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shaotie · 5 months ago

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Seven Years - Ch 8: Mystic Attack

~Sunday Afternoon~

Donnie was in his lab, working on a new project, trying to figure out why he was having trouble syncing this particular piece of tech to his systems, with his cell phone on the work table beside him.

He had decided to try sending a text to Leo to see what would happen, and what better way to reach out to their pun-loving red-eared slider brother than with a (lame) turtle joke? So he simply typed out the question:

'what do turtles use to communicate?'

After he hit send he laid his phone face down, keeping it close beside him at all times as he worked around in different spots in his lab in case 'Nardo' texted back, but not really expecting a reply.

Which was why he was surprised when, just under twenty five minutes later he heard the personalized chime he setup that indicated it was Leo who just texted him.

Immediately Donnie stopped in the middle of fusing two wires together, put down his soldering gun, picked up his phone to click on the screen, and saw the simple text that was nothing more than:

'?'

indicating the slider was asking 'what?' to his joke.

The corner of Donnie's mouth curled up into a small grin at the sight, and he typed out the answer:

'a shell-phone'

After sending his text, Dee kept his phone in his hand, looking down on it and hoping for an immediate reply.

When one didn't come he sighed - wondering what this 'new' version of Leo (who was really his brother he knew all his life but still so different) thought of his little joke - laid it down on his table again, and picked up the sodering tool to finish what he had been doing.

But no more than two minutes later there was another ding on his phone and he once again stopped in the middle of his work to pick it up and see that Leo had texted back this:

'😆'

So the techy turtle did the only natural thing by taking a picture of the partly completed new shell he was working on to send to Leo, hoping to keep this line of communication open.

This time when he put his cell phone down and got back to work a considerable length of time passed before he got another reply - almost two hours. But he was pleased when - while sitting at his computer, looking over the software he was programming for his new tech shell - another chime sounded on his phone and he picked it up off his computer desk to see the question Leo sent:

'What is it?'

This time a full-on smile broke out on his face, and he was feeling quite pleased with himself for pushing through his worry and sending the first text - even though it made him uncomfortable that he couldn't currently predict Leo's responses considering everything that happened to him and how he had been acting much differently than the predictable 'Nardo' the data-collecting, facts-and-logic softshell knew.

In fact he was so happy over this reply that the nervousness he had been feeling over the thought of reaching out to his 'twinsie' (as Leo sometimes used to call them) washed away. So in typical Donnie fashion he eagerly replied with a lengthy paragraph explaining the details of his new sleek, hydro-shell that he was creating for use when swimming that, when completed, was designed to come with a compliment of underwater weaponry.

As expected, Leo mustn't have read far past the first words 'hydro shell' because he replied almost right away before he could have possibly had time to read all that 'sciency jargon' he often complained that he didn't understand. But Donnie didn't care in the least, he was just happy Leo was responding to him at all, and looked down on the words:

'Cool, gtg wuz called into work see u later today'

The curious softshell skimmed over the words informing him that Leo had a new job to focus on the more important 'see u later today', indicating he was planning on joining them when they showed up that evening for Draxum's 'housewarming' meal - which was really a blatantly obvious excuse to get together with Leo.

And for the rest of the day Donnie was looking forward to their get-together later that evening, so much so that it didn't even bother him when he kept encountering one snag and setback after another with both the software and the hardware for his new hydro shell (after all it was the first time he ever attempted to create and program underwater weaponry).

~Early That Night~

"I can't believe he didn't show up!" Raph loudly complained to his family (not for the first time) once they arrived home from Draxum's 'housewarming meal'.

The one the goat yokai informed them Leo said he was going to attend - and Leo himself informed Donnie he would attend (but nobody knew that because Dee never once thought to mention anything about their text conversation, thinking there was no need because he assumed his other two brothers were doing the same thing).

On the way home, before they even left the Hidden City, Donnie reached out to his brother in his own 'Donnie' way by sending an electronic drawing of the stylish back cover he was planning to make for his hydro shell as a way to keep things light without making Leo feel pressured to reply. Then he promptly smothered his emotions over this unexpected and very disappointing evening by figuratively drowning himself in the schematics for his new underwater tech that he uploaded to his portable wrist computer.

