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thefanficmonster · 4 years

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Unlucky

Part 2: ‘Lucky Me’

Corpse Husband x Reader

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Corpse decides to email back a person who has sent him quite a few creepy stories. She never seems to run out of scary encounters of both sorts: paranormal and stranger-danger. He gets suspicious that the stories are all made up so she can grab his attention, but he’s in for a surprise.

U/N - username

Requested: No

Corpse’s POV

I’m looking through my most recent emails from fans. They are all of scary encounters they’ve allegedly experienced. By now, I’ve read so many, it’s easy to decipher which are real and which are just made up nonsense. Some, I must admit, give me chills. Big props to the people who write those, especially if they are made up. If you can make someone’s skin crawl with your twisted, frightening imagination, you have one, for lack of a better term and in the most positive way, fucked up mind.

My cursor lands on the familiar username I see almost every other week. U/N. They have been sending stories consistently for about three years now. They, and I’m saying they cause you can never be sure who’s hiding behind the username, are either the most unlucky person to walk the planet or the one with most twisted imagination and story telling skills. I’ll admit, sometimes I narrate a story just because it’s well written. Believability is not the only thing I go by, I also reward creativity. And this person, U/N, has had their spot in many of my videos in the last three years. I’m honestly hoping they are made up, or at least some of them, because not only are there too many of them, but none of them fail to give me that eerie paranoia after I read them or the chills while I read them.

Once again, they have submitted a downright terrifying story. It would be a shame if I didn’t narrate it.

It would be a shame if I....

If I never actually meet them.

This many run-ins with people with malicious intent, always getting away by some miracle, what if they one day don’t make it out alive to tell it.

My heart sinks a little at the thought. I feel like I know this person, like we’ve known each other for three years now. They know the things the whole internet knows about me, and I, along with my regular watchers, know their stories. That’s by no means enough, now that I think about it.

My next action is really out of character for me. I decide to reach out to them. My fingers fly over the buttons on my keyboard too fast for my rational side to try and stop them. Deep down, I know I’m doing the rightest wrong thing I’ve ever done. My previously sunk heart is now in its assigned spot again, beating quickly.

You don’t know what you’re doing

I maybe don’t, but knowing isn’t what’s important right now. I just wanna do it.

~ Hey, this is probably, what, your twentieth story so far. I’m just curious, how many of these are made up? By the way, your stories are amazing and I’ll probably keep narrating them even if they aren’t real. They’re just that good.

I send the email before I can talk myself out of it. I get up from my chair immediately afterwards, putting as much distance between me and the computer as possible, silently promising myself I won’t be checking my mail every five minutes.

Y/N’s POV

I anxiously refresh and refresh my email inbox, waiting for the dreaded email back from my professor. Being halfway through the college experience, I know how tough this professor’s class is and how much I suck at it. I sent him my completed assignment last night, barely making the deadline mind you, so now I’m sweating hardcore, staring my computer screen down.

After refreshing for the millionth time, I’m met with a new email which makes my heart stop for a second or two, my stomach dropping. Then I take the time to read the sender’s name, the subject and the first sentence of the email, and all the previous changes in me reverse. My heartbeat picks up speed, going faster than a galloping horse and my stomach turns, making me feel the sensation everyone calls ‘butterflies’.

Nah, man. This shit ain’t real. It can’t be.

But then again, what if it is. What if I’m about to full-on ignore my favorite youtuber because of my paranoia. Well, it’s not exactly unsupported. My life has been a shit show of unfortunate event and situations I’ve literally had to claw my way out of in order to stay alive. Now, when something of the sort happens, it’s just another weekday. However, I still wanna share these encounters. Not only because they are proof of the dangers girls have to deal with on a daily basis, but they also get narrated by one of my favorite people ever. What more can a girl ask for?

~ Listen, I’m really not looking forward to getting catfished. Please leave me alone

It’s short, not sweet, and to the point. It’s easy to understand, and it clearly states that I’m not falling for it if it’s a scam, but if it’s real....someone call 911 cause I think I’ll faint.

~ I get it, you have trust issues. But that’s understandable. From the creepy guy messaging you on all your social media. To the stalker you had from you high school, or even that teacher that turned out to not be a teacher at all and just a pedo, I see where the lack of trust is coming from. But I assure you, they only thing I wanna do is chat.

The shock and happiness overwhelm me when the reply arrives not even ten minutes later.

Holy shit, this is him.

I start typing and then erase the typed half-sentence at least three times before receiving another email from him. From Corpse Husband. Corpse freaking Husband. How the fuck am I supposed to compose myself enough to reply to him, let alone sound cool and leave a good impression.

My hand shakes as I click the newly received email.

~ You probably don’t know what to say. Either that or you just don’t wanna talk to me. If you’re just baffled and surprised, reply with your name. If you want me to fuck off, ignore this email completely.

The smile I didn’t realize was there grows into a grin as small bursts of laughter escape me. Laughter caused by disbelief and shock. The type of laugh you let out when you score a good mark on the test you thought you completely fucked up.

~ Y/N. My name’s Y/N.

PS: The stories are all 100% real. All happened. In the order I sent them too. And before you ask, I guess I’m just unlucky, but you are proving me wrong right now.

I don’t know where that confidence at the end came from, but I don’t care really. All that matters is that this might just actually be happening and it might be the best thing to ever happen to me.

~ Man, you’ve had it rough. Tell me, is there an easier way to access you than email. Like Insta DMs? I feel we have a lot to talk about and email is not the most convenient.

At this point, it feel so much like a fever dream that I decide to treat it as though it is. I just go with the flow.

~ Yeah, but first.....am I really not being catfished right now?

The email I receive as a reply to this message is empty of text but there’s a file attached. Not gonna lie, I am a bit hesitant to open it, but I decide that if this turns bad, I’ll just have to deal with it. In the meantime, I’ll believe it’s not a scam.

It’s an audio file: “No, Y/N, you are not being catfished.”

That voice. That god damn voice. It could convince me of anything.

And now it’s convinced me into believing him. And finally letting out that squeal I was holding back before sending him my Instagram username.

#corpse #corpse husband #corpse husband fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #reader #requests open #request #husband #corpse simp #love #romance #among us

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negasonicimagines · 3 years

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Tell Me I'm Not Funny

Request: darkandmysteriousbutheartofgold!ellie and wholesomeanddoesn'tunderstandwhyelliedoesn'tlikeher!reader where they're both part of the friend group but ellie just thinks reader is straight and messing with her pls

Notes: I don’t usually write MCU!Peter, so if he comes up in any future fics (like as the reader’s stepdad 👀 I’ve loved spideypool longer than I’ve loved Negasonic) you can safely assume it’s Andrew Garfield. But, for this time, this is MCU!Peter. Everyone in the friend group is 18-20, just to be clear.

This really isn't my best work, but it's a fun little slice of life piece. A lot of my ideas are pretty cinematic, I can picture them in my head but sometimes those pictures don't really translate into words. I may revisit this one day.

Warnings: D-slur (reclaimed by Ellie in one line), allusions to prior assault (an unwanted kiss that could've been more had another character not stepped in), and that's about it. Oh, and a little swearing, but this is an imagine for a character from Deadpool. If you can't handle swearing, you're on the wrong blog.

Synopsis: You’re into Ellie, but she’s with your good friend Peter. She treats you like you don’t even exist, and in the few instances she does acknowledge you, it’s usually just to make some sarcastic remark. You’re head-over-heels, though, and decide to deal with your unrequited love by writing her a song she’ll never hear.

“Fuck, that movie was terrible,” Michelle groans. “I’m just glad it was a matinee show and we didn’t have to pay as much to see it.”

“The special effects were good, but can’t Disney just leave stuff alone?” Peter agrees.

“Next thing you know they’ll be making a live action Toy Story, as if the original wasn’t traumatizing enough. I don’t want to imagine Watermelon as a sentient being. She’s seen some shit,” you snicker.

“Who’s Watermelon?” Ellie asks with a dark chuckle, and you clam up. How had you forgotten she was here?

“Oh, uh, nobody.”

“Don’t tell me you still sleep with a stuffed animal,” she snarks. “You really do need to grow up.”

“Don’t be mean, Ellie,” Peter protests.

“Watermelon is cute, everybody likes cute things!” Yukio adds.

“I think a live-action Toy Story could be cool,” Ned says. “It’d look really good if they did stop-motion animation.”

“Oh, you’re right!” you chirp. “It’d be quite the undertaking, but it would look badass.”

“I think you’re using that term a little loosely,” Ellie grumbles, and you have to stop yourself from frowning, instead you laugh it off. Why does she always pick on you? Sure, she’s got a witty remark for everybody, but she’s way harder on you. It hurts, she really is so gorgeous and funny and mysterious and everything you want in a woman, but she acts like she can’t stand you.

Ellie and Peter head off together, Peter still hasn’t gotten around to getting his license and Ellie seems happy to give him a ride. You really don’t stand a chance.

You and the others pile up in MJ’s SUV for some late-night band practice.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” you admit to Yukio in the furthest row back.

“You can,” she insists. “You’re a way better singer than Lola, anyways.”

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to give her the wrong impression, I-”

“For the millionth time, Y/N, you didn’t. If she hadn’t left the band, we would’ve kicked her out. Not just for cheating on me, but for hurting you.”

“I guess,” you sigh. “Why can’t you sing instead?”

“Because I’m flat.”

“Yukio, breast size doesn’t have anything to do with singing ability, you’ve just gotta practice,” you joke.

“Shut up!” she giggles, punching you in the arm. “Plus, when you sing, the songs are being sung as they were written. We’re getting the real feelings.”

“Speaking of… I have something new I’m thinking about sharing tonight. Do you mind if I text you the demo?”

“Ooh, a first look! Hell yes!”

You text her the audio file and she puts in a wireless earbud, nodding along. Her smile gets wider and wider as she listens, and when she’s done, her assessment shocks you.

“Oh my gosh. You’re into Ellie.”

“What?!” you squeak. “No way!”

“You are! But, uh-”

“Don’t even say it. I know I don’t have a chance in hell. She only tolerates me for the sake of you and Peter.” Despite the gloominess of your tone, Yukio gets a mischievous glint in her eye, it confuses you. But, that’s just Yukio. Her thoughts are all over the place; she and Ellie balance each other out that way. They dated a couple of years ago, but it didn’t work out. They decided they were better off as friends.

“Screw that other song, we’re using this as the lead single. Everybody’s gonna love it, do you have the sheet music?”

“Yeah, uh, it’s in my bag.”

“Awesome.” Yukio’s grinning like she’s won something. Is the song that good? “We’ll have to practice this one a lot, we definitely need to have it ready by the concert this Friday.”

Right. Liz’s 19th birthday party. Apparently Peter had convinced her to let the band play, it’d be cheaper than hiring a more established artist.

“Our first paying gig? I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you remind her. She scoffs and rolls her eyes.

“We’re mostly gonna be playing covers of Liz’s favorite songs, and she only has so many. We’ve gotta beef up the setlist with originals, and this is perfect! Has that pop-y fun vibe, it’ll fit right in.”

“Yeah, but if it’s that obvious how I feel about her after one listen-”

“Only because I already had a hunch after Daft Pretty Boys,” Yukio clarifies cheerily, and you sigh.

“Fair enough.”

The gang makes it to Michelle’s house, travelling down to the side door and going into the basement from there. MJ’s parents have encouraged her creativity from day one, and were ecstatic when the band was formed. You speculate that they’re mostly happy that she’s made friends. Writing and photography can be lonely hobbies.

“Y/N has something new for us!” Yukio chirps.

“That fast?” Ned’s surprised as you hand him the sheet music. He skims it. “Holy shit, this is a wicked solo! Thanks, Y/N!”

“Well, I’m hoping highlighting everybody else’s talent will disguise my lack thereof,” you chuckle.

“Don’t be stupid, we’ve all heard you sing backup,” MJ says. “You’re Ryan Ross, she’s Brendon Urie. I’m just glad we booted her out before she decided she was gonna be the only pangolin in The Pangolins.”

Everyone laughs at that.

“Let’s try it,” Michelle continues, and everybody agrees. After a sound check and a few runs of the song, it’s still clumsy, especially on your part. You’re not really used to playing and singing at the same time, outside of backup vocals, which require far less focus.

“I suck,” you mumble, but it happens to be into the microphone.

“You don’t!” Ned insists.

“With that attitude, we’re not going anywhere,” Yukio says. You hate it when she gets to the tough love stage of her support. You wish she’d stay in the shallow reassurances stage, it’s easier to brush off. “You wouldn’t be the lead singer if we all thought you sucked. We would’ve just put an ad in the paper. You’re awesome, get over it!”

You sigh.

“Fine. Thank you.”

“Say it,” she insists.

“I’m awesome,” you huff, it’s hard not to smile when Yukio tries to look serious.

“Damn straight,” Yukio says. “Or, I guess not, considering that was about Ellie.”

“Yukio!” you squeal.

“That’s about Ellie?!” Ned exclaims.

“Obviously,” MJ scoffs, fiddling with her tuners.

“Is it that obvious?!” You can’t help but feel embarrassed. Ellie probably knows exactly how you feel, maybe that’s why she dislikes you so much. Her boyfriend’s stupid friend has a crush.

“Wait, but at the beginning…” Ned trails off, before laughing. “Oh my gosh, I get it.”

“Get what? Oh… Y/N, have I ever told you how much I love you?” MJ asks.

“I- I love you, too?” You’re puzzled by their words, but you’ve got enough on your plate.

“Let’s go ahead and practice some of Liz’s favorites while we’re here,” Yukio suggests. “It’s a pretty big set list.”

You practice until dinner, getting a pizza and deciding to make a night of it since it was a little late for Michelle to be dropping you all off at your assorted residences.

You all sleep on a pallet in the basement, and despite your worries, you manage to get some rest.

Over the next few days, The Pangolins practice at every free moment, until it’s finally time for the party.

“So, just pictures of everything?” Oh, shit. She’s not supposed to be here. How are you supposed to sing that song with her here?

“Yeah! I know with how many people are coming, I’m probably not going to get as much time as I want with everyone, so pictures will be a good way to remember the night.”

“Why not just invite less people?” Ellie wonders.

“I want all my friends to be here,” Liz explains. “How’s the sound check going, Y/N?”

“It’s going great,” you say into the microphone, demonstrating the quality and volume with a smile. “Thanks for letting us play here tonight.”

“Well, Peter said you guys are great. Are you really gonna debut your best song so far tonight?”

“Oh, um,” you stutter, stepping away from the microphone. “Maybe not.”

“What? Oh, come on, please, it’ll make the night even more special! You’re playing covers of all my old favorites, sing me my new favorite!” Liz presses, but she’s not being demanding or bratty, she seems genuinely excited.

“If the birthday girl says so, who am I to say no?” you concede. Hopefully Ellie will be too distracted taking pictures. “You have way too much faith in me.”

“If you don’t quit with the self-deprecation, I’m gonna duct tape your mouth shut,” MJ interjects.

“But, Daddy, how will I say my safe word?” you tease, giggling at your own joke with the rest of the group. Yukio’s laugh seems the loudest. Ellie glares.

“We should practice a song!” Ned suggests.

“Ooh, a private show!” Liz seems excited.

“Any requests?” you ask her. Ellie’s resting scowl intensifies. If she’s more pissed off the more you open your mouth, you’re not sure how she’s gonna survive a night of you singing without going nuclear.

“Oh, oh, Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne, please?”

“You’ve got it,” you agree.

The song goes smoothly.

“What happened to the old singer?” Ellie asks, clearly unimpressed.

“You didn’t tell her?” you ask Yukio, grateful for the excuse to turn away from the sharp-tongued girl you adore.

“Didn’t want her to get the wrong impression,” Yukio explains. “She already makes enough rude comments towards you.” Yukio leans over her drum kit to give Ellie a pointed look.

“Oh, wait, shit, I didn’t mean it like that. You, uh, sound good, Y/N.”

You can’t help but whip your head back to look at her with a flabbergasted expression.

“What?! It’s true,” Ellie defends herself.

“Uh, yeah, but you just said something nice. About me. Liz, do you mind checking her for a fever?”

Liz obliges for the sake of going along with the joke before quickly withdrawing her hand.

“Jeez! I know you were kidding, but she’s burning up,” Liz declares.

“My internal temperature is higher due to my mutation,” Ellie quickly explains, looking a bit bashful. “Besides, I say nice shit about Y/N all the time.”

“No, you don’t,” the whole band says in unison, including you.

“Well, clearly I shouldn’t if everyone’s gonna make a big fucking deal about it,” she retorts, rolling her eyes. “I’m gonna go get some pictures of the decorations before there’s a bunch of fucking people here to block them.”

She stomps off in her heavy boots, and The Pangolins get back to work, putting on the final touches and making sure all the blocking looks right.

Soon enough, guests start flooding in, and Liz zips around to greet them, eventually meeting up with Peter and keeping him with her. He and Liz eventually pull Ellie away from her picture-taking, confident she’s done enough and needs to just relax and enjoy the party.

So much for distracting herself with work, she thinks.

They sit on the couch and eat, the dining room was monopolized by The Pangolins due to its elevation and space.

Ellie’s mesmerized by the way your fingers move until she hears Peter talking to Liz. They really are a cute couple.

“You really do need to hang out with us. Yukio told me Y/N thinks Ellie and I are a thing,” he says.

“Gross, you’re like my annoying little brother,” Ellie remarks.

“And you’re like my bitchy older sister,” Peter retorts with a shit-eating grin.

“Both of you, quiet! They’re about to play the new song. You’re in for a real treat, Ellie.”

“What does it have to do with me?”

Liz gives Peter a confused and slightly irritated look.

“I haven’t said anything to her, I didn’t know how,” Peter squeaks, blushing a little at the look in his girlfriend’s eyes.

