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tweedlydumbtweedlydoo · 3 years

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Live Stream Murderer (Part 2) | Spencer Reid x reader

Requested by @thatsonezesty13 / Summary: You’re kidnapped by the Live Stream Murderer, who is in search of his soulmate. He tortures the women for 36 hours and whoever lasts that long is in his eyes; his soulmate. Will you make it through the 36 hours of torture?

| Part 1 |

A/N: here is part 2! Thank you for all the attention on part 1! I love seeing all the likes, reblogs and comments, especially the ones asking to be tagged so they don’t miss the next part! <3 hopefully you all enjoy this one as much as part 1!! xx

*possible trigger warning and could spoil the ending of part 2 for you; blood, talks of death, description of a bloody and headless person

Tag list is at the end. Let me know if you want to be added xx

**MASTERLIST**

Requests: {OPEN} CLOSED

** Rules for Requesting **

** Who I Write For **

********************************************************************************************NOT MY GIF, CREDIT TO OWNERS

Your head was pounding, and you could feel your body was weak from the torture. How long had you been passed out? The last thing you remembered was a hot poker penetrating your side. There sitting in front of you was the man who would probably haunt your nightmares for forever.

He wore a sickening smile, “Hi.. I was wondering when you would wake up.” He stood up and held a red straw to your lips.

“Fuck you.” You whispered weakly. There was no telling what was in that drink and you weren’t about to find out.

He frowned, “But you’ve made it 28 hours.. only 8 more and you’ll be,” His fingers went to caress your cheek, but you revolted at his touch, “my soulmate.” He said the last word like he was in a loving haze.

You’d made it through 28 hours with this psychopath? You watched as the man went to the storage closet and pulled out multiple instruments and set them on the table next to you. He clicked a button on a remote and the camera in front of you flashed a red button. You figured it was live streaming now and there was a chance the whole world was watching this freak torture you; including Spencer.

Oh, Spencer. Your heart felt overwhelmed at the thought of him. He’d suffered the loss of Maeve and you worried he would never recover. This was probably bringing those terrible emotions back to the surface.

“I have to see if you can withstand more pain.” His voice was behind you and then a knife cutting the ties off your left arm. If you weren’t weak, you’d try to fight him with one hand, but with your injuries suffered so far and the knife still in your leg, there wasn’t much to do.

“I have to see if you’re my soulmate.” His fingers gripped your upper arm, “This might hurt.”

Your breathing increased as you wondered what was next. Your eyes fixated on the camera in front of you and you tried to focus on the one thing that made you happy. The one thing you loved most in this world. Spencer Reid.

It was a trick you’d been taught during your training. You were keeping your mind preoccupied by coming up with various scenes, happy scenes. Spencer’s face crossed your mind and suddenly you were transported to a library. You were sitting across Spencer, books in front of the both of you. You could see him peeking every once and a while to look at you. You knew because you were doing the same thing to him.

“If you keep staring at me, we aren’t ever going to get this finished.”

His fingers continued to dance across the page as he read and he gave a small smile, “I’m not staring at you.”

“Okay.” You shut your book, amused, “Tell me what you just read.”

His fingers stopped and he knew he’d been caught. He finally looked up at you, “I have no idea what I just read.”

You let out a laugh, “Spencer Reid!” You stood, “We have to finish this paper for Dr. Johnson’s class!” Grabbing the two books on the table, you headed toward a row of library books, “These don’t have what I need.”

In this imaginary world you and Spencer were young, college students. It was a normal life with no danger. No BAU. No cases. Just you and Spencer living a normal life.

“I’m sorry!” He chuckles, standing to follow you. He stops behind you as you put the two books back on the shelves, “how am I supposed to concentrate when I’m in front of the most beautiful girl in this universe?”

You turned around and faced him, “Spencer Reid.”

“y/n y/l/n.” He copied your tone, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear, “I love you.” Those three words. You wanted to hear it again.

“Say it again.” Your fingers wrapped around his wrist as he cupped your cheek.

His other hand cupped your other cheek and subconsciously caressed your cheek with his thumb, “I love you.”

You let out a scream as the man pulled on your arm, dislocating your shoulder from it’s socket. No no.. take me back. Take me back to standing there with Spencer in that library where you heard the words you’d wished he’d confess.

How much more of this could you take? How much more could anyone take? This was an insane amount of pain and all you wanted to do was sleep. You wanted to give up.

You sobbed, finally breaking, “Please stop.. just please.”

“I can’t.” He sighs, “36 hours.” He taps the watch on his wrist.

You were fading, or at least you wanted to fade away. You’d been strong during all this because you knew you’d get to see Spencer again. He’d been the one to keep you going during this, but right now you don’t know how much more you could take. You wanted to make it through this just to be able to tell him how you felt. Your thoughts slowed and the darkness consumed you.

As soon as the live stream was posted, Penelope began working her magic. However, it was still proven to be a challenge on pinpointing the location.

He had to watch as the man pulled your arm out of it’s socket and listen to your screams of agony. He’d kill him. He knew if he’d ever see this man he’d kill him with his own bare hands for harming you in this way, such a public way.

“Please.. please hang on just a bit longer.” He pleaded to the screen.

More disappointment as the live stream cut off when your eyes went closed. You’d passed out from the overwhelming amount of pain and exhaustion.

8 hours later there was another livestream, but this time there wasn’t anyone seated in the chair. You were gone and his mind went to worst. You’d lost the battle.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got the location!” Penelope yelled through the comms, the location immediately sent to everyone’s phone.

There wasn’t time to think as everyone rushed out the door and toward the known location. However, when they arrived, it was Hotch and JJ who went in first. As Spencer followed, Hotch immediately came back out stopping him at the door.

“You don’t need to go in there.”

Spencer was confused, “What? Why not?” He tried to push passed Hotch again and the look on JJ’s face told him everything he needed to know. “Let me see!”

Hotch lost the grip on the determination of Spencer and he passed through the door way. Spencer skitted to a stop at the sight before him. No no no.

His knees his the floor. This wasn’t happening again, please no. He silently begged. “No! No no!” He couldn’t help the sobs that overcame his body.

There in the middle of the room laying on a blanket where the chair had been was your headless body in a pool of blood.

Criminal Minds tag list: @thelovelydreamer17 , @la-vie-en-amour1 , @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 , @astra-inclinant-sed-non-obligant (possibly: @astra-x-inclinant) , @bluerose512 , @lolychu , @varsityalthete , @televisiondreamstomorrow , @harry-hollands , @lumineshawn , @lyss-xo , @rexorangecouny , @sassy-hades , @britishspidey , @ateez-star

***i’ve added all the ones asked to be tagged in this story to my criminal minds tag list because I only have taglists by the shows and/or character I write for instead of specific stories. In the future if you’d like to be taken off the list, just shoot me a message! xx

All my works tag list: @blossomreed , @mggstyles , @simonsbluee , @thewolf-and-thesheep , @obxrafejjwhore , @abbiesthings , @itstaskeen , @reniescarlett

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norarigby · 3 years

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フェア関西のルームメイト二名 (The Two Roommates from Fair Kansai)

Chapter 2: The Typo

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Description: In which while typing a roommate ad online, the famed Miya Atsumu, (23) MSBY Jackals Setter, makes a detrimental typo that leads to an influx of women applicants. Confused, but not completely opposed (the idiot), Miya Atsumu lands on a formidable candidate. Y/n L/n. A Biotechnology major at Kansai University, looking for a change after her last disastrous roommates and some space from a particular complication. It’s odd, but it’ll work. Maybe a little too well.

Pairings: Miya Atsumu x Reader

Warnings: None!

Word Count: ~1.4k

A/n: Cross posted from my AO3. I update there first, so if you want the chapters sooner, check it out!

To say Atsumu was overwhelmed would be an understatement. When one of the athletic directors approached him saying how his phone kept going off in the locker room, he was concerned something was seriously wrong. As a precaution, they assure him that if it was an emergency that he should feel free to take the day. But upon closer inspection, he quickly realized that wouldn’t be necessary. He scrolled through what seemed like pages of messages and missed calls about the ad. And not just any inquiries, but…

“ALL WOMEN!” Atsumu exclaimed loudly in the busy shop. A few annoyed heads turned to the source of the outburst.

Osamu rolled his eyes, “‘Tsumu, we talked about this. Having you come during busy hours is already enough of a nuisance, but could you keep it down? This is still a public place.”

“But ‘Samu! What am I going to do?” Atsumu whisper-shouted like it would help his outburst, but it still elicited a few head turns, “I already didn’t want to room with a stranger! And now all of the applicants are girls? This has to be some sort of joke.”

Osamu helped with the line and handed out a few orders to customers before focusing some energy on his dramatic brother. “Well, did you specify that you were only looking for male roommate?”

Atsumu picked at the stray rice grains on his plate as he tried to remember what he wrote. He couldn’t remember specifying anything about the roommate themselves; focusing mainly on the apartment itself. He voiced his thoughts to his brother.

“Hmm, well Atsumu can be a girl's name. Maybe that’s why?”

He tried not to be offended at his brother’s comment, mainly because he was partially right. It’s possible that they’re assuming he’s a girl. But that doesn’t make entire sense either. Is it possible his fan club found the posting? That seemed pretty possible. Atsumu knew fangirls could get crazy when they wanted to be.

Osamu finished some things behind the bar and went over to sit by Atsumu. The two contemplated his conundrum over a fresh plate of onigiri. After Osamu’s second, he spoke up, “Just for science, can I see your ad?”

Atsumu gave him an incredulous look, but pulled up the ad anyway, “I mean, sure, but I don’t think-”

At Atsumu’s sudden silence, Osamu’s curiosity was piqued, “”Tsumu? Everything okay?”

Wordlessly he handed the phone over and Osamu read through the ad. Immediately after reading, he burst into laughter.

“‘Samu! This isn’t funny!”

But Osamu was laughing so hard he couldn’t even speak. Some of his employees turned out of concern and curiosity at their boss’ sudden burst. Eventually, he calmed down enough to choke out a “you are in some trouble, ‘Tsumu”.

Roommate Wanted.

Master Bedroom available with a private bath in a 100 sq m apartment in Osaka. In-unit wash, AC, dishwasher, internet, etc. Fully furnished (besides bedroom available). Rent with utilities is 62784¥. Near public transportation. Feel free to contact with questions or offers.

06-XXXX-XXXX

Text/Call

Miya Atsumi

“Alright, that wraps it up for today. Finish the calculations on your own time and be sure to bring back your completed form by next class. See you Tuesday!”

The sound of chairs scraping against the floor harmonized with the zipping and unzipping of backpacks as the classroom got up to leave. Y/n pulled out her phone to finally check her messages.

From: Mom

Found a listing in Osaka that looks interesting. Good apartment with really good pricing. You should give them a call.

(link)

Y/n typed a quick thank you before clicking on the link. Her mom was right. It looked like a decent location and a not too bad price. Trying to look for any information on the roommate (roommates?), all she could see was a number and a name at the bottom of the ad. What a strange listing. It was probably the shortest listing she’d ever come across--and definitely the most to the point.

Y/n sat and stared at the listing for a little bit while weighing her options. She just got out of an interesting situation in Suita, but she was now living with her parents. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but both her and her parents weren’t exactly jumping at the idea of her moving back in, especially with her graduating college next year.

Making up her mind, she copied the number and sent a quick text to the number on the ad. A silent prayer was sent to whoever was listening. This wouldn’t fix all of her problems, but this would solve a big one and she swore she would be able to handle the rest.

“And you told me I was loud,” Now Atsumu was getting antsy about the amount of people staring at his hysteric brother. “”Samu, you need to calm down.”

This had been going on for at least ten minutes now. Osamu would read through the ad, get sent into a fit of laughter, finally calm down, but then would read it again and the cycle would start all over again. Not used to being the responsible twin, in addition to being extremely embarrassed by his brother’s reaction to his typo, Atsumu was at a loss for what to do. He tried sending reassuring smiles to patrons and mumbled some apologies, but that was the extent of his capabilities.

Finally, Osamu calmed down and pushed Atsumu’s phone back to him. Taking a deep breath to compose himself, Osamu tried to console his brother, “Hey, maybe this won’t be such a bad thing. Surely, there’s at least one of those girls that you could at least be civil with.”

Atsumu scrolled through his messages again, exacerbated, “Even if that’s true! There’s too many! I don’t really have the time to sit and go through all of these.”

There were at least 100 people who had responded to his ad and where the messages definitely weren’t flooding in as much as they had earlier that day, he would get a notification about once every 15-20 minutes. By the time he got through the original applicants, there would be another 100-200 to take their place. In between practice and conditioning, there was no way Atsumu was going to be able to get through these all by himself.

“Tell you what,” Osamu leaned back in the chair he was sitting in, “Since this was partially my idea, I’ll help you tonight after I close up. And if we can’t find anyone, I’ll help you write up a better listing and we can delete this one.”

Atsumu’s other issue with all of these applicants is that he really didn’t want to spend energy looking through dozens of descriptions and deciding if he would like them or not. He assumed it would be like the dating app he had for a couple weeks, but worse. Atsumu really didn’t like the idea of judging someone based on a single paragraph they wrote about themselves. He preferred a more personal approach. Like with the various spikers and teammates he’d played with over the years, he was really good at reading people in person. Within a short conversation, he could pretty accurately lay out a person’s personality (what things they might like, what might make them tick, what things they were indifferent to). Over the internet it was much more difficult.

He guessed he could always ask them to meet in person, right? That was something people did. They could meet at his brother’s restaurant so then Osamu could get a feel for the other person. Atsumu figured it would also get one glaring issue out of the way: he was a guy.

It was a fool proof plan. Osamu and him would sort through the applicants tonight and he would invite them to meet him in person. This way he can see if it’s going to work or not and if they aren’t comfortable with rooming with a guy they can just leave. Genius!

Atsumu recounted his plan to his brother and Osamu was in agreement. With that, the blonde brother left to go to afternoon conditioning, planning on returning just before close to sneak in a few more onigiri from his brother before the long haul.

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septembercfawkes · 4 years

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Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Don't Write Direct Dialogue!"

Over the years, I've done a lot of posts on dialogue, in part because when I went searching for a deeper understanding on the topic, I didn't find a lot of material. One of the recurring things I did find though, was about writing indirect dialogue. And this is absolutely one of the best places to start, when learning how to craft better dialogue. Dialogue should always be saying and doing more than what's on the page.

Almost always, anyway.

Naturally, this means incorporating indirection.

Which plays closely into subtext.

But a few times I've been asked, when is it okay to use direct dialogue? For this post, I have at least four answers.

What's the Rule?

Don't write direct dialogue!

Why it's a Rule

Usually the best dialogue considers what the character doesn't say, and how. In other words, subtext. When subtext happens, the dialogue is bigger than what's on the page--a quality that seems to be key to drawing in readers and writing a great story.

And in reality, most of us do talk indirectly. And we are always revealing more about ourselves than what we say (whether or not we want to). Interestingly, the more powerful emotions we feel, the more indirect we tend to be.

Indirect dialogue also holds more tension. (This again draws us in.)

On the flip side, direct dialogue releases tension, something we rarely want to do.

And when we talk about powerful emotions directly (and disproportionately), they can actually lose power. This is one of the many facets of the "show, don't tell" rule. Talking about powerful emotions directly in dialogue, labels, or in other words, "tells" them, which usually is not as satisfying as showing them so they can be experienced by the reader.

Direct dialogue also means one-dimensional dialogue. What you see (or read), is what you get. This turns the reader into more of a spectator, instead of a participator, in the story (and we want participation).

But a lot of beginning writers write direct dialogue--we probably all did. Writing indirect dialogue is a skill--it takes study and practice (and more practice).

In case anyone isn't quite sure what I mean about direct vs. indirect, here is a quick example:

Direct:

"You're an idiot, Shelly," Jasmine said.

Indirect:

"You wouldn't know this, but I don't do much writing anymore," Jasmine said. "Those days are over. I use what are called 'ghost writers,' Shelly. People I hire to do the writing for me. I like to sit back and brainstorm a few concepts with a glass of champagne. Do you know what 'brainstorming' is?" "Yes," Shelly said. Jasmine simpered. "You're smarter than I was expecting."

In the second example, Jasmine implies she thinks Shelly is an idiot in the way she talks to her (in bold).

I realize this example takes up a lot more space--and sometimes being indirect does.

But, as the story builds upon itself, strengthening context, you can be clearly indirect in less space. For example, if the reader went into the scene knowing that Shelly is a world-renowned writer and that Jasmine is stuck up, then a line like "Do you know what 'brainstorming' is?"--is all we need. (Obviously Shelly knows that, so Jasmine saying that is like slap in the face.)

When to Break the Rule

The majority of dialogue should be indirect. That's just the way it is. But that's not necessarily the same as never being direct. So when is it a good idea to say it like it is?

1. When You Want to Release Tension

Indirect dialogue holds tension.

Direct dialogue does not.

When you move from indirect to direct, it releases tension.

And sometimes that is exactly what you need.

It's the same thing in story structure. You start with your hook and introduction, go to the rising action and climax, and finish it up with the falling action/denouement. Or to put simply: introduce tension, build tension, release tension.

The denouement is all about releasing tension--that's why loose ends are tied up (generally speaking).

Releasing tension isn't bad, and if it is done at the right time, can be highly effective.

And that may not be necessarily during the denouement.

Because, as I talked about in this post, that story structure permeates all parts of story (like a fractal), not just the overall plot. Scenes, conversations, even descriptions, have that structure. This means that some direct dialogue may be just what you need after you've introduced and built up tension.

Consider a conversation where two people in a relationship are arguing over dirty dishes. While they might be fighting about dirty dishes, perhaps the real argument (subtext) is about one partner thinking the other might be cheating. Either context or indirectness introduces that idea. And it builds and builds and builds as the fight goes on and on. But for your plot, you don't plan on carrying this conflict through the entire book, maybe only this scene. So, after the conversation reaches its high point, one partner says to the other, "Just like you've been cheating on me with your secretary!"

The other says, honestly, "I haven't been cheating."

And then perhaps through direct dialogue, the problem is sorted out.

During a denouement, not only are loose ends tied up, but changes and ideas are validated and a "new normal" established. So, here in this example, by now talking about cheating directly, it will validate each person's concerns and they can start a "new normal" (one that doesn't include someone thinking the other is cheating).

You've seen similar dialogue arcs before. Perhaps there is sexual tension between the protagonist and love interest, which builds and builds and builds, until one tells the other directly that they love them. And in most stories, that's when the two starting kissing. Both those things are part of a denouement, even if it's not during the denouement.

So when it's time to let go of tension and start a falling action, direct dialogue may be just what you need.

But, I do want to note, it's also possible to hit that falling action without direct dialogue. Say, in the text, the main character intentionally tells the love interest she loves him, indirectly, but it's clear to both of them exactly what she is confessing, so in a strange way, it's direct and indirect simultaneously. But let's not confuse ourselves too much.

2. When Being Direct Adds Tension

In the above examples, tension is released--but only if having an open discussion about possible infidelity or being in love doesn't lead to new, immediate potential conflicts. Remember, conflicts are problems happening. Tension is the potential for problems/conflicts to happen. If we already know that two characters can't be together because a romance will lead to them losing their jobs, which they both need critically right now, then in some situations, one directly confessing love to the other, introduces more tension. It's similar to the "Yes, but" idea--if you are familiar with that writing term. Yes, the character got what she wanted . . . but now she's going to lose her job, which will create even bigger problems. In other words, it adds tension. But, keep in mind, that to some degree, the prior tension is released, if only a little or temporarily (at least until the end of the scene). Because, say they both want to keep their jobs, so ultimately decide not to see each other. Well, the tension was released during that confession, but in the next scene, we have heightened sexual tension--because each knows the other loves them, but can't act on it. (Leslie Knope and Ben Wyatt's relationship in Parks and Rec is a great example of this sort of thing.) Keep in mind though, however it plays out, the confession still works as a sort of denouement, because it validates and establishing a new normal (either losing jobs or dealing with heightened attraction).

3. When The Character is Direct

Some rare characters are very direct. It's just part of who they are. But that also means they come pre-packaged with their own kind of writing challenges. Luna Lovegood from Harry Potter is a great example of this. She almost always speaks directly. But this is because she has nothing to hide. As Rowling once put it, "She doesn't give a d--- what others think of her." So it's not like she needs much subtext. In one of my ongoing projects, I have a viewpoint character who is similar. Part of me wishes I knew what I was getting into when I started with him, but then part of me is glad, because then I might have picked someone safer. Needless to say, he's been one of the most challenging characters I've tried to write. You see, the thing with having direct characters, is they lack the usual avenues of tension and conflict. If they are direct, and don't care about being direct, then a lot of techniques you have at your disposal with other characters, are gone. (It took me some drafting to figure out how to work through this.) But even if your character is direct, you still need to incorporate tension. We've talked about this a bit in the last section, but for characters like this, you need to look at how being direct causes tension, conflict, and complications. Think about it. If you were direct about everything you thought and felt, and in the way you shared that, what would happen? A nightmare! That's what would happen. This is one of the reasons we as human beings aren't direct in our speech in real life. (And how many children have been labeled rude or hurtful for saying exactly what they think?) This sort of thing happens with Luna, although it's tamed down somewhat in the films. In the books, she's regularly getting in arguments with Hermione. Why? Well, in part because Luna says whatever she thinks and believes and doesn't care how Hermione responds. Her directness leads to people feeling uncomfortable, awkward, and is one of the reasons she's an outcast; translation: complications.

4. When Something is Urgent or Somewhat Unimportant

When characters are in an urgent situation, they are more likely to talk directly. It saves on time. So something like, "Look out! A cliff!" obviously works. It seems like common sense. How many times has a character thought he was about to die, and made a point to confess his guilt, love, or feelings directly, right in that moment? When it looks like your world is falling apart before your own eyes, there might not be much time to be indirect--and there may be a sense of desperation to be direct. Worth noting is that the less we care about something, the more direct we might be. If it's unimportant to me that I ate a hamburger for lunch and you ask what I had, then I'll have no problems sharing that. If I'm supposed to be an a vegan diet, then I might try to dance around the answer. Usually in manuscripts though, we cut way down on the unimportant--things like small talk and basic introductions often get axed, unless there is subtext within. Which then usually makes them important, anyway. Both urgency and importance/unimportance also play into the story's pacing. So that's something to keep in mind.

So is it always bad to write direct dialogue? Nope! But just like "show, don't tell," your story will be better off if the dialogue is more indirect than not. Related Posts: 5 Most Common Mistakes in Dialogue Writing Realistic and Complex Dialogue Kicking "Great" Dialogue up to "Killer" Dialogue Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Only Use 'Said'" Generic Dialogue—Staaaahp (Don't) Tell Me How You Really Feel How to Punctuate Dialogue Writing Callbacks

#writing tips #writing tips and tricks #writeblr #nanowrimo #dialogue #writing #writing help #writing reference #writing dialogue

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writing-is-a-martial-art · 3 years

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The crayon project + excerpt + AIatVE update

The crayon thing:

[Image description: a page painted black with crayons. It has five white bubbles with text. The one at the top says "An Inn at the Very End". The two under it say ""Welcome", I smile as they enter the Inn". The one under these two says "Judging by the shape their soul takes, they're from a place where smiling is a way to display amiability." The last bubble says: "How do I know this, again?". After that, there are only abstract swirls of purple, green, and orange on a black background. /end ID]

Inspired by the lovely @47crayons.