But Leo never replied first or last.

All of them had gone to the 'housewarming' meal, including Splinter, April, and Casey, who didn't contribute much to the conversation on the way home, and said his 'good nights' to his turtle/rat family before going to his abandoned train car bedroom for some alone time.

After all, he was just as disappointed as the rest of them that he didn't get to see Leo, and when he felt this way he had developed a habit of withdrawing in on himself (like how Donnie did the same thing but in a different way by locking himself in his lab for hours - or on the rare occasion days - at a time).

His future ninja turtle family who knew him well was aware of this habit and were loving and encouraging when he was going through something, but this younger family who were dealing with their own issues fresh from the deadly krang invasion - that destroyed half the city, left them with lasting emotional scars, and in many ways took their brother away from them - only knew him for a little over a month, so they let him go with nothing more than a few 'good nights' in return and not suspecting that anything was wrong.

A few 'good nights' from everyone except the angry, overprotective snapper who felt uncomfortable not having Leo here, at home with them, where he 'belonged'.

After all they almost lost him once! How was he supposed to keep a watchful eye over him and protect him from danger if he was living in a different home - in a different city nonetheless!?

Before retiring to the living room to watch some game shows, Splinter gently rested a hand on 'Red's' arm and looked up at him with a pair of sad, yet loving eyes, to tell him: "I am just as disappointed as you are that he didn't show, but we must be patient with Blue."

"Yeah, he needs his space Raph. He's hurtin' bad," Mikey commented, but really hoping Leo wouldn't need his 'space' for too long, and also hoping his brother who was trapped away with that monster for seven years could one day bring himself to forgive him for his portal that was somehow mistakenly a time portal.

Donnie didn't contribute to the conversation, he had been only partly listening all the way home because his mind was focused on the schematics he was analyzing, figuring since Leo was currently behaving in a way he couldn't attempt to predict without more data points that there was some 'Leo' reason why he chose not to show; and trying to figure out where he went wrong with the safety feature for the underwater missile launcher that was randomly clicking off.

But Raphael dug his figurative heels in and curtly replied: "All the more reason for him to come home here with us, so we can help him with whatever's going on in his head!"

"That is not what Leonardo wants," Splinter kindly but firmly objected, not for the first time, and in a tone that told his eldest son there was no arguing with him on this.

Raph simply looked down on him with a frown without replying, because he adamantly disagreed with their dad but knew there was no point of expressing that to him or getting caught up in that debate (for the second time). So Splinter patted his arm and shuffled away to the living room, saying something about needing to rest his old rat bones into his living room chair along the way.

Raph and Mikey watched his dad go with Donnie keeping his eyes glued to his wrist tech, not paying attention to the conversation at all anymore because he completely checked out like usual after Raph started on one of his long-winded 'Leo' rants that they were all accustomed to over the years.

After Splinter was gone and out of hearing range, the overprotective big brother of the family crossed his big muscular arms in front of his chest, furrowed his brows from a mixture of worry and anger, and complained: "After everything we've been doing to try and make things right, he wouldn't even show his face."

In reply, Mikey fiddled with his fingers and tentatively asked something he had been asking ever since Leo abruptly and unexpectedly portalled out of the restaurant on Friday:

"Do you think he's still mad at me cuz of what happened with my portal?"

"I don't know, but one way or another Raph's talkin' to him. If we're gonna come back together like he says he wants then he has to meet us halfway. Right?"

"It'd be nice if he'd tell me if he's still mad at me or not," Mikey sadly replied in a tiny mouse-like voice, talking more to himself than Raph and so lost in his own mind the snapper's words didn't quite settle in.

Raph meanwhile glared at his preoccupied middle brother and complained: "Don are you even listening?"

"Mm hmm, yeah that'd be nice," Donnie replied dismissively, without knowing what he was agreeing to beyond having just heard his soft-hearted little brother's voice say something-or-other but really only honing in on the word 'nice'.

Naturally Raphael thought both Mikey and Donnie's replies meant they agreed with him about Leo meeting them halfway, and he opened his mouth to continue his thought but was interrupted when Dee muttered to himself: "Maybe if I do this..."

