with other people when you come in here. Faith helps people – even those Scientologists who have to take down their posters when you write on them, their faith probably helps them."

"It's not me who wrote 'XENU' all over those Scientology antivax flyers," Elliot said, sorting his laundry out into a pair of washers. "If Amir didn't live here, I'd ask him – maybe he's got a girlfriend or boyfriend who comes over to do their wash and took the huff. And I've got no problem with people believing, if they need it to get through. But faith, it works for the person who has it; it doesn't change anything around them – not enough that you got to spend money printing lawn signs with your hashtag on it to get it just right. And they'll get over it, when the bishop doesn't follow the tag and everybody forgets – a priest is just a priest, everybody on that Vatican line, and they'll get used to the new guy like the old one was never gone."

"No, I don't think so," Ofc. Curry said, setting his cup down in the saucer; Elliot stood up, detergent bottle frozen in his hand. This cop came in, every now and again, walking his beat or checking in on tenants and prospective renters, but he barely ever talked to anyone but Anita. "Faith is a powerful thing – very powerful, if you have a lot of it. And even for priests all following the Vatican line, the right priest can make a world of difference." He picked up his coffee again, looking past Elliot at the wall like he was thinking deeply, remembering something distant and intense and even traumatic.

Elliot sat the bottle down on the washer lid, folding his arms. "That sounds like you've got personal experience with it – do you want to talk about it? If you're called to witness, then if it's that powerful, it might be worth witnessing to even me, and if not, I can feel like it'll help you – have someone you can tell about it, whatever happened." He looked Curry in the eyes, honest, unjudging.

The cop took a deep breath, and a deep swallow of his coffee. Whatever it was, it was taking a lot out of him just to talk about it again. Behind him, Anita settled back into her chair behind the desk, as he eventually gathered himself, fully, and began his story.

The Lord said, once, to His disciples, that with faith the size of a mustard seed they might move mountains – that with the charge He gave them, that the powers of Hell would not prevail against them. That what they bound, in His name, would be bound; what they released, would be released. I learned those verses in Sunday school, like anyone did, but I'm not sure how deeply I ever really believed; if I did, then probably I believed that like prophecy and revelation and speaking in tongues, these were powers that had been granted in the age of the apostles, when the Church was new, but didn't have anything to do with the Church of today.

Anne, though, I think that she must have believed with all her heart in those verses – those verses, like all the other verses. When we first met I was mostly attracted to her physically, like anyone else, but as we dated I was more and more struck by her faith, an endless ocean where I was carrying a coffee cup. By the time we got married I was as much in love with her soul as anything else; I'd changed, or she'd changed me, or we'd just grown that way together. It happens, that you change for each other as a relationship goes on, and Anne's whole life was built out around the Church, so I couldn't help my own relationship with the Church getting stronger again, as a grown man after I'd mostly ignored it in the ten years since I got confirmed.

If I'd changed more, gotten absorbed by the Church the way she was, dropped more of my secular friends, then maybe it would never have happened. But I didn't – I have friends I've known since high school, and though we've gone our separate ways, a long ways on, we still keep in touch, we still see each other in real life and not just on the internet. If it was the boys from the force, then it probably wouldn't've happened – but there's limits on how much you can hang out with the people you work with. I had to have my own friends, who weren't just also Anne's friends from Sodaility or the parish council, and some of them, I had to be able to go to when I wanted to get away from work, to not have to be a cop, not have to be Officer Curry, and I could just be Herbert from back at school.

We were at a barbecue at one of their places a while back – just Anne and me, the kids were at her brother's because she wasn't sure about them being at a party where nearly all of the adults would be drinking – and while everyone, mostly, was perfectly nice, I could tell that there were problems brewing; cop's instinct. You have to – to step into a room and feel right off where the rough edges are, who's got to be separated from who so that everyone's statements are complete and coherent. And here, the rough edge was going to be between Anne and everybody else. My friends from high school, mostly they turned out real liberal – they went to college in science and they've been posted up everywhere in the world, they speak three languages apiece, go to Italy like it's nothing, and they think they know better than everyone. They were patient, and calm, and deflecting, but Anne didn't notice – she was talking like she was with the old ladies from church, like everyone around her also had the Catholic radio on in the car all the time, like what she was saying was just natural and the way things were. It was – for us it was – but I couldn't figure out how to tell her that saying it around these people, who they were, like that was just spoiling for a fight; not without dragging everything out into the open and starting that fight that was going to hurt everybody, blow up some of my oldest friendships.