“Explain, quickly,” Ellie demands.

But, then you start to sing again.

“Y/N-” Peter starts.

“Shut up.”

“But you asked-”

“I said, shut up,” Ellie insists.

“You know me as your boyfriend's goofy friend. I seem to have this effect on women, and your friends aren't as goofy as I am. I try my best to keep you entertained, always laughing at the jokes you are saying. I nod my head when you make a point, oh oh…

“Kiss me, kiss me with your eyes closed! Whisper that your heart shows all I want is you, yeah, you… Hold me, hold me I'm your bunny! Tell me I'm not funny, tell me I’m legit! ‘Cause I feel weak, in your hands and your feet… A precious end, I’ll never feel your touch…”

Ellie continues to listen to the song, all expression drained from her face. All the yearning in the words and your voice, all you want is…

Ellie looks at Peter, who’s looking at her with a triumphant smile.

“I told you.”

Ellie feels like she’s about to faint. She notices you’re talking to Liz— when did she leave? —your hand over your mic. Despite the knowledge that Liz is taken, Ellie gets jealous. You look so happy to be talking to Liz, to just about any girl you talk to.

She wishes you’d smile at her that way.

You nod at whatever Liz said, and the band starts packing away their instruments. Liz sets up her phone on some Bluetooth speakers, and songs that sounded so much better when you were singing them start to play.

No! Ellie internally protests. Sing for me again, please, sing that stupid song about how you think I don’t like you.

Yukio’s dragging you somewhere. Gosh, Ellie wishes it was her holding your hand.

Suddenly, though, you and Yukio are approaching her. She knows what she has to do.

“So, what’d you think of our- Eek! Finally!”

Ellie parts from the kiss to tell her to fuck off and not ruin the moment before kissing you again.

“Holy fucking shit,” you breathe. “Uh, I thought you were-“

“Dating Peter?! Seriously?! Do I need to write ‘dyke’ on my fucking forehead? I practically already have with the way I dress and act and-”

“I, uh, I try not to make assumptions,” you mumble, fingers touching your lips.

“I’m, uh, sorry for not asking.”

“No, it’s- It was good. I’ve wanted you to do that for a while. It’s just that that was the first time somebody’s kissed me, since, uh…” Your eyes dart to Yukio, who’s ruffling Ned’s hair and laughing.

“Yukio?!” Orange flickers in Ellie’s eyes for a moment, but she keeps it under control.

“No, no, of course not, uh… The old singer, Lola. She and Yukio were dating, but apparently I was the one she really had her sights on, and… She was entitled. Thought that because she wanted me, I must want her. That wasn’t really the case, I was already pining over you. Didn’t stop her from forcing a few kisses on me and trying to go further. If Yukio hadn't shown up early with cupcakes, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

“I am such an asshole,” Ellie says softly. “Can I kiss you again? The right way.”

“I’d say what you did before was pretty right, but sure,” you consent.

Her kiss before had been rough, needy, and impatient. Just the way you like it. This, though, this is gentle, soft, and exploratory. You tangle your hands in her hair and kiss her harder. She moans into the kiss before pulling away, bewildered.

“That was…” Ellie trails off, trying to find a positive adjective that won’t sound to frilly or lovesick.

“A mistake, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, fuck, no. I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” she corrects you. “Just- Didn’t really know how. Even when you were kinda flirting with me at first, I just thought you were messing with me, so I- I am so stupid.”

“So am I,” you scoff. “I thought you were dating Peter.”

“I was spending a lot of time with him, but… I was just using him as an excuse to avoid you so I wouldn’t embarrass myself anymore. And I was asking him for advice. I figured if he could land somebody as far out of his league as Liz, maybe I stood the slightest bit of a chance with you. But I kept fucking it up. I’d just get so nervous, all of my compliments would turn into insults, all of my teasing turned into straight-up cruelty. I don’t know how you actually like me.”

“I’m a little bit of a masochist, I’ll admit,” you tell her. “I’m really glad you don’t hate me.”

“I’m really glad you don’t hate me,” Ellie replies, but she can’t help but think that what she‘s really saying is ‘I love you, too.’

She takes your hand, and you two rejoin your friends, swept up in a group hug. They wanted this to happen almost as much as you two did.

#negasonic teenage warhead #ellie phimister #x-men #negasonic teenage warhead imagine #ellie phimister imagine #x-men imagine #negasonic teenage warhead x reader #ellie phimister x reader #x-men x reader #wlw x reader #sapphic x reader #wlw imagine #sapphic imagine #lesbian x reader #lesbian imagine #songfic

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ninbayphua-moyan · 3 years

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Moonlit Sparrow Through Parted Clouds

Thunderous grey clouds hung heavy in the sky as I made my way towards the lecture hall. My body ached with a bone-deep exhaustion and each leaden step I took felt heavier than the last. I stopped, wanting to turn back, but time and time again, my body refused to obey as my legs carried me towards my destination.

Half an hour later, I found myself standing outside the empty lecture hall despite the countless hesitations along the way. Sighing, I sank to the floor and closed my eyes, too tired to remain upright. That’s what university does to you. It sucks out your soul, your passion, and your youth, leaving nothing behind but an empty husk of a human being.

A familiar voice calling my name pricked my hazy, sleep deprived brain and I cracked open my heavy eyelids. My facial muscles moved like clockwork, automatically forming a smile to greet my friend.

“You look like a corpse!” Chu Ying exclaimed worriedly at the sight of the heavy dark circles beneath my vacant eyes.

“Haven’t been getting much sleep this week…” I replied with a nonchalant shrug as I quickly scrunched up my eyes until they turned into little crescents of laughter, “assignments due soon.”

Seemingly convinced by my explanation, she gave me a look of sympathetic encouragement and left. The second no one was looking, I let the smile fall. Amazing what a simple smile could conceal. You could probably murder someone, smile, plead innocent and everyone would believe you. Sighing softly under my breath, I grabbed my bag and joined the gathering crowd of students as they trickled into the dimly lit lecture theatre.

My laptop sat quietly on the desk, an empty word document laid open on its illuminated screen as the lecturer’s monotonous voiced droned on and on in the background. I should have been taking down notes but my mind was too preoccupied with my issues with the Undergraduate Office to focus on what the lecturer was saying.

A rhythmic vibration drew my attention towards the phone sitting on my lap. Glancing at the pop-up notification, a wave of anxiety and hope surged through my body as I registered who the sender was – the Undergraduate‘s Office. Quickly, I pulled up the email and immediately felt my heart sinking after reading the first line.

All seminar groups are full and we cannot move students.

Lies.

Another notification, this time, from my personal tutor.

It’s only week 3, relax.

Disappointment. Betrayal. Frustration. Anger. I clenched my trembling hands into fists as the tsunami of emotions threatened to explode and spill out of my shaking body. Half of me wanted to storm over to the Undergraduate’s office and let loose the unbridled rage coursing through my veins at the unfair treatment. The other half of me wanted to lash out at my tutor’s condescending advice. My body trembled at the barely, ever so barely contained anger.

Sixteen thousand pounds. That would be eighty-four thousand two hundred and seventy-nine ringgit each year in school fees. Fees which didn’t even include the amount I needed to spend in order to buy the books required for the modules. Sixteen thousand pounds per year just to get an education, an education that I wasn’t even getting at this point and her advice for me was to relax? How could I when my parents worked their entire youth away, saving every cent just so they could send me, all the way to Britain to get a proper education! Did they even know what the stakes of sending me abroad to study was?!

My father’s average yearly income is twenty-four thousand ringgits, barely twenty-eight percent of my yearly school fees. Was it that unreasonable to want to be in a class that will allow me to learn and improve after paying for that much money out of my parents’ own pocket?! Why would anyone in their right mind come half way across the globe, paying that ridiculous amount of money, and being so far away from family and home for years, just to fool around? If that had been my intention, I wouldn’t even have bothered going to university in the first place, let alone coming all the way to Cardiff!

University will be fun they said. You’ll meet open-minded people passionate about learning they said. Hah! That’s the biggest misconception if there ever was one. First of all, the university doesn’t care about whether you actually learn anything so long as you're paying the fees. The majority of lecturers or seminar leaders will only do the most minimal amount of work required and by that, I mean three hundred words of prose only per weekly assignment. What kind of creative work could anyone produce under three hundred words? In prose! Some don’t even bother with critical commentary which is just as essential as the creative pieces. Not only does the lack of practice in writing critical commentaries and limited word count for the creative pieces inhibit students from developing any work of significance, it also underprepares students for the three-thousand-word portfolio due at the end of the semester.

Secondly, British universities are also especially discriminatory towards outsiders or people of colour, often treating minorities and international students with hostility or disregard. I’ve experienced this discrimination first hand upon requesting a seminar change. Despite having emailed the Undergraduate Office at the same time with the exact same reasons, I was denied the change whilst my British classmate was immediately allowed to swap seminars. The office even went so far as to lie about the class being full even though I was told by the professor leading that very seminar that it wasn’t. So much for the integrity of the institution.

At the end of the day, international students are nothing but cash cows to British universities.[1] Not only do they have to pay double of what British students pay in terms of fees, they also have to deal with the discriminations that come alongside being an outsider. I understood that in this day and age, education was a business, and that the university itself was, essentially, a business, but doesn’t actual passion for learning still count for something? Or was I wrong in believing in that as well? Oh, so naïve, so very naïve!

Old memories started to surface amongst the turmoil of emotions. My father and his worn-out clothes, refusing each time to buy new ones for himself just to save a little more money. My mother mending them as best she could whilst we slept, never once complaining. Images of my father’s prematurely greying hair and bloodshot eyes as he worked his health away to provide for his children’s future. My mother’s back bent low, labouring away at some project or another in order to make ends meet. Yet, they never once showed us how tired or how tough things were. There was always enough food on the table and they always had a smile on their faces around us. Sometimes, I noticed that they would eat a lot less than usual but whenever I asked, they merely joked and said they were trying to lose weight. They could have enjoyed their youth, their honeymoon, but they decided to save it all, sacrificing their health and comfort just to ensure mine by sending me here.

I remember the times where they would secretly check their wallets whenever I begged them to buy me a book. Oh, how those very books painted and fuelled my illusions of Britain’s perfection. If only I had known the reality of it all before applying to study here. But it’s too late for regrets now.

A sharp stinging pricked the back of my eyes, tears threatening to fall as my body shook with suppressed, uncontrollable rage. Maybe if I was a little braver…maybe if I fought a little harder…maybe if I confronted them a bit more…maybe…maybe…maybe…

Then as quickly as they appeared, the tsunami of emotions faded away, leaving behind an empty husk. My clenched fists loosen and fell limply at my sides as a quiet, bitter laugh escaped my lips. Nothing was going to change. No matter how hard I fought, the end results will remain the same so what’s the point of even trying in the first place?

As the cold hard reality of the situation finally presented itself, I slumped against the chair, my empty laptop screen staring blankly back at me. Resignation dragged me deeper and deeper into the murky depths of my mind. I was drowning. No one knew and no one cared. But that’s fine. The ending remains the same regardless. Always the same…

The sound of rustling papers and loud chatter momentarily draws me out of the murky waters. Realising that the lecture had ended, I gathered my things and shuffled towards the exit, my mind returning once more to the depths of the void. Outside, the rain was pouring. I plodded down the streets drenched to the bone as my legs moved mechanically towards my flat. A stifling numbness engulfed my mind as I trudged on in silence, the howling wind battering my shivering, rain-soaked body from all sides. Rounding the corner, I pulled out a key-card and entered the cramped grey flat. Out of sheer habit, I grabbed the letters from my letterbox and stuffed them into my coat pocket before heading upstairs.

Entering the dingy room, I dropped my backpack on the bed and sank to the floor. Hugging my knees to my chest, I stared vacantly at the bleak wall. My phone rang insistently in my pocket but I didn’t answer, too tired to move. The crushing weight on my lungs forced out whatever little oxygen I managed to draw, making each breath a struggle. The clamouring voices in my mind grew louder and louder, growing in intensity yet forcefully contained, like built-up pressure without release on the brink of implosion.

You’re useless

I’m…not…

You can’t even stand up for yourself or fight for what you believe is right

Yes I can! And I’m trying! I’ve –

You’re a disappointment to your parents and your family

I’m not! I swear! I –

You’ll never amount up to anything

That’s not true! I –

You’re pathetic

No –

Nothing but a Failure

Stop saying –

Human garbage

Please! Just –

Waste of space

“SHUT UP!”

Silence. Nothing but the sound of my ragged breathing in the darkness.

The world would be better off without you

I don’t know how long I had stayed there on the floor but by the time I came around, my dripping wet clothes were nearly dry. The chaotic calamity within had finally died down and I was filled with an eerie calmness. A deafening silence blanketed the air, pierced only by the hypnotic rumbling of trains across tracks. Ah yes…the railway…my ticket to solving everything…just two blocks away…and it’ll all be over…permanently…

Forcing my lethargic limbs to move, I wobbled onto my feet and stumbled towards the door. A tiny parcel fell out of my pocket and the handwriting on it made me paused. It was my mother’s. Even under the dimness of the moonlight trickling in, there was no mistaking that immaculately cursive hand.

Letting go of the door handle, I kneeled down to pick up the neatly wrapped package. Then, slowly, as if afraid it would fall apart at the slightest touch, I began unwrapping the parcel. Upon opening the box, tears welled at the corner of my eyes. Six little cylindrical bundles of haw flakes were carefully packed within, each attached to a tightly rolled up strip of paper. Gently untying the scrolls from the sweets, I began reading them one at a time.

Jie![2] I got you your favourite sweets! Wanted to buy you more of them but Ma said there wasn’t enough space in the box. Don’t worry, I’ll send you a big box of them once I’ve saved up enough money.

– Di[3]

My heart ached as I thought about how much it must have costed for them to ship the parcel all the way from Penang to Britain. And with the little amount of pocket money…it must have taken Di-Di months of saving to be able to afford buying that one bundle of sweets…

Jie, just because you’re the oldest doesn’t mean you have to hold everything in on your own y’know? It’s okay to rely on others a bit more from time to time. Enjoy the sweets you idiot, you’re crazy about those haw flakes. No idea why you like them either, they aren’t even that nice.

– Mei[4]

Tears pricked the back of my eyes as my sister’s grumpy voice echoed in my ears. I could even see the disbelieving eye roll at my odd preferences in sweets after the last sentence. How I’ve missed our senseless squabbles and late-night chats….

A-Yun, being an international student in the UK isn’t always the easiest thing, especially when you’re a minority there. You’ve already taken the necessary steps and have done all you can in that situation. Remember, it’s the end result and not the process that defines a victory. Remember what Sun Tzu mentioned in The Art of War? ‘The most important rule to victory is to know when to pick your fights and how to fight it’. Not all battles need to be fought to win the war. Never forget our family values and never lose sight of your goal. Don’t worry about finances, let me handle that. Just focus on your studies and aim for that first-class honours. The best revenge is to succeed despite their efforts to stop you. Continue to work hard and don’t give up. Know that regardless of the outcome, your Ma and I are proud of you and that we love you very, very much.

– Ba[5]

A sob catches at the back of my throat as tears flowed freely down my cheeks. Acute pangs of longing weighed heavily on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

A-Yun[6] ah, if it ever becomes too much to bear at Cardiff, come home. Ma will make you your favourite dishes. I know you want to do well but don’t overwork yourself. Remember to get enough rest and try to change your bad habit of skipping meals. Two boiled eggs alone don’t count as a proper meal either!

– Ma[7]

A sheepish giggle escaped my lips despite the tears, Ma’s exasperated voice ringing in my ears. I could almost picture the look of indignation on her face as she judges my terrible meal choices before proceeding to fill my bowl with steamy boiled dumplings.

Ah…Ma’s famous boiled dumplings…the saltiness of minced pork marinated with soy sauce and sesame oil…the refreshing sweetness of spring onions and carrots contrasting the pork’s saltiness…flecks of finely chopped hei-mu-er adding a chewy texture to the tender meat whilst thin sheets of delicately wrapped dough encapsulated it all…the slight bitterness of the herbal broth complementing the savoury dumplings…[8] My stomach growled in protest as I smiled fondly at the memory.

Wiping away the remaining tears, I unrolled the last strip of paper. Elegant brushstrokes painted familiar characters in horizontal lines. A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I recalled sitting on A-Gong’s [9] lap in the garden as kid, watching him practice calligraphy. I remembered how he used to read his poems aloud as I gaze at his hands guiding the bamboo brush across the ivory sheet, entranced by its flowing movements. Each word written was like a piece of art, each stroke of ink painting a meaning of its own.

Tranquil night’s darkness, the moon shines bright, From the mud the lotus rises, its petals pure despite. Vermillion red blossom like wildly raging flames; Elegant, virtuous, delicate, yet exquisitely untamed. The wise once said that adversity yields flair, An upright heart, oblique shadows don’t scare. Dripping water with time wears the stubborn stone, Sturdy wood too can be cut with rope saws alone! [10]

A strange tranquility wrapped itself around me as I read the poem, A-Gong’s calm and mellow voice resonating in my ears. It was almost as if he was standing right before me with the usual toothless smile and twinkling eyes on his wizen face. Tenderly cradling the small box of sweets, a faint smile graced my lips. Their vermillion red and gold wrappings shone with a certain warmth under the soft light of the moon. Gently unwrapping one of the thumb-size bundles with shaking hands, I popped a disk-like piece into my mouth.

Immediately, a wave of warmth spread throughout my cold and hollowed body, almost as if it was infused with the life-giving heat of home. The familiar tart sweetness of the hawthorn berries cleared the heavy fog that clouded my mind and for the first time in a long while, I felt energy slowly seeping back into my worn-out soul, reigniting the snuffed-out fire within. Strange how something so small, barely the size of my thumb, could bring so much comfort and hope. That night, the moon shone a little brighter than usual, and the normally barren sky seemed to be exploding with billions of twinkling stars.