He clicked at his portable wrist computer that was remotely connected to his new tech, but shot his head up because whatever he did was immediately followed by the sound of a minor explosion coming from his lab.

"No, not my lab!" he griped, before taking off to find out what he did wrong, as smoke began seeping out the door.

Raph watched him leave still with his arms crossed in anger, and Mikey was standing a little slumped with his eyes down on his hands as he continued fiddling with his fingers, lost in his mind and thinking over the things Leo aggressively said to him and accused him off when they got together at Hueso's. So his big brother rested a hand on his shoulder and reassured him with a smile: "Don't worry, Leo'll be back to himself soon enough."

Mikey raised his head to gaze into his big brother's eyes with two teary ones of his own and gingerly asked: "You really think so?"

The big snapper's smile grew when he gently squeezed Mikey's shoulder and replied with confidence: "I know so. You know him, he's the first one to bounce back from any problems. He'll be back home throwing out the jokes before we know it!"

"Yeah," Mikey agreed, but in a softer tone of voice that told the overprotective big brother of the family that he didn't fully believe what he said.

Despite that, instead of continuing this conversation the two of them shared a smile and then Mikey said something about painting in his bedroom - which was what he often did to calm his mind - and they parted ways, with Raph likewise going to his room.

Once there, the angry mutant snapping turtle closed his red curtain door and began pacing back and forth, with his fists clenched and trying to figure out a fix - a solution - to this new problem thrown at their once close-knit brotherly bond.

Wanting them to all be together again - one big happy mutant family.

"Leo needs to get his head on straight and come back home," he thought out loud.

"Being in that . . . place with that...aargh..." he growled in frustration instead of saying the name 'krang', "...messed with his head. He's not thinking right, the Leo I know would've apologized to Mikes by now. He knows how tender Mikey is! And he wouldn't be avoiding us and trapsing around in the Hidden City with that yokai who dropped him off a roof. Raph saved his life and he's off living with the guy who tried to kill him! Does he think I can't help him now!? I know I didn't listen before, but that was different, Raph didn't know! And I apologized for that, we all did! Raph's gonna tell him, he's going to say 'Leo, we want to work this out together but you need to do your part, meet us halfway, and apologize to Mikey. We can get through this bro, together, I promise. Yeah, that always works, the ol' pep talk, he'll be comin' home with a smile on his face before the end of the week!"

Raph stopped his pacing with a smile on his face, thinking he had a great 'big brother' idea to bring their family back together again, and not knowing the real reason why Leo missed out on their 'housewarming' meal.

~Some Time Later~

Leo stumbled over his own feet in the darkness of night as he tried his best to keep on the move, walking far enough away from a human highway that no one could see his mutant turtle figure hunched over when their headlights shone on the road, but close enough that he knew he was going in the right direction as opposed to wandering aimlessly in the dark wilderness surrounding him.

The agonized slider stopped walking to take a breather, with his right arm wrapped around his shell, covering a grotesque wound; and he cast his eyes up when a semi-truck’s headlights shone on a sign above the road.

'New York 375 miles'

“Eugh boi.”

Leo grunted and resumed his very slow but steady pace, until he tripped on a rock in the darkness because he didn’t raise his foot high enough, and fell to his knees.

“Aaugh!”

The mutant turtle who was in a considerable amount of pain squeezed his eyes shut, tightened his grip on his shell, and stayed there hunched over on his knees.

“Get up. . . . Get. Up,” he ordered himself over and over again without moving from his spot on the ground. Then his eyes shot up when he heard what sounded like someone calling his name in the distance.

So he listened carefully.

. . .

“LEO-NARRR-DOOO!”

Leo huffed out a single laugh and a small, crooked grin came on his face from the wave of relief that washed over him at the sound of Draxum’s voice.

“OVER HERE!”

A second later a very welcomed familiar magenta portal opened up long enough for a tall goat yokai to walk out and subsequently kneel in front of him.

“Took you long enough, old man,” Leo complained in a somewhat gruff but joking tone of voice that conveyed the fondness he felt for his surrogate dad, and the relief he felt for finally being found.

"How badly are you hurt?" Draxum asked, not able to see much of anything but Leo's silhouette cutting through the darkness, but knowing something must have been seriously wrong with the way he was hunched over on his knees.