I can remember it as clear as day – the last thing Anne said that set her off, that started the whole avalanche of it falling. "No," Anne said, shaking her head firmly, "I can't agree with it – I can't agree with letting the clerk at a CVS sell murder pills over the counter. That's what it is: the embryo that this 'morning after pill' stops from implanting is a human being – a child. It's an abortion – it's killing children, it's making them fall away and die before they have a chance at life."

"That's… that's not actually how Plan B works," said Dorothy, Ollie's wife, and if she had gotten a chance to continue – she works in drug discovery, so she should know – maybe it would have just been a bitter political thing, but before she or Anne could say anything, Therese sat up, leaning in.

"Anne," she said, "you have four children, don't you?"

She was kind of confused by the rapid change of topic, not sure where Therese was going. "Yes; we –"

"Or, more accurately, four surviving children, isn't it? Isn't that more correct?"

Anne blanched. "I – I did have a miscarriage between Erin and George, but I don't –"

Therese's eyebrows were up trying to push her sunglasses up over the top of her head. "Another! So that counts five then – five. Five more children, the way you'd count them – gone, nameless, dead, forgotten."

Anne's mouth was already hanging open, speechless. "Five – but – what –"

"Anne, only about one in every two fertilized eggs ever implants," Therese said, sounding like a professor talking down to a dumb student. "You can look it up – it's science. So for every actual child you have, and for that one miscarriage that you know about, there is very likely another 'child', the way you think of them, a fully fledged human being, who was rejected by your body and died without a whisper, unknown. Five children – your own children – and you rejected them. You rejected them, Anne, your own flesh and blood – you rejected them and let them perish in the darkness, flushed down a sewer or thrown away in a clot. You murderess, you ogress, you monster – you gave them life, and then you let them die."

"Therese, that was over the line," Dorothy said, tugging her back, before I blew up because it looked like Anne was about to collapse. "I'm sorry, Anne; Therese, you've had too much to drink. You really need to apologize."

"I'm sorry if anyone was offended," Therese said, offhand, annoyed, gesturing with her wine glass as she slumped back into her lawn chair. "Isn't that what your kind say whenever someone steps in it and says something godawful? I'm sorry, but it's still true; if you don't like it, maybe don't think that way then." The rest of them turned on her, trying to get her to admit being wrong, to at least try and be civil. So the rest of them, at least, had some shame; it would be awkward the next time, but it wasn't like this was the end. It was the end for today, though; with the conversation dead, I excused Anne and myself and accepted Ollie's regrets and his apology on our way back to the car.

Anne was silent the whole ride back; picking up the kids from Kyle's, and then all the way back home. She seemed distracted; she doted on them like any other day over dinner, and then putting them to bed, but quietly, more subdued than normal, like she was constantly thinking about something else. Therese's words had really gotten to her; she really believed, really and truly, that every conception began a human life, that not a sparrow falls to the ground without the Father knowing. When we went to bed, she lay facing away from me, staring at the windows; I lay down next to her, a hand on her shoulder, not knowing what to do or say to help – just that I had to be there, that I had to do that much. I didn't fall asleep easily that night – and I didn't, until I passed out, notice Anne's breathing even up and level out like it did when she fell asleep, not at all.

I was dreaming – some dream of this curling black, misty, mass all around me with all the important parts forgotten in a flash as I woke up – some kind of rough, nervous dream when I woke up; why, how, I didn't know – not until she screamed again. Anne – she was awake, and she was standing in the doorway to our bedroom, looking down the hall, and she was screaming in absolute nightmare terror. I grabbed my service pistol from the nightstand drawer and rolled across the bed to her, standing behind her to see if I could see what she was screaming at: a burglar or a kidnapper attacking a cop's house, or something with one of the children, or – somehow – something worse.

There was nothing in the hall, nothing down the open hall to the bathroom. "Honey – honey –what is it? What's wrong? Did you see something?" I put an arm around her, keeping the gun safe and low but there if I needed it, desperate to know what was wrong, what I had to do.

Anne raised an arm, pointing down the hall with a shivering, trembling finger. "They – they're coming back – they – darling – the children – they came back –" and I could feel that she was about to let out another scream, a scream at nothing, an empty hallway half-shadowed by the nightlight, the same hallway as it ever was, with nothing, nothing there. I wrapped my arms tight around her, holding her close, hoping to calm her fears, putting my head on her shoulder next to hers, to tell her it would all be all right, that it was nothing more than a bad dream – but perhaps because I was this close to her now, within the greater light of her soul, then, I saw them.