NOTES

[1] Alina Schartner & Yoonjoo Cho, ‘“Empty signifiers” and “dreamy ideals”: perceptions of the “international university” among higher education students and staff at a British university’, Higher Education, 74 (2017), 455-472

[2] ‘Jie’ means older sister in Chinese

[3] 'Di’ means younger brother in Chinese

[4] 'Mei’ means younger sister in Chinese

[5] ‘Ba’ means father in Chinese

[6] ‘Yun’ is written as ‘云’ meaning ‘cloud’

[7] 'Ma’ means mother in Chinese

[8] Hei-mu-er is the Mandarin term for black cloud ear fungus, a type of mushroom often used in Chinese cuisines.

[9] ‘A-Gong’ means grandfather in Chinese (specifically, the Hainanese pronounciation)

[10] This is a self written and self translated poem I wrote. The original Chinese version can be found here.

[11] ‘Moonlit Sparrow Through Parted Clouds’ is a play on 守得云开见月明 meaning the moon will shine brightly again when the clouds part, and 麻雀虽小五脏俱全 meaning though a sparrow is small, it has all the vital organs.

Author's Notes:

So this is one of my earlier prose pieces from uni (all the way back from first year lol). I don’t usually post prose? Not prose of this length at least. Anyways, I thought I’d take the leap and try posting them online now since I decided to start doing that for my poetry pieces? The rest of my prose pieces throughout uni somehow ended up becoming interlinked with several recurring characters though there are some inconsistencies since they were initially intended as stand-alone pieces rather than a series of somewhat loosely linked short stories. I’ll be posting them in story timeline sequence (or at least as closely to a sequence as I can since I didn’t exactly plan out the timeline of these pieces either) rather than in the sequence it was written in so there might be a slight fluctuation in writing style cuz they do kinda change over the years? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading Part 1~

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Since exams are over and graded and I've officially graduated, I can finally post my work online without having to worry about Turnitin picking it up as plagiarism because apparently you aren't allowed to plagiarise yourself according to university which is absolutely ridiculous but I'm not the one making the rules here so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, please don't reupload my works without permission.

#ninbayphua 墨彦 #prose #short story #I'm new to sharing stories or prose I've written online so please be kind #constructive critisms are always welcomed #please don't repost without permission

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

the arrangement

summary: it is all clear and simple—until it isn’t.

word count: 6.6k+

warnings: sugar daddy relationship, age gap (john is ~35, reader is ~23), angst, language, innuendo, suggestive themes & moments (not 18+ but be mindful—probably more so than with anything i’ve written!)

a/n: for the sake of this fic, veronica et al. don’t exist. i refuse to write infidelity. okay i hope you enjoy because i am very upset about the cottagecore!brian fic that i wrote which was eaten unceremoniously by the monster living in this website. xoxo!

1986.

he doesn’t kiss you; you won’t let him.

it’s all a part of the minutiae of your arrangement. he has his rules: a shower before and after—sometimes together, but mostly alone; meetings out of the public eye, normally his london flat; no contact with his colleagues. you have your rules: no outside arrangements with other women (or men, for all you care); no spur-of-the-moment visits; and above all, no kissing.

he can—and does—have a field day with the curves and contours of your body whenever he gets the chance. his mouth knows your skin well, and you’d like to think you know his in a similar fashion. you know what it feels like to be touched and held and loved by him, but his lips have never so much as brushed yours, and you intend to keep it that way. it’s just a quirk, a bothersome little thing you carry with you to all of your arrangements. kissing is too intimate and, though you’ve been more than intimate with john, there’s a line in the concrete you are unwilling to cross. he respects that, so the arrangement works.

you like him. he’s charming and intelligent, thoughtful when it matters. he never forgets a date despite his busy schedule, and he seems to anticipate your moods, knowing just when to spoil you a little extra to ease the pain of a ruined portrait or sour customer. he supports your art endeavors, though you are firm about him staying away from your studio apartment. like kissing, it’s too intimate, too personal. he pays the rent, though, and is admittedly happy when you confess he has inspired a piece or two.

still, he’s confounding. there’s a pervading sadness about his person, even when he’s laughing. it runs deep—that sadness—and you can’t pinpoint the origin. you suspect he must be lonely even though he’s one of the world’s foremost musicians. why else would he dote on you endlessly? why else would he throw his hard-earned money at the feet of a girl too young to be his proper lover and too guarded to ever give him the chance at something real?

not that he’s tried to move the arrangement to something deeper. he hasn’t. for that alone, you’re more than content to stay with him. you’ve had strings of other arrangements before, but never one that’s lasted this long. it always falls apart eventually—unmet expectations, dangerous feelings, the unfortunate death. a year and a half with john is a long time, and you’re surprised he’s not bored with you yet. you’re surprised you aren’t bored with him.

but truly, he is kind and well-off—physically and monetarily—and so long as he’s keen to have you around, you’ll stick around. you aren’t complaining.

of all your arrangements, you like john richard deacon the most.

he’s been gone for some time, consumed by the magic tour and promoting the latest queen album. he’s tired, ready for a break, and when he calls you a week before his return, you can hear the shoulder-crushing weariness in his tone.

“i’m getting too old for this, [y/n],” he says.

his sigh is heavy, and it gives you pause. you hold still, the paintbrush between your fingers suspended in midair. you twist on your stool in discomfort. though you know your role—and you play it splendidly—there’s always a flare of uncertainty in the back of your mind when john muses personal.

you shift, cradling the telephone between your shoulder and your ear. “you’re only thirty-five, john,” you say after a moment. “hardly an old fart.”

“well, i feel one.” something crinkles over the line. “i think we’ll be on break for a good while after this. freddie is—” he sighs again. “when can i see you?”

you can’t help but smile. you dip your head to the side as you study the foot of the angel in your painting. there’s something not quite right, so you lift the corner of your smock and wipe away the top of her big toe.

you like it when your men are eager; it means they still intend on supplementing your income and leaving you fine gifts. as soon as the eagerness begins to fade, as soon as the meetings are less and less frequent, you know it’s time to look elsewhere. nearly two years later and john is more eager for an evening with you now than he was at the start. you have nothing to worry about.

“when do you get back?”

“thursday.”

“then you can see me thursday.”

he exhales in something that sounds a lot like relief. you bite your lip to keep from smiling wider. he’s wrapped so tight around your pinky; neither of you seem to care.

“good, good. i’ll bring you something from barcelona. what do you want?”

"hmm. surprise me.”

“you don’t like surprises.”

“you’re right. how about some of those fun little tiles? the colorful ones, y’know?” he hums in agreement. “i can put those in my kitchen.”

“tiles? my baby wants tiles?” he laughs, and you’re thankful for the thousands of miles between you. the affectionate term, spoken normally in jest, sends your thoughts straight to the gutter every time, loathe as you are to admit such a thing. “fine. tiles it is. see you thursday.”

“it’s a date, mr. deacon.” you pause then add, “get some rest, john. you sound knackered.”

“i am.”

“i’ll see you thursday, handsome.”

he says goodnight, wishes you sweet dreams, and hangs up. you drop the phone to its base and sit back, stretching your arms over your head.

the canvas before you is taller than it is wide—twenty-four by thirty-six. the customer, a repeater, requested something angelic and bright, a new addition to their marble villa in the south of greece. you’re happy to oblige, but you’re stuck on the bottom portion. should the angel be in flight? poised on a cliffside? in a garden? you know it doesn’t matter, that the buyer will be happy regardless, but it matters to you. each painting needs to tell a coherent story, and you like for that story to fit well with the piece’s ultimate home.

your mother says you are blessed with a gift by god. john says you have natural talent. you think you’re just good at copying. it’s not forgery; all of your paintings are as unique as they are original. still, you’re excellent at replicating dead-and-gone styles: renaissance, rococo, romantic, hell even the odd modern piece. whatever the customer wants, you can reproduce it for a fraction of the cost. your work pays handsomely, but averaging only one painting a year doesn’t pay all the bills that pile up on your kitchen island over the months. that’s where john comes in. it evens out in the end, with more than enough on the side to play with.

rising from your stool for a much needed break, you cross the concrete floor, the stone cool beneath your bare feet. the evening has gone drafty, so you shut one of the tall windows looking onto the side garden. you pick up your mail from beneath the flap on the front door and rifle through. nothing urgent, though there’s a letter from your mother. you tuck it to the side.

john would detest your studio if he ever saw it. it’s unfeeling, bare bones and vaulted ceilings and exposed beams. most of the open floor plan is used for your painting endeavors. there’s discarded portraits along the wall, a few untarnished canvases tucked in a corner. there’s a worktable that doubles as a kitchen table, and a cramped kitchen shoved beneath the loft which houses your bed and wardrobe. you don’t mind the gray walls and gray floors and metal and lack of personal touches. if anything, the simplicity allows your creativity to explode.

after a piece of jam and toast for supper, you return to your painting. the angel should be on a cliffside overlooking the sea, you decide; after all, her home will soon be greece. dipping your brush to the mixture of tan and dark brown you’ve been using for her skintone, you curl a leg beneath you and set to work. only this time, you struggle to keep the excited smile from your face.

john’s coming home. you missed the bastard—him and his money.

thursday evening you find yourself on john’s front stoop, fist poised to knock on the door. the dress beneath your coat is silky, like water against your skin. you feel underdressed for the turn of the season but you’re likely to be without clothing entirely within the hour so you grit your teeth against the chill on your legs. you clear your throat, adjust the curled ends of your hair, and knock on the door. the bottle of champagne in your hand grows heavy as you wait, and you finger the small string of diamonds around your neck.

john inhales through his nose sharply when he opens the door. “[y/n],” he breathes before sweeping you into a tight embrace.

you laugh, crushed against his chest, your arms snug around his shoulder. he smells clean, like soap and fresh tea. you lift your legs, giggling further as he spins you about the rowhouse foyer.

“okay, okay!” you squeal. “put me down!”

he drops you to the floor, your heels clicking against the hardwood. “let me take your coat,” he says, sliding behind you to remove your outer layer. you shimmy out of the garment and bite you lip on a smirk when he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“like it?” you ask, twirling on the ball of your foot in a slow circle. your dress—pale pink, short and open in the back—leaves little to the imagination.

“you’re a sight for sore eyes, angel.”

he steps away from the coatrack to circle his arms around your waist. he settles his hands in the curve of your spine and drinks you in, his pupils expanding with appreciation. you preen under his gaze and rest your palms on his brightly patterned shirt. you never tire of this—no matter who your benefactor is. the glazed look in their eye when they see you wearing a necklace newly bought or sporting a handbag of your choice or simply pushed against their strength is intoxicating. you feel powerful and desirable and unstoppable all at once.

“missed you.” john lifts a hand to brush a lock of hair away from your face, and the gesture is decidedly intimate. it sends a chill down your spine, your mouth tightening. you know if this were any other relationship he would bend forward and capture your lips, marking you as his and erasing the weeks apart with a single touch. you know he’s fighting the urge to do so now; you can see it in the way his eyes flick to your mouth and hold there.

to ease his yearning, you wind your arms around his neck and squeeze him tight, curling your fingers in the base of his recently trimmed perm. you like the fluff; it’s quirky—like him. “missed you, john.” you kiss the corner of his jaw and pull away, trailing to the kitchen.

he’s hot on your heels.

lifting your rump onto the kitchen island, you cross your ankles and grin as he enters the room. “did you bring me my tiles?”

john blinks, as if he’s not sure what you’re talking about, but then recognition lights his eyes, and he snaps in remembrance. “ah yes, the tiles! hold on.” he slips into an adjoining room before returning with a brown box tied with a white ribbon. “here.”

you take the box, smile at him where he leans against the counter opposite you, and tear off the string. within the box there’s a small index card covered in john’s neat script. you lift it and meet his eyes again; there’s a faint blush on his cheeks as you read aloud.

“[y/n], i thought you deserved something better than a few titles. love, john.” lowering the card to your side, you push back the tissue paper to see a framed pencil sketch of a woman mid-gown fitting. the seamstress is crouched against the floor, her back to the viewer. the woman being fitted is twisted, glancing over her shoulder as the seamstress works, her reflection visible in an invisible mirror. you squint and push your nose to the corner then nearly drop the frame to the floor.

your head snaps up so fast it cracks. “john, you didn’t.”

he just beams, nodding.

tucked in the right hand corner of the sketch is the artist’s signature, a signature you know well. mary cassatt.

“got it in paris,” he explains. “thought you could use an original from your favorite.”

you brush your fingertip along the signature and feel the sting of tears beneath your eyelids. of all the gifts you been handed—holidays in rome, designer bags and jewelry, luxury rides to and from the city—this, this, is the best. part of you hates the sudden rush of emotion that spreads through your chest, but you allow the feeling to take hold, opening your arms to him. he steps between your legs, and you curl yourself around his body.

“thank you, john,” you whisper. your voice is muffled by the fabric of his shirt, but the way he presses his hand against your shoulder blade tells you he heard you loud and clear.

he hums against the crook of your neck. the vibrations tickle your throat, and you flush. you draw back, far enough to meet his gaze, but close enough to feel his breath against your face.

god, you could kiss him.

the thought strikes you like a bolt of lightning, and you resist the urge to gasp. you’ve never thought it before; the rule of no kissing is ingrained in you so deep the mere idea of breaking it sends you for a loop. but there he is—generous and gorgeous and yours. he knows you well, spoils you well, and all he asks is you entertain him in return.

how did you get to be so lucky?

clearing your throat, you brush past him to hop off the counter. you tug the hem of your dress down a smidgen and touch his shoulder. “want me to go shower?” you ask, cocking your head toward the bathroom.

he turns to face you and shakes his head. “no.” his arms are around you again, as if it pains him to keep his distance for a moment too long. you can feel it in the thrum of his heart against your ribcage. you swallow hard.

your brow pinches in a frown. “but you—”

his mouth is already tracing the lines of your neck, warm and wet and dizzying. he grips your hip, his fingertips pressing through the satin of your dress. “forget it, [y/n]. i’ve missed you,” he whispers, a tattoo on your skin. “come to bed.”

“but the sho—”

he pulls back and lifts a hand to grasp your chin. the touch is not angry, not possessive; it’s just firm. the words in your mouth dry up, and you meet his gaze with wide eyes. “i said forget it.”

you nod, mute.

his eyes lower to your mouth. his tongue darts out to swipe his lower lip.

he steps away, his fingers trailing down your arm until they circle your wrist. he leads you through the house, silent, until you reach the foot of his bed. moonlight washes through the open terrace doors. a misty rain drifts into the room, bringing with it a chill and a whisper of autumn.

you toe off your heels, run your finger down his grecian nose, over his straight jaw. there’s this feeling in your stomach, one you can’t quite place. it’s a mixture of contentment and nerves, joy and apprehension, all at once. it’s a foreign feeling, and there’s no time to dissect it as john leans close.

his nose nudges yours. “i missed you.”

you sigh, wistful, and pull him onto the bed.

come morning you are sated and sore. you groan through a stretch, curling your back like a cat as you adjust to the morning light. you slept well, better than you have in several weeks. you can’t be sure if the dreamless slumber was due to exertion from your evening activities or pure tranquility. you missed sleeping beside john; he has a comforting way about him, even in the throes of pleasure or sleep.

you turn your face to see john already wake, propped up against a pile of pillows. you grin and reach for him.

“morning,” you mumble on a yawn.

he blinks contentedly at you, a half-smile on his mouth, a lit cigarette between his fingers. “morning.”

“sleep well?”

he nods. “that was the most sleep i’ve gotten in weeks.”

with a chuckle, you pinch his bicep. “funny—i thought the same for myself.”

he pats the space beside him, and you shuffle to lie perpendicular to his body, your head on his bare chest. he drapes an arm across your torso, and you lift his hand to fiddle with his long fingers.

the terrace door is still open, allowing mid-morning warmth and the gentle hum of the street below to fill the room. you sigh and smile when john takes a drag of his cigarette and tilts his head to exhale in the opposite direction. he knows you hate the smoke, thoughtful boy.

when he turns back, he catches your eye, furrowing his brow as he studies the look on your face. “what?”

you shake your head. “nothing.”

he grunts, shifts a little lower along the pillows. “tell me about the paintings you’ve got going in that pretty head of yours.”

“just one for the moment—an angel near the sea. it’s for the olsons and their villa in greece.”

“olson? wasn’t he the one who bought that nudie fashioned after his wife?”

“precisely the one!”

john smirks. “how’d you feel if i had you paint something like that for me?”

you guffaw, flipping over onto your stomach to slap his breastbone. “john!”

he holds up his hands in surrender, though there’s a mischievous twinkle in his gray eyes. “oy! it’s just a thought!”

you huff. “continue like that and i won’t finish the painting i’ve started for you.”

he leans back against the pillows in surprise. his neck is contorted in the effort it takes to properly meet your eyes as he sits, and you poke the double-chin that’s popped up beneath his jaw. he swats your hand away, though his fingers wrap tight around your wrist. he presses his pointer finger against your pulse point.

“you’ve started a painting for me?”

“course i have. don’t sound so surprised.”

“what’s it of?”

you narrow your gaze. “don’t know if i should tell you. it’s supposed to be a birthday gift.”

“my birthday’s not for a while, [y/n].”

“my paintings take a while, john.”

he sighs, squeezes your wrist, lifts it to kiss the bone on the side of your hand. “tell me,” he mumbles, his mouth against your skin, eyes locked on yours.

on an inhale, you give in. “it’s victoria park. well, victoria park seventy-five years ago.”

his eyebrows rise, and his fingers tighten around your hand. “victoria park? my victoria park? from leicester?”