"Pretty bad, whatever I got hit with keeps eating away my shell."

“We'll get you home where I can better assess your injuries.”

"You don't have to tell me twice."

A portal opened up beside them and Draxum helped Leo get to his feet so they could go home, straight to the med bay. When they got there, the injured slider promptly hoisted himself up on an exam table and lowered his arm to reveal nothing but his perfectly formed shell.

Well, that was what Draxum saw, anyway.

“How bad is it, doc?”

“Not as bad as you think. Here.”

Leo accepted a water bottle from Barry’s hand and greedily devoured the entire contents in five seconds flat, while the goat alchemist better assessed the damage by using his natural yokai power that let him see mystic energy (an ability he hardly ever used because of the overwhelming influx of mystical energy signals practically everywhere in his home and in the Hidden City in general).

When he was done his assessment, Draxum informed him: “The attack is an illusion, your shell is not damaged.”

Leo looked down at what appeared to be a gruesome sight, and asked: “You mean it’s not real?”

“To everyone else, yes, although I am quite certain it feels very real to you.”

“You could say that again,” Leo emphatically agreed.

Next, Draxum pointed to a shower in the corner of the room and told Leo: “That is a mystic chemical rinse. Stand under there for two minutes and it will wash away the mystic energy clinging to your shell.”

“Thanks.”

Leo slowly and gingerly got down off the gurney, hissing through his teeth from the pain as he did so; and as he dragged his tired, sore feet over to the mystic shower he asked the question: "Seriously, what took you so long?"

“We all assumed you changed your mind and was avoiding the family ‘housewarming’ meal," Draxum replied as Leo got under the shower to wash off the mystic substance stuck to his shell.

When the pink something poured over his body from the shower head directly above him all the mystic gunk stuck to his shell washed away, taking the apparent wound with it, and Draxum continued on with what he was saying.

"When you didn't show up or respond to my messages after they left, I visited your employer to find out what could have happened. He brought me to the warehouse and the crates you were supposed to deliver were still there, but when he opened one we saw the items inside were emitting a faint glow, indicating they had been through a portal recently. I searched for you for over an hour and was about to request our family's assist when I heard your voice. Now, what happened?"

After washing off in the pink stuff, the rinse was itself rinsed away with warm water before automatically shutting off, and Leo told him: “I got ambushed on the delivery." Then he looked down at the smooth surface of his uninjured shell that felt much better now, grabbed a towel hanging on a rack beside the shower to dry off, and continued: "I had time to portal the supplies back to Mr. Kirasuma’s warehouse like he told me to do if that happened, but then I was hit with a mystic attack before I had a chance to do anything else. They were a bunch of cowards, they took off the second I hauled out my swords, but it shorted out my cell phone and my portals, and I thought left a nasty wound in my shell where they hit me. Boi it sure felt real."

Incidentally, Leo didn't mention anything about his wrist com because, despite fully charging it after he returned home from there, he intentionally left that behind in his old bedroom when he moved out. After all, he was not interested in having 'long distance' arguments with his family through their coms.

Draxum told him: “Your portals were working, but they were invisible to you. If you had opened one beneath your feet you would have fallen through.”

“Good to know if this happens again,” Leo replied, but really hoping something like that wouldn't happen again.

He draped the towel over his shoulders and took off his blue mask to wring it out while Draxum flatly informed him: “You did the right thing by sending the supplies back first. Those crates contain rare and powerful mystical gems essential for memory wiping serums radical yokai groups use to attack and kidnap humans. They sell them overseas in the underground yokai slave trade and there were enough items in that crate to wipe the minds of dozens of people.”

“Hm, so I guess I did a hero move,” Leo muttered under his breath - talking more to himself than to Draxum - before stepping out of the shower, feeling exceptionally tired, with a heavy fog of exhaustion settling firmly in his mind and pulling down on his eyelids now that he was no longer in pain and (more importantly) safe at home.

The worn out slider covered a big yawn and asked his current guardian: “Can I use your phone? I gotta let Donnie know mine shorted out so he can fix it,” correctly figuring since his cell phone was a Genius Build phone that was made by his intelligent, techy twin he would be the best one to repair it (or make a new one if it couldn't be fixed).