This is a small art(?) thing that I wanted to do for a while now, and I finally found the time and materials to do it. I'm not proud of the photo or the lighting, and Tumblr's quality drop certainly doesn't help, but oh well.

AIatVe update:

I have figured out an outline, divided it into about three parts, and written the first draft of most of the first part, so there's progress on the project.

It went in a slightly different direction than I expected, but it's still close enough to the original idea. It's probably going to be slightly longer - maybe 4k instead of the planned 2-3.

There's a second storyline added, the stories of the Wanderer, which I still have to plan out and write, so that's going to take some time.

Excerpt (456 words):

“Welcome,” I smile as they enter the Inn. Judging by the shape their soul takes, they’re from a place where smiling is a way to display amiability.

How do I know this, again?

Before I have the time to think it through, they approach the desk. It seems to be made of a dark-brown organic material, even though it was something completely different the last time I looked. Nothing to be surprised about: The Inn always displays itself as something familiar to the newcomer.

“Umm, hello, what is this place?” they ask, their memory-of-a-head turning to take in the room. Why do they ask that? It’s exactly what it says on the sign: “An Inn at the Very End”. It’s clear to everyone, no matter what language they speak or how they convey information. But still, they always ask.

I keep the smile on, tilting my - well, I suppose it must be my head now, “You have traveled a long way, haven’t you?”

The newcomer nods. It’s interesting how used people are to their bodies: they can be dead for millions of years and still believe that a good way to answer a question is to move their bones and muscles in a specific way.

I wonder if they ever consider that their actual bones and muscles have long since turned to dust thousands of lightyears from here.

“Then this is a place to rest. If you’re here, that means that you’ve traveled everywhere you could in this universe.”

They shift, their voice now both shocked and disappointed. “So… this is it? This is all there is to the afterlife?”

I can’t help but sigh. There is no good way to explain the Inn without people jumping to this conclusion, and if there is, I haven’t found it yet. “I don’t know what the afterlife is supposed to be like in your beliefs, but I can assure you, this is not what you mean. This is a place to rest, not to stay. Here, you can weigh your options and decide where you want to go next”

“Go next?” they echo. “But you just said there’s nowhere left to go to!”

“Nowhere new in this universe, yes. But there are still options.”

They look at me, their whole being twisting into an expression of surprise and wonder. "What options?"

They got to the difficult question.

"Those," I point behind them, to the door they came through. They turn, only now noticing the second door. Everyone misses it the first time.

They run to the doors, slamming the second one open. I wonder what they expected: a shiny new world to explore? A proper just-as-I-thought-it-would-be afterlife? In any case, all they get is option number two.

______________________________

Taglist: @zoya-writes @sleepy-night-child @naps-tries-writing @a-completely-normal-writer @whisperingsunrise @47crayons @cryptid-s-wips @fuyugomori @woodhousejay @opes-magnas @writeouswriter @indecentpause @crookedgoddess @oblolongue @ink-fireplace-coffee , contact me to be added/removed!

@thelaughingstag

#WIP: aiatve #writing #writeblr #original writing #my writing #oleg's writing

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ghostofmichelangelo · 3 years

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silent patient ~ alex michaelides review/reaction

** DISCLAIMER! - contains a lot of spoilers about the book **

** Read at your own risk of spoiling the storyline **

so i just finished the silent patient and my god what a fucking ride. after finishing it, i literally could not articulate it whatsoever cause i was trying to put 2+2 together for ages. the sheer cleverness of the writer had astounded me. i was also extremely shocked at how the writer was able to wrap up the entire plot of the book in not more than 20 pages max, managed to keep it completely unexpected and while doing so, evoke such a powerful reaction from the readers. i would bow. the storyline was absolutely fresh. it was very original and it was written in a language which was easy to read through and easy to visualize. that’s what i really liked about the book. it was written incredibly well written especially the main characters i.e alicia berenson (the patient) and theo faber (the psychotherapist). the character development happened very smoothly and slyly. the length was also perfect. what i mean to say is, it is not unnecessarily long wherein it is getting too descriptive and at the same time, it was also not too short and abrupt. i felt like all the words in the book were written judiciously and all the details had a role to play in the overall story. every single word had a purpose. none of the bits seemed overexplained (*coughs in king*) or irrelevant. for me personally, it surprisingly had a lot of elements which i really like in general and did not expect to be in it judging by the first look or the first few pages. i am talking about the use of greek mythology, particularly the tragic story of alcestis, art, interpretation of art and psychology. usually i don’t come across these themes when i’m reading about a murder (i'm fairly a new reader, more like a resurrected reader). at least in contemporary fiction. another thing that kept me on edge every step of the way was the fact that the climax wasn’t revealed till the last few pages of the book. I would like to emphasize on the word ‘few’ cause the story is wrapped up in pretty much the last 10-15 pages of the book which is something extremely risky and difficult. The fact that the writer was able to summarize the entire plot and tie all the loose ends in the final 10 pages is something that is definitely worth all the appreciation in the world. to do such a task and so effortlessly needs a lot of skill, planning and courage. the last 10-15 pages were the ‘make it or break it’ point in the book which was handled very intelligently and naturally it evoked the intended reaction out of the readers. the readers made it through triumphantly without any chance of disappointment. now, diving into the main plot points which got me fkn charged with emotions was obviously, without a doubt, the ending. I felt like such an idiot for not seeing it coming. for some reason i saw kathy cheating on theo and, alicia and gabriel’s story as two separate things altogether. i did not, for once, get the slightest inclination that maybe the two can be related. i just don’t know why. maybe i trusted theo as a character way too much. i know that agatha christie had a big influence on the writer and boy, did he manage to pull a complete ‘roger ackroyd’ on us. it makes complete sense. why alicia ‘opened up’ to him out of all the people who tried to cure her, why theo insisted on having her as his patient, why he believed her ‘strange man’ theory unlike all the others, why alicia randomly attacked him etc. i did not understand the whole ‘strange man’ trope till i unconsciously found theo outside gabriel/alicia’s house while following the man who kathy cheated on him with. everything was in front of my eyes and still i wasn’t able to grasp it. even then the mere fact that theo was following some random man and the fact that alicia also complained of being watched/stalked did not ring a bell. it was only when he notices alicia berenson from the summerhouse, did i have my hallelujah moment. however, my dumbass brain still wanted to get confirmation, which it did by the end of the next chapter. when this happened, my mind went along the lines of, ‘wasn’t alicia in coma?’. That’s when

i realised the timelines of the story. my god, there was a point towards the end of the book where even i was convinced that alicia was lying and that maybe she has been making the whole of it up to fulfil the rest of her revenge plot. throughout the book, there wasn’t a single person i didn’t doubt. i doubted max, diomedes, yuri. these are apart from the obvious ones like elif, christian, gabriel himself, jean etc. it was only towards the end i realised that there were two time periods as well. i thought everything was happening side by side. that there was no past or present. this aspect took me a while to comprehend cause it became a little confusing. also I really appreciate how paintings were used to interpret the story/psyche of the person. i found it very refreshing and new. this is psychological aspect of the book which i really enjoyed. i wanted to see those pictures myself. overall, i feel like i can give this book a solid 5/5 stars and is hands down one of the top reads of this year by far and knowing me, i know im a picky reader, esp in thrillers.

P.S would love to do more book reviews if it helps out and if you enjoy reading them!

#books #bookreviews #darkacademia #lightacademia #silent patient #psychologicalthrillers #thrillers #murder #crime #truecrime #mysterybooks #mystery #booksbooksbooks #book clubs #read #literature

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lunewell · 3 years

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The Lunewell Saga - Natura: Chapter 1

Finally, finally I can show you guys a preview of the horror book I’m publishing in October (:. You can find chapter 1 below, and if you’d prefer, you can read it on ao3 by clicking here!

Chapter 2 is now out and can be found here (:

Enjoy!

Book Sumary:

Zarifa Birch, an antique shop worker with an unusual past, has made a home for herself in the sleepy town of Lunewell. Though the shop she works at is not exactly ordinary, with cryptid items and odd occurrences, she has managed to carve the normal life she always desperately wished for out of it.

However, all that comes crumbling down, as a woman from Zarifa’s past throws everything into chaos. Faced with unimaginable horrors, seemingly unsolvable mysteries, and returning repressed feelings and memories, Zarifa along with her coworkers, must find a way to return the balance- and escape the cruel hands of death in this eldritch horror mystery.

Chapter 1:

Thorn’s Antiques and Restoration, tucked away in the tall trees that encircled the small town of Lunewell, wasn’t the place where one would expect a woman like Zarifa to work. The building was merely a converted two-story brick house, though even then the antique shop itself only operated on half of the ground floor and the basement, and the employees could consider themselves lucky if even so much as a single soul wandered in.

From an outsider’s perspective, it made no sense. Zarifa did not originate from Lunewell, had little to no interest in antiques, and had a Bachelor’s in English of all things, whose only tie with antiques was the pompous, ivory tower assholes pestering both fields. However, if said outsider were to ask Zarifa herself, or any other of the two working in the building, why she had this job, she would have said that it was the only path she could have ever imagined herself working.

Though even she had to admit, for as much as she loved her job, it could sometimes be… tedious.

Very tedious.

“How many crates of… art did we receive again?” Zarifa asked, white patched ebony fingers holding one of the many, many paintings of eerily realistic human eyes shoved haphazardly in a box. The crates had arrived this morning, heavy and worn, and were sitting in the off-white ‘employees lounge’, that only equated to a singular desk, a sofa, a microwave that never heated all the way through, and two uncomfortable plastic chairs.

“Only two,” Bruin responded, not bothering to look up from the wooden desk, where he had his nose buried deep in a black title-less book. Zarifa would have asked what he was reading, but stares through dark thin eyes and sighs had long taught her not to. “Bought in by an Anthony Bell earlier this morning.”

“Thank you,” Zarifa said, giving Bruin a warm smile that didn’t go noticed. She then turned to her other coworker, who had been sitting sheepishly on one of the back-destroying white chairs. “Why do we have two crates of creepy eye-paintings, again?”

“Okay there’s actually a good reason this time boss,” Grant said hastily, chestnut brown hair messy and glasses half sliding off his face, “I was taking a walk to that cosy little bakery- you know, the one owned by that very sweet elderly couple on the other side of town, which by the way makes cakes straight from the heavens-”

“So you were walking to the bakery, and then?” Zarifa interrupted.

“Oh right. I had walked a little ways from the house, when I saw a white van stopped up by the road with a man looking quite pissed off outside. I went up to have a chat with him and found out he was an absolutely fascinating art major named Anthony who had run out of petrol. To make a long story short, I invited him in for a cuppa whilst he waited on the towing truck, found out he was getting rid of these absolute gems, and bought them off him.”

Zarifa and Bruin, who had finally looked up from the pages, both stared at him. Bruin was the first to break the silence; “you bought antiques from an unverified source, in a van out of petrol, who you also invited inside my home for tea?”

“Hey! I pay the rent too!” Grant defended, “and besides, I got, you know, the feeling off him. There was already a description of the antiques inside the box, meaning they’ve been passed around a little. If you two don’t want them here, I can take them.”

“We can keep them,” Zarifa decided, looking at the realistic paintings once more. They were all extremely similar, each one having a blue iris and white pupils. As she moved around the box, it almost felt as though they were all following her movements. She shivered and put the lids back on; “I’ll carry this down. Grant, go open shop, and Bruin, go register these in the system, please.”

Grant gave her a mock salute, before trudging out of the door and into the shop room, whilst Bruin nodded and turned to the big, archaic box of a computer sitting on the desk. Zarifa stacked and grabbed the two worn crates, surprisingly light in her arms, and made her way to the spiral staircase. They were narrow, seemingly ever looping steps falling into darkness that made walking down them almost impossible. She had once tried to convince Valour to install some lights over the stairs, to reveal the actual length of them and to make sure Grant would stop tumbling down into the abyss, but she had only received a stern no and an icy glare that could kill.

So her only options were to walk down carefully, whilst gripping onto the wall for dear life, like she was currently doing. The stairs went on for what seemed like minutes, nothing in her sight as she was swallowed in complete darkness, with no way to judge her surroundings except her shoes hitting the steps. Finally, a flickering light made its way up the stairs, and she saw the start of grey concrete.

To say the archival basement was lit, was perhaps a bit of an overstatement. There was precisely one dim and occasionally flickering lamp in the room, slightly illuminating cobwebs glued to the walls and dusted shelves of antiquities, but not much else. However, the room was like a scorching desert sun compared to the void Zarifa had previously descended.

Making her way between the shelves, past the bag of hand-sewn doll-heads, slightly cracked vases, and mirrors so ladened in dust that one couldn’t see the distorted reflection anymore, she found a small group of paintings. Paintings were one of the rarer antiques for them to receive, so there was plenty of space for the two crates.

Before slotting them in, she opened them, quickly counting the amount. There were fourteen in total, seven in each box, all in a roughly similar condition and all painted in the same way. Oddly enough, there was no signature nor name, but there was a little slip of paper at the bottom. She picked it out of the crate, and stuffed it in the pocket of her blazer, before closing the lids again.

Zarifa slid the boxes between a painting of a single red rose titled ‘Chaos’, and a two-hundred-year-old painting titled ‘A Girl in Field’ containing a suspiciously girl-less field. There had been a debate on whether they were all just missing her, whether it was a mislabelled piece, or if it was supposed to be some kind of metaphor, but seeing as it was hardly the weirdest thing in the basement, they had all just grown to accept it. She shivered once again, the basement giving the feeling of being watched, and grabbed the golden butterfly that hung around her neck. She fiddled with the wings, every touch calming her slightly as she began making her way up the stairs.

The ascent up the spirals always seemed to take a considerably shorter time, perhaps because the imminent danger of falling had disappeared. Zarifa was up at the top in the blink of an eye, walking into the lounge to see both Bruin and Grant inside. Bruin turned to her from the computer; “‘Antique Eye-Painting x14’ has been written on the document,” he informed. “Did we have any other information?”

“I couldn’t find any signature or date on the painting itself,” Zarifa said, reaching into her blue blazer pocket and pulling the paper with a heavy brown tint out, “but there was a note accompanying it. The paper looks old enough to consider it an antique, at least.”

“Well, go ahead,” Grant piped up from the couch, “tell us about dear Anthony’s creepy eye pairings.” Zarifa nodded, unfolding the paper as carefully as she could, and began reading.

‘The Grey Man’ by Elizabeth B.- 1885

He is watching from the water. Watching with the trees.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The Grey Man is knocking

“Grey Man?” questioned Zarifa, “that’s not a reference to anything, is it?”

“Not as far as I know,” Grant said, sitting up from where he had flopped on the couch, “help us out Bruiny?” She heard a sigh from the corner, and a slight grumble, but he did eventually speak.

“The Grey Man isn’t a reference to any historical event, no,” Bruin began, “but it isn’t something we haven’t heard before. I believe it’s referenced somewhere in Valour’s notes”

A heavy silence fell over them at the mention. “Oh no,” Grant began, “no, no, no. The weirdly detailed cult worshipping cows with inverting eyes was enough, and the murderous glare Valour gave me afterwards almost made me piss myself. I am not going through those notes again, I don’t want to be skinned alive by our own version of Leatherface.”

“That’s a bit far, isn’t it?” Zarifa said, “We shouldn’t go around accusing her of being a murderer, just because she’s a bit…”

“Mental?” Bruin quipped from the back.

“...peculiar,” she settled on, “she’s a bit peculiar.” Zarifa knew, of course, that calling Valour peculiar was a massive understatement- and even calling it a massive understatement was a massive understatement, but she would not be the one to speak ill about her boss with a potential murder streak thank-you-very-much.

“Need I remind you of that day Valour came covered head to toe in ‘red paint ’ that smelled suspiciously like copper?” Grant said, “she obviously did some serial-killering-“

“Killering?” Bruin asked with a cocked brow, turning Grant a salmon shade of pink and bringing a bright smile on Zarifa’s face that reached her dark brown eyes.

Grant made sounds akin to a drowning man. “It doesn’t matter,” he finally sputtered out, “what matters is that our dear creepy landlord was covered in what was clearly blood, passed it off as paint, and we just acted like it was normal!”

“I don’t like it either, but I’m not going to be the one to call her out. Besides, maybe it’s a good thing. At least the days here are... interesting.” Zarifa said with a smile. “If we stopped the weirder stuff from happening, these days would pass slower. Especially since we don’t have any custom-“

The sound of the bell that hung above the door, a loud and horrid thing, rang through the building.

“You were saying?” Bruin said, looking as amused as Bruin could be. Meanwhile, Grant shot up like a puppy, sprinting in an unprofessional manner towards the counter. Zarifa joined him, though her walk was much more slow and graceful.

She crossed through the shop door, which always stood wide open nowadays, and turned the corner. However, she stopped before she could reach Grant, who was staring at the stranger as much as she was.

Now, what needs to be said and understood about Thorn Antiques Shop, and the town of Lunewell in general, was that strangers were one of the rarest sights. Sure, occasionally one could find one of the neighbours’ relatives, or a gang of cyclists and hikers, and even tourists that had gotten hopelessly lost, which was impressive considering landing in Lunewell was a skill within itself, though these were few and far in between.

The customer, who was scanning through the shop with what Zarifa could almost call interest, didn’t look remotely like a relative, a hiker, a cyclist, or even a lost tourist.

She was short, with strawberry blonde hair tied into pigtails by two baby pink ribbons, pale but warm skin that made the light freckles on her cheek pop, and a stark black leather jacket which was visibly well-loved. There was something incredibly familiar about her, though Zarifa couldn’t pin down exactly what it was.

The customer’s fingers trailed over one of the antique chairs, before she sprawled over the priceless thing like a rag-doll. The violation snapped Zarifa out of her trance; “Excuse me, miss, but you can’t sit in those chairs!” she informed the customer, her voice raising a pitch higher when the blonde started fiddling with a lighter suspiciously close to the fabric.

The customer’s head snapped up like a predator hearing prey, and for the first time, Zarifa noticed the woman’s eyes. The irises were a bombastic explosion made of hues of bright green, though it was almost impossible to tell from a first glance, as the pupils were blown so wide as to make the colour but a ring around a black hole.

There was both something incredibly dangerous about the way she stalked over, sizing her up with those void eyes, but simultaneously, something incredibly intriguing- dare she say attractive- about the girl that made Zarifa want to keep her eyes on her forever.

“Waste of a good chair, really,” the customer began, leaning over the counter, “what the fuck kind of shop doesn’t allow you to test the chair before you get it?”

“I know!” Grant exclaimed, turning to the dark-skinned woman. “That’s what I keep saying! How can I know if the chair is good if I’ve never tried it!”

Zarifa shot a disapproving look at him, irritated that he would encourage this girl. “What can we help you with, miss?”

“Oooh, miss.” the woman drawled, “I’m looking for a collection of very… special papers that I left in the hands of one Valour Thorn a few years back.”

“Special?” Grant asked, a look of confusion passing over his face. Zarifa was sure she mirrored the same puzzlement, but the woman merely grinned- an expression that yet again invoked that familiar feeling.

After a few seconds had passed, and it had been made clear that she would not elaborate, Zarifa grabbed the notepad and pen on the counter and asked for her name. Maybe she was registered somewhere in the frankly ancient system. Assuming they even had a sort of registering system. She had never been the one to handle the technical aspects.

“Lottie. Lottie Rose,” she said, and Zarifa’s hand froze on the paper. She glanced back up at the blonde, eyes wide and mouth dry. Of course, how hadn’t she seen it earlier? The clothes, the eyes, the lighter everything suddenly made more sense as her memory flooded back.

“Lottie?” she whispered, faint as the whispers of a breeze, and there must have been something in her tone, because the striking green eyes widened comically, before the blonde suddenly burst out into a tension filled laugh.

“Should’ve guessed it,” Lottie said after calming down, “can’t be that many Southern old-book nerds with vitiligo around. You should get name tags, I would have recognised Zarifa anywhere.”

Her name was said in a smaller tone, filled with… with something that melted Zarifa’s insides like molten lava. They stood there in silent pressure, eyes on each other but gazes not quite meeting. It was for the better, as Zarifa’s heart was hammering hard enough that she was worried her ribcage might break. Whether it was from fear or something much scarier, she couldn’t quite tell.

Grant snapped his fingers, both of them practically sighing in relief as the tension lifted; “Oh”, he began, smiling widely, "exes or childhood friends?” And just like that, the tension was back to crushing.

While Zarifa wasn’t quite sure of the state of her own face, Lottie had gone a complete shade of tomato red. “We’re neither,” Zarifa squeaked out curtly, Lottie nodding frantically along. “Can you give me a description of the papers?”

Lottie straightened out at the request. “Can’t miss them. They’re in an ornate wooden and gold box, with a leaf engraved in the front,” she said, “it’s locked, as far as I know. Don’t know where the key is, but that’s hardly a problem.” She made yet another predatory smirk.

“I-I’ll go look for the papers, uh, in the back... miss,” she pushed herself from the counter at an almost inhuman speed and paced into the lounge. On her way, she bumped into one of the chairs, toppling both herself and the object. The sound alerted Bruin, who looked at her quizzically.

“Was she your ex?”

“No!” Zarifa exclaimed exasperatedly, “Not every woman I know is an ex!”

“No need to get defensive,” Bruin said, flipping a page, “I was just wondering if Grant’s observations were correct.”

Zarifa took a deep breath. “Sorry about that. I suppose her visit just… surprised me.” she straightened the chair, and looked at Bruin, “You haven’t seen a wooden and gold box engraved with leaves around here, have you? I can’t recall it, but you’re usually the one sorting the items, so I figured you might have seen it.”

Bruin hummed, putting down his book and looking pensively at her. “I might have,” he said, after a quiet moment, “though if we do- or did, at any point, it’s not anywhere in the basement.” He glanced up at the ceiling, before returning to the book.

“I suppose it’ll be upstairs, then,” Zarifa said, with a heavy sigh, “I’ll make Grant call Valour, see if she can bother to show up from… wherever she’s gone.” And try to explain to Lottie that those papers might be inaccessible, she thought, but didn’t add. Lottie was a lot of things, but patient and calm, she was not.

As she made her way back to the counter, gripping the golden butterfly hung on her neck tightly, she tried to calm her heart and thoughts. A part of her still refused to believe Lottie was here, after all these years, in an antique shop of all places. It almost felt taunting, in an odd way. The life Zarifa had tried so hard to run from and avoid sneaking through the door, looking more dangerous and simultaneously more intriguing than ever.

What life had Lottie led? What had happened since that last night? How did she know Valour? What did she want with the papers? All the questions buried themselves into Zarifa’s head, burning and begging for answers. And as Lottie, drumming her fingers on the counter as Grant rambled off about something, came into view, she realised what Eve must have felt like looking at the apple.