“where else, silly?”

he goes quiet.

the air in your lungs stills, and that funny feeling you had the night before flares in your stomach. you feel your jaw slacken as he rakes his gaze over you in such unabashed adoration it makes your gut twist. there’s an overwhelming desire to be near him, to feel him as you’ve never felt him before, rising like the tide, and you are pulled to it like a baby sea turtle searching for the safety of the ocean. it’s a natural pull, but you are determined to ignore it.

you sit up, brush a lock of hair behind your ear, and turn your back to him.

he runs his finger along the curve of your shoulderblades. you shiver.

sensing your discomfort, john sits straight in bed, the covers around his lap rustling with the movement. “you know,” he says, pulling on his cigarette again. “freddie would like one of your paintings.”

“what?” you look over your shoulder with a frown. “you told him about me?”

he shakes his head. “no, i just mean what you do is his style. he’d be thrilled to have something so… romantic.” he pauses and lifts a brow in question. “i could mention it to him, ask if he’d be interested?”

your frown deepens. this is not the john you know. john rarely speaks about his bandmates, preferring to keep his exploits with queen separate from your arrangement. when he does talk about his job, it’s normally a complaint here, a silly little story there. though you’ve been with him more than a year, you know more about his life before queen than his life during. he’s private, like you, and you respect that. it’s why your arrangement works: mutual respect for the other’s boundaries.

but there’s something different about him. you noted it the night before. first no shower. now suggesting he introduce you to freddie. it doesn’t make sense.

or maybe it does. maybe this is his way of shifting the relationship, subtly, under your nose, done before you realize what’s happened.

a thread of panic weaves itself around your spine.

“what’s this about? you’ve never wanted me to meet freddie before.”

he shrugs, playing innocent. “just an idea. we’re on break now, will be for some time. i figured meeting you would give freddie something to fuss over.”

“you know how i feel about my studio, john.”

“i know, i know. you like your privacy.”

john stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table then scoots closer, drawing you close with an arm around your waist. his mouth works idle patterns along your shoulder, the spot where your neck meets your back, the ticklish spot behind your ear.

you tighten your hold on his arm, your nails biting his skin. when you speak, your voice is but a whisper.

“i don’t want things to change.”

he stills, lifting his head from your skin. “sorry?”

“i said i don’t want things to change.” turning, you meet his eyes, nearly losing your breath in the process. he’s close; you can practically taste him on your lips. “what we have works. don’t you think?”

“’s just an idea, [y/n].”

ducking your head, you play with the hair on his arm. your heart squeezes tight. “i know. but i say yes now and tomorrow you’ll be…” you lift your face.

he seems to understand without needing you to finish the thought.

he untangles himself and swings his legs over the side of the bed. you watch his movements, stiff and irritated. he pulls on a pair of ratty joggers, rising from the bed to shut the terrace doors. you startle at the sound of glass rattling in the windowpanes.

“john, i—”

he cuts you off. there’s another cigarette between his fingers now. “better take a shower,” he quips. his eyes remain planted on the cigarette packet in his hands. he taps the thin stick against the cardboard several times before jamming it between his teeth. “you didn’t take one last night, and we wouldn’t want things to change, now would we?”

the door slams shut, the blast echoing in your empty stomach.

you don’t hear from john for a week and a half. it’s not uncommon, the length between visits. he’s busy, you’re busy. sometimes you can barely find time for yourself, let alone him. still, there’s no box of chocolates delivered to your doorstep, no flowers dropped off at an inopportune time.

there’s just silence.

it worries you at first, and you wonder if he’s dropped you like a hot potato. it wouldn’t be unheard of. one arrangement ended in a similar fashion, and you nearly lost your studio in the process. but john is better than that. he wouldn’t leave you on the verge of homelessness, would he? he cares about you too much to do such a thing.

your fears are assuaged when a bouquet of flowers does arrive one afternoon. you have paint smeared along your forehead, and your neck cracks as you stand to answer the doorbell, but the sight of sunflowers in a pretty blue vase erases all your uncertainties. the note tucked in the ramble of flowers makes you smile—sorry for being a dick. give me a call if you forgive me – j—and you tape it to your refrigerator.

john is still yours; you are still his.

you call him that night, and after reaffirming your boundaries, the phone call devolves into a mess of heavy breathing and whispered encouragements and sinful sorts of pleasure.

as you fall asleep, you’re struck by something he said in the hazy cloud of post-bliss: even if this is all you give me, i’m happy.

even if this is all you give me…

he wants more. how much you aren’t sure, but enough that you can’t fall asleep as readily as you normally do. frustrated, you slip from bed and finagle your way down the stairs to the kitchen. you warm a glass of milk and lean against the counter, sipping slowly. your eyes fall along the mary cassatt print, now housed on the kitchen wall above the vase of sunflowers. the milk in your stomach curdles.

john deacon loves you; and if you tarry any longer, you’ll be close to loving him, too.

the decision to call the arrangement off does not come lightly. you mull over it for days on end, even as a sliver of your heart warms to the idea of allowing john to love you as he pleases, of letting yourself love him back.

it’s all you can think about the next time you see him face-to-face. as he pours you a glass of wine and lays you out on the living room floor, your thoughts are elsewhere. when he takes you shopping for canvas frames, you let him hold your hand, but you can’t focus on what he’s saying about the best fit. even when he mentions your studio and you find yourself willing to invite him inside, you cannot shake the feeling that you are losing a part of yourself you will never regain.

but would it be so bad? giving in?

you’re interested in john, that much you will concede. he’s good and kind and generous and a hell of a good romp and you enjoy your time with him. but the stubborn part of you refuses to let go of your own autonomy. you will not become his plaything, his arm candy at all the queen functions he so dreads. you value your independence too much—the safety of your well-crafted walls—to be anything other than his dirty little secret.

you’re prepared to shove your concerns aside and continue on until john makes the decision for you. he gives freddie your studio address, and freddie shows up one morning unannounced. you invite him in, sketch out a painting over the worktable, smile when necessary, and ignore his wonderings about your connection to john but on the inside you’re reeling. you’re livid and you’re hurt.

you’ve never been hurt by one of your arrangements before.

after freddie leaves, john answers the telephone on the third ring. “hello?”

“we can’t see each other anymore,” you say, your voice firm.

he’s quiet for a moment. “i’m sorry—what?”

“you heard me, john. i’m calling it all off.”

“why on earth would you do that?”

unbidden, an answer rises to your mouth: because i think i like you as much as you like me and i’m scared.

with a harsh clearing of your throat, you instead say, “you sent freddie here. i told you not to do that.”

“he did what? no, [y/n], i didn’t send freddie to you.”

“then how else would he know who i am? my clients don’t run in his circles.”

panic laces the edge of john’s voice as he rushes to explain, but you grit your teeth against the sound. “i swear, angel, i didn’t tell him where you live. i might have told him about you, yeah, but he’s my best friend, and i needed some advice.” he hesitates, sucks in shaky breath. “don’t do this. don’t call it off.”

you swallow hard. for the first time in a long time, you feel a wash of tears over your eyes. “you want too much from me, john. i can’t give you what you want. i’m not the girl for that sort of life.”

“oh, baby, i—i’m sorry. i know i’ve been pushy lately but i—” he sighs. “god, i love you so dearly. i’d give you the world if you let me.”

at this you choke on a sob. surprised by the sound, you press a hand to your mouth.

oh god, you love him too. the feeling crashes over you like a wave, and you’re the sea turtle who has found the safety of the sea. john is your sea. he envelops you, carries you to safety and uncertainty all at once. but you know him—he will protect you, guide you, with everything he is and all that he has.

you love him, you love him, you love him.

but it’s not enough. it’s not supposed to go like this, and you both know it.

“i’m sorry, john,” you whisper. you didn’t remember that tears taste salty. “please don’t call me, okay?”

you hang up before you can hear his protests any further then you crawl into bed and weep.

several months pass. autumn fades into winter, and you grow colder by the day.

you’re stressed. you cut john off entirely, opening a separate bank account and shuffling your monies and generally working to disentangle him from your life. but no john means no stable income. you’re fine for the time being, your painting for the olsons paid for and gone; but you’ve taken to rushing your artwork now, allowing customers to sit for hastily and poorly arranged portraits with their dogs and children. the paintings are lovely, yes, but they’re not you. it pays the bills, though, so you can’t complain.

you continue on freddie’s painting. he paid you upfront, so you owe him that much. in the evenings, after shooing the last snot-nosed kid and yippy dog out of your home, you turn on the lamp above the canvas and return to the sort of art you yearn for day and night. the painting screams freddie mercury all over.

there’s a man, mustached and tan, draped against a purple chaise in the center of the canvas. he’s flanked by a tall gentleman with wiry hair who is focused on a globe in the corner. to the far right, two other men—one blond, one brunette—whisper amongst themselves. you realize, belatedly, that you are painting queen in some sort of ridiculous nineteenth century daydream. it makes you snort every time you sit down to work.

you struggle to capture john in the painting. you know his face better than you know your own. you dream of it every night and wake to an image of it every morning.

you love him. you miss him.

you’re not certain when you started loving him. maybe six months in when he took you to new york and the moma and the empire state building. maybe nine months in—your first christmas together—when he gifted you a song. maybe a year in when he confessed his deepest fears—fears of loneliness and isolation and an empty old age—and made you promise to stay by his side. maybe when he came back this last tour and you wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt to hold back.

you’ve never been in love. you don’t quite understand the way it works, but you know enough to know that you love him. perhaps you always will, your disco deaky, the thoughtful boy.

you finish freddie’s painting come the first of the year. it’s been four months without john, four months entirely on your own. you have no compunction to find another arrangement. no one could fill the shoes of john deacon even if they tried, and the idea doesn’t appeal to you like it once did. you’ll go it alone for a while and revel in the autonomy you so desire.

freddie invites you to dinner when you call and say the painting is ready, and you reluctantly go. you’re half afraid he’ll pull some trick and invite john as well, but he swears he’ll be on his best behavior. the night of the dinner, you dress warm and gently arrange the framed canvas in the boot of your car. after losing your way twice, you eventually find his house and park outside. jim helps you carry the painting through the tight gate and into the front parlor where freddie waits, hands clasped in excitement.

“oh, i could just piss myself i’m so thrilled!” freddie squeezes your shoulders when you unveil the completed work. “i look so divine, like bloody oscar wilde!”

the edges of a smile lift your mouth. “yes, divine indeed.”

“you are more talented than you know, [y/n],” freddie says. he boops the end of your nose. “you shouldn’t hide your talent.”

“i don’t! i sell my work.”

“yes, but you could be a star, darling. i could make you a star.”

“i don’t want to be a star, freddie.”

“then what do you want?”

you sigh, shrug, and curl your lips in a wry grin. “not sure anymore.”

“perhaps dinner will help you figure it out. come on, it’s ready and we don’t want it getting cold.”

you follow freddie to the dining room. what awaits you sends your blood running cold as the frost outside. john richard deacon, handsome as ever, sits at the table, a smoke in hand. he looks up when you enter, surprise painting his face at the sight of you bundled in a winter coat in his friend’s dining room.

you twist in the doorway. your fists tremble with rage. “fuck you, freddie!”

he cringes. “okay, i can explain. you just have to hear me out before you slit my throat.”

john rises to his feet. “[y/n]…”

you ignore him and keep your gaze on freddie. “you promised!”

freddie nods. “yes, i know, but you see it was my fault that this whole thing fell apart.”

at this, john turns his head. “what are you on about, fred?”

“well, when you told me about your relationship with [y/n]”–-he lowers his voice to a stage whisper, looking at you from the corner of his eye—“when you told me you loved her”—he returns to his normal voice—“i got very distracted by the idea of a painting of the four of us. so i ignored your issue and looked her up and then it all fell apart.”

john sucks in a deep breath, shaking his head. he runs a hand down his face, and you note the weariness etched along his eyes. “fuck, fred.”

“so, you see, it’s my fault. if i had just left well enough alone, you two might still be shagging like rabbits and spending all that hard-earned money instead of moping like a pair of silly-pants!” he sobers, his nose twitching. “i really am sorry. it was selfish of me.”

“freddie—” you start.

he shakes his head. “no! i won’t hear any excuses—not until you’ve made up.” a timer somewhere in the kitchen dings, and he snaps. “now… if you’ll excuse me…” he slips from the dining room, shutting the door behind him with a tell-tale click.

you look to the floor. you should get your winter boots polished. they’re horribly scuffed.

john speaks first. “you look good, [y/n].”

lifting your head, you scoff. “you always were a flatterer.”

“no, i mean it.”

you run your eyes over him and feel your heart trip. god, you missed him. “you look good, too.”

“what have you been doing?”

“oh, this and that. mostly painting portraits.”

“you hate portraits.”

“i know.”

outside, the cricks chirp loudly, but you wonder if john can heart the beating of your heart over the chorus of insects.

“[y/n], i—”

“john—”

he smirks. you look to your toes again.

“you go first,” he says.

lifting your head, you dare to step further into the room. you steel yourself, biting the inside of your tongue to keep from spilling your guts at his feet. “i was wrong, too.”

he cocks his head to the side in confusion. “what do you mean?”

it’s time, isn’t it? seeing him now... how could you ever live without him?

“i was foolish and stubborn and willful. i knew what i wanted, but ignored it for the sake of my own stupid ideals.” you step closer and catch a whiff of his cologne. it sends a thrill straight to your belly. “turns out i need people just as much as you do.”

“what are you saying?”

“i’m saying i was wrong to turn you away. i was scared. i’ve only ever known love with a price tag on it, never real love. not until you anyway. as complicated as it is, you have loved me better than anyone else, and i was blind to it for so long. and even when i wasn’t blind to it, i pushed you away. i’m sorry.”

he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing. “what—what are you saying?” he asks again.

“i’m saying i miss you and i’m a right git and i love you and i’m sorry.”

he reaches for you, his touch like fire on your wrist. “i shouldn’t have pushed you.”

you shake your head in disagreement. “i needed a good pushing. i didn’t realize how much i needed you until you were gone. and fuck all about the money. i don’t care about that. i needed you. i need you.”

john moves his hands to cup your face, his palms warm on your cool cheeks. he leans downs and presses his forehead to yours. you exhale, sure that if you open your eyes, if you move an inch, you will wake from whatever dream you inhabit. you don’t want this moment to end—him and you and no one else, all the possibility in the world stretching out before you.

“you don’t know what it means to hear you say that,” he whispers. “i would be content to love you silently, but, god, i love you.”

you laugh and open your eyes, blinking back tears. you pull away to meet his gaze. “even though i’m a stubborn fool?”

“i’m more stubborn and more foolish than you ever could be.” his thumbs work over the apple of your cheeks. “i love you,” he breathes.

“i love you.”

you grin. he matches your smile.

“kiss me,” you whisper.

his eyes widen, his mouth parting. “but—”

“it’s part of our new arrangement. you can kiss me whenever you like so long as you promise not to smoke in bed.”

“fuck. i—” he shakes his head, eyes fluttering shut. you lift a hand to his cheek, and his eyes open.

“i know. me too.”

he captures your mouth, the touch soft and everything you have waited to find, everything you have searched for in all the wrong places. he kisses you, holds you against his body, weaves his hand in your hair. he moves his lips in tandem with yours, and you feel like you’re floating.

he kisses you, and you are home.

#john deacon #john deacon x reader #queen #queen fic #j writes #the arrangement

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daily-dose-of-imagines · 3 years

Text

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ Matchup ♥

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Naruto, One Piece, and Free Match-Up Request

May I request another match-up but for Free, One Piece, and Naruto this time? :) Here’s all my info once more!

Name: Corethra (or Corey for short)

Age: 25

Gender: Female

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Occupation: Hand Packer at an ice cream factory. I work 12 hours (5:30pm to 6am) on a rotating schedule.

Birthplace: Memphis, TN, USA. I was raised in the neighborhood called Frayser which is the most impoverished area in Memphis and has a high crime rate as expected.

Zodiac Sign: Pisces (born March 2) My full birth chart can be found here

Enneagram: 5w6

Chinese Zodiac: Year Of The Pig

MBTI Type: INFJ

Alignment: Lawful Neutral

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

Love Language: Acts Of Service

Race/Ethnicity: African-American

Height: 4'11 (Call me short and I’ll kick your butt!)

Body Type/Shape: Average but well developed figure at best. I weigh about 158 lbs and am pretty insecure about my body. I also have really bad scars on my left arm from being bitten by a dog.

Hair Color/Style: Black and naturally curly but I keep it flat-ironed so it’s straight. It’s long and goes down to just below my shoulder blades. There are times when I will have braids put in of various lengths.

Glasses or No?: Yes I wear glasses

Eye Color: Brown

Dress Style: I usually dress up in a casual way, just throwing on whatever looks good at the time but I will sometimes put in the effort when the time calls for it or when I’m in a good mood. I have an affinity for the punk, emo, and goth styles and I rarely wear feminine clothes but I will wear something risky every once in a while.

Hobbies/Interests: Video games, reading, writing, anime, internet surfing, listening to music, politics (sometimes), watching movies/TV shows, basically being an overall nerd. I’m usually either on my laptop or one of my many video game consoles if I’m not on my phone or reading one of my books.

Dislikes: Ignorance, stupidity, restriction, manipulation/gas-lighting, bullying, humanity, not being understood, corruption/injustice, close-mindedness

Personality: At first glance, I seem quiet and keep to myself, only speaking when I need to or when I’m spoken to. I’m an anti-social introvert to the fullest and don’t care much for small talk or going out. I prefer to have deeper conversations. When I get comfortable enough in whatever environment I’m in, I start to open up bit by bit. I’m a tomboy and pretty rough-minded as well as stubborn. I’m very sassy, have a smart, sarcastic, and witty mouth if not humorous and outrageous at times, can be borderline rude and mean, and I’m more sensitive than I care to be. I can literally cry at someone’s suffering especially if it’s someone I’m close to or even a total stranger. I’m very empathetic and my heart is bigger than what most people would expect. Most people describe me as quiet, intelligent, creative, dorky, a smartass, and really sweet. I love a good laugh and have an open sense of humor to boot.