Indistinct – half there, half invisible. I couldn't tell, honestly, that I wasn't also still dreaming, that this wasn't some kind of hallucination. But I saw them – blobs, monsters, life-blots grown wild and strange abandoned to a death unchristened and unblessed, not even suggesting human children, human fetuses, even, except in the placement of those dark floating eyes, the bulbous hanging foreheads. They were crawling like smoke out of the bathroom – how many forms? Four, more than four, to be sure – and if it was five –

I squeezed Anne tight; we couldn't both panic like this, not with our four real, living children stirring in their rooms, behind the doors on the corridor leading down to that nightmare gate, about to wake up and come out to see what Mommy was screaming for. "Be strong – Anne, be strong. God will protect us. I'll get the children – I'll bring them in here, and we'll pray the Rosary, and we'll be safe." She nodded, gulping back tears, and I let go, tucking the gun in the back of my waistband as I ran down the corridor to gather up our babies.

Morris and James were already kneeling with Anne at the foot of the bed as I came back in with George in my arms, leading Erin by the hand. I closed the door and locked it, leaning against it to hold it shut – if somehow that figment of fog on the floor was somehow as real, as physical, as it was terrible and horrifying. Anne was leading the children in their prayers, and I mouthed along: Hail Mary, full of grace, blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Hail Mary, full of grace – and on, around, past count without the beads in my hand, until, Anne still reciting, the first rays of dawn came in through the blinds.

Elliot's washers had long since juddered to a stop, and Anita's coffee was going cold in the untouched cup in front of her. "And?" Elliot said, hands spreading out. "And? What happened? What was it? Ghosts? Limbonic demons? What'd you do? Get an old priest and a young priest?"

Curry shifted uncomfortably. "I was getting to that. I called the rectory that morning – Anne wanted to be sure to have the house blessed, to make sure nothing came back, and they sent an exorcist up from Brighton. A young priest – he looked like that Bill Goodrem who lives here; I could almost swear his ears were pierced. He looked around the house, and then had me come walk out in the garden with him – to tell him everything that had happened.

"I did, and what he told me, but didn't tell Anne – and I never will – was that she had called them back – or called them up. Those things weren't real – she'd created them, out of the belief that she'd done something horribly, horribly wrong, and that there was a price that had to be paid. Her faith, her misapplied faith and all that guilt had moved mountains – had half-brought into reality horrors that never existed, that never could and would have existed. They had appeared because she believed in them – and if that belief was gone, they'd never return."

Elliot raised an eyebrow. "And how is that going to work? A Catholic church lady – the one thing you'll never get them off is that life starts at conception. Or did the pope have a new revelation this week against it, like the Mormons did when they were all, 'oops, guess black people have to be human, or BYU's never winning another football game'."

Curry shifted again. "Like I said, this young priest was from Brighton – from the seminary there. He led her through it after he said the blessing – explained how she'd gotten it wrong. He started with evolution, how we don't believe that God snapped His fingers and made the world in seven days just so like the Protestants do, how the story of Adam and Eve is about the creation of the soul in whatever Neanderthals it was back then; that science can show the limits of the story in the Bible where it had to be written for Bronze Age people who didn't know anything, but can never contradict the truth of salvation. And then he showed from the Old Testament, the ritual of the bitter water: something like that couldn't be done if it involved the murder of a child. Only God knows when the soul enters – when an embryo becomes a person. It's because we don't know that we have to protect life from conception – but what may be isn't what is. It was hard, I think, for Anne to understand at first, but she took it in and accepted it; she could accept it, and believe that it was true, and that she was still a good person and a good mother: that she hadn't rejected those embryos that never implanted. They didn't implant and become a child because their souls never entered them; they never became a person, a human being, and they never gained any more of the life of Christ than a mole or a scab. And what never lived can't come back to curse you from the other side of death. Sometimes, I get the creepy-crawlies, going to the bathroom at night, even still, but Anne always sleeps sound."

Elliot shivered. "Sure – sure, she sleeps sound. And do you sleep sound, sleeping next to your wife who can dream up Lovecraft monsters out of nothing? What about that? What about the next thing she gulls herself into believing in?" He shook, and Curry looked nervously away, and behind him, Anita pushed herself up, to yell at Elliot again for creeping out the other patrons.

#fiction #30and1nights

0 notes