Lottie perked up as Zarifa entered the room, though as her eyes drifted to the empty hands, her smile fell. “Thought I asked for a box,” she said, a raised eyebrow and mean glare that would have been intimidating, had Zarifa not had to deal with years of Valour, and not known that for her, Lottie was all growl.

“We do, most likely, have the box,” Zarifa began in her most soothing voice, placing her hands on the counter, “but, it’s currently upstairs, in Valour Thorn’s flat, to which none of us has the keys.”

Lottie sighed, in an exasperated and slightly overdramatic way; “‘Course you fucking don’t. Guess she hasn’t changed at all, still closed off, disappearing, and secretive.”

Pot meet kettle, thought Zarifa, though kept her cranberry painted lips sealed. “Grant will give her a call in the morning,” Zarifa said, pushing over a blank slip of paper which had Lottie R- half-written on it in quite nice penmanship. “Just write down your number, and we’ll call you when she arrives.”

Lottie pulled the paper closer to herself, though made no move to write. “Think she’ll even show up?” she asked, turning to Grant, who smiled at that.

“Valour actually seems to like me,” he said, proudly, “or, tolerate, at least.”

“Huh. Didn’t know people still practised witchcraft around this part.”

“It’s all in my muffins, cakes, and pitiable nature,” Grant said, only half-joking, “I’ll give you a taste one time if you decide to stick around.”

Lottie nodded, before scribbling onto the paper, and sliding it back. It contained no number, but the name had been completed, albeit with a much sloppier if artistic handwriting. “I’ll know when she returns,” Lottie said, bouncing from foot to foot. There was a firmness in her voice, and she said it with such confidence that Zarifa almost believed her. Almost. “How’s the nightlife here? Worth sticking around for?”

“Horrid, simply dreadful,” Grant butted in, before Zarifa had the chance to give a quick answer and an even quicker goodbye, “but we do have a lot of pretty places to take a midnight stroll. Trees are lovely here, especially now in the autumn.” He paused, a contemplative look over his face, “Come to think of it, I do know quite a lot of dealers around here that can hook you up, if you’re up for it.”

“Grant!”

Lottie chuckled, amusement painted in neon on her face. Seeing some of that flame inside her come to light filled Zarifa with a sense of joy, that she pushed down with a strength bodybuilders would be jealous of.

“Oh, I like him,” Lottie declared to Zarifs, jabbing a finger in Grant’s general direction. Her green eyes- which Zarifa had to stop looking at, traced down from Zarifa’s own eyes before landing on her neck. Lottie’s posture, previously energetic and bouncy, froze. “You kept the necklace,” she whispered, though the sound felt louder than all the explosions of the universe.

Zarifa’s hand was instantaneously on the golden butterfly hanging around her neck, shielding it from the world. The metal felt cool against her skin, even if she could feel her racing heart where her hand rested. “Felt it was a shame to let it go to waste,” Zarifa murmured, technically true, “so I just kept it.” She shifted in the silence for a while, doing her best to ignore Lottie’s eyes glued to the necklace, before clearing her throat and putting on her best ‘professional’ tone; “Was there anything else you needed?”

Lottie shook her head, leaning back from the counter and adjusting her leather jacket. “No, I’ll be back soon,” she said, before speeding towards the door. She knocked into the vases, making them wobble like jelly, before pushing the door open like she was assaulting it, and leaving nothing but the sound of a bell and the distant thrum of a motorbike.

“Lottie, huh,” Grant said, his tone dazed as though he was lost in a daydream, “she was certainly interesting. I’m a fan. Think we’ll see her around more?”

“Hopefully not,” Zarifa said, running fingers over the butterfly, “hopefully not.”

#original writing #book excerpt #bookblr #writeblr #writing wip #The Lunewell Saga - Natura #the lunewell saga #natura

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benji-writes · 3 years

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Sammy, and I, and the Soda Pop Shop

Pairing: Sam Wilson x f!reader

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: Best friends since childhood, you and Sammy need to fall a part before you can come back together again.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, mentions of death

Sammy and I always made time for the Soda Pop Shop. On the corner of Smock and Singleton, the Soda Pop Shop was a local institution. Across from Colby Cook Memorial Park, locals would pop in for a soda, a Pop Pop Burger, and a bag of Hot Hot fries. The Pop Hot Combo was not to be missed out on, and Sammy and I would get 2 orders of Pop Hots every Friday night, and head across the street to eat them at the picnic table by Magnolia Trees. They were a treat, and a sacred ritual from the time we were kids till the time he left.

Wednesday nights we’d sit at our favored booth in the Soda Shop and order Slush Puppies – Green Apple and Grape. Sometimes we’d sit at the counter stools and talk to Mama Nell, who had owned the shop and worked behind the counter as long as anyone could remember. Nobody had a lot of money where we came from, but Sammy always took care of me. He’d buy our slushees and our Pop Hots. He’d do extra chores around the house when we were kids, hoping to get a few extra dollars to spend. When we were older, I’d see him mowing lawns or running errands for the neighbors. I could never understand why he did it. I had an allowance when we were little, and as a teenager I babysat the younger kids in the neighborhood. I could easily have bought my own food, but that was just who Sammy was.

I tried everything I could to show Sam how much he meant to me. I’d bring him breakfast to school in the morning, even when he told me not to. His favorite was always the blueberry bagels. I’d leave him notes in sidewalk chalk on the pavement outside his house. I cut the strings off the community center yo-yos and braided them together to make us matching friendship bracelets. Sammy and I never took them off. Not ever.

For birthdays and Christmas’s, I’d save up everything I could. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I gave him tickets to what would become our first concert. Or the Christmas after his sixteenth birthday, when I bought him a video camera.

The best gift I ever gave Sammy though was the day before he left for the Air Force. It was years of photographs, mementos, flowers. All those special things that I’d saved over the years. I had never been so nervous.

We’d gone out that night to the Soda Pop Shop. Everyone came by to see him: to say goodbye, to reminisce, to laugh and laugh, and to cry.

Mama Nell told wistful stories about Sammy. She lived in the house next door, and had watched me and Sammy play in the streets, and run around the park since we were practically in diapers. She had watched us grow up, always made time to ask us how school was going, and what our plans for the weekend were. Gave us free slushees whenever she could sneak us one without the other customers noticing.

When the night wound down, and even Sam’s family had made their way home, Sammy and I were still sat in our booth by the window. Just sitting there. Quiet. Unwilling to go home. It was then, with the tables up on the chairs, and all the stores on the block closed for the night, that Mama Nell came over and sat down with us. She placed two orders of Pop Hots down, alongside a Green Apple and a Grape Slush Puppie. We’d hardly eaten a thing all night, too caught up in everything to even think about it. Just grabbing a handful of fries, or an onion ring off of somebody else’s plate.

The food was still steaming. We hadn’t ordered anything, but somehow Mama Nell knew we were hungry. Not just for food, but for more time. For this moment together. For one last Pop Hot before everything changed.

She sat for a second, all of us just there in the still of the moment, food in front of us waiting to be eaten when she said, “Kids. I’ve never seen anything quite like the two of you,” She took a deep breath, and shook her head. “Won’t be the same round here.”

With that, she dropped the keys on the table and stood. She was walking towards the door, not even looking at us, “Lock up when you kids are ready. Just drop the key in the mailbox.”

And then she was gone. Just me and Sammy, alone for the first time all night. On the precipice of a brave new world. One we would have to face alone.

I was the first to reach for my food. We ate quietly, but together. Sammy would be gone in only a few hours, uncertain as to when we would get to see each other again.

When I was done eating, Sammy was still making his way through the last of his fries. Eating slow, trying to make it all last. It was then that I finally spoke.

“Hey, Sammy?” It came out quieter than I wanted it to. He didn’t look up. Just kept eating.

“Sammy?” I said louder this time, and he shoved another fry in his mouth.

“Sam.” That got his attention. I never called him that.

“Don’t call me that, baby.” He whispered so softly. The way he called me baby made my heart fold in on itself.

“Then look at me,” I ordered. And he did. A moment went by where we just looked at each other. “I have something for you. I want you to have it.” He wiped his hands off with a napkin and pushed the food wrappers aside while I reached into my bag to pull his present out. It was wrapped delicately in glittery tissue paper. I placed it in front of him, and he looked at it so seriously. And with such care, and the gentlest of hands, he undid the tissue paper.

A black scrapbook. Nothing on the cover to indicate what would be on the inside. Ever so carefully, he flipped open the cover to see a picture of us two as kids, hugging and smiling for the camera. Underneath, in my handwriting, read the words “ The Adventures of Sammy and I.”

I saw his jaw clench tight. As he flipped from page to page. Picture strewn across each of them, little notes along side.

“Wishing well we found. Two pennies thrown in. I know what I wished for...”

“Sittin’ on the dock of the bay. Watchin’ the tide roll away.”

“Taken after Sammy saw his first pair of tits at Mardi Gras.”

“Biker wannabe. Sammy during his leather jacket phase, leaning against the Soda Shop, trying to catch the babes.”

“Prom. Sammy couldn’t get a date, so I figured I might as well take pity...”

“Under the stars. Slush puppies in the summer time. Biggie on the radio. Nights were never better than this.”

He ran his fingers across the pages. His eyes watered, but no tears would fall. He laughed at some of my descriptions. Let out a long sigh as he ran his hand down cream soda bottle tops, movie stubs, old sticky notes left for one another. The sun-wearing-sunglasses magnet from my school locker that he always made fun of. Magnolia petals that would fall from the tree and onto our picnic table. The fortune from a cookie he gave me that said “Believe it can be done.”

Precious artifacts that wove together the story of our friendship. Of our everything.

“Y/N... baby, I-“ the words caught in his throat.

“I know, Sammy. I know” I grabbed his hand from across the table.

He looked up at me. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but I had a feeling it was about all the things we’d left unsaid. All the things that would stay unsaid.

“You’ll stay safe out there, won’t you Sammy?” The words came out like a prayer.

“I’ll always come back to you.”

We sat in the park that night. Stayed out till he had to leave for basic training in the morning. We walked to the bus together. His mom and sister were already waiting there with his bag. He hugged them so tight. His mom wept. His sister pretended not to. He took a deep breath, and refused to let his chin wobble. That was my Sammy, alright. Brave face. Always trying to take care of everyone but himself. He hugged me last, shoved his head right into the crook my neck. He breathed in deep, as if he wanted to savor every piece of this last moment. As if he knew things would never be the same. He kissed my forehead, “I love you.”

I so badly wanted him to mean it the way I meant it, “I love you too, Sammy.”

He got on that bus, and as it pulled away a feeling settled. It was uneasy. It was empty. Something greater than loss, something more profound than grief. It was a feeling took root in the very fabric of my body. And I just knew I would never see Sammy again.

And I didn’t.

Not for many years.

Not until today...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mama Nell didn’t have any kids of her own. No husband to speak of. Just a handful of scrappy kids that came in and out of her shop over the years. She’d helped us out when we needed it. There were months where we spent more time with Mama Nell than with our own families. She was special to us. Family.

After Sammy left, I spent more time with Mama Nell than I did with anyone – more than my family, more than Sammy’s family. I would help do chores around her house, stuff she “couldn’t” do anymore: wiping baseboards, washing the woodwork, replacing sheets and blankets, scrubbing the tub, vacuuming, dusting, and so on goes the list. Really Mama Nell was just giving me a reason, a guise, to be over at her house all the time. I was helping out. And she enjoyed having the company. We’d play hours of scrabble, and I’d usually lose. I’d show her new movies (anything with Denzel was her favorite). According to Mama, “Men had no right lookin’ that good.” We’d gossip and chop onions, and tomatoes for the Shop.

I would spend hours with Mama at her house. But I couldn’t bring myself to actually walk into the Pop Shop. Not alone. Not without Sammy. Not for a long time.

It was probably six months after Sammy had left before I even considered going into the shop. It was eight months before Mama Nell convinced me to help her bring over some containers of vegetables.

Nine months had gone by, without so much as a phone call from Sammy. Not a single letter of mine replied too. Even his mom had only talked to him on the phone a few times. Said there was a lot going on he couldn’t talk about. But I didn’t care if he couldn’t talk about what he was doing in the military. I just wanted to hear his voice, hear him say my name, or crack a joke. I wanted to tell him about how me and Mama Nell had gotten even closer, and that I missed him. I wanted to see his chicken scratch handwriting, where you needed context clues to tell if he was trying to write a “g” or an “s.” I just wanted him. Something. Anything. I felt like a dog, begging for even the smallest of scraps. But nothing ever came. Any updates I got were passed on by his mom. He was supposed to come home after a couple of months, but he never did. And that feeling I had felt in my stomach the day he’d left, from the moment he stepped on that bus, only grew deeper and deeper. It became more. I was sick to my stomach with the knowledge that my Sammy was gone.

It was his birthday – just over nine months after Sammy had left – that I really went back to the Soda Pop Shop. I sat down. Alone at our booth. Everything felt too still. Too quiet. The place was closed, but Mama Nell had long since given me a key, not that I’d ever really needed it before. Part of me still wonders if she knew this day would come. Where I’d need to finally have this moment.

I sat in our booth, like we normally would. I made myself a Pop Hot, just the way Mama had taught me. I poured a Green Slush Puppie. I fiddled with the bracelet on my wrist.

I ate alone.

The next day, I started working behind the counter with Mama.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“How was school today, Andy?” I asked from behind the counter, handing him a chocolate shake.

“Stupid.” It came out all mumbled, and huffy, the way it always does when kids are asked about school.

“You’re not getting picked on are you, honey?” I couldn’t help but worry about him. It was hard not to worry about the kids that came in and out of here.

He took a long deep breath, “No... it’s just stupid, and I hate math, and it’s almost summer. So it’s just stupid.”

He took a sip of his milkshake, and shrugged his shoulders. I nodded, because I remember what that was like. Me and Sammy would sit in this very spot after school, and complain to Mama Nell about how dumb school was. And she’d nod along sagely. And then, if it was one of those rare quiet days, a day like today when no one was around, she’d give us both Pop Hots – on the house.

“Well kiddo, how’s a Pop Hot sound?” I said smiling at him.

“Amazing! But can you wrap it up for me? I gotta be home before Ma gets mad.” He put his elbow on the table, and rested his cheek on his hand, still sipping on the straw of his milkshake.

“Sure thing bud, I’m getting ready to close up shop anyway.”

A few minutes later, I was wrapping up his burger in foil, and throwing his fries in a baggie. Dr. Pepper was his favorite, so I pulled one out of the fridge and stuck that in there too.

I handed him his bag, and he pushed the empty shake glass towards me, “Be good, alright. Stay safe on the walk home, and I’ll see you soon. Flip the sign ‘closed’ on the way out.”

He thanked me and was almost out the door when I shouted, “Tell your mother I said hello!”

“OKAY!” I heard him yell back, muffled as the door began to close in his way out.

He was a good kid. They all were. All the little ones that came running in and out of the shop. It was easy to see why Mama Nell always took to the little rugrats that came in and out of this place.

I grabbed his glass off the counter and turned around to start washing. The dishwasher was already running for the night, so I turned the faucet on and waited for the water to warm. That’s when the door opened, the bell above it giving a little ring.

“Sorry pal, we’re closed for the night.” I kept washing, but whoever it was didn’t say anything, and the bell hadn’t rung again so I knew they were still there.

I let out a little sigh, shut off the faucet, and grabbed a rag to dry my hands.

“I’m sorry but we’re –“ I turned around, but the words caught in my throat. My rag fell to the floor, and I lifted a hand to my face.

There was no one I expected to see less. But there he was. Taller, more angular. He’d lost his baby face, and before me stood a man. He looked sharp, like he’d just been to the barber, and for all I knew, he had. He had on a button down, and a pair of jeans. Nice leather shoes. He was even more handsome than I remembered.

But those eyes. Those eyes that had always been so soft and hopeful. They looked so tired. Worn. Aged.

Aged... because we had aged... it had been years. It had been fucking years since I saw him last. I long since made peace with the fact that I would never see him again. Not a word from him after he left. Not a letter replied to, not a question answered, not a sight to be seen. He never came home. He never wrote. He never called. Never passed a message along to his mother, never wanted to listen to the messages I asked his mother to pass along. None of it. He promised. He was my best friend – half of my whole, all I had ever wanted, and needed, and begged for from the universe in the late of the evening.

When we had sleepovers, he would hold me so close. We’d wake up and eat cereal in bed and watch Looney Tunes, or Family Matters, or MTV. After our lucky charms, we’d share orange slices, and grapes, and hang out for hours. I’d go home that night, and pray. I was never religious, but something about Sammy always drove me towards the unknown. I didn’t know who I was praying too, who I was begging. But I was desperate for it to work. All I’d ever wanted was my Sammy. It was always just Sammy and I, falling together in the Soda Pop Shop.

But now...

Now. I was angry.

“Get out.” He looked down and nodded, but made no effort to move, “When my mom said I’d find you here, I didn’t really believe her. But when I dropped by your moms house, and she pointed me here, I figured it must’ve been true.”

“Get. Out.” The words came out through clenched teeth.

But he just started taking steps toward me, “Listen... I know... I know what I did, okay? I know. But, baby-“ I

cut him off, shaking my head, “Samuel.”

That got his attention. His eyes shot straight up to mine. He looked at me for a minute. Then he nodded, real solemn, and stopped. “

I’m staying at my mom’s for a while.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I just... I wanted to see you.”

My breath was shallow, “Well, you’ve seen me.”

He shook his head, and said “Can you at least tell me where I can find Mama Nell? I figured she’d be here too.”

I looked down, unable to believe my own ears. It was too much, it took everything in me not to break down as I said, “Luling Cemetery. Row 46, 18 down from the Oak tree.”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at me for a long while. Then he sniffled, looked down, shook his head, and shook it some more, before he turned around and kicked a chair.

“What the fuck, Sam!” I walked out from behind the counter, and picked up the chair he’d kicked over, but he just kept walking. Walked right to our old booth. Sat in his old seat. Covered his mouth and cried. Sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed. And I stood by the chair, I’d just picked up before I took a real deep breath.

I was mad at Sammy. Mad didn’t even begin to describe it. Heartbroken, and infuriated, and in so much pain. But somehow he hadn’t known about Mama Nell. How hadn’t he known?

I had written him letters after she died. Pleaded with him, please come home. I had never known such depths of emptiness. I had lost my Sammy, and I had lost the woman who had taken me under her wing, and showed me how to live for myself. I felt like I had nothing left to give. At first I just asked him to write me back.

“Just write me back, Sammy. That’s all. Just this once.”

Then I asked him to call.

“Just let me hear your voice, Sammy. I just need to hear your voice, Sammy. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Then I asked him to come to the funeral.

“Sammy, we have to bury her. Sammy, please. Please, Sammy. I need you here for this. I can’t do this on my own. I love you, and I need you now. I need you, Sammy. Please. Please, Sammy. Please come home.”

Then I broke down.

“Sammy... Please Sammy... We read the will today.

She gave me the Shop Sammy... I own the Shop.”

He never replied. Didn’t attend the funeral. Why didn’t he come? Why wasn’t he there? How didn’t he know?

I let him cry for a while. Figured he needed it. Just finished cleaning up, and put all the chairs up on the tables. I walked back around the counter, and filled a glass with water, grabbed a box of tissues from underneath the back counter, and headed over to sit. For the first time in so many years, I sat across from Sammy at our old booth. It didn’t feel real.

I pushed the water towards him, placed the box of tissues next to it, and let him cry it out.

I’d never seen Sammy like this, not in all our years. I’d seen him shed tears, I’d even seen him cry a little. But sob? Never in my life had I seen him just weep. He looked like a little kid. But more than that, he looked like a broken man.

When he started to breathe a little more evenly, and had wiped his face dry, I finally spoke.

“Oh, Sammy,” I whispered. “How could you not know?”

He shook his head. Closed his eyes, “No one ever... No ever told me. My mom she didn’t... Why didn’t you write me?”

He sounded crushed, a devastation in his voice that felt so foreign coming from his mouth.

“Sammy,” I was absolutely reeling, “I wrote you so many times. Sammy I wrote you for years before I stopped, and when Mama Nell died, I wrote you over and over and over. I... I begged you to come home, Sammy.” It all came out like such a broken whisper.

He looked at me real hard, “No.”

“Yes, Sammy. I did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” He was running his hands through his hair. “No you didn’t. I got three letters from you, right in the begging. And yeah, I was an ass for not replying, but I already felt so guilty for leaving, I just didn’t know what to say. But then they stopped. Hard stopped. So don’t tell me you wrote me for years, because it was radio silence from you.”

I couldn’t believe my own ears, “Sammy, I wrote you hundreds of letters. Hundreds, Sammy.”

He shook his head, “I don’t... I don’t understand.”

“Sammy, are you telling me you didn’t get my letters?”

“Just three. I...” He shook his head, having a hard time trying to process everything. “Pretty early on they pulled me. They were starting a new program, and I was one of the guys they wanted to train for it. I was always asking them if I got any mail. Only thing they ever gave me came from Mom. Eventually I just stopped asking. I never thought...”

We were quiet a while. Neither of us really knowing how to handle this information.

“I promised you I’d write...” I finally got out.

“ I know,” He said. “I know.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sammy stuck around after that, just like he said he would. He stayed with his mom, and started going to meetings at the VA, trying to process what had happened to him. To us. To Riley, and Mama Nell.

He told me not long after he came back. He was helping me clean up one night. He’d been helping out around the shop whenever he could. It was so strange to turn around and see him again.

He walked behind the counter, everyone gone, and only sweeping left to do, and poured himself a big grape Slush Puppie.

He took a loud sip, “Oh man.”

Then another “Mmm mmm mmm. I forgot how good these were.”

I couldn’t help but smile, “Yeah, it’s been a while since I had one myself.”

As soon as the words were out my mouth his cup was left to sit on the counter, and he was turning around to pour me one. A green apple Slush Puppie just waiting for me. He held it out to me like a present. Like a peace offering.

“Come on baby, you’ve done enough sweeping. Get on back here and sip.” He was so confident it made me roll my eyes.

But I listened. Walked over, hopped up onto a stool, and let Sammy serve me. He watched as I took the first sip, and as soon as that cool icy slush hit my tongue, I closed my eyes in sweet bliss. It was so much sweeter than I remembered. The kinda sweet only a kid could like. But it tasted like good memories, and I wouldn’t trade anything in the world for that.

After a minute or two he said, “I got in contact with my colonel, y’know.”

I took another sip, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Told him that I was looking for some letters... Since I’m out now, he said he might as well tell me. Since it was such an experimental program. Something kept under wraps, no one got letters from anyone but immediate family. They have boxes for each of us. So he sent over mine.”

I didn’t know what to say, “Sammy...”

He just continued on, “So I finally got your letters,” He took a long shaky breath. “Baby... baby I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sammy.”

“You promised you’d write. I should’ve fought them harder on it.”