Many of my friends say that I’m very sweet and kind which I usually am if I’m in a good mood as well as affectionate as hell. Hugs and pet names galore with me! However only my friends and family see that side of me. My language is often unfiltered, harsh, foul, and blunt which shocks people because they think I’m a pure angel. I say what I want when I want and no one tells me otherwise. If they do, they can expect a mouthful from me. I’m an escapist and very imaginative, can be a bit scatterbrained at times, and I’m methodical and detailed to the point of perfectionism. I’m usually a walking contradiction in terms of personality in so many ways to the point where the real me is almost impossible to decipher. To make matters more complicated, I’m not very good at expressing myself verbally and prefer to let my actions do the talking. I also express myself better through written form.

I have many pet peeves and I get annoyed easily in general. I’m also slowly embracing misanthropy and nihilism but I can be pretty idealistic so it balances out. I’m practically zero tolerance when it comes to bullshit. I hate confrontation and conflict but I’m starting to work on it so I can be less passive-aggressive and more assertive. I also wish to stand up for myself more often than I should so people won’t think that I’m weak and an easy target. I’m pretty cynical which is to be expected and usually expect the worst from people. When someone angers me, I will either just withdraw altogether and completely cut them off (slam the door basically) or get in their face and go off before doing the former. I’m the “hold my anger in and release it all at once” type but I hope to change that one day and stop letting things fester before they get out of hand. I can be quite petty and even cold as well and if someone wrongs me, they will have to make the first move to mend fences. I refuse to apologize if I’m not in the wrong and I will not accept gaslighting/guilt tripping. I also refuse to change for others and will admit to having quite a lot of pride but that’s mostly due to me not wanting to be hurt and manipulated, mistreated, or used.

I have issues with trust and a wild imagination to boot. I usually trust my instincts and can see right through bullshit. I don’t like taking risks and I have to know all the details when I do something so I don’t mess up and look like an idiot. I am indeed a perfectionist and introverted to a fault which often prevents me from trying new things and going outside my comfort zone. I haven’t been in a relationship yet and am still a virgin due to my issues with trust and not wanting to be hurt or humiliated as well as being quite picky/perfectionistic with the people I allow in my life. I have high standards for both people and myself although I’m pretty laid-back and my dislike of conflict allows me to also take a lot of shit from people too before I eventually say “fuck it” and slam the door or go off on them. I don’t think very highly of myself and can sometimes fall into a period of self-hatred and self-pity.

Many people praise me for my intelligence which is fitting since I’m an intellectual. My ideals and beliefs are rather odd to say the least (I’m a classical liberal/independent and despise most ideologies/ideas. This includes religion, feminism, social justice, traditionalism, statism, big government, nationalism, socialism/communism, etc.) and I feel misunderstood because of it (mostly because of the black community ostracizing me). I am indeed a rebel, open-minded, and a free thinker. No one tells me how to think or feel or else they face my wrath. I highly value power over myself and I think it’s the most important thing that a person needs in order to survive. I am definitely an outcast at heart and I often distance myself from others and don’t like talking about my feelings or beliefs because I think most people lack the ability/capacity to understand me. Before I give my opinion on something, I like to do as much research as possible as well as look at things from all perspectives before coming to my own conclusion. I don’t mind discussing things but I prefer logic over emotion when doing so which makes it damn near impossible these days for me to have an real conversation without insults and threats being thrown (usually towards me). Chances are I’m gonna find something wrong with damn near anything someone believes in or says and I’m not afraid to call it out when I see it. Once I do open up and express how I feel, the gates of passion will open up and never close. I also have high morals and values and stick to my guns no matter what which can make me pretty stubborn at times.

I’m currently battling depression and often experience many symptoms of it including suicidal thoughts and depression spells. I also suffer from iron-deficiency anemia as well as irregular, prolonged periods. These things are pretty annoying for me to deal with whenever they flare up.

Overall, I’m pretty crazy and a handful to deal with. Good luck matching me up with someone :P

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Hello @sacredwarrior88 and thank you so much for requesting with us! I am so sorry that this came out so late, but I do hope you enjoy this!

>Admin 𝕋

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

𝐼 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽…

Ace! I feel that you and ace would be such a great couple! He is open minded and kind to others whereas you are the same way! You are passionate like he is, caring like he is, loyal to the bone like he is! He would see you and see your personality and just instantly fall in love you and your personality! Like, I can’t even imagine how much he will want you on his crew, so they he can keep on you and protect you at all times-- though he will soon figure out that you don’t need help, you can take care yourself--which he will find extremely attractive, no doubt about that!

He will love that fact that you are independent, because he really values individualism and independency, he sees it as a great traits to have. But he will also love the fact that you are sensitive, and can sometimes get into your own head. He understands that, knows it all too well, so he will try with all his might to try and make sure that you are happy and always smiling! But he will love how fierce you can be to other people, never bowing down to their expectations!

All in all, I feel like Ace would be a great man for you in the one piece universe! He would be attentive to you, would love your attitude and personality, and would absolutely adore how loyal and strong you are! make sure to love him thoroughly!

Ah, Sai! He is much like Ace, just a little less emotional, which is fine! I feel like you and Sai would make a couple for a couple reasons! He would love how mature you are, and how logical you can be, and-- like ace-- he loves the fact that you are extremely loyal to your friends! That is a true factor in the way he will see you, and it is for the better! He will se how strong you are, emotionally and will be envious and at the same time fascinated! I Feel like Sai will look at you with wide eyes, his breath caught in his throat, his heart beating wildly in his ribcage because he will love you that much! All the things you are interested he will want to hear with enthusiasm, everything you love he will want to learn and hear from you, to get to know you better!

Another thing is that if you were to go to him with your insecurities and how you are battling depression, he will try to understand, and once he does he will try to everything and anything to make sure you feel better! You need a massage? He’s on it! You need cuddles? oh yeah he will give you some! You need chocolate or sweets or anything of the like? He’ll run to the store, and be back 5 minutes tops!

All in all, I feel like the cool, mature Sai, with a heart of pure gold will be such a good match for you! He will make sure that you uncomfortable with him, he will never want to make you unhappy, and he will definitely do anything i his power to make sure that you will keep on loving him as much as you can!

Rei! Now, with Rei, I wanted to go a more cute route. I feel that Rei would be equal parts and scared and in love with you! He sees how strong you are against people that oppose, he sees how strong you are for your friends, and how you have such a different personality to everybody else around him, and he will immediately fall in with you. Like instantly! To him, you’d be like a beautiful butterfly blooming right in front of him, and he will want to have you all tot himself! Of course, he won’t force you, but he will definitely watch you at a distance longingly!

He is very much an introvert and your calm but strong aura would definitely help with his anxiety! I just see him melting next you, into your lap or shoulder whenever you are around him because he is so comfortable around you. He doesn’t do this with just anybody so it would be a real honor! And when it it comes to your insecurities, he would want to make sure that you know he loves you the way are, and if you were to want to change something about yourself, then he will support you all the way, as long as you are happy! He will just love that you are such a freethinker and so openminded about things, so unlike him!

All in all, I feel like Rei would love you and (somewhat) idolize because you have all these traits that he would love to have. This perfectionist will understand how it feels to be such a perfectionist and will want to help you with that too! He will love to the moon and back(stroke)!

#match-ups #matchup #submissions #anime matchup #submission #naruto matchup #free! matchup #one piece matchup #naruto x you #free x you #one piece x you

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cas-backwards-tie · 4 years

Text

Extraordinary

Paul Sevier x Reader

Request: paul trying to remember what it's like to be human again after the doc releases and attempts a normal, functional social life

Words: 2,603

Warnings: alcohol consumption, mention of genitalia, mention of bullying.

A/N: So... here’s the thing: in your request you stated ‘the doc’, like a documentary, and I... didn’t really see it that way? Yeah, at some points they were filming, but I more so assumed that it was for the government, not the public. So, I’m going to write something sort of in-between. I hope that you like this! I know that we don’t know a whole lot about him so I hope that you enjoy the beginnings of a sort of... backstory I’ve made for him, and ugh I can’t stop looking at this gif. It’s so cute!

There are many upsides to working in the Federal Government, sure, but there are a lot of downsides too. One of the few is that a social life, or time-off, is discouraged... discouraged to the point where one might imply it’s forbidden, but can’t really say so. That’s what Paul would say. Perhaps not in those terms, but it’s the truth nonetheless. Now, being a contract worker for the government... well, that doesn’t help. Being closely monitored after and in-between each job is somewhat disconcerting, to say the least, and when your literal reputation can be judged just based on the people you know or hang around, well, you tend to stay away from people.

After the recent case, Paul heads back home. While they discourage a social life, it doesn’t mean one doesn’t have friends or family, it’s just that, well, Paul sticks around the people he knows. Upon arrival, he’s already gotten a few requests from friends to meet up. One of his good friends, John, convinces Paul to at least accept one invitation, which ultimately ends up being his.

“I thought you knew we were going to this new bar, Paul?” John eyes him up and down from the front hallway of his tiny apartment, judging the sweater Paul wears. “For one, it’s the summer, and two, you’re not getting laid in that!” Trying to pry the sweater off of him, Paul swats at John’s hand.

“I’m not trying to get laid!” He defends, taking John’s advice and pulling the sweater up and over his head. The fabric clings on, a bit of his stomach showing before he finally removes his sweater and tosses it over onto the couch. “Please, do you really think I have time for that? The next case could be as early as tomorrow!”

“Or as early as three months from now! So what? Live for once, Paul! Geez. I can’t promise you that I’m gonna be here to help you out five years from now, man.”

The criticism and threat of an absent romantic life manage to bring him back to reality. Time continues to pass and pass, and with an endless onslaught of cases... there’ll come a time when he has to make a choice. Luckily, that day isn’t today. Taking the advice for once, Paul goes with the basic plaid button-up he’d had on underneath the sweater. After all, he’s not used to ‘looking good for the ladies’ or whatever it is that John and his buddies do. He’s glad at least that John hadn’t made too many remarks, or suggested contacts.

When they arrive, Paul’s glad to see that this isn’t a club or some dingy bar, in fact, this place isn’t just a bar: it has games. There are a few bowling lanes in the back, a few billiard tables scattered around, while many of the walls have booths for darts, which just happens to be exactly where John’s leading him toward.

It isn’t too noisy tonight, but he still has to actively listen and lean down to hear whoever he’s speaking with. “This is -” John introduces you, but your name gets lost in the noise. “This is Paul.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” the kind words make it to his ears, and he can’t help but offer you a polite smile and handshake.

“Oh? Did John mention me? Hopefully nothing bad,” he jokes, surprised by the confident and firm handshake you have for someone so innocent-looking. The smirk and mischievous look that follows makes his eyes widen for a moment until you laugh.

“I’m just joking. He’s never said anything bad! Mostly talks about how you’re a workaholic... how he misses having you around.”

Nodding in acknowledgment, the feeling of someone’s hand on his arm grabs his attention. It’s John. “Thought you could use a beer,” he comments, handing Paul an IPA.

“You remembered,” Paul states, touched as he hadn’t known John really cared about him with his job taking him miles and miles away constantly, never permanent in one area.

The night ensues, rounds and rounds of darts being played, you, surprising him even more with your precise nature. He isn’t too bad himself, though he could probably use some more practice. Darts... not his thing. In-between turns he talks to you, not too fond of John’s current girlfriend, Charlotte, a fairly nice girl, but constantly causing unnecessary drama in John’s life.

“So you’re a coworker of hers?” Paul repeats back what she’d said, a tidbit he’d learned a while ago: if you repeat back what someone said to you, it makes them feel heard and understood, while you simultaneously get the facts straight. With a nod of your head, a faint smile displays itself on his lips, glad his little trick worked.

“Well, what do you do?”

Oh no. It’s the dreaded question. Internally panicking just slightly as he isn’t quite sure how she’ll take it or not, he grabs ahold of his beer from the table and buys himself a few moments to come up with a more... broad answer. Taking a sip, he plays it off as something indifferent. “Oh? I’m- uh, a contractor.”

“Okay?” You smile at him, shaking your head as you tilt your head slightly. That isn’t good, that means you’re interested. “But what kind of contract do you do? Construction? Freelance? Writing? Photography?” It seems you’ve pegged him for the creative type, a compliment if he ever got one. Your questions are smart, you have a real knack for interviewing, he supposes.

With his beer still in his hand, Paul sips at it again, deciding with the half an ounce still within that he should just finish it off. Once he’s swallowed the somewhat acidic liquid, he places his bottle aside and looks over and down at you. “Governmental work. They call, I come and fix whatever needs fixing.”

There... it’s out there now, there’s no hiding it anymore. A second flies by, then another, and he can tell by the look upon your face that you’re thinking about it. Unconsciously he holds his breath, awaiting your answer.

“Hey!” John suddenly calls, “Come on, we’re gonna play a round of pool.” The offer feels like a relief, an end to the conversation, a life-preserver thrown out into the sea of awkward social interactions at the last second, saving him from social doom. A quiet sigh of relief passes through his lips as he stands, and as he turns, the feeling of someone’s touch on his back makes him freeze.

“That sounds really cool. Badass, even. A lot more entertaining than what I do,” your hand slides down his back before falling by your side as you step around him and head toward the table, suddenly stopping as you notice his lack of movement. Looking back at him, you smile and beckon him to follow, your dress swishing as you turn and continue on your path toward the rest of the group.

Paul stands there stunned. What had he done? No one has ever responded that way before; going so far as to call him badass? Ha! Him? Scrawny, tall, geek Paul Sevier? A badass? A smirk forms on his lips. He’d like to think of himself as such, but of course, the bullies that haunt him would say otherwise. Completely disregarding the past, he decides to embrace the man that you see him to be, the man he wants to be, the man that sometimes, late at night when he retraces all the wildly unimaginable things he’s done in his lifetime, he thinks maybe he could be.

He’d been put on your team. Of course he had. The telling wink from John is all the clue he needs to know that he’s been set-up with you. Usually, he’s all for complaining, but tonight... he’d rather not. As you position the pool cue up to shoot, Paul grumbles a little louder than he’d thought.

“That’s not how you-” his words die on his tongue as he knows he can be a strictler for the small things, the nitpicky things... that’s just who he is.

He’d hoped you hadn’t heard him, but as you’re bent over the table, head turned to look up at him, he pales slightly out of embarrassment. “Show me how I’m supposed to do it then,” you say teasingly, making his cheeks and ears slightly flush. He shouldn’t be a flustered mess; that’s not what a badass would do... but he is, he’s flustered. Swallowing his anxieties, Paul closes the space between you, gently bending over to place his hands over yours, slowly guiding them to where they’re supposed to be.

“Relax,” he whispers, his lips right by your ear. Your eyes catch his and make contact as you turn your head to look at him, which he finds odd considering he’s trying to change the placement of your fingers on the pool cue. “It’s like this,” he speaks softly, motioning with his eyes for you to look at what he’s doing.

“Get a room, right?!” John interjects loudly, laughing as he makes everyone uncomfortable. Paul immediately straightens and puts some distance between the two of you, standing beside the table to watch as you take your turn. He’d been done anyway and shouldn’t have gotten caught up in the moment.

The next thing he knows, John and Charlotte are leaving, and given John was his ride... he’s stuck with you. One thing leads to another and you’re walking him up to his apartment, insisting that it’s the right thing to do. If things were any other way, he’d laugh and call you the gentleman, however, he still feels awkward after what John had done.

Now you’re standing at his door, leaning against the wooden frame as you both stare at one another. You don’t seem phased by his friend’s untimely joke, your eyes seeming to shout radiant energy up at him from the few feet apart. Slowly you’re closing that space, killing the distance in-between. Paul feels trapped, like prey caught under the gaze of its predator... only part of him wants to be eaten alive. He hasn’t had an interaction like this since college, and even then he didn’t have much time for such things. What could he say? Grades are important. Suddenly his eyes shut and he’s reveling in the feeling of your hands on his chest, his arms slowly sliding their way around the back of your upper torso and down to the small of your back.

Your lips are supple, soft, and refreshing, unlike the distant memories of kissing he can recount. There’s an expectation, a want, a desire... and Paul knows how to fill it. Fumbling behind your back with the door-knob, he eventually twists it enough to unlock the door and get in. It somewhat surprises him that you’d let him take you inside, walk you back toward the bed until the back of your knees are hitting the mattress. It’s only then that you part from the brief slew of kisses.

Both of your eyes focus on nothing but one another, some unknown tacit message trying to register itself with him. “Do... you want to stop?” He asks, confused by your lack of words. Although his hands still rest on your sides he doesn’t move them, not wanting to make your closeness more obvious.

“Actually... yeah,” you whisper, breaking the eye contact to shake your head, hair swishing with the movement. “It’s not that I don’t want things to go further... I just-” you sigh and tear away from his grip, starting to pace by his bed. “-I’ve been through this so many times, Paul- the going out, the kissing, the dating, even an engagement, and... it never works out.”

His eyebrow quirks up and Paul pushes up his glasses a bit from where they’d fallen down the bridge of his nose. The click of your tiny heels against his floorboard resound through the room and he tries to ignore the feeling of his length having started to harden. Despite this, he listens to your words with confusion within him. Why are you telling him this?