“It’s not your fault, Sammy. You hear me? It’s not your fault. None of it Sam.” I hoped he could hear what I was telling him. He’d told me about Riley that first night. He’d just lost him, and then to find out about Mama Nell like that. It was all too much.

And I’m a reasonable person. Logical, and understanding. I understood that what happened between Sammy and I wasn’t entirely either of our faults, and that most of it was out of our hands. I spent so many years, with so much anger inside of me. So much grief. And don’t get me wrong, I was still angry. Just not at Sammy anymore.

“Baby...” he said, shaking his head.

“Sammy. It’s not your fault.”

He reached for my hand across the counter, and I let him take it.

“I got your letters. So,” he said reaching into his back pocket. “I wrote you a reply.”

He sat the envelope carefully down in front of me, one hand still clutched to mine. I stared at it. A letter I’d waited for for so long. A letter that finally arrived.

But when I looked up at Sammy, who sat watching me with anxious, awaiting eyes, I found myself asking him something, “Will you read it to me, Sammy?”

His face froze up. I saw him swallow, “Read it to you?”

And somehow his nervousness made me more confident, more desperate to hear the words come from his mouth, “Yeah, Sammy. Will you? Will you read me your letter?”

He looked very uncertain.

“Please, Sammy?” I whispered.

He closed his eyes, “Okay.”

He was being brave, and I knew it. Loved him for it. He ran his thumb across my knuckles. Then all at once, that warmth was gone and he was reaching for the envelope.

He took a moment to himself. Just slight shook his had, as if to ask himself what am I doing? And then, ever so softly, he began to read.

“Dear baby...

I got your letters today. Reading them made me homesick. Made me miss Mama Nell and the Shop. But really it made me miss you.”

He paused, and took a deep breath. The words were sincere, but they sound unnatural coming out of his mouth. They were words he never dreamed he’d say aloud.

“I wonder where the time has gone. Reading all your letters, it makes me feel like no time has passed at all, but there’s been so much lost between now and then.

I’m sure it sounds dumb. God knows most of the things that come outta my mouth are. But I’d do anything to never be a part from you again. And I know, I know, that so much has happened. Things have gone wrong, and I’ve changed, and you’ve changed. I know we’ve grown up, but I think about tomorrow and it hurts to imagine you not being there...”

He cleared his throat, “I want you to know that I never stopped loving you. I’ve always loved you, and not a thing that comes between us could ever change that.

All I know is that I want to learn you all over again. Learn who’ve you grown into. I miss talking to you, and holding you. I miss sneaking kisses on your cheek, and tucking you in when we’d fall asleep watching Good Times.

I want to earn those times back. I mean it when I say I love you. I’ve always loved you, and no matter how many times I’d try to pick up chicks at the mall, I always belonged to you.

I never knew if you could see how much I loved you. Or if you, like me, couldn’t see past your insecurities. I think I know now. I wish I could find more words to tell you. But I hope you feel it, baby. I need you to.

I love you. I miss you. Write back soon. Your Sammy.”

He was quiet for a long while after that, and so was I. We sat together, in the silence, sorry for ourselves and all the time we’d lost. I’ve never been more grateful for anything than all the newfound time we’d have together.

And all at once, I was out of my seat and holding on to, Sam, his arms wrapped around me, and he picked me up to place me on the counter. He stepped between my legs, and just held me, trying to get closer, as if we didn’t become one entity in that very second, we would be torn a part forever.

It felt good. But more than that it felt right. And now that I had this again, I would never let go. Not ever. No. From now on, it was just gonna be me and Sammy. I loved him so much. And I could feel it in my very bones, just how much he loved me. We had a long road ahead of us, but with him by my side, I knew we’d make it. Just me and Sammy. Just Sammy, and I, and the Soda Pop Shop.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A/N:

Hey guys!

Been gone a super long time, probably a little over a year now. But I’ve been reading some fanfiction recently, I’m in a super positive and loving relationship, and overall, just got inspired and wanted to write again! Wrote this for myself really, just to get some creative juices out, and I’ve been sititng on it for a while. I have a feeling I’ll be writing more soon, and I’ll be sure to share.

Also thanks to everyone who continued to read my work, even during my very lengthy absence, and like/reblog/comment. I promise I’ve seen them, and they have warmed my heart like nobody’s business. I love you all so much, and am so grateful.

#sam wilson #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson x you #tfatws fanfiction #falcon x reader #marvel #marvel fanfiction

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octania · 4 years

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Midnight shadow (Dabi x Reader 18+)

(Dabi x Reader / 18+/ SMUT)

This is the third chapter of the Midnight stalker. (Chapter 2 - Midnight hunter)

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: Smut, NSFW, masturbation, violence, threats,stalking.

Short description: When you decide to look for your stalker Dabi, you don't even know what dark secrets will emerge along the way and what claws are eagerly waiting to grab you out of the darkness.

__________________________________________________________

He had heard of love, but never knew what it was. He only knew the word, and he didn't say it either. That word was one of the greatest delusions of the human race, the most disgusting lie. And he could confirm that. He saw with his own eyes. He remembered how love falls like a tower of cards over any threat that arises before it. He watched her weak hands and senseless attempts to keep him safe, he listened to her empty promises to protect him, but if she had succeeded, he would not be where he is now, he would not have this conversation with himself, nor would he wear these disgusting scars as evidence of her failure and failed promise.

He returned to the only thing he knew, the only path he had walked unencumbered, a path that was not paved with a thousand questions and insecurities. He went back to what he knew brought a good, comfortable, desirable feeling. Something that suited him, something he didn't have to think about. Pleasure, to be more specific, sexual pleasure. To satisfy his body, alone, without too many complications. He lay down on his bed with a pair of pillows and a thin blanket on it, taking his cell phone out of his back pocket. He was too tired to think, he wanted pleasure to start flowing through his body as soon as possible, and he wanted empty thoughts. He typed the name of the porn site into a search window and started browsing the various videos that were offered to him. He wasn't even aware that everything he'd been looking for, and the superficial way he'd done it, was now dead and replaced by specific desires.

Instead of fake breasts and other pronounced attributes that had a clear purpose on this page, his eye searched for a certain hair color. Your hair color. Your facial features, the shape of your lips, and even your eyes. The body structure had to match yours, otherwise it didn't satisfy. He scrolled the screen longer than a few minutes, not even realizing how long it has been. Every tasteless make up on the face of porn actresses aroused disgust in him. Their greedy gaze, stripped of everything but the pure animal need for sex, was by no means what he longed for now. The look you gave him after you saved him and told him your name. He stopped the search, staring blankly at his cell phone. He touched the left corner of the screen where the miniature magnifying glass icon was located and typed the letters of your name, pressing Search. Although he subconsciously knew how stupid this move was, he gazed at the couple of videos at the top. The women who smiled back at him now were anything but you. His patience was getting thinner, he could feel his shoulders tense, his jaw tighten and a feeling forming in his chest that he had tried to escape from with this very act. He had to give himself break, get rid of at least some of the frustration.Since his attempt to find similarities between porn actresses and you fell into the water, the latest addition to the information he gathered about you could have been used in another place. Before opening a new icon on his smartphone, he grabbed the edges of his white T-shirt, taking it off himself with one lazy pull of his hands. It was stuffy in his room, he hadn't raised the blinds in days, and given the high summer temperatures and his own body heat, glistening drops of sweat had already formed in the corner of his forehead beneath his thick black hair. He retrieved a crumpled box of cigarettes from the nightstand, tapping the box on the edge of the bed. A cigarette filter popped out of a torn hole in the box. He brought the spongy filter to his lips, biting the light surface. He pulled a cigarette out of the box as he opened the multicolored icon on his cell phone screen with his thumb.

The social network called Instagram opened, asking for login information. He smiled at the thought of having a profile on such networks. One of the most wanted villains collects likes with half-naked selfies. Fortunately, he didn't need a personal account. He remembered the fake profile Twice and Toga had made when they drank a little too much alcohol one night, having fun leaving naughty comments on the All Might fan page. He couldn’t imagine a stupider thing anyone could do. But luckily, he was present when they created the account. He typed in a username and paused. It took him a few seconds to remember the passwords they had used. He knew it was related to the insults they used. A small smile escaped his lips when he finally typed in a simple password that couldn’t have been simpler. AllMightSucks. The profile full of red notifications which were from angry fans ’responses to their humiliating words about Number one hero puzzled Dabi because he couldn’t believe the account was still not blocked due to so many reports. He ignored the countless angry messages that glowed the same intense red and headed for the search space. His eyes narrowed as he typed in your name and squeezed the search. He didn’t know your last name, and a lot of people generally don’t have their real first name on their profile. This seemed more and more futile. Hundreds of profiles have opened under your name. He passed them quickly, pausing a few times when the picture was so blurry that he wasn't sure what was hiding on it, but each time he would be disappointed, closing the profile and continuing his search.

In the process of searching, another detail managed to discourage him. Many of the profiles were private, so even though he might find you with some crazy luck, it will be in vain again. Preoccupied with the search, he forgot that he was still holding a cigarette between his teeth. He moved his free hand to the top of the cigarette. The blue flame rose gently across the surface of the skin of his index finger. He inhaled the sweet poison into his lungs. Two icy eyes flashed behind a curtain of smoke spreading across the room. His lips curled into a sinister smile as he watched the small profile picture. Your profile.

Your name was the same ... along with your last name.He could feel the excitement when he now learned your whole name. This could not have been simpler, how this had not occurred to him before? He opened a profile, which was public. How many mistakes can you make because of so much innocence. Your profile consisted of hand-full of pictures, almost all posted in the last two years, except for one that was about seven years old. Your young face that was still at the mercy of puberty, smiled with a pink braces. You managed to make him laugh. You managed to make Dabi laugh, and you weren't even aware of it. However, one picture quickly caught his attention and did not lure the same kind of smile to his face. The photo you posted because of the endless persuasion of your friends, spontaneous in nature but really challenging, was a photo of you in a thin bathing suit as you stepped out of the water. The smiling face on which the drops of water followed your neck and continued to your big breasts, over your belly all the way to the lower part of your tight bikini, gave Dabi more than the desired scene. This is what people call the Jackpot, he thought mockingly. He licked the tip of the cigarette filter as he moved his free hand toward his belt. With a few moves of his fingers, he unbuttoned the buckle and headed for the zipper of his jeans. He lowered his jeans, while grabbing the top of the boxers, clearing the way for his already hardened dick. He grabbed it at the base, giving it a few lazy strokes, returning his attention to your picture. He could see himself catching those drops of water with his tongue, following all the lines of your body, from your jaw, to the neck where he would leave a few light hickeys. He inhaled the smoke, holding the cigarette now only with his teeth as he let the smoke out of his mouth. The grip around his lenght became fiercer, as he started pumping it faster. He could taste your salty skin from the sea, how smooth it was and how his tongue would sink into your soft breasts as he burned every bit of fabric on them, clearing the way to your nipples. How you would bend and moan as your senses raged at his sucking of those sensitive parts. He wouldn't stop no matter how much you said you couldn't take it anymore, he'd just bite your nipple again lightly, forcing you to scream his name. When he was briefly fed up with those sighs and the constant mention of his name, he would move on along the path of your body. Until now you sighed with pleasure, now you would cry out because of his teasing. The thought of kissing the inside of your thigh, stroking the surface of your panties just enough for you to feel the slight vibrations on your delicate folds , and as he rudely touches your clit just for a moment and pulls his fingers back, he made his rhythm quicken. Veins popped out on the light skin of his throbbing dick, making it look even thicker. The tip was releasing a few drops of cum, as the skin was tense, looking like it will let out the full amount of his sperm soon. In his fantasy, he came to the point of pushing your panties aside, imprinting a couple of kisses on the border of your thighs and pussy. It was glistering from all the juices flowing out of you, calling him to slide right in, but he decided to torture you a bit more. You tried to push his head closer to the wet entrance in hope that his lips would finally do the job, but he was far from wanting to make it any easier for you. He kissed you all around but not in the most precious places. His tongue left a trace of the saliva a millimeter from your swollen clit, while you were crying out from frustration. You shivered under his touch, trying to lift your hips to place your needy cunt on his lips yourself, but he was having none of that. He slapped your smooth backside with his rough palm, making it even hotter with his fire before it touched your skin. You screamed from pain and pleasure mixed in the same time, while he continued to tease you without mercy. The idea of you begging him to do this lewd things to you, gave him exactly what he needed, a feeling of dominance, being in charge, the things that in real life were shaken by you. But he had no time to think about that now, his mind was blank as the electric feeling of raw pleasure was flowing through his body. He was jerking himself almost violently when the last scene of him finally burying his tongue inside your cunt appeared in his head.He eat up your sticky juices like his favorite desert, pushing the tip of his tongue as deep as he could, tasting as much of your innerwalls as he could. He can feel the pressure of them squeezing his soft muscle as you were about to reach your climax. The strokes on his tense dick were now more shallow, faster, as the grip was so fierce his hand started hurting. But he ignored it with ease, as he could feel the sperm piling up. He exhaled the smoke of an already burned cigarette as ash fell on his bare chest, and his head twisted with pleasure as his sperm began to squirt from his tip.

The feeling of a cold wall on the back of his head was good, as he pulled the cigarette filter out of his mouth, extinguishing it in a glass of whiskey without even looking at it. After a few moments he opened his eyes, looking back at your profile he had just abused. He scrolled to the last picture that you posted. A simple picture of you and your couple of female friends over a cup coffee. He looked down to see the date in the picture. Five months ago. Just a few days before he first saw you and interfered with your life. Since then, it’s as if everything stopped, not a word from you on social media.

"I don't need to find you." he growled contentedly.

You walked down a foggy street at the crack of dawn. Blurry colors flickered among the gray clouds that lazily dragged across the sky. The light of the street lamps was still on, but what this neighborhood contained , it was better to remain hidden in the darkness. It's been three long months since your last saw Dabi. Your lips quivered when you heard his name in your own thoughts. You still couldn’t get used to the feelings he was awakening in you. Fear, insecurity, exposure, paranoia .... interest. The last was the only one moving in the direction it shouldn’t have. The first time you felt interest for your pursuer was right the day after he chased you through the woods without mercy. Because of his refusal to defend himself from the hero and to escape without you telling him your name, it forced you to think deeply. You were sure you were going to die that night, but you did not, you were saved. Lies. If Dabi wanted to finish you, he would have done so, but he didn't. In fact, he showed he wasn’t a monster when he refused to rip the last of your clothes off your upper body without your consent. Something about him was very wrong. All the news, articles, any information you found about him on the internet since that day gave the same, petty and incomplete reports. Only where and when he participated in which crime, no background, not even a last name. Infact, it was like he just appeared out of the thin air. All members of The League of Villains had at least some information exposed to the public regarding their private lives. Every normal person would like to forget traumatic events like the ones you experienced as soon as possible, but you did the exact opposite. And in full consciousness even though you didn’t understand why you wanted to uncover the things you started looking for about him. Luckily for you, you knew exactly where to start.

Research instinct ran in your family. Your mother was an archaeologist, the finest one for uncovering long forgotten things, and her sister, your aunt, was a journalist, better at finding fresh news and unrevealing things that tired to stay secret. So, combing your mother’s passion and set of skills you inherited with the excess to forbidden information that your aunt had, you thought of a plan that could help you find the answers you needed.You were cunning, even more than you were aware of. When you got to your aunt’s office, you were playing well-thought-out cards. After she hugged and kissed you, and asked you a thousand questions about how you are and how you are progressing, you explained how you came with a desire to get involved in her kind of work. The reason for your desire on the one hand was to broaden your horizons for your future, and the other reason you knew would be crucial in her consent was that you wanted to occupy yourself with work to think as little as possible about the atrocities that befell you. She couldn't refuse your request. Before you even know it, you got a card with your name and the “College Student” label on it, which allowed you to move freely around all the rooms of their business space. After your aunt gave you a couple of easy tasks like cute pet reports, you completed them ahead of time, so you could spend the rest of your time in the archives they had. You would sneak up to a room full of dusty shelves filled with published articles that stood there for years, but those weren't your target documents, no, you were looking for what seemed to deviate from the average information that could have been obtained over Internet. Unauthorized articles, unpublished articles, these were the markings on the boxes that immediately caught your attention. You took out a heavy cardboard box and carried it to a table in the corner of the room. You turned on a lamp that cast a dim light on an old wooden table and clung to the documents. The first day did not bring any results, nor did the second. Endless half-written articles, sometimes just notes or suggestions for articles that have never seen the light of day for known or unknown reasons. You thought you might have made a mistake in the approach you chose, until you noticed out of the corner of your eye there was a hero who was present the night you were attacked. Number two hero, Endeavor. An expression of slight disgust crossed your face. He was no hero, he was a savage. You thought as you pulled out a paper with his name on it. You lazily read a few lines of text, almost putting it down before you got to the middle of the notes. Thank God you didn't stop reading. This is odd.

The tragedy hit the Todoroki family, after the eldest son died in a horrific accident.

That was one of the notes. You stared at the sentence for a few moments. The eldest son?

A grieving father, mother, sister and two brothers from the family.

Two brothers, so there were three of them? You had to admit, this was news you hadn't heard of before. You pulled out your cell phone, typing in Todoroki's name. A picture of the famous family appeared on the screen and to your surprise, there were really three young men and one little girl in the picture. For a moment you felt ashamed that you didn't know about something like this, preparing to close your cell phone, but something caught your attention.

“Quirk more powerful then my own, the time will show who will be the strongest.” Endeavor’s statement made you open the article to the end. You read an article that conveyed his praise of how his descendant would take first place as a hero, showing the world who is the strongest. A couple of lines later, quirk that belonged to the oldest son was briefly described by the father, not revealing much, just that the quirk is connected to fire. After that, the article went on to describe the Endeavor’s quirk, and on the end of the article, two doe like eyes stared back at you from the paper. You stared into two electrically blue eyes that belonged to a little red-haired boy named Touya, the eldest son. Frightened, he looked into the lens. Although this picture was almost twenty years old and the boy in it was five years old, something about him was familiar to you. You opened a new search window and entered his name. Touya Todoroki. A handfull of articles that were only mentioning his name and had no real story on him popped out. None of them contained the information about how he died, only that it was an accident. You fool, you told yourself, going back to the papers in front. You flipped through a few more pieces of paper with notes until your eyes stopped at the sentence that made every drop of blood escape from your face. You turned pale in a second, as you stared at the two short notes before you.

Died by his own quirk. Burned alive with his own fire.

The thought of that frightened boy being devoured by his own flames brought tears to your eyes. You pursed your lips looking at Endeavor's cold face. This was covered up for a reason.

He will be a new number one hero, there is no stopping until he gets there.

The sentence found in the text before. He must have pushed him beyond the limits the poor boy could bear. Anger piled up in your chest as you squeezed your cell phone. The fact that this article didn’t come out is just confirmation that they wanted to shove it under the rug, not to find out how cruel a man called number two hero really is. You wanted to do something, you wanted to take a photo of this and if nothing else, post it on social media where knowledge would spread like a virus, but you knew it would cost your aunt her job, reputation, and in the end Endeavor with his influence would probably do everything to turn this in his favor again. Sudden moves were not smart. You buried your face between your palms, massaging your eyelids with your fingers.

So much pain in this world. It went through your head as you squinted through your fingers at Tounya’s photo, all the way to the end of the notes. You almost jumped out of your chair when you read the barely visible words at the very bottom of the paper.

Quirk: Blue flames.

The blue flame, the boy's quirk that surpassed Endeavor’s in strength was the blue flame.

An expression full of ... pain. It echoed in your head as you stared back at the boy with the icy blue eyes. Now it was clear to you why he was familiar ... the same expression of pain in those blue eyes was worn by Dabi the moment he was losing the last of his oxygen underwater. The same kind of unspoken suffering.

Omg ... is this you? .. A hurricane of thoughts raced through your head. The scars he was wearing ... burnt skin ... everything was falling in its place. Is it possible that the poor boy managed to survive? That he managed to defeat the death of self-ignation? If so, why does it say he's dead? Why didn't they go and treat his wounds? Did they want to get rid of him? Is Endeavor such a monster that he rejected him after the boy failed? Or ... is the boy the one that wanted to escape? He wanted to save himself from the real hell he was going through. How awful must a man be for fear of him to transcend death itself? Your hands were shaking from all the things that came to your mind. You tried to calm down your rapid breathing, try to settle the dust in your mind. It must be true, it felt like the truth and nothing less. But you had no evidence, nothing but a theory that might have made sense, and the feeling of certainty in your guts unfortunately does not count. The only way you'll find out is to ask the only person who can give you an answer ... Dabi himself. And if you ignore all the alarms that are now whistling in your body that this is a bad and dangerous idea, the fact is that even if you manage to find him, if you stay alive for the third time when you face him, asking a question like this, and if it is true, can make him feel cornered. And when a wild animal is cornered, it attacks instinctively.I have to do this.You decided, not thinking about anything but one thing. But..how do I find him?

The answer came faster than expected. You had to admit, you were a talented researcher. This whole situation would have been even fun if it hadn’t been so dark, and after you found out the recent things, even tragic. Given that you were a victim of a notorious villain twice in a row, and the first time they thought they should withdraw too much surveillance and security, the matter escalated and resulted in horrible things, this time they did not intend to repeat the mistake. Since you refused an escort that would be with you 24/7, the only compromise they agreed to was that you be moved to a new apartment intended for witness protection, and that a police officer and one hero patrol in front of that building every night. , plus you have to report to your assigned detective every week to see if there is any possible threat. Yes, you had your very own nanny detective. However, this time that nuisance was the only door that led you to your goal. After a brief formal conversation with the detective that resulted in nothing more than usual, you rocked in your chair, leaning forward.

"Are you alright !?" - he took the bait like a fish on the hook, jumping from a chair and getting down on his knees to prevent you from falling.

"Y..Yes. I am so sorry, I feel dizzy that is all. Can I please ask for a glass of water? ”

"Sure, I will get it right away." - the kind detective left his office with the intention of bringing you water, not even knowing it was a hoax. It was so simple and superficial that you couldn’t understand how he fell for it, but then you remembered that you were the victim of this story in his head and that’s why there’s no doubt turned on you.You were by the drawer of his desk in a second, opening it. Various yellow folders full of files peeking out ,crowded into the cramped space. Slowly but hurriedly, you began to run your fingers over the marked names. It didn't take you long to find what you were looking for. The League of Villains.

It was clearly printed on the folder. You took it out, flipping vigorously through the contents. Profiles ... crimes ...attempts ...You smiled when you found the thing you wanted.Possible base locations.A list that did not contain more than fifteen names that were written here after someone’s tip or some previous suspicion. You took out your cell phone, taking a picture of the list and putting the paper back in the folder.

This was the seventh destination listed on paper. Although there was no exact address, logically, but only lists of neighborhoods where the headquarters could be, it did not prevent you in your intention. You went through the last six quarters in detail, this one will be no different, even if it didn't give results either. You aimed at the darkest possible corners, the most remote spaces hidden from view. Instead of fear, excitement prevailed. Even if something small goes wrong, you are not helpless, at least you thought so, you have your quirk. You walked a couple of streets where there was nothing suspicious, until you walked down a street where a familiar voice came to your ear. You looked back, but there was no one, just scattered wet cardboard boxes and a large trash can. You looked again, realizing that to the left of the container, a meter from it, there was a small window in the building. The voices came from the inside. You approached carefully, eavesdropping as best you could. You couldn't understand them, they were too quiet, but you'd swear you heard that voice somewhere before. Unfortunately, you didn’t get to find out who it was before something cold and sharp got under your neck.

"It's not a very nice thing to spy on others." A woman's voice giggled happily in your ear as she held the blade under your neck.

316 notes · View notes

topsytervy · 3 years

Text

The Right Time ~ JJ Maybank

Blurb: JJ finds the right time to tell you how he feels in his own JJ way.

This is Part 2 of Not The Right Time so if you haven't read Part 1, you can read it here.

Word Count: 2,819

Warnings: mentions of drinking, cheating, a non-descriptive fight, teensy bit of blood, small nod towards suicidal thoughts at the end, cliche and cheesy writing, swearing, poorly proofread so probably spelling and grammar mistakes, I think that's it.

~~~~~~~~~~

Ever since your breakup with Brett, JJ had been doing everything in his power to make sure you knew it had nothing to do with you and Brett just couldn't keep his dick in his pants.

It was hard for him to see you like that, all heart broken and sad, but at least he was able to see you. Kie, Pope, Sarah and John B had tried visiting multiple times during your post breakup hermit phase with little to no success.

A knock on the door sounded throughout the house as JJ finished preparing lunch for you two.

"Hold on!" He hollered, finishing up your sandwich before heading over to the door.

He opened it to reveal the other four members of your group.

"Hey." JJ greeted his friends.

"Can we see her today?" John B asked.

"I can ask but her 'social battery's low'. Her words, not mine." JJ sighed.

"It's just that it's hard for us to not see her, J."

JJ looked at Sarah. " At least you don't have to see her completely shattered everyday and have to sit and watch her eat three times a day to make sure she actually does eat."

Pope looked past JJ and saw the sandwiches on the table. "Can I sit with her today?"

JJ looked at Pope before nodding and gesturing towards your sandwich. "That one right there."

Pope smiled before grabbing the sandwich and knocking on your door, hearing a faint come in afterwards.

You looked to see Pope entering, a small smile on his face. "Hey. Heard about your low battery and I figured you'd want to see someone who's not JJ but not the whole peanut gallery."

You smiled lightly as you sat up. "Thanks, Pope. I love JJ but he can be a bit...overbearing sometimes."

"And this is one of those times." Pope nodded.

You sighed as Pope gave you your sandwich.

"He's just concerned about you. We all are."

"l know."

"How about I tell you about some books I've been reading?"

"I'd like that Pope." You smiled as you bit into your food.

It's not that JJ was bad at comforting or anything like that. In fact, ever since you were a kid, you always went to him for comfort when you were upset. It's just that JJ always seemed to want to rush your mourning period.

JJ didn't like seeing you sad so the less time you spent crying and moping, the better for him.

"Morning, Y/N/N." JJ smiled lightly as he drew back your curtains.

"J, get out." You mumbled into your pillow.

"You gotta get up, sweetheart." JJ practically sang, walking over to your bed and grabbing the comforter.

Your grip immediately tightened. "Don't J."

"I know it's only been a week but come on Y/N. Let in some sun. If not for you, do it for your children." He nodded towards your plants as he laid down next to you.

"I can't get up." You told him.

"Sure you can. You're a bad bitch who isn't going to let this break her. I'm not going to allow you to bury yourself in work and hole yourself up in your room forever just because some dumbass doesn't realize when he's got the greatest girl to ever walk the earth."

You stared at the blonde next to you. "JJ. I can't get up cause you're in here and I'm only in my underwear.

JJ rolled his eyes. "Y/N, all due respect, that's no excuse cause I've seen you naked many times before. the time you broke your ankle in the shower being the main one cause I had to help you in and out of the shower multiple times."

You blushed at his words before shoving him. "Just get out."

JJ did as you requested but not before tossing you some clothes.

So when a few months had passed and you seemed to be back to pre-breakup Y/N, JJ was happy to hear Kie mention a party.

Everyone looked at you and you shrugged. "Why the hell not?"

JJ, John B and Pope all exchanged smiles as Sarah and Kie pulled you up from your seat, saying something about making you so hot that the sun would quit and you'd have to take over the job of keeping the earth warm.

JJ watched as you left, sighing as he let his head fall against the back of the couch.

John B looked at his best friend. "Don't be a helicopter JJ tonight."

A look of confusion found its way onto JJ's face. "Helicopter JJ? What the fuck does that mean?"

Pope sighed. "It's like a helicopter parent except you. You tend to hover over Y/N/N at parties and get a bit...protective at times."

"I do that with Kie and Sarah too." JJ scoffed.

"Not really." The boys responded.

"You don't follow Kie's movements as much as Y/N's." Pope started.

"You certainly don't freak out as much when you lose Sarah or Kie but you almost had a panic attack when you lost Y/N that one time at the store and literally had someone page her." John B added.

"You hide some of Y/N/N's clothes when we're going out because you don't like the chance of her wearing something that could cause a guy to like her and cause you to lose your chance with her."

"I once saw you shield her eyes at prom when people started grinding on each other."

"Okay! So I'm a bit more protective of Y/N than the other two. Sue me." JJ cut the two off.

"Point is that this is her first party in months. Let her get a bit too drunk and make out with some hotshot Kook against a tree."

"Hell, let her get some dick tonight." John B shrugged.

Pope and JJ looked at their curly haired friend before JJ shook his head.

"Fine but she's not getting dick from just anybody. I have to approve of him." JJ said as he stood up and left the room,

The two other boys sat in silence before Pope spoke.

"You know what? I count that as progress and when we make progress with JJ…"

"We have a beer." John B finished, getting up to go get each of them a can.

*****

You and the rest of the pogues made it to the party and found yourselves a home by the bonfire. Rafe, Topper and Kelce had stopped by to say that they were happy to see you again and Kelce was happy that his beer pong partner was back because Rafe and Topper just didn't compare to you.

JJ stared at you, the fire illuminating your features as you laughed at something Kie had said, red cup in his hand that was half-empty. He brought the cup to his lips and finished his beer before turning to you.

"Refill, Y/N/N?"

You nodded before turning to the rest of the group. "JJ and I are making a refill trip. Who else needs one? Speak now or get it yourself." You announced as you stood up.

JJ smiled at your words before also getting up, ready to grab some cups. Pope and Sarah held out their cups while Kie and John B shook their heads.

You took the cups that needed a refill before you and JJ made your way through the crowd of people towards the keg. JJ cracked some jokes with some of the others around the keg and you rolled your eyes, a small smile on your face before you nudged him with your shoulder.

You two started refilling the cups you had before you were interrupted.

"Haven't see you at a party in awhile, Y/N."

You and JJ turned your heads to see Brett standing there, two cups in his hand.

JJ rolled his eyes before looking at you, seeing you avert your gaze back to the keg.

"Why don't you go back to your whore over there Brett." JJ deadpanned.

You smacked JJ's wrist. "Don't call her a whore, JJ. It's rude."

"I'm just stating my opinion."

"Oh so she does still talk. I was just confused when she didn't say hi to me when I greeted her." Brett said.

"Can you get the fuck away from us? She clearly doesn't want to have a conversation with you." JJ snapped.

"I would love to know what you have to say, Y/N, or are you gonna let JJ over here keep talking for you." Brett aimed at you, ignoring the blonde who was getting more agitated by Brett's presence.

"I have nothing to say to you." You shrugged, going to grab the cup.

"We should talk." Brett went to grab you but JJ grabbed his wrist.

"Don't touch her."

"What are you gonna do about it, Maybank?"

"I've got two fists that have been itching to meet your face for months now and tonight might be their lucky night if you keep it up."

"JJ, lets just go." You whispered, placing a hand on his forearm.

JJ looked at you before grabbing his and Pope's cup before following you back to the group.

"Hey, JJ!" Brett called causing JJ to look back.

You gasped as a fist made contact with JJ's face. JJs hand immediately flew to his eye, gingerly touching his eyebrow. He pulled his fingers away to see blood and he chuckled before swinging his own fist.

It wasn't long before JJ had Brett on the ground, pissed beyond belief. Brett managed to get a few more punches in but JJ definitely got way more in by the time you managed to pull him off of Brett with Kelce's help.

"JJ! Calm down, man! He's not worth your time!" Kelce hollered, pinning his arms to his side.

"JJ, look at me. It's done. It's over. You're good now." You told him.

Brett stood up with a scoff. "He could have fucking killed me."

"I fucking should, you cheating son of a bitch!" JJ spat, Kelce's grip tightening on the blonde boy when JJ attempted to lunge forward.

"J, let's just go home. We've had our fun."

JJ looked at you before relaxing causing Kelce to release his hold on him slowly. You grabbed JJ's hand and pulled him away from the small crowd that had formed around him and Brett.

You two said goodbye to your friends and walked back to JJ's truck, you climbing into the passenger seat and him into the drivers.

It was a quiet ride home, Twenty One Pilots playing softly through the speakers the entire time. JJ referred to them as his therapy band, often putting them on after a hard day at work or after a fight so it wasn't really a surprise that he had one of their CDs in.

Once you got home and inside, JJ locked the door before turning towards his bedroom.

"Um, excuse me. Where are you going, JJ?" You asked, grabbing his wrist.

"Bed."

You shook your head. "We gotta clean you up. Bed can wait."

You tugged him into the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit as you instructed JJ to sit on the toilet lid. He complied, bouncing his leg up and down as you put a little hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball.

"That's your first fight in a while." You commented, grabbing his chin lightly and forcing him to look at you.

He grunted in response as you started cleaning the few small cuts on his face. "The prick deserved it for what he did to you. You'd have to be fucking nuts to cheat on someone like you."

You felt my heart flutter at his words and I sighed. "I just hate seeing you like this, JJ. All scratched up."

JJ chuckled as he shook his head lightly. "Oh, Y/N, sweetheart. This is nothing compared to the beat down Brett just got and what my dad used to dish out when I was living with him."

JJ saw your face drop at his words and your eyes begin to water.

"Hey, Y/N. It was just a small joke." He told you gently as he grabbed your hands with his.

You shook your head and went to pull away from him but he just pulled you back, looking up at you as if he was a parent trying to comfort their child.

It weirdly looked like all those Super Nanny time out scenes where the kid looks down in shame as they apologize and the parent is dipping their head down to make eye contact with the kid. You know what I'm talking about?

"I don't like it when you do the whole 'my dad hit me harder thing', J, whenever you try to play off your pain and injuries." You mumbled, a tear slipping out.

JJ wiped away the single tear, mad at himself for upsetting you. "I'm sorry but maybe the waterworks are a bit much. Hmm?"

"I'm sorry. It's just that you shouldn't fight my battles for me. I was going to just walk away from him."

"I'm sorry, are we ignoring the fact that I was walking away? He threw the first punch and I made sure he would think twice before doing that again."

"I just don't like you getting hurt because of me." You sighed.

"Hey, I'd rather get hurt than have you get hurt."

You wrapped your arms around his neck and his went around your waist.

"I always liked your hugs better." You hummed.

JJ felt himself smile. "Yeah?"

You nodded. "You wanna know something, J?"

"Yeah."

"I always felt like you paid more attention to me than Brett. After a year of dating him, he still didn't know my favorite flowers or that I was allergic to bees. Those are the two simplest things to learn about your significant other. You know that I can't even stand the smell of fish sticks anymore or that I can't watch the Freaky Fred episode of Courage the Cowardly Dog or I'll have nightmares."

"That's because I care about you a lot." JJ whispered, kissing your temple.

You ran a hand through JJs blonde locks and sighed. "I wish I dated you instead."

You froze. You could not believe that you had just told your best friend that. You also could not believe how easily those words left your mouth and how much truth there was to them. You did wish you dated JJ instead and not just because of how attractive he was. He always treated you way better than Brett and was more intune -and concerned- about how you were feeling.

JJ also froze, praying that he heard those words correctly and that it wasn't his mind playing a sick joke. He had been waiting for the right time for months and his gut had been telling him all day that today was the day but he fought the urge, afraid his gut was lying. But this...this must be the sign.

"Do you really mean that?" He asked, fighting a smile in case you meant a guy like him and not actually him.

You paused before nodding. "Yeah, I do."

You felt his arms tighten around you and his face bury itself in the crook of your neck.

"You remember all those months ago when you made a big deal about me liking someone and you asked me why I hadn't made a move yet and I told you it wasn't the right time?" JJ words were muffled by your skin.

"Mhmm."

He pulled away to look at you. "I think now's the right time."

And then he pressed his lips against yours. You were quick to kiss back and it held the adoration you felt was missing long before you and Brett broke up.

You pulled away, placing a hand on his cheek which caused JJ to close his eyes and lean into your touch.

"Thank you for being in my life." You whispered, taking the forgotten cotton ball in your hand and pressing it to the scratch above his eyebrow.

JJ smiled. "No. Thank you for being in mine. You helped me through the toughest times and gave me a reason to stay."

"I wouldn't have objected to leaving the Outer Banks with you."

"I meant like stay here, like on Earth." He mumbled.

You stared at him before kissing his cheek. "Thank you for staying here with me."

JJ opened his eyes and grinned as some hair fell in front of his eyes. "As much as I love our little moment, can we move the cleaning process along cause I kind of want to climb into bed with you in my arms tonight."

You smiled, pushing his hair out of his face. "Sure thing, Jay-Bird. That sounds amazing."

~~~~~~~~

#jj outer banks #jj obx #jj x reader #jj maybank #rudy pankow

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swordandquill · 3 years

Text

Title: Winter Break

Fandom: Leverage

Summary: The team find themselves snowed in in a little town in the middle of nowhere.

Ch 2: Fussing - Nate has to choose between supervising a shopping spree or supervising a grumpy hitter. He definitely chooses the lesser evil.

Author’s Note: I still don’t know where this story is going or when the next update will be.

Many, many thanks to @whumpybliss for beta reading this chapter!

You can go here to read this on AO3 instead.

"I know what you're trying to do."

Eliot's glare was less impressive than usual, but Nate still would have bet his money on him. Not that he wouldn't always bet on Eliot, and with things much more valuable to him than money.

"Trying to get you to eat saltines, so you don't throw up when you take the prescription strength anti-inflammatories I know you have in your bag?" Nate waved the open sleeve of crackers in front of the hitter.

"Stop fussing," Eliot snapped and snatched the sleeve out of Nate's hand.

Now that Parker had pointed it out, Nate could clearly see Eliot was favoring his left arm. Or, possibly because Parker had pointed it out, Eliot was putting less effort into hiding it.

"They shouldn't be in there alone," Eliot pulled a few crackers out of the sleeve and shoved it back at Nate.

"They're not alone," Nate swapped the sleeve for a water bottle from the grocery bag at his feet, "they have each other. We might be living off of orange soda and Trix for the next two weeks, but I think they'll get each other out of the store in one piece."

Eliot gave him a dubious look but refrained from talking with his mouth full.

"Anyway, I'm listening," Nate tapped the comm he had slipped into his ear.

"Where's my…?" Eliot frowned and tried to reach behind the seat for his bag, wincing hard at the twisting motion.

"Stop it," Nate thumped his side lightly with the back of his hand, "I've got them. Parker hasn't managed to convince Sophie that Froot Loops are both a vegetable and a fruit. Sophie is giving her tips on being persuasive, and Hardison doesn't know the difference between a zucchini and a cucumber, but one of them has made it into the basket."

"How have they made it this far without dying of malnutrition?" Eliot let his head flop back against the headrest.

"Cereal is fortified," Nate said dryly and poked Eliot with the water bottle, "which bag are your meds in?"

"It can wait until we get to the cabin," Eliot grabbed the offending bottle away without opening his eyes.

Nate didn't have to wrangle an injured Eliot often. Most of the time, he was more than capable of managing his own injuries. When he wasn't, Nate usually let Parker take the lead in poking and prodding while he helped Hardison track down whatever medical help their hitter needed.

Parker needed to burn off some energy, though, and Nate would rather supervise a cranky Eliot than his team on a shopping spree. He had trailed Eliot through the first aid aisle, listened to him mutter over spices and knives on the baking aisle, and then dragged him back to the van with saltines and water bottles in hand.

"Just take the anti-inflammatory," Nate argued, "it won't make you drowsy, and the longer you wait, the less well they'll work."

"Stop. Fussing." Eliot growled, somehow managing to drink his water angrily. Nate was always impressed by how Eliot could make the most mundane tasks look threatening. Luckily for him and the rest of the team, Nate was not easily intimidated.

"Just for the sake of argument..." Nate started.

"No," Eliot said flatly.

"We're stuck in the car until Hardison picks a shampoo. Humor me," Nate ignored Hardison's protests over the comm about his sensitive scalp.

"They need to hurry," Eliot groused, 'the snow is getting worse."

"Right," Nate agreed and held the sleeve of saltines out to Eliot again. He was disproportionately pleased when the hitter grabbed a few more without protest, "so let's just say there really is some shadowy figure waiting behind the curtain to get us…"

Eliot raised an eyebrow at that, probably cross-checking his mental list of people who matched that description, but Nate ignored him.

"And they orchestrated stranding the five us in this specific tiny town, in the middle of nowhere, by waiting until we were both split up on five different planes, and there was a massive storm front to force our flights here…"

"Look, I know…" Eliot rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Which is possible," Nate continued to ignore him, "highly unlikely, but possible. After all, shady figures are usually good at seizing opportunity when they see it. So let's say all of that is true. What's their next move? Where do they expect us to be?"

Eliot frowned before reluctantly admitting, "They expect us to be stranded, at the airport or one of the hotels."

"Right," Nate nodded, "and even if they somehow anticipated us renting a summer house, it would be almost impossible to control which summer house we rented. Hardison must have skimmed through a half dozen search pages worth before we went after this one."

Eliot's frown deepened as he worked the problem and thought how he would have managed something like this from the other side. Nate let him be for a minute because he was still eating crackers while he thought, seemingly without noticing.

"There are ways they could stack the deck in their favor," he finally said slowly. "Knowing what we would want in a place to lay low, making it available even though it looked unavailable, monitoring Hardison for the search criteria he was using, then populating it with multiple properties that they have control of."

"Possible," Nate conceded, "ridiculously elaborate and unnecessarily complicated, but possible."

"So, one of your plans, basically," Eliot snorted.

"I don't have the patience to wait on mother nature," Nate let the jab slide, "my point is, the best thing we can do in this situation is not be where we're most likely to be. The rest, we'll just have to deal with as it comes."

"I know that. It's just…" Eliot just looked worn out now, tired of having to run through every scenario and possibility for every given moment.

Nate had figured out fairly early on that Eliot's paranoia was rooted in both a lot of experience and a lot of trauma. It meant they would be idiots to ignore him when he said something was wrong (and Nate had, unfortunately, been that idiot on more than one occasion, although he tried not to be these days), but they also needed to be a second check on those things for him sometimes, because he could always work his way around to those perceived threats being possible, even if they weren't probable.

It had gotten a lot better over the years, and the team had gotten better at finding ways to help him deal with it when it did come up. There was never a perfect solution, but they were more than happy to settle for an imperfect one if it made things at least a little better.

"And we'll deal with everything a lot better if you just take your diclofenac," Nate cut him off again, "so what bag is it in?"

"Duffel," Eliot conceded defeat finally, "they really do need to hurry."

"I know," Nate turned around and started sifting through the bags they had tossed into the third row of seats, "they're almost done."

Parker had been sitting in the back row, and she had rearranged the luggage that hadn't fit in the trunk to make a nest of sorts for herself around the middle seat. Nate had to practically crawl over the back of the middle row to reach Eliot's duffel bag, and he only felt a little bad for messing up her carefully crafted arrangement.

Eliot carried prescription meds with him and had for as long as Nate had known him. He had worried at first about the bottle of oxi that was always packed in the hitter's personal medkit. In hindsight, he could see the hypocrisy of constantly watching Eliot for signs of opioid addiction while simultaneously getting blackout drunk on a regular basis.

It had only taken a couple months for that concern to shift from Eliot taking too many painkillers to getting Eliot to take them at all. Two years in, and Nate had been worrying about why Eliot felt like jobs would leave him in enough pain on a regular enough basis that he would need to always have that level of painkiller with him. These days, Eliot and meds were mostly a bargaining act, a give and take informed by context and where Eliot's head was at at the given moment.

Oxi made him disoriented and dizzy; he wouldn't take it if he didn't feel safe. Diclofenac made him nauseous if he didn't take it with food (sometimes even when he did). Of the two problems, that was the easier one to solve.

Nate finally managed to find Eliot's duffel bag and pulled the medkit out, tossing the bag back in the pile of luggage for Parker to rearrange and poke through to her heart's content once they got back to the van.

"You want one or two?" Nate opened the kit and sorted through the neatly labeled bottles.

"Just one," Eliot was slumped back against the headrest again, eyes closed.

"You're out of Zofran," Nate shook the empty bottle.

"I gave the last of it to Sophie when we hit that patch of turbulence on the way in for the job," Eliot said dismissively, "it's fine. I'll refill it later."

Nate handed the pill and another water bottle over to Eliot, then texted Parker and asked her to get a bottle of Zofran from the pharmacy. A little thievery would do her good after 8 hours on a plane.

Eliot took the pill, and the van went comfortably quiet aside from the rest of the team's chatter in Nate's ear. It was surprisingly relaxing to listen in on them doing something as mundane as arguing over pasta sauce and gummy frog brands. They were on the comms a lot, but during jobs, there was a certain amount of tension, the constant need to be assessing and reassessing everything that happened.

Nate didn't care what kind of pasta sauce they got, and he didn't like gummy frogs, but it was nice just to sit back and listen to them be together.

There was suddenly weight against his shoulder, and Nate held still as Eliot gradually slumped more heavily against him, eyes closed and breath even. Nate waited until he was sure he was settled before shifting to get an arm around him and stop him from sliding down too far. Eliot fidgeted in his sleep for a moment, then relaxed with a soft sigh.

It wasn't that unusual for Eliot to sleep around them, but after how keyed up he had been at the airport, having him resting solid and relaxed against his side felt like winning.

#Leverage #Eliot Spencer #Nate Ford #Isabeau's writing

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janeyseymour · 3 years

Text

Old Soul

An intensely deep analysis on what qualifies Jane Seymour to be an old soul, as told through various thoughts, anecdotes, an article I found online, and a post that I saw on social media.

WC: 7219

In hindsight, what this man said was quite comical. “You’re an old soul,” he had said. It struck Jane Seymour as odd, but what he uttered was truthful, both literally and figuratively. Jane Seymour’s soul really was an old soul- 500 years old if you will. But she also had most of the characteristics of what an old soul would be classified as.

“Oh geez,” Jane would mutter to herself quite often. It didn’t matter what she was doing, it was better than what she had truly wanted to say. Knowing that she was in the public eye and had a younger audience, she did her best to keep herself as “PG” as possible, although some of the other queens didn’t follow that mindset as much.