“I’m just tired of going through all this just for it not to work out. My mom, my friends... they’ve started to say I’m getting too old for this. I’m sure your friends have been saying the same. So... I don’t know if you mind, or what your intentions are, but... I’d rather just not do this tonight. As handsome as you are, I just feel like if this is going anywhere, it’s better to wait.”

Ah... so that’s where you were going. Adjusting the collar of his button-up, Paul clears his throat. “I didn’t really have any intentions going in, honestly,” he admits, turning to sit down on the edge of his bed. “John and I haven’t seen each other in a while, and though we talk through email and text... he thought it’d be good for me to ‘get out’ and meet some people. It’s clear now they were only trying to set us up. Not that I mind- I- I do hear those things too... my mom pestering me about a family. I get it,” his words trail off as he thinks about these things once more today.

You audibly exhale a sigh, joining him in sitting on the edge of the bed. “I get that,” you encourage him, slipping your purse off and onto the bed. “It’s just frustrating.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, glad that you actually seem to understand and aren’t just saying that like some of his other friends would. “I... was actually not planning on taking this further. Not because you aren’t pretty, or kind or anything... but because, well... honestly my job takes me away for months at a time sometimes, and I’m not always around. People don’t like that.”

Silence consumes the air and a comfortable energy settles in its place. “That’s the only reason? From... I don’t know, us going on an actual date?” It warms his heart in some weird way to hear you ask it so innocently, like a child being denied a popsicle after dinner or something alike.

“Mm,” he hums in thoughts, finally turning his head to look over and down at you, “yeah. I mean, it’s hard. Not a lot of people I know are really up for long distance, you know?”

A hum of acknowledgment emanates from you this time, you nodding your head thoughtfully. He notices the way you play with the fabric of your dress, hands bunching it up and fingers brushing back and forth over it in a nervous manner, or maybe one of thought. “Would... you be against trying?” As you meet his gaze, Paul feels taken aback but struck with some sort of awe and reality check. Aware of everything going on at this moment, he shakes his head ‘no’. He wouldn’t be against trying. “Then... do you wanna swap numbers? I’m not saying we should make it official or anything, but I do think I’d like to get to know you better, Paul.”

This is the first time a genuine smile has placed itself on his lips outside of work in... years. Within work, sure, he sees mystifying and unreal things every day, always bewildered by the extraordinary, but... eventually the ordinary just seems, well, boring in comparison. Seeing the smile on your lips and the hope in your eyes (at least he thinks it’s hope) Paul decides that you... you might just become his new extraordinary.

“Yeah, I’d like that too.”

#Paul Sevier x Reader #Midnight Special #Paul Sevier x Reader fluff #fluff #Midnight Special fic #my writing

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snifflyjoonie · 3 years

Note

hey, so recently i've been thinking about what exactly makes a fic good and since (in my humble opinion) you are one of the best writers on here, i thought i'd ask you! what sort of things do you think about when you write a fic? i mean things like structure of the plot, different points of view, stylistic devices, flashbacks, foreshadowing etc. like do you consciously plan these things out or does it just sort of come out on its own when you write?

Gosh this is attempt number two at writing this because it failed to upload the first time and I didn’t save it! 💀💀 hopefully I can reexplain myself similarly to my first go. Sorry for the wait on this answer, anon!

Before I get into it though I just wanted to say how much I appreciate your sweet comment. I’m so beyond humbled and appreciate you very much! Thank you for reading my stories 🥺💕

Anyway this is going to get lengthy so I’m going to pop everything under a readmore. I’m on mobile so fingers crossed the readmore trick we learnt works properly! 🤞🏻

Alright, so first off, plot! Personally for me, the structer of the plot honestly just depends on which fic I’m working on. I always try to go into a fic with at least some idea of what direction I want the story to go in. Detailed requests are always easier to write because of this, as I’m able to know exactly what direction the requester would like me to take. That being said though, less-detailed requests are also a lot of fun for me because they offer a chance for more creative freedom. For example, the request I ended up using to write “Sick Day” simply asked for Jungkook with a cold. Because of the lack of specifics, I was able to throw it into the coffeeshop!au timeline which was a lot of fun to add onto.

When it comes to POV, I typically stick with third person limited with focus on the sickie. I think keeping the focus on the sickie allows for me to go more in depth with their symptoms and how they’re feeling. A caretaker wouldn’t know how much a fever is making the sickie’s head pound unless the sickie clued them in. You know what I mean? With that being said though, I did switch things up with “Hay(fever)” and instead had the focus be on Yoongi and then on Seokjin as opposed to Namjoon (the sickie), which I ended up really enjoying writing. It was fun for me to get to explore how a caretaker might react to watching someone succumb to their allergies, and how they might try to piece together what was going on. I also mostly write in the past tense!

In terms of flashbacks, I only really use them if I feel the reader would benefit from some additional background info that the present situation can’t elaborate on. I had a flashback scenario in “Know Your Limits” where Jungkook sort of recalled a conversation the group had about how it would be raining at their next concert. It was just some added context to give the readers an idea about certain things.

I try to pepper in foreshadowing a bit more frequently, especially if the fic involves aspects of contagion. I think it’s fun to sprinkle hints in for the reader to pick up on. I even sometimes try to allude to certain things when I make my moodboards! I especially do this for the flowershop!au boards. Each installment has a specific flower that it focuses on, and I actually do some research to make sure I’m picking a flower that properly invokes the feelings I’m trying to portray to the reader. It’s a fun little extra step for me if not for anyone else lol. (The next installment’s flower is the Black Dhalia! There’s some foreshadowing for you 😉)

Now with planning things out, like I mentioned earlier, I always try to go in with at least a basic idea of the plot...but after that, I usually tend to just wing it for the most part. 😅 I think this is one of the main reasons I’m a bit slower than some of the other writers in the community! I need to start working on better outlines for myself, lol.

Sometimes the stories end up going on completely different paths from what I initially intended. A sort of fun example of this is “Hay(fever)”. I made the moodboard first as I was planning it out, and I’ll post it here for you to see:

Pretty different, huh? 💀 my original intent was for the boys to be leaving the set of a Run! episode where they had to ride horses. I wanted the combination of the outside conditions and the horses to really get to Namjoon during their drive home. I do still like this concept BUT I’m very happy I went ahead and changed directions because “Hay(fever)” ended up being one of my favourite fics I’ve written to date.

I do have things more concretely planned out for the flowershop!au, though. As it isn’t a request and has now become a multi-part series, I do actively try to make sure the installments I’m working on fit well into the timeline that I have established for the characters. I’m currently working on Part 5, but also have Part 6 (a Namgi prequel!!!) and a bit of Part 7 planned out. (You guys are in this one for the long haul, I’m so sorry lol) I also do try to aim for my fics to have at least 2,000 something words, but I don’t force myself if the story doesn’t need it.

Anyway anon sorry this was long winded, but gosh this was such a fun question for me to answer. Hopefully I was able to help you get a glimpse at my jumbled brain during a fic writing process. I’m super humbled you wanted to know about me and my writing style. Thank you so much for this question, and if there’s anything else you’re curious about, feel free to ask! 💕

#answered #this was such a fun ask to answer #I really hope it posts this time but I least I saved what I said this go around lol #thanks for this ask anon!!!#marie speaks

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thefanficmonster · 3 years

Text

You Kill Me

The Curator (The Dark Pictures Anthology) x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: None

Genre: Fluff, Humor

Summary: Death is something many people fear. Something we wish only upon our greatest enemies. Something that’s inevitable and unpredictable. However, Death himself is faced with a rather interesting person who appears to not be intimidated by him at all. In fact, she’s getting quite a good kick out of being friends with Death.

Requested by @xs1nister Hello hun! Thank you so much for your request, I’m so happy you decided to send it my way! I’m sorry to be posting it so late, I hope the final product will make it worth the wait. Please enjoy! Love, Vy ❤

“What’s up, Grim?“ The Curator winces when a familiar voice echoes throughout the repository, “Or do you prefer Reaper?“

He rolls his eyes, closing the book he’s been reading, “Very funny, Y/N. If I had known it would have this effect I would have never told you who I really am.”

Y/N is unbothered by the older man’s comment as they plop down in a chair opposite him, their eyes shinning and a smile across their face. “Hey, what’s with you being so serious? You gotta let a person celebrate the fact that they’ve gotten the privilege of having more than one run-in with death and are still drawing breath. Who else can say that? Certainly not the people you’ve met before!” they laugh, grabbing a small formatted novel from his desk and flipping it in their hands, examining the cover.

He rolls his eyes for the second time today, but has nothing to say to them. He wants to scold them about their immature and overly enthusiastic behavior but he can’t. He likes seeing them like this - like themselves. They’re always a happy, bubbly person. They keep life for themself - and for others by being in theirs - interesting. His repository is a lot brighter since they stepped foot in it.

Speaking of that instance...

Y/N had wandered in and had given him this blank stare when their eyes met. He was surprised, to say the least. He could always sense people before they walked in, he always knew who’d be next to meet their fate’s end. They were never brought up on his radar though. He had no idea who they were, which was unusual for him. It was his job to know everyone who walked through the doors of his home before they even approached it. This person, however, was a mystery to him.

“How may I help you?“ He had asked them.

“I don’t- I don’t know what I’m doing here. I can’t remember-“ This was an odd occurrence, one he had never faced before.

Y/N was distressed and scared, rightfully so. They were lost in a part of town they had never been in before with no recollection of how they got there or why on Earth they had even taken off in that direction. He prepared them a hot cup of tea while they sat in one of the leather chairs, fidgeting nervously, face as pale as the light seeping in through the window.

“But you do remember everything else about yourself, correct?“ they nodded, “It could be a momentary blackout. Has such a thing happened before?“ they shook their head. “Peculiar.“

His own fate was toying with him, maybe offering him some sort of chance by sending him this human being, one that would clearly surprise him. Maybe to test his work ethic - death meets anyone who steps foot in the repository, no exceptions. The Curator was torn, he has been doing his job for years, putting an end to hundreds of thousands of stories of people throughout the years, had never once had a second thought about it - if the person was sent to him, his duty had to be fulfilled. There was nothing up to him to decide. But looking at Y/N with no intel on who they were, where they came from or why they had come, he felt they didn’t deserve it. He felt they had a lot more to do in life, that this story wasn’t ready for an end yet. Of course, that was breaking all his principles and rules and it was unfair to every person he had connected with their story’s end before, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about that. All he wanted was to spare Y/N.

“Would you...care to stop by sometime? I mean, the books seemed to intrigue you...“ He was hesitant, but God knows he wanted their answer to be ‘yes‘. He has never been a person who leaves mysteries unsolved. And this mystery by the name of Y/N was apparently his to solve.

“I’m a big book lover, so you can count on it.“ They flashed him a bright smile, one they somehow managed to reclaim after such a big shock and moment of absolute fear and confusion, “This time I’ll come on purpose, though.“

And they did, right the following day. And the day after. And the one after that. It became a routine. One he eventually felt the need to break for their sake, despite how big of a vacancy would open in the repository if they stopped coming by. He decided to do so by revealing his truth to them. It didn’t go as planned, to say the least...

“Like, the ACTUAL Death? The Grim Reaper? Or is this a book reference I’m missing?“ Y/N hadn’t bat an eye, they went straight to discussing the matter. Didn’t bother wasting time in silence, trying to comprehend things on their own. Unlike him, they are a team player - a solution to them is a puzzle multiple people need to solve. One thing was for certain, however, his revelation had the complete opposite effect of what he’d hoped for. Fate had pulled its strings once again, working against the plans he had in mind, making them grow even more attached to him now that he was ‘cooler’ - their words, not his. Seeing that they couldn’t be scared away, finally coming to terms with the fact that they had come into his existence to stay, he stopped trying to control their fate. It didn’t make sense, especially not when he couldn’t even control his own.

“You know,“ Y/N starts talking again, snapping him out of his reminiscing, “I started writing again.“ They had been struggling with their creativity for a while and he was a part of their whole journey of retrieving it so hearing these news brought him immense joy, “I started this collection of short poems I’ve called ‘Friends With Death’. What do you think?” They have the audacity to wink at him with this self-pleased smile on their face.

“Oh dear,“ The Curator is once again left with a lack of words as he sighs in slight disappointment, “You can’t be serious.“

They shake their head, “No, no, no. I’m DEADLY serious.“

It’s moments like these that he wishes he never spilled the truth about himself, while also being glad he did. Either way, he’s happy it didn’t drive Y/N away and send them running for the hills. Their jokes may be vexing, but they also get a smile, maybe sometimes even a chuckle from him. Not that he’d ever admit it or show it in front of them, of course.

“You kill me, Y/N.“ He finally breathes out, a small smile on his face - the result of the intense gratitude he feels for having them in his life.

Y/N cracks up, falling into a fit of giggles as they lean back in the chair, arms clutching at their stomach. Hearing and seeing them laugh like this makes surviving dozens of death puns daily well worth it.

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twiceblackvelvet · 4 years

Text

Disconnect

July 7th, 2021. 10:05 AM. Seoul.

The cold office building is one that everyone seated within it should be used to by now. However, the coldness doesn’t just stem from the uncomfortable leather seats or a window being left open from the previous meeting. Instead, it’s because the last few meetings have created an atmosphere that is indescribable. Tension looms over everybody and none of which will budge on their own individual stance or demands.

Even outside of this relatively small office, the dorm has felt bleak and lacking any form of life. Despite everyone being present at all times, there has been no sound besides shuffling from one room to the next. The usually easy-going relationship between all five girls instead being replaced with dread.

“So, let’s make this clear for anyone who could not keep up.” A company executive standing in the room's corner breaks the silence first. “You’re demanding more overseas promotions, more creative control, one of you wants to retire and the other two can’t agree on whether you want more or less solo schedules. Is that right?”

Every pair of eyes shuffle to one another quickly as the executive awaits an answer. The subconscious of everyone screaming that none of what has been demanded will end positively, especially since one member wishes to retire completely, no one except the person who requested it aware of who it is.

Finally, Irene takes it upon herself to answer for her members as she has grown used to doing being their trusted leader.

“Yes, that’s exactly what we’re saying.” Her voice hoarse from the schedule the day before as a guest MC.

The executive fidgets with his tie, he too is nervous, before releasing a deep sigh, preparing himself to deliver the final blow.

“The company does not believe that Red Velvet needs more overseas promotion for fans outside of Korea to purchase your music and merchandise as they do so regardless of schedules in their respective countries. Creative control was denied even quicker as we do not trust your abilities to produce or write at least one song from every future release as you asked. The argument of solo schedules is one that you must settle among yourselves, we can’t stop brands from requesting any of you to appear alone.” He breathes out yet another sigh before addressing the easiest issue. “Irene, the company will let you leave on good terms if retirement is really what you want. You’ve been an excellent representative of SM Entertainment and it will be sad to see you leave, but we respect your wishes.”

The four other members of Red Velvet all turn in their seats to face Irene. Whilst the issues have always been known to each other about what is stopping each of them from re-signing their contract, the demands were issued anonymously and everyone had swiftly denied they wanted to retire, including Irene, for the last few weeks whilst negotiations were ongoing.

“It was you?” Seulgi whispers, barely audible with a deep sadness in her eyes. “Why?”

For everyone other than Irene, who has been secretly awaiting this decision to be revealed, it feels like the weight of the world has just landed upon their chests and an escape from the crushing feeling is not available.

A cold stare at the wall in front of her is all Irene offers in response; unable to look at any of her fellow members in the eyes. The pain of saying goodbye to the group she’s nurtured and cherished for the last seven years already unbearable without their judgment. However, the prospect of spending more time with her family and leading a civilian life outweighs her desire to continue in the music industry and re-sign her contract.

“It doesn’t matter. If Irene still wants to leave, the company will allow you to move forward as four.” The executive chips in, likely hoping it eases some worries, instead, making them twenty times worse.

Irene rises from her seat slowly and heads towards the door of the office. Before she exits, a quick look over her shoulder and mumbled apology is all she can offer without the tears threatening to spill from her eyes streaming down her face.

A few moments of silence allow everyone to process that their leader has now left and none of them could stop it from happening. The color drains from each of their faces at how quickly the company has allowed Irene to leave. Two minds inside the room are made up because of this already, though only one voice says it.

“I don’t think any of us wish to continue as four but my demands remain the same even if we do. I want us to have control over our music, I’m tired of us being looked at as a lesser group compared to others because we aren’t allowed to produce or write for ourselves.” Yeri’s voice disturbs everyone from their thoughts on how things will be without Irene around.

“We just can’t do it, Yeri. I’m sorry.”

The quiet has become common with only a fan for background noise disturbing what would appear to anyone on the outside to be a peaceful environment; the truth being far from that.

At the very start of negotiations, everyone had appeared willing to re-sign and get things over and done with. A meeting in the living area was set up to air any changes to their contracts that everyone may want to discuss and nobody said anything. It was quite a shock for everyone the following week to find out that five different demands had been requested for review.

“Who asked for more solo projects?” Seulgi asks, expression confused and pained. Wendy and Yeri both shift towards the final seat in the room, forcing an answer out of Joy without her verbalizing anything. “Why do you want to work without us?”

“It’s not that I want to work without you, Seulgi. We all have our own brand, our own image. I want to continue to build mine for when Red Velvet is no more. Now it looks like we aren’t, I made the right choice to accept my solo schedules.”

“How can you be so selfish? Nothing is final here, we can get Irene back and-”

“No, Seulgi. This is over. They aren’t willing to budge on anything we’re asking for.” Wendy interrupts.

Both Seulgi and Yeri sigh in unison, possibly the last time the two will ever need to be in synchronization with one another.

“So, you wanted more overseas schedules?” Seulgi beckons her question towards Wendy, however, she doesn’t offer a response. “I don’t understand, we’re supposed to be a family here. Am I the only one who remembers that?”