The blonde would trip over the carpet in the house? “Oh geez.” The silver queen would be at a loss of words during an interview? “Oh geez,” she would sigh as she tried to articulate what was in her head. The third monarch would walk into the living room to see Anne Boleyn doing an Instagram live? “Oh geez,” she would laugh before settling next to the green queen.

“And, how do you think life would be different if all of the children were brought back in this life?” the man asked. “Surely, you miss the bright young Edward.” He gave her a sympathetic look. This question wasn’t as malicious as some of the other questions were in regards to the children and her family- no, it was simple curiosity coming from the man. Almost as if he sympathized with her.

“Oh geez,” she mumbled for the third time during this interview before letting out a small chuckle. “Sorry, let me try to find the words...”

“Oh geez,” he laughed genuinely- not at her, but with her. “You say that phrase quite a bit.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she shrunk into her seat a little, feeling as though he was poking fun at her.

“Oh! Nothing to be sorry for!” the man reassured. “It’s just, not many people say that phrase anymore. It’s mostly older people, not younger people like you. Are you an old soul?”

“Well, I mean... Yes?” Jane shrugged her shoulders. Her soul had been alive 500 years ago, although she lived a short time back then. And it was alive now too, although she had only been brought back to life a few short years ago and was barely what others considered her to be around thirty, maybe a few years shy of it. Now though, her morals and character didn’t stray all that much- she still stayed a kind hearted soul who would do virtually anything to keep her family happy- a woman of empathy she remained.

“It’s not a bad thing dear,” the older gentleman responded. “It’s quite good in fact. The way you speak about your family and friends, it shows you’re doing just fine in life.”

“Oh gosh.” The blonde blushed. “Well, thank you. I appreciate that.”

Leaving that interview, she smiled, a light blush still evident on her face. She wasn’t exactly sure what qualified her to be an “old soul”, but it didn’t bother her in the slightest.

Scrolling through social media a few nights after the interview with the sweet older gentleman, Jane Seymour found an article that read “17 Signs You’re An Old Soul Stuck in the 21st Century”. Immediately curious and remembering that she was called an “old soul” and was indeed stuck in the 21st century, she clicked the link.

“There is a special kind of person in our world who finds herself alone and isolated, almost since birth.” This line at the beginning of the page intrigued her. At a first glance, she thought to herself that she wasn’t alone and isolated. She had the other five queens to navigate life with, but this would prove to mean a lot more to Jane as she read on and read into what it really meant to her.

“1# You tend to be a lone wolf”

As she read the heading, she couldn’t help but laugh to herself. Oh how this man had been so wrong. She was not a lone wolf- she was the maternal figure of her household for crying out loud!

As she read the description beneath the subheading though, it began to click more. Jane for the life of her felt as though she didn’t necessarily have a place within the queens’ friend group. Of course, the others knew this wasn’t true: Jane was their maternal figure. Jane was more interested in embroidery, knitting, among other things that older people tended to drift towards as opposed to what say, Anne liked to do. Even Catherine Parr, a woman of many written words and not as many verbal words, could relate to the activities that Anne liked to participate in. Anna of Cleves could too. Even sometimes Catalina liked to participate in the- what the third queen thought was useless- drinking nights where the other queens would have a few too many drinks and wind up the next morning with a massive hangover. Jane would sip her glass or two of wine and put them to bed before pulling out her embroidery piece.

It was hard to connect herself to the others too because she truly had been the only one to provide a legitimate son to Henry. The others weren’t resentful towards her for this of course; it was pure luck. But that distanced Jane from them.

“2# You love knowledge, wisdom, and truth”

Jane Seymour was far from the smartest woman in the group. That title went to any of the others besides her, and she wouldn’t argue with you on that one. But that didn’t stop her from trying. The blonde found herself remembering a multitude of times she had told Katherine that knowledge was power, wisdom was happiness, and truth was freedom. It was strange in that way... she had uttered those words without ever hearing them before, and here they were in an online article she had never come across before this day.

Seymour wasn’t always gravitating towards academic knowledge either, no. She would gravitate more towards emotional intelligence and was happy to do so.

“3# You’re spiritually inclined”

The third queen was always fostering love and peace in her life. Whether it be settling an argument between Kat and Anne over who had to replace the chocolate milk or staying up with one of her fellow queens during a rough night, Jane was always trying to foster a peaceful and loving environment in their home. Along with this, the woman was quite sensitive, although she wouldn’t necessarily pin herself as spiritual. The silver queen laughed as she remembered the first time someone called her sensitive and she wept openly:

“Geez Jane, you’re so sensitive. Could you take a joke? I didn’t mean it!” Anne threw her hands up in exasperation when the blonde began to pout over something stupid her predecessor said.

“I-I’m sorry!” The third queen cried.

“Oh dear God,” Catalina had sighed as she simply pulled her friend into a hug and began to rub her back. “It’s okay. Hey, hey, querida: Look at me. It’s not a bad thing to be sensitive. It’s what makes you, you.”

She had overcome the confines of her ego quite soon after being brought back to life. Jane grimaced as she thought back to the first time somewhat had put her in her place. Funnily enough, it had been Katherine.

“You think you got it all figured out, don’t you? The world according to Katherine!” Jane had mocked the pink haired queen early on.

“You think you’re so much better than us just because you had a son! Don’t you?”Kat stared at the woman. “Go ahead! Throw your rocks at me from your little glass house and then take off running! You’re no better than me! We’ve both made mistakes, haven’t we?”

In that moment, Jane Seymour was grounded by a nineteen year old girl, and she realized that she was not above any one person in this house. They had all made mistakes in their past life. Some were bigger than others, but each and every one of them had made mistakes they so desperately wished they could take back.

“4# You understand the transience of life”

So many times had Jane Seymour thought about the transience of life. How could she not? She had died before, and she would die again. It was made clear to the women that their time in the 21st century would come to an end eventually- whether they would be brought back again in another 500 years was unknown, but they had to make the most of the extra time they were blessed with on Earth. While some of the queens took approaches that, in all honesty, terrified the third queen, Jane was well aware that the decisions she made in this life counted. If she wasn’t careful, her actions could ultimately lead to an untimely death.

“Seat belts!” the silver queen exclaimed before she would move the car from the parking lot outside the theater.

“Seymour, Katherine is asleep. How the hell do you expect her to put a seat belt on?” Cleves questioned from the back.

“Buckle her in!” the blonde monarch laughed, but the way she looked at her successor through the rear view mirror told Anna she wasn’t messing around.

“Come on, just drive,” Anne groaned from the middle. “I want to go to bed!”

“No! If we get into an accident on the way home, if she’s not buckled in-” Jane shuddered.

The maternal figure in the household, in her own privacy, had many existential crises. One day, Cathy found her in the midst of one.

“Jane?” the sixth queen made her presence known, or tried to that is. When the third queen didn’t respond, she tried calling her name again.

A blank stare was quickly replaced with a soft smile as Jane came back to and said gently, “Hey love. What’s up?”

“Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be dear?”

“Do you know what time it is?” Jane shook her head no. “It’s 2:30 in the morning. You’re usually asleep by now.”

“Oh my,” the silver queen whispered. “How did this much time pass?”

“How long have you been sitting here?” The blue queen made a move to sit next to her friend at the dining room table, a mug of coffee in hand.

“You really need to lay off the coffee this late at night honey.”

“I could say the same for you and tea Mum,” Cathy joked. “But seriously, how long have you been sitting here?”

Jane turned sheepish. “Three hours,” she mumbled into her mug, sipping her now very cold tea. “I guess I just got lost in thought.”

“Why don’t I warm up that tea for you and then we can talk?” The writer gently pried the mug out of the blonde’s hand, only to set it back into her hand a few minutes later.

That night, Jane would reveal that she was terrified of going through this life only to be forgotten in history again. She didn’t know her purpose.

“Jane Seymour, I can promise you you will not be forgotten in history. You never were.”

“I’m only remembered for-”

“We all are, remember? That’s why we have our show,” the sixth queen tried to reason with her.

“Yes but,” Jane paused to wipe a tear from her eye. “Why was I brought back? What if I can’t contribute to society in a meaningful way before I pass again? I mean, we all are going to pass again, but none of us know when. Like, everyone else has already done so much in society and is making the world a brighter place, and I for the life of me can’t find my pur-”

“You stop right there. I will not hear this slander against yourself. So, maybe you’re a bit less outspoken than the rest of us, but you’re behind us every step of the way. Maybe you’re not always doing press like the rest of us, but do you know what you are doing? You foster an environment that allows us to let us be who we want to be and say what we want to say. The five of us are only doing these things because you gave us the confidence to. I mean, for heaven’s sake Jane- look at what you’ve done for Kat. She was this shy, skittish young girl when we were all brought back. She’s the sassy, outspoken, and sweetest young woman now because you helped her. So what if you’re not in the public eye as much as the rest of us? You made that choice, and that choice is 100% valid. You may not be changing the whole world, and neither are any of us. Do you know what you are doing though? You’re changing our world, and that is something none of us are ever going to be able to repay you for. You’re making our world a better place.”

Jane then understood that if she could change just one person’s life for the better, it was worth it. Of course, she was doing so much more- but sometimes it was hard to realize that.

“5# You’re thoughtful and introspective”

The third queen was never not in deep thought. She was always reflecting on the way she presented herself, handled things, and tried her best to develop a sense of self-awareness.

This started soon after she realized she had to put a lid on her temper. Yes, sometimes it would still get the better of her, but she had to get it under control- she was scaring Kat. How she hated the way the fifth queen would shy away from her for a few days after an outburst. And in the beginning, the silver queen had many outbursts, often leading Katherine to avoid her for several days at a time- sometimes even weeks.

“You really have to get your life together Seymour,” she mumbled as looked at herself in the

mirror. “You’re a mess.” From there on out, she practiced EFT on her phone, a tapping program on the right points on her body to help her de-stress and ground herself for the day. The other queens took notice to the change in the blonde’s demeanor. Jane was thankful for being able to reflect on herself and become better for the others.

“6# You see the bigger picture”

The third queen smiled softly at this one. She liked to think she saw the bigger picture. Very rarely did she focus on the trivial things in life; she focused more on how to live meaningfully and use her time to help advance her in this journey of self-growth she was going on. How would having the newest iPhone benefit her (in reality, the phone she had now was quite confusing to her still)? It wouldn’t. How would learning how to edit pictures of herself and learn all of the nifty tools on her phone help better her life? She knew it wouldn’t. It would likely consume her and take time away from her journey. Besides, that wasn’t the message she wanted to send out to her audience. She wanted to show the world that being natural and not always perfect (albeit she definitely struggled with imperfections) was okay. That was a better lesson to teach her followers. Why waste time on small and insignificant details in life when there were bigger things to focus on?

“7# You aren’t materialistic”

Jane Seymour was many things; materialistic was not one of them. Sure, she had the wealth, the status, the fame, and close to the latest tech gadgets, but did she really need them? The short answer was no.

“Janey, don’t you want the new phone too?” Anne had asked her when they all went to the store to upgrade their phones.

Jane shrugged before replying, “This one seems to be working just fine. No need to replace it quite yet.”

“Do you ever use your status to help you get somewhere better in life?” An interviewer had laughed. “It’s not an uncommon practice, I promise you.”

“People actually do that?” The blonde looked at the woman incredulously.

“I have!” Anne announced. “When I started wearing my heelys, I told people about them, and the company sent me new shoes!”

“I did it, but not on purpose. Some people asked me where I got my makeup from and the company sent me a ton of free gifts,” Kat nodded subtly.

“When I complained about my laptop breaking on a live and jokingly said that if Apple was to send me a new computer I wouldn’t complain, they did,” Cathy admitted sheepishly.

“Chocolate,” Cleves just said smugly.

Catherine of Aragon just nodded but wouldn’t reveal how she had used her status to put her up.

“I don’t think I’ve...” Jane trailed off. Had she really never reaped the benefits of her status and wealth like the others?

Materials didn’t enrich her soul the way it may others. No, the third queen was more sentimental. She appreciated the finer things in life like spending time with her family face-to-face as opposed to “Facetime” (is that what it was called?). The silver queen quickly made peace with the fact that she wasn’t materialistic.

“8# You were a strange, socially maladaptive kid”

Jane Seymour was introverted in both this life and last. Sure, she didn’t have a childhood in the 21st century, but she can’t imagine her soul would’ve changed all that much if she had the chance to grow up again. She was still very much the same person she was then... meek, mild, a bit hot tempered at times.

But even in her past life, she failed to fit into the mainstream behaviors she was set to practice. Adults never spoke to her as though she was a kid, some even referring to her as a “little adult” back then. In all honesty, now that she was thinking about it, she never even had a nickname until this life: Janey. It had a hint of a childish play to it, but she didn’t really mind it all that much. It reminded her in times where she was far too headstrong on mothering her family that she was only a young adult in reality.

“9# You’ve undergone an existential crisis”

“It’s common for Old Souls to ask deep and penetrating questions about life in their search for love, truth, and freedom. This quest to live a meaningful existence inevitably means that they will, sooner or later, experience an existential crisis.” Jane laughed- she was extremely familiar with the idea of existential crises. Point #4 easily lays out the undergoing of existential crises that the third queen has experienced. Above this though, Jane could recall many times she had wondered if life was just a product of chance.

“What are you thinking about Mum?” Katherine distracted the blonde by speaking and tucking herself into the older woman’s side.

“What is all this about, anyway?”

“What is what all about?”

“Life,” Jane replied simply. “You know, it’s funny. We all go through this life, but have you ever really stopped to think about what life is about? I mean, in the grand scheme of things, it’s about surviving. To survive you need money, and to get money you need to have a job. But to get a job, you have to be well versed in something. Of course though, shouldn’t life be about happiness? And yet here we are, in a world where many people are just... surviving. They aren’t doing something they’re passionate about and love. Are they happy? Isn’t life supposed to be about living life to the fullest and experiencing life with as much light as one can?”

Katherine could only stare at her mother figure. “Are you... is this...?”

“No, no, this isn’t about me. I was just, you know, walking around town earlier and meandered into a cafe. Do the baristas there... Are they happy with their lives? I made sure I left a nice tip for them. I always try to, but today as I thought about it, I may have left more than I probably should have.”

“How much did you leave?” Kat looked at her curiously.

“A hundred.”

“For a three dollar tea?”

“Yes, but you should have seen the gratefulness in their eyes. Young kids too, about your age. I hope they use that tip for something that makes them happy.”

“Well that’s very kind of you Mum.”

“But then I got to thinking about myself and my life,” Jane trailed off. “What is the point of everything I’ve done? In reality, I haven’t done much in either life I suppose. I mean, really. In the past, I never said anything anybody even deemed worthy of writing down despite the long lengths I went to and the hoops I jumped through to... well, survive I suppose. I wasn’t happy then. And thankfully now, I am surrounded with light and love in this life, but am I doing enough? Is there a point to everything I’ve done in this world?”

“What the bloody hell are you even talking about?” The fifth queen detached herself from the blonde to look at her. “There is absolutely a purpose to everything you’ve done in this world.”

“I mean, Katherine, I died in my past life. That’s what I’m known for.”

“But in this life, you’re known for so much more.”

“Like what Kat? You’re all making your voices heard and speaking up and out about-”

“Sure, we’re all doing that, but so are you. You’re just as much a social justice warrior as the rest of us, even if you’re not as loud about it. Have you heard some of the interviews the rest of us have done?” Jane nodded; of course she had. She would support her girls no matter what. “Haven’t you noticed that in every interview we’ve done, someone always alludes to something that you’ve said to each of us in privacy. We’re learning these social justice ideas from you. We’re just the ones putting them out in the world.”

“I guess,” Jane shrugged. “But I don’t have much to offer to those who aren’t you guys and-”

“That’s not true either,” the pink haired queen cut her off quickly. “You provide the audiences a light and a heart and soul. Think of all of those people, especially the sweet young girls who come up to you and tell you how much it means to them that you give off a maternal aura. You give them this space that feels safe and loving. That’s a lot more than you think.”

“I suppose.” The third queen worried her lip through her teeth a bit.

“I promise you, it is. There is a point of everything you’ve done, even if you can’t quite see it.”

“Thank you love.” Jane pulled the younger woman into a tight hug.

“And you’ve done so much for me,” Kat pulled back a bit to look the older monarch in the eye. “You saved me, and I can never repay you for that.”

“10# You see life through a poetic/contemplative lens”

It was no question that Jane Seymour saw everything through a poetic lens. Yes, she was not the most well versed when it came to actual poems with words, but her outlook on life was quite poetic in itself.

The blonde had settled down on a park bench, happy to observe the others playing a round of catch. Sitting down, she noticed the way the trees swayed gently in the breeze, almost as if they were dancing to the sweet whistle of the wind. Instead of opening up the book she had brought along with the intention of getting through at least a chapter, she closed her eyes and felt the slightly cool breeze on her cheeks, inhaling the sweet oxygen that surrounded her. The sun was warm on her face, creating almost a glow around her to the others who had stopped tossing the ball around to look at the sweet woman in her element. She felt the green grass that snaked its way in between her toes, giggling slightly as it tickled her gently. Nature really was a beautiful thing to Jane Seymour.

The group of five had continued to play their game, leaving the blonde to revel in the beauty surrounding her. Jane opened her eyes at the sound of a child’s laughter. A young boy, about three, had taken to playing with her family- a young boy that looked like a spitting image of the portraits of her Edward. She stopped and drew it in, savoring the sweet little one’s laugh, before heading over herself and placing herself into the game.

“You wanna play?” Cleves looked at her. The third queen nodded with a soft smile before catching the ball and tossing it gently to the little tike, who giggled. Jane couldn’t help but wish that she had these experiences with her son. This was a good time too though.

The group had long since returned home, and Jane settled in her room, a pang now in her chest as she longed for her boy, for the night when she heard a quiet knock at the door.

“Come in love!” She called, fully expecting it to be her Kat. And it was, but Anne was with her too?

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” She quickly wiped away a tear that had escaped, hoping the two at the door hadn’t noticed.

“Uh,” Kat shrugged before settling herself into the bed she so often found herself in. Anne also made her way over to the bed, although she sat a bit awkwardly.

Boleyn looked at her in a way that made Jane uncomfortable. It was almost as if Anne herself was uncomfortable in the room, but she had been the one to put herself in this situation.

Coughing slightly, she spoke, “That little boy looked a hell of a lot like your Eddie at the park. Wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m alright dear. Yes, it hurts a bit to think that I don’t have my little boy with me anymore, but I have you all, now don’t I?” The silver queen pulled her predecessor into a tight hug with one arm, the other already wrapped around the pink monarch.

“I know. It’s just... different, you know?” Jane nodded. She knew Anne felt the same about her sweet Elizabeth.

“His little laugh was just so sweet, wasn’t it?” the blonde said softly, lightening the mood in the room immediately.

“Where’s Mum?” Kat asked Catalina. It was about time they started getting ready for the show.

“Did you check the stage? You know how she likes to sit there sometimes. Check the seats too.” The first queen suggested. Katherine shook her head and ventured out into the theater. Lo and behold, there Jane was, sitting in the back of the theatre deep in thought.

“Mum? Choosing the back of the house this time?”

“It’s nice once in a while to have a change of perspective, both literally and figuratively.”

“You’re so weird sometimes. You know that right?”

“And yet, you still love me.” Jane ruffled the girl’s hair quickly before smoothing it back over.

“I do. You know, we’re supposed to be getting ready for the show about now,” Kat informed the third queen.

“Yeah. I don’t know. I just needed a moment to think I suppose. You know?”

“I do. Do you think I could sit here with you, just for a few moments before we have to go backstage? Maybe I need a change of perspective too.”

“Of course love. You don’t have to ask. You’ve done it many times with me before.” The blonde wrapped an arm around her daughter and pulled her close, pressing a quick kiss to her hairline. Settling back into her position, she got lost in thought again until the golden queen would come out to tell them they should probably be getting ready now.

“Thank you Mum.”

“Of course love.” She kissed her forehead once more before offering a hand to help her up and guide the two back towards the dressing room.

“11# You tend to overthink everything”

It was no secret that the third monarch was quite an overthinker. Many times the others walked in on Jane practicing the way she walked, spoke, held herself. You name it, there was a good chance Jane Seymour had practiced it in the mirror.

“Seymour?” A slightly sleepy Cleves knocked on the door. “Are you in there?”

“Cleves!” Jane whisked the door open, a bright grin painted on her face, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes the way it usually would. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same,” the red queen retorted back.

“Oh no, did I wake you?”

“No, no. I had to go to the bathroom, but I could hear the small squeak of the floorboards, and someone talking to themselves. Are you alright?”

“Just fine love. Just practicing the way I walk.” The fourth queen looked at her in disbelief. “I’m serious! I just... don’t want to come across cocky and rude!”

“I swear, you’re the queen of overthinking. I’ve never heard of anyone doing that before. Get some sleep, yeah?”

“I will. I promise.”

“Now,” Cleves shot her a look before patting the door frame and walking back to her bedroom.

“Just a few more minutes,” Jane sighed to herself, making a note to walk more quietly.

“Jane? You’ve been staring at the two containers of granola for the past ten minutes. Just pick one, why don’t you?” A slightly disgruntled Catherine Parr had the... honor... of accompanying the resident grocery shopper and was beginning to get antsy. They had been in the store for over an hour, and Jane had only made her way through a quarter of the list of things they needed to pick up.

“But there are so many different reasons to buy both! Which is more healthy? Which one would taste the best? What is the best value for the price? What if there’s a price drop tomorrow? Is it in environmentally friendly packaging?” the third queen rambled on.

“Oh my,” Parr looked at her friend who was now in clear distress. “Why don’t we,” she paused to take the containers out of her hand before continuing. “Just buy both and you can decide which one you like more at home? Then, you can continue to buy just that brand. Sounds like a plan?”

“But that means we’re spending more-”

“None of it is going to go to waste though. You make sure nothing in our house goes to waste hun. Just, come on. We still have a majority of the list to go through, and we need to be back in time to make dinner before Annie decides to try to cook.”

That sped the process up. She didn’t need her overthinking leading to Anne Boleyn destroying her kitchen again.

“12# You struggle with anxiety in social situations”

Jane knew herself well enough to know that anxiety was heightened in social situations. Yes, she was a star in theatre and was always in the public eye, but she was a self-proclaimed introvert.

In this new life, it was quick to show itself when she entered the room where she would meet the other five queens for the first time.

“Jane Seymour,” she spoke quietly when it was her turn to introduce herself. The others mingled, but anxiety had reared its head and left the blonde to deal with the side effects. She considered the way that she held herself. Sure, she had a kind and inviting aura surrounding her, but she was still nervous. Adjusting her posture, she noticed that she was the only one not eating the snacks that had been provided (because she feared that the others would watch and judge the way she ate). Upon this discovery, she grabbed a plate along with a small sandwich before nibbling at it just a bit. Chewing, she held a hand over her already closed mouth subconsciously. Glancing around the room, she noticed she wasn’t the only one who had distanced herself from the larger crowd and was standing in a smaller circle. Katherine Howard, although she hadn’t said much, stuck by her.

“This is a lot, isn’t it?” Jane whispered after she had swallowed her food and taken a small sip of water. The fifth queen could only nod, eyes wide and ridden with anxiety. “Would you like to perhaps get to know each other out in the hallway where it’s a bit quieter? We can maybe eat our sandwiches without feeling like everyone else is staring at us.”

The grateful look the younger woman gave her told her everything she needed to know. This girl was too frightened to say anything, but a mere hour later, the two had already formed a strong and intense connection. Jane had a warm, maternal presence, and Katherine needed someone to mother her and bring her out of her shell. They shared many of the same values, which shocked Jane considering the upbringing Katherine came from as she learned. But in reality it made sense: they were both trying to fill holes in their lives- Jane trying to regain what she once had, and Katherine chasing after what she had always wanted. Kindred spirits, it was if destiny brought them together.

“13# You easily fall into the role of advisor or counselor”

The blonde, now glued to this article, couldn’t help but laugh out loud at this one. Of course she was the role of advisor or counselor. Her girls came to her for so many reasons. They didn’t all call her “Mum” (jokingly or not, they still all had at one point or another) for nothing! She remembered all the times Catalina had come to her in regard to Cathy and how to handle her sleep schedule, the times Anne had come to her crying because she thought she had ruined her relationship with Kat after the two had fought (they were cousins, but they acted more like sisters), the times Anna had come to her with the same ideas she had about not rightfully being placed among the other queens, the countless times Katherine had come to her looking for comfort, advice, and someone to vent to, and the times Cathy had trudged into her room begging her to help her with her writing (Jane couldn’t write or necessarily articulate the way Cathy could, but the two bouncing ideas off of each other always helped the writer process what she wanted to say). Without a second thought too, the third queen had put herself into this position. She never minded either. It may be a lot sometimes for the queen because she was a bit of an empath, but the overwhelmingness of it all was worth it if it meant she was able to help guide those in need.

“14# You enjoy the company of those much older than you” The others didn’t know this, but every Sunday early in the morning, Seymour would head down to the local cafe- long before anybody else was awake. There, she had a friend who was many years older than her (in relative terms. The kind elderly woman at the cafe knew that Jane had been reincarnated, but it hadn’t dawned on her that Jane’s soul had been around for many more years than she expected). Rosemary was her name, and the blonde couldn’t help but be drawn to her from the moment Rosemary sat down across from her.

“Hi?” The queen looked up and down at the older woman now sitting in front of her. “Can I help you?”

“You’re no later than thirty. What has you up and at the cafe this early?” Rosemary didn’t waste any time.

“Just trying to soak up the peacefulness of this beautiful Sunday morning before the rest of my housemates wake up. Gives me time to reflect and think. And you?” The woman dressed in grey smiled invitingly at the wrinkled woman.

“I’ve been up for hours now. Been coming to this here cafe for forty years. Used to come here with my dear husband before he passed. But back to you: you looked to be in deep thought. Care to chat about it?”

The two were fast friends. An unlikely duo? Maybe, what with Jane’s being mild mannered and her newfound friend telling quite the stories at times- not to mention that significant age gap between the two of them. But it was right. The two would trade stories, some from their distant past (or pasts in Jane’s case) and some from the not-so-distant past. Jane had learned so much about the modern world she sometimes felt trapped in, learning that she wasn’t the only one who felt somewhat out of place in the new century.

Above all though, Jane had felt grounded. When she was with Rosemary, it didn’t matter that she was a popstar starring in a show that was making waves around the country. She didn’t have to run around like mad trying to keep up with the antics of Anne Boleyn that always kept her on her toes. No, she was just another human living her life. It didn’t matter what she had or didn’t have. Together the two could have a good old-fashioned chat in the cozy corner of a cozy cafe on a peaceful Sunday morning over a cup of tea.

“15# You crave simplicity”

Jane Seymour, although living a life in the public eye, led a simple life. She craved the simplicity in the often complex world that she lived in. Being drawn to minimalism, it made its way into her everyday. She liked when things were easily read and plain. “Plain Jane” mocked her at first, but she had learned to take pride in it. What was so bad about being plain and well read? It was truthful, and shouldn’t the truth be simple?

“16# You’re attracted to all things vintage”

Vintage drew her in. Maybe it was because some of it reminded her of the times that she lived in before, but it didn’t have to be Tudor era-esque. Really, anything that was a bit older made her feel more at home. She had collections of records to play on her old record player. She had dresses that maybe were a bit more vintage than she was willing to admit. She loved watching programs that showcased antiques. While her co stars would gravitate more towards the newer store, she was drawn into the vintage boutiques and antique shops. She loved the historical sights that she was able to see- some of them holding rich history that she could intertwine herself with. It was simply a wonder to her.

“17# You just “feel” old inside”

“Throw away the ‘Old Soul’ label for a moment and focus on how you feel inside. How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are? Those who realize that they feel much older than their age reflects are often Old Souls at heart.”

Jane Seymour read over this a few times, truly trying to get a sense of how old she really felt in the times of now. It seemed as though she didn’t reflect a woman in her late twenties. No, she felt as though she reflected a woman who was in her late thirties, and although this wasn’t necessarily the biggest age gap, the difference of a 29 year old to a 39 year old was immense. And then she remembered how deeply she could relate to Rosemary- a woman who was easily forty or fifty years older than her.

“Common feelings that accompany being an Old Soul usually include a feeling of world wariness, mental tiredness, inquisitiveness, watchful patience, and the sensation of being an “outsider looking in.”

The blonde deeply resonated with the feelings that an old soul typically felt.

Later that night, the silver queen was curled up in bed, reading glasses slipping down the tip of her nose as she scrolled through social media mindlessly. She was about to retire for the night when she heard a small squeak from her door.

“Hey Mum,” Kat sighed from the doorframe. “Mind if I-”

“Not at all love. I was just winding down for bed, and I would love it if you joined.” Jane moved over in her bed and patted the space next to her, opening up an arm. Almost immediately, the pink haired queen bolted under the covers with her.

“You look so cute with your glasses on,” Kat commented sleepily. “What were you reading?” She tucked herself more into her mother’s side, if that was possible.

“Oh I was just scrolling through social media.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you. I’m just gonna get in my Mama cuddles.”

“Love you my dear.” The third queen pressed a firm kiss to the younger woman’s head before gently playing with her hair in hopes of lulling her to sleep- Katherine looked like she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in days.

“Love you too Mum,” the pink queen murmured as she dozed off.

Jane held her phone in one hand and her daughter in the other. A few more minutes of scrolling through social media couldn’t hurt.

“Those who experienced childhood trauma are often referred to as ‘mature for their age’ or ‘old souls’ when actually we were children having to adopt intense coping mechanisms in order to survive as adults.”

In this moment, Jane realized the truth in that statement and connected it to the statement at the beginning of the article she had read earlier in the day. She didn’t feel as though she was alone and isolated, but maybe she was a bit more than she had initially thought. She had come from a rather big family in her past life, but she had always felt alone, never being able to relate to her other siblings. And in this life, she was surrounded by five wonderful women who would have her back no matter what, but she couldn’t help but feel slightly different from the rest of them- even if she was one of the younger queens.

In her past life, she had simply found coping mechanisms needed to survive. And those coping mechanisms had made their way into this life too. She rarely had to rely on these mechanisms now. Her heart was open to the five other queens she had the blessing of sharing a home with.

So, maybe being an old soul meant she had some trauma from her past life- she wasn’t there anymore. But being an old soul wasn’t such a bad thing as she walked through life. Maybe, she wasn’t as “stuck in the 21st century” afterall. Being an old soul was rare, and those who surrounded her loved her dearly for it.

#six the musical #six musical #jane seymour #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six fanfiction #six fanfic #six musical fanfic #jane seymour six #six jane seymour

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shiftytracts · 3 years

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Stop Wanting More, part 1 of 2 (T/M/A fic)

In which season-four Jon tries to quiet his hunger for live statements by gorging himself on paper ones, and Daisy tells him what she used to do when she got shaky between hunts. Part two here.

…For almost ten thousand words (~5.1k in this half, ~4.3 in the other), beeeecause of course I did.

Content warnings:

Disordered eating (mainly of the statement variety, but mentions also the literal kind)

Nausea, and brief descriptions of prior vomiting

Brief but not-ungraphic description of Jon’s (canon) Boneturning incident—so, injury, very mild body horror

Vague discussion of Daisy’s passive suicidality (in part two)

Animal cruelty and death: Daisy talks about hunting rats for sport (in part two)

—

Jon paused the tape recorder, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe. A statement’s second-to-last page was the hardest to get down. The dull ache that had begun under his ribs twenty minutes before now stretched down far enough to converge with the one in his stiff hips. His pulse throbbed in his stomach; he could feel it swell and recede beneath his hand with every beat. Nausea boomeranged up from somewhere under his navel. He reminded himself he could stop for now, finish this later—and, as always, that thought made him feel even colder than the sludge of other people’s fear pooling in his stomach. With his free hand Jon pressed Record again, and turned to 0101702’s final page. Oh, god, there was barely anything on it. Just the rest of this paragraph and then one more. He kept his eyes on the page, didn’t stop speaking its words, but fumbled blindly for another statement with his fingers.

“Knock knock,” Daisy said as she entered. “Christ—you’re still recording?”

In a flash Jon folded his hands on the table, sat up a little straighter, tried to suck in his gut. “Er—”

“Thought you said you were gonna do one more.”

“I’m almost done.”

“You’ve got another one right there.”

“I…” he considered I’m sorry, but then she’d say For what. “I don’t know what to tell you. It is my office.”

“Yeah, and your home,” Daisy scoffed—“and mine. Sort of.”

“D—did you want…? You’re welcome, to. Sit down, or….”

She did, on the arm of his couch. “I know, Jon. That’s not what I meant.”

“Okay.” To show he’d meant his welcome, Jon pushed his chair back from his desk and turned in it to face Daisy. Hopefully she’d remember he couldn’t ask What did you mean.

“I mean, don’t pretend this is work. How many statements have you had today? You don’t think that one can wait til tomorrow?”

Seven? Or would this one be eight. Jon forced himself to exhale out the portion of gut he’d been holding back since she arrived; it hurt too much to keep sucking in anyway. “A lot. I’m just.”

“Hungry, yeah.”

“Even when I’m stuffed I’m hungry.” He snarled a laugh, and set a rueful hand over his stomach like a fig leaf.

At first he’d tried sating the hunger with garden-variety food. That didn’t help much. Way back when he’d first transferred to the Archives Jon had fallen back into the old habit of forgetting to eat—which, yeah, not great, but, it did mean he remembered well how amazing it used to feel to cram down even a stale biscuit after too many hours’ inanition. All the hidden notes he’d found in yogurt and dry toast. He even remembered tearing up once at the taste of a banana, early in 2016. Before that he’d been sure he didn’t like bananas; afterward, for a short while he’d eaten one nearly every day, hoping vainly to recapture the ecstasy of banana after 14-hour fast. No luck, of course. After a few weeks he’d concluded he still didn’t much like banana as final course of healthy lunch. He’d especially disliked peeling them: how sometimes the stems bent without breaking, and the more times you tried the warmer, softer, more flexible they got. How little strings of peel still clung to the banana after you peeled off its main body, like static when you pull off a jumper. Or like the lint it leaves behind on your shirt. And the way bananas bruise, like people do. All these vestiges of its previous life—reminders it had lived to feed itself rather than him.

Since the coma, all people food—er. That was, all food intended for human consumption—tasted like that chase after a faded spark. Cloying and mushy and… organic, reminding him too much of the garden it came from. And the way it landed in his stomach was far worse. The original banana, the one Martin had pressed on him in the Archives in April 2016, had gone down like nectar, ambrosia, manna from heaven, &c.; the ones afterward, like an unwanted dessert always does. (Cloying. Mushy. A biology lesson mildly tapping its watch.) These days, though, eating regular dinner on a stomach empty of other people’s trauma felt like trying to fill up on cake. Not like cake after fourteen hours of nothing; Jon was pretty sure his 2016 stomach would have welcomed that. But like cake at dinner time. When you’re expecting, you know. Dinner. It gave him the brief, fake-seeming energy of a sugar high, and made him sick before it made him full.

Especially when he was otherwise ailing, for some reason? After Hopworth he’d treated himself to a lie down and a sandwich. The rest had helped, but he’d squandered most of the energy it gave him on the effort to keep the sandwich down. At that moment nothing, not even the coffin, had scared him so much as the thought of what it would feel like to throw up when you had only ten ribs on one side. He hadn’t expected losing them to hurt, at least not for long—had expected the rib to flow out of his skin into Jared Hopworth’s hand like an ice cube through water, which in retrospect was stupid given the testimony of Mr. Pryor in statement 0081103, but he hadn’t had time to reread that one beforehand and at the time Jon remembered only that Hopworth didn’t break his victims’ skin when he pulled out their bones. Turned out that wasn’t much comfort: he’d still had to break the ligaments attaching Jon’s ribs to his spine and chest. It had felt like a bad dislocation (four of them, technically), only instead of the feeling of bone pressing on things it shouldn’t there was an equally violating sense of tissue wallowing in holes that shouldn’t be there. He’d had this horror that if he were sick the flesh would crumple and pop where his ribs used to be, like when you try to suck the remaining water out of a near-empty bottle.

A few months after that he’d caught cold. (A point in the still-human column, Daisy had called it.) You know the first day or two of a cold, before the encroaching mucus takes out your ability to smell or taste properly, how innocuous olfactory phenomena like cheddar and laundry soap suddenly become Bad Smells, on par with the olive bar at a posh supermarket? Well, in a similar way, this one seemed to sharpen the dichotomy in his body’s opinions of people food and monster food. His lack-of-ribs had mostly healed by then though, so either vomiting with only ten ribs on one side did not cause the anomaly he’d feared, or, if it did, it hadn’t hurt enough for him to notice it in the cacophony (pucophony?) of other sensations.

(Daisy liked to play on words, so he’d been doing it more lately. This project the Eye seemed happy to help with, though in this case the suggestion arrived in his mind at the exact same moment as a reminder that, technically, the word cacophony can apply to sensations other than sound only by synecdoche.)

And then, a few weeks ago, when the whole Archives went down with norovirus… well, it wasn’t a fun time. He’d at first mistook the lethargy, weakness, trouble concentrating for signs of hunger—the new kind of hunger. Ms. Mullen-Jones’ statement about the Divine Chains cult hadn’t seemed all that bad, when he’d first recorded it. Scarier than if he’d read its events in a novel, of course; that was just how statements worked. He experienced them more vividly than stories, though less so than the events of his own life. (Because the people they happened to thought they were real! he’d told himself when he first took this job. It’s empathy, that’s all. Nope, sorry—evil magic.) When he read a paper statement these days, though, the knowledge it wouldn’t give him nightmares never quite left him. And he’d thought he was growing desensitized to the kinds of horror most people came to the Institute to report. Coming back up, though—maybe it was the fever, but god, the visions he got on that statement’s way out, of Agape and the soft, sticky hivecorpse of Claude Vilakazi’s followers—the way it made the donut he’d shoved down that morning (in a show of team spirit, god help him) come back up tasting like rotten rice wine—it was worse than the dreams. Worse, he could have sworn, than even the first time he ever dreamt Naomi Herne’s empty graveyard.

While hanging over the bowl of the Archives’ toilet waiting to see if he’d got it all up or if there was still more to come, Jon remembered thinking again of the banana Martin had given him. A few days earlier Daisy had made him watch the video of the I don’t understand this meme and at this point I’m too afraid to ask man vore-ing a banana; Jon had confessed to her, in a conspiratorial whisper-laugh, that for him vore itself had been one such meme until that very second, when the Eye had seen fit to inform him. But when applied to a banana, the term apparently just meant eating it peel and all. In 2016 Martin had broken the banana’s stem and pulled back a section of peel before handing it to Jon, so as to brook no argument. Was it really the banana itself he’d cried over? Not the gesture of friendship, when Jon deserved it so little? The thought of someone caring for him enough that when he got hangry at them they handed him a snack. Martin had been living in the Archives then, like Jon did now. Sleeping in Document Storage—a guest in a room owned by pieces of paper. Those bananas may have been the only thing that felt like his.

A Guest for Mr. Spider was about vore, technically. Not an uncommon topic in children’s literature. Some surmised that was where the fetish came from, though others maintained kinks like that were inborn, and the stories merely alerted their hosts to them for the first time. Red riding hood, three little pigs, little old lady who swallowed a fly. The Leitner touch was only the part where he drew you to his real-life lair and real-life ate you.

Looking back, that was probably the first thing he’d ever admired about Martin—how easy he’d made it look to skin a fruit. Not at the time admired, of course, but in those weeks afterward, when every banana Jon ate made him claw at the peel til his finger joints throbbed.

That stomach bug had struck the Archives with serendipitous timing, though. If he’d not found out how thin abstinence from the Hunt had made Daisy on the same day he’d barfed up a statement, Jon might not have pieced together what their combined evidence meant. Until then he’d put down his own post-coma weight loss to the fact he rarely ate more people food than a donut in twenty-four hours. Lots of avatars were scrawny, after all. Jane Prentiss, Mike Crew, Justin Gough, Annabelle Cane, John Amherst, Simon Fairchild. Jude Perry and Jared Hopworth could mold their respective fleshes however they wanted, so he didn’t count them as exceptions. True, Trevor Herbert’s bulk had struck him as odd; surely a homeless man wouldn’t waste cash on food his body no longer wanted. And what about Breekon and Hope? Did butterflies and a quartermaster’s pen and tongue sustain them? But maybe, Jon had told himself, it was like with alcohol. Maybe the avatars with more flesh on their bones had worked to develop a tolerance for (air quotes, heavy sarcasm) people food, for the sake of their physiques, or. So they could, he didn't know, eat socially? Without feeling sick, like Jon did whenever one of the others brought donuts.

Preposterously stupid, this theory seemed in retrospect. The truth was much simpler. It was like Jude Perry’d told him. She was strong and he was weak, because she fed her god with her actions, while Jon’s had had to resort to eating his flesh.

He wasn’t going back to live statements! That wasn’t an option; he knew that. He couldn’t feed his god with his actions. But he could have more paper ones. Maybe they were like the candles poor Eugene Vanderstock used to bring Agnes—the ones she’d sat over for hours. Hours and hours, inhaling the suffering that made them. They’d kept her strong enough, right? At least in body. All those people in charge of her care, all so much in her thrall—if she’d looked hungry one of them would’ve mentioned it in a statement.

During Jon’s school days, back when he was still trying to learn how to be a girl, this brief window had opened up right around age thirteen where the girls around him had enough self-consciousness to start developing eating disorders? But not enough to keep them secret. Thirteen had been this phase of, like, I’m a teenager now, see? I’ve got the teen angst now—SEE?! Where after they’d finished the day’s maths assignment, or while setting up microscope slides, one could overhear girls swapping self-harm anecdotes and tips for how best not to eat. Anne, whom he’d been almost friends with, went through two packs of chewing gum a day for a while. She would shove three or four sticks at a time in her mouth, then spit them back out into their wrappers as soon as they lost their flavor. Eventually they made her sick, and she switched to chain-sucking butterscotch discs. (Most artificial sweeteners, as the Eye now informed him, had mild laxative properties—including those used in gum.) Other acquaintances had brought comically large thermoses of coffee to school every day, and scurried to the toilet between classes. But it was another polyurious crowd that Jon kept thinking of, these days—the kids who would chug water every time they felt hungry. Trying to fill up on paper statements felt just like that.

He’d never understood that urge until now. Hunger was already a bad sensation; why would it help to add the further bad sensations of nausea and stomachache and cold? But now it made sense: feeling better was not the point. The point was to stop wanting more. He couldn’t get rid of the hunger, exactly—not in a way that mattered. Not the shards of glass in his belly, not the itch in his esophagus like a finger tapping behind his gag reflex, not the way simple motions like soaping his hands made his whole body ache. Not the sharpening of his senses to such a fine point that he jumped whenever Thérèse in the office above him shut her desk’s sticky drawer. (He hadn’t known that was what made the squeaky noise until a few weeks ago when the Eye decided he might like some office gossip. Even now he didn’t know which of the faces he sometimes passed up there belonged to Thérèse. She had no statements to make.) Nor the fog in his mind, though he tried sometimes to blame that on the Lonely. He couldn’t sate his hunger with paper statements—couldn’t make himself full, in the rosy way we usually connote that word. All warm and carefree and pleasantly sleepy. But he could cram the hole inside him with enough stale horrors that the temptation to chase down a fresh one momentarily left him.

And that was the new plan—to stuff himself with paper statements.

Tomorrow would mark two weeks since the day he’d first tried it. Brian from Artefact Storage had a statement to give him, Jon could feel—either Stranger or Spiral, it was hard to tell quite which. Something that caused paranoia. Not a great fit for that department. Good fit for a temple of the Eye, Jon supposed, remembering Tim and Michael Shelley. But Artefact Storage? God help him. He wondered if Elias had done it on purpose, hiring a paranoid man to work in a room full of objects that wanted him hurt. If so it must’ve been this one—this purpose. And on Wednesday mornings Brian manned the place all alone. Poor soul was already clinging to this job by a thread, though (so, Web…? That could cause paranoia too, as Jon well knew). Surely if Jon made him relive his trauma that would break it. Though perhaps that’d be a mercy. And but besides, two weeks ago Melanie had still lived here, and sat all morning between Jon’s office and Artefact Storage. Until she went to lunch. But by that time the woman whose laugh Jon could sometimes hear through the walls (Pooja, the Eye had since told him her name was) would have joined Brian. And it’d just be too weird, too risky, to go in and ask him about it with a third person in the room. Even if it wasn’t also evil.

So he’d read 0132210—the statement of Sierra Talbot, regarding a swimming pool whose depth changed every time she entered it—in hopes that’d make him quit thinking about the paranoid man down the hall. It didn’t, not really; paper statements didn’t take up as much of his attention as they used to. But he couldn’t get up and walk to Artefact Storage in the middle of one. When he finished and still couldn’t think of anything but Brian, he dug out another statement (this one from 1938, regarding a bad penny). Just to keep himself chained to his desk til lunch. And then a third (Liza Ho, attack of the killer seagulls). And by the end of that one he felt too heavy and cold inside to want to go anywhere but the couch. It made his stomach swell until it hurt to sit up straight, and the thought of shoving anything more inside made him feel sick—exactly like chugging water every time he felt hungry.

Basira had said maybe the Web just wanted to keep them so afraid of their own impulses they sat and did nothing so they couldn’t be puppeted. Maybe she was right. He’d never felt more like a spider, with his weak, skinny limbs and bloated stomach. Lying on the couch massaging other people’s horrors into more comfortable shapes inside him. Thank god he’d already given up tucking in his shirts, when he came back after the coma. Jon had worn the same trousers for three days in a row, now—shucked them off at the end of the day, hoping if he left them on the floor that’d convince him they were too dirty to wear again, and then slipped them back on over clean boxers in the morning. They were the only trousers he had that stayed up with the button left unfastened.