“No, you aren’t. But my family isn't here Seulgi. My real family. I want to see them more than once a year if I get the chance to do so, which sometimes I don’t.” Wendy finally speaks. “I understand you’re upset but we all want different things now, maybe it’s time to move on.”

Seulgi’s jaw drops agape at Wendy’s final words. Never would any of them have predicted that things would come to this, but it’s true what they say, you never know what your future holds.

“Fine, you know what. I don’t need this. Enjoy your solo schedules, Joy. Have fun back in Canada.” Seulgi pauses as she faces Yeri, whose eyes are a deep red from the slow tears strolling down her cheeks. “Good luck with whatever you end up doing, kid. I mean that one.”

The door to the office slams shut as the force of it closing threatens to crack the frame holding it in place. The glasses of water placed before every seat vibrates as if an earthquake were impending.

“You both know that she’s sensitive, you could have thought about how she’d be feeling after Irene left. None of what you’ve just done was necessary.” Yeri swiftly tries to follow Seulgi out of the room and building, ultimately to no avail as she disappeared into thin air.

“Thank you for coming, I guess.” The executive quips sarcastically, which is greeted with two pairs of eyes rolling.

Both Wendy and Joy leave quieter than the previous two. The executive shuffles towards his laptop and prepares the statement that will need to be released to make their decision final. Red Velvet shall be no more as of August 1, 2021, exactly seven years after their official debut.

“I guess this is it. We’re going to disband.” Wendy croaks out as she walks side by side with Joy down the long corridor.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Both girls continue ahead together until they reach the elevator. The ride down to the ground floor is not the only thing making their stomachs churn with anxiety. All five of them knew going into this meeting that the outcome would be a difficult one to take in but none would have guessed they’d be leaving today with their group left in tatters.

The statement about their disbandment finally revealed on July 29 stating that all members amicably called it a day and that Irene has retired from the entertainment industry.

For the next few days, furniture and personal items begin to slowly vacate the dorm. No one says anything to one another. Irene is the first to leave. A hand-written note left behind for everyone explaining her decision is the only proof left that she ever lived there with them.

Yeri moved back home with her parents, no longer having the people she considered her sisters around her and on good terms being too much to deal with. She left the company behind her, no longer willing to put up with the lack of creative freedom.

Joy bought herself an apartment in the middle of Seoul for herself and Haetnim. She too left the company behind her to sign with an acting agency.

Seulgi decided she wanted to stay with the company despite everything but hid in her own room whilst everyone else left theirs, unwilling to watch the people she considered family leave her behind.

Wendy stayed until the company practically forced her out of the door since she decided not to re-sign too. Initially only staying at the dorm hoping to change Seulgi’s mind on cutting ties with everyone. All of her attempts being ignored.

All five girls saw fans struggle to understand or make sense of how one of the closest groups could possibly decide to split up. All five hearts broken along with everyone upset by the news.

Things will never be the same for any of them after this.

Pt. II

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itsclydebitches · 4 years

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Re the BTD recap: "the prose is still incredibly messy in places" "To be frank, it’s not that I think this is all particularly good… just not particularly bad either." If it's not too much trouble, can I get some concrete examples for why? I feel like I often don't notice this sort of thing, so I want to know what I'm missing. Might help me to be a better writer.

Challenging request, anon! :D I feel like I need a few disclaimers here:

The book is serviceable. It’s just not going to be winning any awards. Talking about how the prose and dialogue can be better isn’t meant to translate to, “This is the worst thing ever written.” Because it’s not.

This is very much a pot calling the kettle black situation. Anyone here has the capability of hopping onto AO3, finding a horribly written passage of my own, and shaking it in my virtual face. So this is likewise not intended to be me standing atop a pedestal going, “Anyone - myself included - could do better.” I often can’t do better because writing is hard.

I’m not a creative writing instructor, thus it’s often difficult for me to articulate why I think a piece of literature doesn’t read well. If you’ve ever, say, come out of a movie with a strong sense of it not being “good” but can’t easily explain why it failed? It’s similar to that. By consuming lots of media we get a sense of “quality” over “badly written” that then informs our reactions to new texts, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to boil that response down to, “See here on page 3? They shouldn’t have done this. Fix that and it’s ‘good’ now.”

Nevertheless, let’s try. I’ll take a passage from the prologue where Sun is facing off against these “goons”

Two glowing clones of Sun flared into existence, one facing Pink and the second squaring off against Green. That left Brown—whom he figured was both the leader of the group and the most dangerous. Why? Because he was hiding the most.

Brown slashed a hand toward Sun. “Take him.”

“Which one?” Green asked.

“The real one,” Pink said. “These are just flashy illusions.”

Sun directed one of his clones to punch Pink in the face.

She blinked and looked more annoyed than hurt.

“That’s no illusion!” Green reached for clone Two.

Sun’s clones were physical manifestations of his Aura, every bit as capable of inflicting damage as he was. But it could be difficult to control them, especially while he was fighting. They were better suited to giving him the element of surprise, extra pairs of hands, or emergency backup when he needed it.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t sustain them long, and they couldn’t take much damage, as they drew Aura from Sun himself. If he kept them going too long, or tried to create too many clones, it usually weakened the Aura shield protecting him. But he’d improved a lot with training, and his Semblance was a lot stronger than it used to be.

Sun whipped out his gunchucks, Ruyi Bang and Jingu Bang, spinning them as he and Brown circled each other slowly. At the same time, Sun was fighting Pink and Green through his clones. Pink was some kind of boxer, dancing around and jabbing with her fists, which One was managing to block. Meanwhile, Green was trying to grab Two and wrestle him to the ground.

Brown had some kind of martial arts training similar to Sun’s—but he wasn’t nearly as good. Sun leaned back as Brown did a high roundhouse kick; he felt a breeze as his opponent’s booted foot swept past his nose with a lot of power behind it. Sun flicked his right gunchuck to loop it around Brown’s ankle and pulled him out of his stance, hitting him with the closed gunchuck in his left hand. The man took the full blow, but it didn’t even faze him.

Now let’s break down some of the reasons why this passage doesn’t work for me. I’ll work chronologically.

As mentioned in the recap, it’s rather awkward for a PoV character to ask and answer their own questions. Especially when they’re not presented as literal thoughts. The “Why? Because...” takes me right out of the story. It suddenly sounds like I’m attending a lecture or reading an article. Sun believes X. Why does he believe this? Because of Y evidence.

The dialogue is clunky. This problem is admittedly more obvious at other points, but there are a lot of moments where it doesn’t feel like this is a natural thing someone would think or say. Which again, is really hard to write. How people speak is quite different from how we think they speak and finding a balance between that (eliminating most pauses like “um” or “like” that would be too frustrating to read, giving characters more flowery language to serve the story’s goals even if it’s not realistic, etc.) is hard to nail. Here, Sun is often thinking things that don’t sound l like an actual thought in a panicked teen’s head.

Oh crap, Sun thought. I’m losing. How am I actually losing?

It just sounds like exposition. The reader needs to know that Sun is losing! So Sun will tell them that.

The villains, so far, are a bit too cartoony for me.

“You got lucky, monkeyboy,” Green said as he walked off, his companions following him through the cloud of foul vapor. “This time.”

Which is admittedly a matter of taste and does have some justification given RWBY’s early writing (think Roman). Still, it’s hard to take lines like this seriously, especially when we just had the group making fun of Velvet for cheesy quips. But the villain’s quips are supposed to read as daunting?

Connected to Sun’s thought above, there is a lot of telling rather than showing throughout. For example: “She blinked and looked more annoyed than hurt.” There are ways of showing the reader that Pink is annoyed (indeed, just leaving it at “She blinked” would have gotten the point across) rather than resorting to, “She looked ___”. Another good example would be “ Sun leaned back as Brown did a high roundhouse kick; he felt a breeze as his opponent’s booted foot swept past his nose with a lot of power behind it.” You don’t need to reassure the reader that there was “a lot of power behind it.” The action itself - feeling a breeze, his boot passing close to his nose - conveys that on its own.

To be clear, telling isn’t something you can’t ever do (break those writing rules!!) especially when sometimes you just want to be clear/convey something succinctly, but it is something to keep in mind. It’s another balancing act. Too much telling and the reader feels like they’re just being told a list of things to believe. Too much showing and it feels like the writer is trying too hard to make everything detailed, exciting, etc. Still, a good writer is going to be able to convey everything (Sun losing a fight, annoyance, a powerful kick) without feeling the need to remind the reader of things every few lines, “This is what’s happening. Don’t get confused!”

After the fight starts we immediately get a two paragraph info-dump about Sun’s semblance. How it works, what his limitations are, and what that means for this fight. Again, show that! We’ve just started an action sequence. The fight is underway. The reader doesn’t want to get pulled out of the action for another lecture. Rather than hitting pause on the fun stuff to explain things, create scenarios where these details become relevant and can be shown to the reader. Right now we don’t care what Sun’s limitations are unless those limitations become important.

We get another announcement in the form of “[Brown] wasn’t nearly as good [as Sun]” instead of (again) showing us that. Indeed, as I mention in the recap all the action that comes next contradicts this. So where did this assertion come from? If Sun knows that Brown uses a martial arts style similar to his then theoretically they’ve been fighting for at least a few seconds... but the reader doesn’t get to see that. Meyers was too busy telling us about Sun’s semblance.

Finally, there are pockets of Meyer’s writing that are all roughly the same. Meaning, sentences have little variety to them. This isn’t a consistent problem (and it’s certainly not the worst example I’ve seen of this) but on the whole he could use a more engaging flow to his work, both in terms of sentence length and balance among actions, dialogue, descriptions, and thoughts. Otherwise you get prose that reads, “This happened. Then this happened. This happened next. See the length? It’s all the same. Very little changes. And the reader gets bored.” Again, not a consistent problem, but one he should keep working on.

There are a number of other, smaller issues that are beginning to pop up. Such as the in parentheses pronunciation of the teams’ names, or the overuse of “he sent” whenever Fox communicates telepathically. In contrast, there are things about the writing that I’ve enjoyed. There are moments of dialogue - such as Fox’s joke in Chapter One, or how Sun’s instructions to “find Shade” literally refer to the school but also remind the reader that shade, in such a hot environment, is crucial - that I think are worth pointing to and going, “Yeah. That was a nice touch.” Overall though? It’s that, “I just came out of a bad movie” feeling. There’s too much clunkiness throughout. The writing often lacks variety or feels absurd. I’m taken out of the story more often than I fall into it. Is it the worst thing I’ve ever read? Far from it, but fans aren’t wrong when they say things like, “I’ve read better fic than this professional story.”

#rwby #rwde #mymetas #Anonymous

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prettywordsyouleft · 3 years

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heyy I requested a Jinyoung pirate au for Chelle Chats somewhen at the end of last year and I wanted to ask for a continuation. Only if you have ideas for a continuation though! If not I'd like to ask you how you deal with when you start stories but as some point the plot just goes downhill? I don't know if you've ever experienced such a thing but I find myself enthusiastically starting a story but after a short while I always lose my creativity and it always ends up going into the same direction..

Hey anon!!!

Can I be honest? I’d love to write you a second piece in this world, however, I’m actually planning on writing it out further into a series. I’m trying to figure exactly how to expand the world, as it’s one of my upcoming projects to tackle! Your request really sparked something in me to create this into a fully fledged world. I hope you don’t mind me not writing anymore now, and can look forward to the series (though, I will be making it a JB and Jinyoung one, sorry!)

As for your question, yes, I struggle with this feeling often. It’s the reason I probably will never write a novel. I lack in long-term commitment to a project. For me, I start out super excited, but either get bored, want to start other projects (this is really the biggest issue) and need to finish it first, or external pressures/opinions make me jaded.

For me, I think it’s best that I write the entire series from start to finish before posting it, as I’m more likely to stick to my concept and excitement if I do it that way. However, I tend to only succeed in doing this with shorter stories (4-7 parts).

If I get impatient and start posting something early, before finishing the series in full offline, I manage to make the stories longer. There’s pros and cons to this... I’m inspired by the feedback I’m given and sometimes it shapes the world in a way I didn’t expect but it’s a pleasant surprise. Other times, it makes me feel a little suffocated and I just want to finish the story and escape that feeling.

I place a huge amount of pressure on myself to perform well - not just as a writer, but in all aspects of life - and this itself can kill my creativity.

How do I deal with this?

To be honest, not very well. I’m still learning what works for me and what doesn’t, even after years of writing. I think mindset helps a lot too. Reminding myself that I’m doing the best I can as the writer and person I am now is something I do quite a lot. In the Elizabeth Gilbert book Big Magic, she explains the concept of honouring the writer you are at the time, and supporting that instead of being upset you didn’t do enough or reach the envision you had in your head quite as closely as you hoped to. Writing is an evolving process, and there’s never a point in a writer’s life where we’ve reached our limit. Even a well-published author always has room to improve!

I also try to step away if I can and not force myself to write. Alternatively, writing something else to ensure the lack of motivation for the current story’s journey isn’t an overall block is something I check out. Can I still write a well-rounded story outside of this one? If so, what do I need to do to come back to this world? If not, then what is the reason I’m struggling to write overall?

Asking yourself questions is the best option for finding solutions. If all fails, and you find yourself heading along the same way of ending a story yet again, maybe look into why you do that. Does the story ending that way upset you, or does it complete that world? If it’s the latter, perhaps it’s a part of your engrained style? I myself try to come full circle in almost every story I’ve written. I’ll tend to find something from the first part to connect into the last one. I do it so often now that half the time, I’m not even aware I’ve done it until I reread it and am pleasantly surprised.

If it’s ending doesn’t please you, then maybe the story isn’t done. You have further options to continue it, hiatus it, or scrap it. Some ideas aren’t meant to make it to fruition and the fact that you put in the effort into that world is still valid. It still gave you experience and allowed you to play around with characterisation and world-building, etc.

I’m sorry for this ramble (it was 3x in length but got a little too off tangent, haha) but hopefully you’ll find something in this reply that assists you in figuring a way to get through this.

And just keep writing... whether on that idea or something entirely new. The more you write, the more you develop natural understanding of how you write and what could be a problem for you now might just solve itself along the way, or open new paths for further enjoyment as the writer.

________________

My ask box is open for this week’s Chelle Chats!

#chellechats #pwyl; answered #pwyl; writing tips

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apparitionism · 4 years

Text

Run 2

Other than a few select details—and the overall conundrum of the appropriate role(s) for technological advances in sports—this story is entirely fantastical. Very little of what I’m describing works in the real world as I’m pretending it does here. Of course very little is working in the real world as it usually does right now, so why should this be any different? Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing. More than ever, I’m writing words down solely to write words down, and I can’t get any sort of tone to cohere, and while I’m sure it would be nice to be inventing calculus or writing King Lear, sometimes all that’s even vaguely achievable in the creative (or “creative”) realm is some poorly constructed fanfictional narrative about too-springy shoes. Which began in part 1.

Run 2

The man sitting next to Helena Wells in first class—his window 5A to her aisle 5B—was a talker. He was in sales, he began explaining the very moment he sat down, and his three vodka tonics over the course of the 90-minute flight did nothing to slow the torrent of information he felt compelled to convey to Helena about the endlessly fascinating (to him) world of medical devices. And the sale thereof. Helena could have informed him, a bit, about certain likely future directions of that field, for Helena knew a bit about a great many fields, but she kept her own counsel. He said nothing of consequence, and she did not feel any need to expend energy on him, even as little as it might have taken to freeze him with a look. “Mm hm,” she would say, when he paused for breath, and after every such interjection, off he would go again.

Not until the end of the flight, not until she had already risen to pull her bag from the overhead, did he bother to ask, “And what do you do?”

Helena smiled a smile that showed only the biting edges of her teeth. “I win.”

She did indeed win. More precisely, she negotiated deals to the best advantage of those who employed her, so her newest position, with the Zelus athletic corporation, suited her competitive nature perfectly. She found it delicious to be facilitating the endeavors of, and even working with, athletes, for they were straightforward, unabashed in their desire to show that, on a given day, they were better than any competition they faced.

Helena did, however, envy them their openness about that desire, their freedom to be visibly coldblooded. While ideals of “good sportsmanship” did keep most athletes from dancing on their enemies’ graves, that sportsmanship at base required going all in to win, and showing it. In Helena’s bailiwick of corporate dealmaking, on the other hand, every position had give; every outcome reflected some of that give—that is, some loss—on each side... or at least, it did so externally. Every party might in fact achieve their desired outcomes, but regret was what one had to perform.

From this, Helena knew that no person or business or any other entity was ever as strong in their supposed stance as they claimed to be. And oh, how they did claim: so many ways there were to righteously say “this far and no farther.” And then so many ways to try to save face when that crumbled to “perhaps, in fact, just a bit farther.”

Where Helena excelled was not in nailing down the finer points of contracts, but rather in discerning weak points and, on their basis, obtaining agreements in principle into which her opposition needed to enter—and out of which they could not wriggle—without causing public embarrassment or shame. She relished in-person meetings, for physical presence could serve as motivation when recalcitrant parties needed goading, or cover, to make the required concessions. Particularly when Helena gave every indication of being entirely willing to walk away. And to talk about having done so.

“Here, ultimately, is what I must have from you,” Helena would say, at an appropriate point, to some such reluctant interlocutor. And then she would, often, present an outsize “ultimate” ask.

Her counterpart would, naturally, be nonplussed, and would sputter something such as, “We can’t afford that!” or “That’s unreasonable!”

Helena put the theatrics undergirding face-to-face to good use: she was quite practiced at engaging in a lengthy process of standing up and restoring implements to their appropriate places in her attaché. “Then I suppose further discussions will be unproductive,” she would say as she carefully housed a pen, her telephone, and various other assorted technologies in zippered pockets. “Such a shame, when I’m sure you could summon some extra effort.” She would, on occasion, sigh.