(Technically, the noun bloat refers to the feeling of weight or tightness in the abdomen. To describe a belly which has expanded beyond its typical size, one should use the word distended. Though these phenomena can occur separately, most people conflate them under the single word bloated. This trivia had seemed worthless when Beholding told him of it. But now he knew better. Every morning he woke up feeling like he’d had his whole torso replaced with the aching void of space, empty but for silver glints of pain that were the stars. And then he’d look down and find his belly still distended.)

Melanie and Basira didn’t know—at least not officially. They both seemed to have noticed how much more often lately they’d walked in on him recording, but Jon was pretty sure they suspected him less of bingeing on statements, more of pretending to record so as to avoid talking to them. He welcomed this misapprehension.

It was also possible they knew but declined to comment, since. Well, it was kind of a pathetic habit? Physically, a bit pathetic. Morally, though, such a big improvement over compelling statements by force that maybe they figured they ought to let him have it. If so he should be grateful, he reminded himself. Their pity, after all, was humiliating only in principle; Daisy’s teasing and concerned questions embarrassed him in practice.

“Enough navelgazing,” Daisy scoffed, but when Jon looked over at her he could see a smile creeping its way onto her face. “Look—finish the one you’re on, then come over here and I’ll. Tell you a story.”

“I—what?”

“Don’t know if it’ll count as a ‘statement,’” she said, with air quotes; “not much fear in it, more just.” She looked at the floor, then shrugged. “But it seems worth a try, yeah? Might make you feel better.”

“I-I, er. I really shouldn’t?” He meant in case it had a taste of human blood effect, but set his hand on his stomach again in hopes she’d think he meant he was too full.

“Yeah, you should. I want you to hear it.” Daisy shrugged again. “Think it might do you good to know.”

Jon turned back to his desk, unpaused the recording and wrapped up the statement. He’d quit bothering to record end notes on most of these—told himself he could add them in later, like he used to when he’d first taken this job. How proud 2016 Jon would have been to see how many statements the 2018 Archivist got through in a week.

He paused for a moment before standing up, to take as deep a breath as he could manage when stuffed full of paper. The end of that statement had gone down easier, since he’d had that few minutes’ break talking to Daisy, but he still didn’t love the idea of standing and walking. Especially since he knew once he got to the couch he’d be glued there by fatigue. If he didn’t pee now, he’d spend most of the night far enough into sleep to be paralyzed, but not far enough to numb his bladder. He excused himself to Daisy, promising to come right back. Then hauled himself up, with help from his cane and one arm of his chair.

Six limbs it took to maneuver this body now. Two more and he’d’ve gone full spider.

Three quarters of the way to the bathroom—that’s how long it took before the ache in his legs outpaced that in his stomach. He arrived on the toilet seat shaky and out of breath, as always. Months ago he’d given up standing to pee. When you sat you could rock back and forth, and cross your arms tight over waves of quease.

Not much came out, as was also usual lately. As far as Jon could tell, his body now required only enough water to keep his mouth from drying out while recording. Dehydration no longer made his head hurt, so, why bother. Good thing, too, he supposed—the last two weeks he hadn’t needed much non-metaphorical water inside for his body to parse that as needing to pee.

He let his trousers stay pooled around his ankles until after he’d washed and dried his hands. Then pulled up his shirt, to judge from his reflection whether they’d stay up with the fly undone. If he kept his hands in his pockets, yeah. Could you tell the difference, visually, once he put his shirt tails back down? Not for such a short distance. They wouldn’t have time to get disarranged.

It didn’t matter; Basira didn’t even glance at him on his way back, and all Institute staff who didn’t live here had gone home.

Jon opened the door to his office, said hello to Daisy but didn’t manage to look at her, and sat himself down on the other side of the couch. From the corner of his eye (or someone’s anyway) he saw her rise to her feet. “I’m gonna pee too,” she told him, picking her way toward the door; “get yourself comfortable, like you’re going to bed.”

“Where will you sit.”

“I’ll squeeze in.”

“I don’t mind leaving room for—?” Finally he made himself look up at her, in time to see her shake her head. Daisy hadn’t been strong on her feet either, since the Buried; she held herself up now with a hand on the doorjamb, elbow bent so her shoulder leant against that wrist. He regretted quibbling. “Never mind; I’ll just.”

“Really? You’re comfortable like that? You look like a sheep in clover.”

The knowledge came to him before he could ask her what that meant—complete with a nasty visual of what happens in cases acute enough to require rumenotomy. Jon swore he could feel himself swelling to accommodate this tidbit. His eye twitched in discomfort.

“Think I prefer ‘windbag,’ if it’s all the same to you.”

She made a face like that was grosser than what she had said. “You ruined my joke. I was gonna say I won’t let you have any more leaves til you look less like you might explode.”

“Sheep in clover suffocate,” Jon frowned; “they don’t explode. You must be thinking of how they cure them when—”

“Leaves. In. A. Book, Jon. That joke.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” He made himself chuckle.

Daisy sighed and shifted on her feet. “I’ll be right back. Just lie down, alright? Like you’re going to bed.”

Jon agreed to lie down, but couldn’t decide whether to face the wall (as he would to sleep), leaving her to slide in between him and the back of the couch the way she had a few times before when she’d walked in on him catnapping, or whether he should lie on his back, where he could see her as soon as she opened the door. It was important to make sure she knew he appreciated her offer to give him a statement. Or, no—to tell him her story, he meant.

Ultimately he picked the latter course.

“You sleep like that?”

“Sometimes."

“I’ve never seen you sleep like that. You always face the wall.” Daisy crossed her arms, blew hair out of her face. “That for the tummy ache, or for me?”

“Uh….”

“Would it hurt you to face the wall.”

“No, I just.”

“Turn around, then. I’ll squeeze in,” she said again.

“I-if you’re sure.”

He rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth as the cramps in his stomach swirled in new directions. What made it slosh like that, he wondered. While he fought to regain his breath Jon watched Daisy climb up onto the back of the couch on shaking elbows and knees, then avalanche down hands- and feet-first so she fit between him and its cushions. He’d never watched her do this before—always either startled out of a doze at the sound of her thumping down next to him, or simply woken up to find her there.

“You’re just like the Admiral,” he informed her.

“True words spoken in jest,” muttered Daisy. Too quietly for him to hear what she said over the couch’s tortured creaks, but half a second after she finished speaking the words appeared before his mind, in white, all-capital letters with a black background like closed captions on the news. “That’s Georgie’s cat, right?” she said aloud.

“Yes.”

Her knee jostled the cap of his; when it made him gasp she snarled under her breath. “Sorry. Can you move your leg?”

“Yes, it’s fine, just—”

“I mean would you move your leg.”

“Oh.” He did so.

“Thanks. Ugh—you’re cold,” Daisy accused him; “where’s that blanket.” He pointed behind her to the arm of the couch where it lay folded. She shook it out, and draped it over both of them. Reached around behind him to make sure it covered his whole back. Jon tried to ignore the way his stomach lurched every time Daisy’s weight shifted against the cushions. Finally she settled next to him to catch her breath. Their foreheads touched; her stomach pressed into his, though not as tightly as the last time they’d lain like this. “Can you breathe or am I crushing you?”

“Not at all, you’re fine—in fact, if the couch cushions are chafing you too much you can—”

Daisy huffed, and scooted herself in closer to him. “That better?” She set her warm hand down right where his belly diverged from pelvis. Jon tried to keep both voice and tremor out of his exhale. Since the coffin, Daisy’s hands and feet suffered at night and after any exertion from the same excess of heat his sometimes did. So the cold inside him probably felt nice on her hand, if not to the rest of her.

(Like snuggling up to a hotel mattress, she’d described it, after the first time she joined him for a nap when he’d just had a statement. Cold, hard, covered in lumps and dents, and creaks when you roll over on it. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” he’d replied, while praying her elbow wouldn’t come any closer to the crevasse where his ribs used to be.)

“Christ you’re stuffed,” commented Daisy. For emphasis she lifted her fingers, then set them back down on his gut.

“I don’t know what you expected.”

“You won’t pop if I tell you a story?”

“Not literally,” Jon said, blinking.

“Of course not literally,” she scoffed; “you know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Will it make you sick. Don’t want you throwing up on me; this is Melanie’s shirt. If you ruin it she’ll hit us with her cane, and I don’t trust you to hit as hard back with yours.”

“Mine’s shorter and thicker,” he mused. “I don’t have to hit as hard.”

“Stop. Avoiding. The question.”

Jon sighed to show her he capitulated. Then thought about it. He felt cold and sick, but the idea of saying no to a statement made those feelings worse, not better. And the sharp clusters of pain in his belly were harder to sleep through than quease.

“I’ll be fine,” he decided. “It’ll help.”

“Alright. When you’re ready, ask me what I used to do when I got shaky between hunts.”

Read part two here.

#stuffing #nausea #stomachache #hunger kink #a shifty tract #nonsearchable tma tag #other titles i. jocoseriously considered include 'divine chains' (like the cult from 153 get it?);#'too much information' and 'a movable-type feast'.#also for a long time the file on my computer was called 'statement eating: the moive' because alas i was a teenage h/omes/tuck

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osrasaskblog · 3 years

Text

Well, guys.

I really hoped that I wasn't going to make this post, but I'm afraid it needs to be done.

I started writing Opal, Sapphire, Ruby, and STEVEN! in 2016, when I was in high school. I loved the characters of Opal and Ruby and Sapphire and I wanted to see more of them than what was in the show. I was curious, what would it be like if they had swapped places with Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl? How would those different personalities work together? How different would things be if they were the characters that we followed? I would have loved to read a fic of it.

And then I figured, well, hey, why don’t I write a fic of it?

So I took to my little writing tablet and started up my new story. And I had so much fun doing it. I loved writing Ruby, who was a spitfire but also had a gentle heart. I loved writing Sapphire, who was cool and composed but always warmed up to her friends, especially Steven. I loved writing Opal, who was just so many things at once—a calm leader, but also a goofball, a wise war hero but also a cool aunt-like figure. Most of all I loved to write Steven, who was just so funny, a goofy and adorable kid who was also shouldering the responsibility of a world on his shoulders.

It was so relaxing to write these little episodic chapters, especially as the quiet kid in class who could never stay too far from her works-in-progress. I knew back then that I was going to be a writer someday, because I had this deep, passionate need to create stories and characters. But without an original idea of my own yet, I loved writing fanfiction. I think why I love to write fanfiction so much is because even though there’s something already there, I’m taking it and reforming it. I guess it’s kind of like those “finish this picture” pages in coloring books. There’s something already there, but you finish it—you decide what it will be. Is this pretentious? Maybe. I’m not always great with words, ironically.

So I wrote all these short chapters with this new set of characters, and I thought, I’m going to change things up. I didn’t just want it to be different characters saying and doing the exact same thing as the original story—I didn’t want to copy-paste the episodes scripts and use the “replace” tool to change the names. I came up with new backstories for the Crystal Gems. I looked at the original episodes and thought of how I could tweak them, mix them up a little bit.

The chapters started to get longer and longer because of this, and my own writing style developing a lot. Instead of just no-beta keyboard smashing between my classes, I actually sat down and wrote things out, put in more descriptions, more dialogue, etc. And for a really long time I thought that the same-but-different format of the story was a good thing. I thought it was fun to write new characters in new situations, while also having that familiarity—many reviewers would comment things like “I can’t wait to see how they’ll react to X!” or “I can’t wait until we get to [insert episode here]!” That was originally the whole point of the story—different situations, same characters.

I enjoy reading through my work sometimes. Though, I’ve said to several people that I avoid the first chapters of OSRAS because I just think my work was so subpar back then. And again, I liked the same-but-different story I had written. It was fun, it was simple.

Then things started to get different. When? Well, I can’t really pinpoint it, but if I had to guess:

I recall, though, as I was writing “The Ocean” (which was posted around the same time as the “Bismuth” episode) that something was off. Even though I enjoyed writing the fic, this chapter was my first curveball—because in the show, “Mirror Gem/Ocean Gem” is a gamechanger. It changes everything that had been established already, introduced a new character, and set a different tone from the series so far. And in writing this arc for OSRAS, I realized that I…didn’t really have much to offer.

The episodes were very Steven-and-Lapis centric. The Crystal Gems weren’t involved very much. So…what was really the point of writing it? Because the readers already know what’s going to happen. Even back then I looked at the chapters I wrote and thought, this doesn’t have that same-but-different appeal. It’s just the same. What about Steven talking to Lapis in the whirlpool was different from him talking to her atop the pillar of water?

Afterwards, the show started getting into its “everything is changing” point in Season 3. Soon after “Bismuth” came “Back to the Moon,” where we find out Rose shattered Pink Diamond. This was a big “oh crap” moment. Finding out that there was a Pink Diamond was a big “oh crap” moment, because this was when the fandom was at its peak of theorizing.

And even though I kept writing the fic, I was trying to figure out how I was going to tackle this. Because there was no way to get that shock into the fic. It would just be Steven reacting to something the readers already knew. No shock. No drama. Just marking stuff off the checklist. It happened in the show, so it would happen in the fic.

The same-but-different appeal didn’t seem like that anymore. It seemed more like a problem than anything. Like I said, reviewers often said stuff like “I can’t wait for this episode!” But one or two did say that they just didn’t feel the same way—that they couldn’t really see a point in writing a fic that was basically just the original series with a few minor tweaks. I don’t like brushing off criticism, in fact I love criticism, but to this I originally just shrugged and said, “Well, that’s what the fic is. Don’t like, don’t read, I guess.”

Now the problem was that I didn’t like it. I found some reprieve when I wrote chapters like “The Common Soldier,” which delved into the entirely-different backstory of Ruby, but then there was “The Test,” “The Invasion,” and “The Jailbreak.” And “The Jailbreak” was like…the point of the whole fic. The big thing that the chapters were leading up to, where Opal would be “revealed” as a fusion and Pearl and Amethyst would make their debut. And again, same-but-different. The readers were seeing what it would be like if they were the fusion instead of Ruby and Sapphire, and it’s fun, right? They’re not expecting to be shocked, they were reading for the “what if”, right? The biggest curveball I threw in that chapter was having Peridot fuse with Lapis instead of Jasper…which I decided to do when I began writing the chapter, so I scurried to figure out where I was going to go with it.

I decided that in the next fic (Twists & Turns) I would decide to amp up the differences. But I stumbled. “The Shock”, ironically, was not a shock. Opal and Steven find the Cluster just like how he and Garnet did. Then “The Mistake”, where even though the reason for Opal and Ruby’s fight was different, there was always going to be a fight. I struggled to find this balance between the familiarity and the need for something different. I figured, yeah, there’s still the desire to see new characters react to the same situations, but what else? That was it.

To try and remedy this problem, I started planning my chapters ahead instead of writing by the seat of my pants like I was. I started getting more and more into making things different. I tried to figure out how to make Chrysocolla different than Malachite, and came up with a “peaceful” resolution as opposed to the action-packed one. I would hit the same story beats, but I thought, the pull will be the different context and motivations.

But…the original series kept going, and we all know how it went. Rose turned out to be Pink Diamond. The Crystal Gems go to Homeworld to confront White Diamond. Steven finally changes her mind. And more than that, all the character arcs are wrapped up. Garnet embraces herself as a fusion, Amethyst finds her self-worth, Pearl decides to fight for herself rather than anyone else, etc, etc. A lot of stuff that just would not carry over to OSRAS. Like, how would I even try to recreate Change Your Mind??? How on earth would I find a way to write the Rose-is-Pink reveal without the readers going yeah, yeah, we know?

So I started to come up with a whole new thing. Or at least, I tried. This is where Star came from. Something completely new, completely original, to set the fic apart from the original series. I knew that I needed to create an ending for the story—and more than that, the characters. Opal, Sapphire, and Ruby all have their own individual stories that would need to be wrapped up.

But all the ideas that I had for the finale of the fic were vague and blurry. Which was really bad, because writing a story when you don’t know how it’s going to end is…very stressful. I realized eventually that I had made a very hellish situation for myself.

I wanted to write a new, original story. But the first ~36 chapters were just an adaptation of the original series.

I feel so awful right now because I feel like I lied to so many of my followers so many times. Some asked if Spinel was going to appear, and I said I think I found a way for her to fit in just fine…and then I dropped that whole idea, and thus lost a place for Spinel. Sometimes I said “I have a plan for how this will work out” when what I meant was “I plan to have a plan for how this will work out.”

So, to summarize:

1. The original series started to become so lore-heavy that a “same story, different characters” fic was just not going to work.

2. Even so, that was what the fic had been for a very large time. To write a new and original story, I would still have to work with what I had already done. Like the “finish the picture” page in the coloring book was like 99% done and I had very little space to make something creative.

3. Because I no longer wanted to do a same-but-different story, I had to let go of the show’s original storyline and come up with my own…while I was already writing the story. Again, I had no ending for the story even though I was posting chapters for it as often as I could.

And I kept doing this for…years. Because I refused to let this fic go. I felt such an attachment to Opal, Ruby, and Sapphire and their stories that I had come up for them. The first fic was 259,004 words long. And Twists & Turns? 305,428. I couldn’t just throw that much work away, I had to salvage it. And more than anything, I still had so many follows, favorites, and bookmarks, readers leaving me reviews, people sending me asks into my inbox. When I went through rough times in my life and was slow on updates, so many readers comforted me, telling me it was okay. And I had people tell me that this fic was…important to them. That it made them happy when they were in rough times.

But the truth was…I just didn’t like this fic anymore.

Sometimes I found myself enjoying it still. Writing Jasper’s redemption arc was truly fun for me, one of my favorite things I’ve ever written. I love writing the comedy style of Steven Universe. I loved writing these characters and their interactions. And yeah, sometimes I would still re-read some of the earlier chapters and enjoy doing so.

But…

Every time I post up a new chapter, I just wish it was something else. Even if I loved Jasper’s redemption arc, Lapis and Peridot’s unique relationship, the fight between Steven and the Crystal Gems, it was like watching good scenes from a bad movie for me. Like yeah, this is nice, and I like it, but when I looked at the bigger picture, I was just disappointed. It felt like the original vision, a very simple and straightforward SU but Opal, Ruby, and Sapphire instead, had just…chained it down. I wanted to be creative, make a story that was original, but each chapter I’ve been posting lately just feels like that 99%-done picture.

And all those ideas for the finale just—never came together. Some became pretty clear. There were things that I came up with that I thought, Oh, that’d be so COOL! But because of what the fic already was, it would have never worked. It would’ve broken the rules of the setting, or it would have come out of nowhere with no buildup. I had a whole lot of puzzle pieces that wouldn’t fit together. The time that I put aside to try and figure this out were just hellish. I have spent hours staring up at the ceiling, trying to figure out how to end this story, and each and every time I’ve walked away with no progress and more stress than I can handle.

I can’t recall what all detail I’ve gone into, but I know I’ve told readers before that life has been stressful for me as of late. Not just with work and school, which are taking huge bites out of my time, but health issues and family issues, too. And it feels so stupid, to say that writing a fic for a children’s TV show was another problem, but the truth was that it was. I already had/have so many things weighing me down and causing me anxiety, and on top of all of them I’ve been putting time aside almost every day to worry about this story.

I’m writing this now after three hours trying to find a way to wrap up this fic and coming up with nothing. The only solution that I can find now, to just stick with the original storyline set up by the show, doesn’t feel like a solution at all. It would still have that huge, glaring problem: I have already seen this, so why should I read it? And probably a large part of that has to do with Steven being the protagonist, and already establishing that he’s going through an arc dealing with trauma and identity issues…just like the show did. Not adding anything new.

On top of the lack of a proper solution, though, the idea of writing three more seasons’ worth of OSRAS fills me with dread. This story, which has no set ending or resolution to its plot (let alone its character arcs), could take me years to finish in that absolutely unsatisfying manner I mentioned. That’s years of writing a story that I only find occasional joy in. Years of dedication to something that I just regret at this point.

So, I guess you figure by now that this is a bit of a farewell. And just writing that makes me feel so shitty. I feel like I’m about to cry now, because even though I’m committing to this decision, and even though I’m feeling relief already, I am wracked with guilt. I feel as though I’m letting so many people down. After months and months of “Sorry for the wait, promise more chapters are coming!” and months and months of “I promise we’re getting to X soon!” now I’m taking that all back. And again, I’ve had people tell me how much this fic means to them. I imagine that some people are going to be reading this, and they’re going to be hurt and angry and betrayed, and I honestly can’t blame them. Not just because I know firsthand how frustrating it is to have a story I really love be discontinued, but because I feel as though I’ve lied to my readers.

Unfortunately, as I said, I’m committing to this. This is just the only solution that I can find to this problem that’s been weighing down on me for years now. OSRAS is always going to mean something to me, because like I said, I did find joy in the characters and the interactions, the dialogue that I came up with. I wrote this story for five years. But the little joys weren’t enough to outweigh the stress. Ideally I want to say something like But maybe one day I’ll figure out a proper ending, but I can’t promise something like that.

WITH ALL THAT BEING SAID...

I’m attempting to work on a revamp at the moment. I still very much like the idea of a swapfic, but I’m going to need to make it from the ground-up. Maybe I’ll make Connie the same character; maybe I’ll put it in a different setting. I still have ideas for Ruby’s story as the last of her kind, and Opal’s unique situation of a fusion by necessity. Like I said, I did have some thoughts for how these could have been resolved, but with the current state of the fic, they wouldn’t be possible.

I’m going to leave the fics up, promise I won’t be deleting them. If anyone wants to ask questions, my inbox is open, but I can’t promise immediate answers. And if anyone wants to message me about plans I did have for the fic, feel free to do so, but I won’t be posting them publicly on the blog. I may revisit them if I ever go for a revamp. And some things I’m going to keep to myself, because they’re ideas that have a stronger chance of being revisited and I’d rather keep them secret.

So this is coming to be about 3,000 words now. And maybe 3,000 words is way too much for a “I’m discontinuing the fic” post, and maybe this is 3,000 words of pure overdramatic whining, but I wanted to give a full explanation here for why I’ve made this decision.

The second-to-last thing I wanted to say is that I’m sincerely sorry to anyone who feels hurt by this. Like I said, maybe one day I’ll try this again after all, but as-is, the state of OSRAS feels like a mess that I can’t fix. Plus I’m going to be a little selfish and do what’s going to relieve me of this stress. All I can say is that I am positive that if I decided to continue this fic, it would have been obvious in the writing that I’d lost my passion for it.

The last thing I wanted to say is a giant THANK YOU to all my readers and followers over the years. Even if OSRAS is over, I want each and every one of you to know that all your reviews, favorites, and bookmarks always made my day a little better. I only hope that if/when I get around to the revamp, it will be so much better than OSRAS was.

So, this is goodbye to OSRAS for now. Again, my sincerest apologies, and my sincerest thanks.

Sincerely, myself, Opal, Sapphire, Ruby, and Steven

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