Observing this production, observing its “finality,” her counterpart would waver. Then would come the beg of “Wait, wait.”

Helena would, of course, wait as requested. As she did so, she would begin to muse, aloud, something along the lines of a quiet, “I might be willing to offer certain... considerations...”

Eventually an agreement would be reached, one in which she would have given up no more than she was authorized to concede, and usually far, far less.

Requesting the moon, being ready to bark about not receiving it, and then yielding some sweetener, was not her only tactic, but it was consistently—surprisingly consistently—effective.

The additional leverage provided by Zelus’s money, prestige, and international reach in such situations was gratifyingly robust. It had made this new position singularly attractive, to start, and would, she hoped, make it satisfying, both in the long term and in the short-term highest-of-stakes dealmaking on which she was about to embark with AAI.

She was licking her chops at having been tapped for these talks, though she knew that Dan Badger—Saint Dan, as he was known at home, with a nationally uncharacteristic lack of irony—would not sully his ethically pristine hands by engaging in them. He had underlings for that. Speaking to Zelus would imply that he spoke to Zelus, and thus that he might be influenced by—that is, that his principles might fall victim to—the company’s money, prestige, and international reach.

Funny that anything of consequence in her life would come down to Saint Dan... but she had no need or time to concentrate on that now, what with her flight with Mr. Medicaldevices, what with getting herself to her hotel and then to AAI’s headquarters.

“I win,” she repeated aloud, as a firm reminder to herself, upon exiting the elevators on the 40th floor to confront the winged AAI logo on the wall of a large lobby. She wasn’t nervous as such, but the initial conferences involved in any such negotiation, particularly one like this with such enormous repercussions, did tend to make her feel as if she were being put through qualifying. As to whether she would qualify, there was no doubt. But having to do so was an annoyance.

“I win,” she said again, as she realized, after some purposeful striding through hallways, that she had no idea where she was, or where she was supposed to be. How could she have been so foolish as to have misread the COO’s office number?

Well. She was considered a shark, was she not? So she kept moving, entering the nearest office space, determined to push her way to a righted course. Someone would know where she was meant to be. She found herself in a large area featuring several desks, at the nearest of which sat a womanly figure, her back to Helena. She had long, dark, curly hair. Helena had once upon a time been dramatically drawn to women—well, be honest: one woman—with long, dark, curly hair... she tried not to be, anymore, but here she was again, drawn, as if no one else were present in the space. She tapped the woman’s shoulder and received an annoyed response, and upon hearing it, Helena thought, Wait...

Then the woman looked up, and Helena thought, Oh no, followed swiftly by, Myka.

She could not summon a single word to say. Judging from Myka’s wide eyes and unmoving mouth, neither could she.

As they gaped at each other, Helena’s thoughts galloped along: She hasn’t changed. She looks like herself. She still has that whorl of hazel in her eyes...

She tried to shake herself back to sense by noting that people’s eyes didn’t change color over time; of course the hazel would still be there. The hazel and the green and the lashes that overswept them both...

“Lost,” Myka at last said, lighting on what Helena vaguely remembered was a word she herself had said.

“Lost,” Helena affirmed. It was all she could do to utter that syllable, even though, standing here, staring at Myka, she felt no longer lost at all. Or perhaps she was lost again, or lost anew, lost as she’d been, nearly two years ago... the distance between then and now had not been sufficiently impressed upon her until this moment. You are different now, this reminder of emotional depth and breadth told her. You are intentionally different now.

A man seated near Myka said, “Call me crazy, but I think you two know each other.”

The ensuing silence stretched into near-insurmountability.

Then: “Yes,” Myka said.

Helena was surprised that she would acknowledge it, but she had, so: “Yes,” Helena echoed.

Nothing else happened.

“Okay,” the man said. After a moment, during which Helena and Myka continued to stare at each other, he said to Helena, “Um. New lady Myka knows, what are you doing here?”

Helena found something like her voice. “I’m from Zelus,” she said.

“When you say it like that, sounds like an alien planet. How many suns does it have?” he asked.

Whoever this was, he was good at breaking tension. Helena coughed a little laugh and said, “You see my healthy tan.”

“So, zero,” the man said. “Mykes, you never told me you knew an alien from a system with no suns.” Then, to Helena, “Okay, alien from the planet Zelus, how can we help you? But I’m not sure I believe you’re from there at all. Don’t they make everybody wear the gear? Where’s your headband or whatever?”

Helena laughed a bit more strongly, this time at the idea of herself in a headband. “Your COO can attest. I have an initial appointment regarding what to do about the shoes. The Deceits, that is.”

The man snorted. “Trust me, we know which shoes need something done about ’em. But anyway you took a major wrong turn at the elevators.”

“Did I?” Helena resumed staring at Myka. Wrong turn? The turn I took was in no way wrong. Or it was, because I am seeing a sight I never thought to see again, and it is reminding me of things I cannot bear to be reminded of.

“You want the bigwig offices. Other side.”

“Do I?” Helena asked. I don’t think I do. I think I want to take up residence right here... or rather, in the past. The part of the past that involves this person who is right here.

“Yeah,” he said, but a bit heavily, as if he had heard her thoughts and wanted to honor them. “Because we’re just certification and compliance.”

In response to that, Helena could think only, Of course you are. Or rather, Of course she is.

She hadn’t seen Myka... since.

Helena’s then-employer had been looking into the acquisition of a company. Helena was sent to visit that company for some days in order to see what best face it could put on for an acquisitive outsider... and what could be extrapolated from that about its value. The books were being gone over by others, and they would provide useful quantitative data on corporate health, but Helena’s nose for frailties was unsurpassed.

All the meetings she attended were watched over by a rotating cast from the legal department. Those types always thought themselves hawklike, their senses finely tuned so as to correct any employees’ statements that might give Helena the wrong impression. Helena was fully prepared for whatever “clarifying” interruptions they would offer.

She was not at all prepared for their intern.

“This is our 3L from Stanford,” said one of the lawyers, explaining that intern’s presence at one such meeting. “Myka Bering. She’s trying corporate on for size. We’re hoping it fits.”

Helena took Myka Bering’s hand for what was meant to be a simple business shake. But at the touch, something happened to her breathing: in-out became out-in, and she coughed. “Sorry,” she said, then coughed again. “Does it?” she asked, sounding nothing at all like herself. “Fit, I mean?”

“Still trying it on,” Myka said, and with a little duck of her head—she was tall—she stepped away, toward the back of the room, a movement that said I know what my place is here.

Helena knew what her own place was, and she tried to occupy it appropriately, sitting in a position of significance at a not-quite-sturdy conference table. Yet throughout the meeting, her attention was drawn to Myka, who was not at the table but in a chair against the wall, drawn to her serious brow-furrow as she took notes. At one point, Myka looked up from those notes, meeting Helena’s eyes, and after a blink of connection, she performed the duck of head again.

Helena spent the remainder of the meeting hoping that some similar blink would reconnect them... well, not only hoping, but also attempting to magically will or engineer it into happening. She took no notes of her own, and when she saw blank paper in front of her, once the meeting’s participants were released at its end, she had to acknowledge, certainly to herself if no one else, that she had been thrown entirely off her stride.

That wouldn’t do, so she had to do something about it.

For a day and a half, the “something” she did was “ignore it aggressively.” If she concentrated solely on the professional tasks at hand, she would surely forget the stumble Myka had brought to her breath. She would surely forget that blink of connection and would give up wishing for it to be repeated. Surely that was what would happen.

As a strategy for regaining her stride, aggressive ignoring was unsuccessful.

Helena then told herself that if she sought Myka out, that if she talked to her one-on-one, whatever momentary spell had been cast would surely break. Myka would show herself to be merely a law student, and Helena could... put her in perspective. She made a plan to catch Myka at the end of the day, which would allow her to dismiss this spell for the mirage it was and start fresh the next morning. Surely that was what would happen.

As a strategy for breaking the spell, seeking Myka out was unsuccessful.

Myka was exiting her small closet of an office when Helena approached her, ready to say a simple “hello” and inquire about her internship. But when she was once again the focus of Myka’s attention, Helena was barely able to choke, “The other day. In the meeting.” (She could not even say, “The meeting about,” because she did not know what should follow “about,” because she did not know what the meeting had been about.) She continued, inadequately, “I... noticed you.”

“I noticed you too,” Myka said. “I mean, you did sit at the big table. At the front. And you did some talking.” Helena did not remember doing any talking. “So of course I would have. Noticed.” Playful? As if she knew that Helena had wanted their eyes to meet again. “Plus we were introduced. Before it.”

If Helena had known she needed to brace herself against so much today, she might have been able to do it; her spine might have remained straight. Instead it bent her body toward Myka’s so that she could murmur, “Would you... would you want to have a drink with me tonight?” Bent so she might now magically will or engineer her into saying yes.

Myka didn’t say yes. What she did was lean back a bit and give Helena a look of appraisal. What followed was a surprise: “When was the last time you had a meal cooked by someone you know?” she asked.

The seeming non sequitur was strangely calming, and that calm gave Helena space to consider how to respond. She contemplated a boastful answer, one that might remind both herself and Myka who they were in relation to each other: “Certain restaurateurs with Michelin stars know my name and have recently cooked meals for me.” She then pondered an attempt at humor: “The chef at my hotel knows that I’m demanding when it comes to room service.” No, the latter was asinine. And the former made her sound like... well, it made her sound too much like the person she wanted to be most of the time, the person whom others feared. She didn’t want Myka to hear that. As it happened, she wanted, uncharacteristically, to tell Myka the truth. “I can’t remember,” she settled for saying.

More appraisal, as if Myka had been waiting for Helena to decide on an approach and now was deliberating in advance of her verdict on the choice. And Helena’s breathing might have faltered in response to Myka, but Myka’s, here in response to Helena, was resolute, measured. Helena watched her body inhale and exhale, once then twice, two very full breaths. Then Myka said, “I do want to have a drink with you. But I think you should let me cook you a meal instead. Or also. Nothing fancy; all I’ve got is some pasta and cheap wine.”

She could have said she had stale saltines and grape juice. Cardboard and lukewarm water. All Helena wanted was to be in her presence. You really shouldn’t do this, some vague conscience-voice said, altogether inadequately.

TBC

In place of a tag essay: This is a short part because my ability to sustain thoughts is limited. But did you see the reveal coming? I thought I leaned on it so hard in the first part, but maybe I should have leaned harder... anyway, I’m going to try to get better, structure-wise, going forward, but that is going to depend very much on the state of the world. With regard to that state, I want to say out loud that everyone in the Bering & Wells community is precious to me. Precious. So please stay as safe as possible: wash hands, physical distance, stay home if you can. And if you’re on the front lines, doing essential work, my gratitude is boundless.

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Run #part 2 #AU week

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ionfusionpunk · 3 years

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For the Fic title ask game: tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

[Did a little editing bc this got real long, lol]

Thank you, Nonnie! asdfghjkl I actually kinda blushed when I saw people had sent me asks for this, truly.

Now, for this title, I had a lot of feels. It’s very poetically put, and I had to put some thought into what I might write because this sort of title, in my book, deserves that level of forethought. Ultimately there were two stories I might write based on this, the first a tad more generic than the second, but I would read them both if someone else wrote them, so I kept them, lol. Seeing as I’m currently in a SW state of mind, I stuck with that fandom, though if you’d like to see something for another fandom (Naruto, The Hobbit, LOTR, TMNT, BBC Sherlock, BBC Musketeers, Supernatural, LEGO Ninjago - all of the fandoms I’ve dabbled in), send another ask! I love hearing from others. Out of curiosity, before I give you the story, though, do you mind if I ask how you came up with this title? It’s just - so lovely, Nonnie <3

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow (First Idea)

Everyday is hard. Obi-Wan knows this. He lives this. He leads men into battle, he sends others off without his protection. He watches many, so many, fall, and feels the hundreds across the Third System Army snuffed with each campaign.

He fights with Anakin, struggles to come to terms with the idea that his former Padawan is now a Knight with a Padawan of his own - that Anakin doesn’t need him anymore. He tries to fill in Ahsoka’s education where Anakin, in his inexperience, falls short.

He takes on extra duties because he can, because the Republic needs him to, because he can’t bear to foist even more onto Cody’s shoulders (willing as his commander may be). He does everything he can to keep the morale and health of his men up, to spread hope and Light despite the dreary darkness the war saturates them all with.

Obi-Wan does everything he can. He does. He tries so, so hard. He trudges through each day until he once more finds himself at his desk with yet another datapad and cup of lukewarm tea, staying up all through the night to fulfill each of his duties to the best of his ability. Then the day cycle restarts or an emergency comes up, and he’s right back at it again.

It’s not all chaos, of course. There’s sparring with Anakin and Ahsoka. There’s the brief moments spent in the presence of his friends and fellow Councilors. There’s infrequent calls from Bant and Garen and even Quinlan.

There’s his men.

The 212th is, without a doubt, Obi-Wan’s second-greatest pride and weakness, tied with Ashoka herself. He loves them all - their individuality, their creativity, their dogged determination to push on as long as he does, and then more when they’re forced to carry him. Nothing brings quite as much joy or peace as walking through the halls of the Negotiator and greeting each clone by name or designation, nothing quite as satisfying as spending a quiet evening with Cody filling out paperwork and laughing over the latest stunts pulled by the 501st.

And Obi-Wan finds that, if he focuses on those good things, those small moments of peace, then he can push off his own worries and nightmares and needs until tomorrow. He can ignore the Darkness slowly spreading for another day. He can endure one more sunset on some Force-forsaken planet where the Separatist forces seem to keep coming without end and the elements conspire against them.

Until tomorrow.

Just think of Waxer and Boil exchanging their latest updates from Numa.

Think of Fives and Echo and the chaos they caused when Obi-Wan requested their presence for extra training for Ghost Company.

Think of Rex and his exasperated comm-calls about Anakin’s latest antics.

Remember the way Cody tore through two squad’s worth of droids with Obi-Wan’s ‘saber just to give it back to him - the way his eyes rolled in fond exasperation once the battle was over and he berated his “ridiculous general” for never managing to hold on to his weapon.

Everyday, think of them again. Drive the Darkness back until tomorrow.

And tomorrow.

Do that, and victory will come. Trust in your men, in yourself, in the Force.

The Force will be with you.

Always.

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow (Idea Two)

Obi-Wan is killed on Mustafar. Anakin overpowers him and drives his lightsaber through Obi-Wan’s heart.

And Obi-Wan wakes up.

He wakes up in his quarters in the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. He wakes up with a tiny Anakin pressed against his side and hair an awkward, chin-length tangle. He doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t know if this is the Force or a vision or real, but he makes the best of it regardless. He spends two months teaching Anakin again, doing things he had often wished he had Before. And just as he finally thinks things are changing…

Obi-Wan wakes up in his quarters on the Negotiator. His chrono tells him it’s nine months into the war, and his heart aches with the phantom pains of his death. He still doesn’t know what’s happening. But still he forges on. He has a duty to do his best regardless of his own limitations, his growing insecurities and confusions. For one month, this time, he fights alongside his men, does his best to prevent the various disasters that had occurred the first time around. And if he notices that Anakin is a bit Lighter now, well. Obi-Wan is still swallowed by grief every time he looks at his former Padawan.

He wakes up, this time, on Manda’yaim, Satine Kryze a few feet away and snoring softly. Qui-Gon isn’t there, and Obi-Wan ignores the ache in his chest. For seven months they evade Kyr’tsad’s grasp, and he uses all the negotiating skill he’d lacked back then to keep Satine from falling into such a black-and-white world view. He wakes before he knows if he succeeds.

This time he doesn’t recognize where he is. It’s hot, though, and unbearably bright. He walks outside into the waning daylight and counts two suns, observes nothing but sand and cliffs all around. He spends the next two days exploring, making his way to the settlement a few klicks west. He leaves more confused than before, because this is not the Tatooine he remembers. That night, as he meditates out beneath the triplet moons on the still-warm sand, he sees Qui-Gon. In fact, Qui-Gon talks to him. Obi-Wan is so overwhelmed, so confused, his heart pounding so sharply in his chest, that he cries. He cries for an hour, Qui-Gon hovering anxiously nearby until he can recover himself and explain in halting sentences everything that’s gone on. Qui-Gon promises to try and find some answers, then fades into the night.

And Obi-Wan wakes up in the embrace of the Force. Peace, it whispers.

He asks it why he’s here, why he’s seen the things he has.

To teach you, it admits. To offer you a chance.

Chance? What chance? A chance to torture himself with things that could never be?

To offer you a chance to go back and change things.

He’s shocked. Floored. All of that… was real?

Yes. You needed to see all the things you could change so that you can decide what would best be changed.

Me. You want… me to choose? Where I go, what I alter?

Yes. And wherever you go, we will place the knowledge you need to succeed in your path. It will be up to you to recognize it.

Obi-Wan thinks of all the good he could do, thinks of the Darkness he could prevent. “I want,” he says at last, “to be surrounded by Light. I want to go where I have the most chances of succeeding.”

The Force hums around him, cradles him close. He, in turn, basks in its Light, in the comfort of home. And he lets the Force lull him back to sleep.

He wakes up on the ground in one of the only dog piles he’d ever participated in. Cody has an arm thrown over his chest, and Waxer’s stomach pillows his head. Boil’s head rests on Obi-Wan’s arm, and someone else is curled around his feet. Everywhere he is surrounded by the peaceful quiet of men fast asleep, of men who radiate love and contentment into the Force.

Obi-Wan weeps silently for the Light that surrounds them.

And when he wakes again, it's the same Tomorrow.

#title ask game #anonymous #star wars #my writing #oneshot #well #two oneshots #which one do you like more?#this was a ton of fun #gosh i love writing #especially when i give myself feels in the process lmao

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