“Here.”

Draxum held out his cell phone and when Leo took it he tried to send a text at first, but was so utterly exhausted from everything that happened to him that day his vision was blurry and he was seeing double. So he mumbled to himself: “Screw it,” and called his twin instead.

His brother uncharacteristically answered on the first ring and Leo asked through a yawn: “Hey Don-Tron, can you hook me up with a new cell phone?”

He was so tired as he left the room he didn’t think about the fact he was taking Draxum’s phone to his bedroom with him; but the goat man let him do so, silently watching him leave and relieved beyond measure that his very unwell 'son' was safe and home.

“What happened?" he heard his surrogate son say from the hallway. Then Draxum smiled when he heard a hint of excitement coming through the sleepy tone to Leo's voice (because he was thinking over his 'hero' move) when he said to Donnie: "Wait ‘till you get a load of this.”

<<previous || next>>

🐢 Seven Years masterpost

🐢 masterpost for my rottmnt ao3 fanfics and art

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #shaotie #shattered_ontheinside #seven years #rottmnt au

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kuroopaisen · 5 years ago

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brat || gojou satoru

➵ gojou wants you to pay attention to him. and no, he doesn’t care about how annoying he’s being.

wc: 2k

warnings: gn!reader, gojou is Annoying, mild spoilers i guess?

a/n: hi welcome to my gojou brainrot i would like to escape and yet i cannot,,, will i deliver more mindless fanfic? who knows!

You sigh, turning the page of your book with an exhausted kind of resignation. Had you even comprehended what’s in the last paragraph? Or had you just let your eyes gloss over it, admiring the shape of the letters without actually taking any of them in?

Reading a book isn’t so difficult under normal circumstances; sure, you’ve got your own concentration to wrestle with, but that’s an (occasionally) tameable beast.

The man sprawled on the couch next to you, however, is not.

“Are you done yet?” Gojou hums, sticking his legs straight up in the air.

“I’ll be done sooner if you shut up,” you mumble, starting from the top of the page for what feels like the thirty-second time in the past five minutes.

Gojou’s not handling the boredom well. He’s spent the past five minutes cycling between humming Danse Macabre in an octave too high to be comfortable while swinging his legs in circles and poking your cheek as he crouches next to you on his knees.

“You’re the one who said I could come over,” he chirps, completely unfazed by your words.

“I never said that,” you mumble.

It’s not a lie. Earlier today, Gojou’d asked if you were going out tonight. You’d said no. He’d decided to take that as permission to crash at your place.

Although the onus is at least a little on you; he has a habit of doing things like this. You’ve got to be one step ahead of him if you want to win against him on a petty debate like that.

A head of white hair wriggles its way onto your lap.

“Satoru?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m bored,” he hums.

That much is obvious. But you know it’s not that simple; he’s bored, yes, but more importantly, he wants your attention. Even your chest flutters at that.

“You’re a grown man,” you smile. “Entertain yourself.”

A well-worn coquettish smile plays on his lips. “I can’t tell if you’re being lewd or not.”

You slap his chest.

“Ow!” He gasps, placing a hand over his heart. “I can’t believe you’d be so cruel to me!”

“Then stop being annoying.”

“I’d like to think I��m ‘charmingly playful’.”

“Do you take constructive criticism?” You tilt your head at him, biting back a smile.

“I would,” he muses, “if I weren’t already perfect.”

“That ego of yours is going to get you into serious trouble one day,” you grin, flicking his forehead gently.

He lets you, grinning back. “Ah, but you see, my dear,” he hums, grabbing your hand before you draw it away and lacing your fingers with his. It’s a bit of an awkward angle, but you don’t mind.

“I’m simply stating the truth.”

“Well, the truth hurts,” you mutter, “so it’s no surprise no-one wants to hear you gassing yourself up.”

Gojou laughs. His hair tickles your inner thighs and you’re almost convinced to give in. But it wouldn’t be good form to feed his ego after chiding him for it.

You’re well-aware his ego’s already gotten him in trouble – many times, in fact. But Gojou seems to have a way of wheedling his way out of anything.

And, of course, you know that his ego doesn’t come from nowhere.

Doesn’t stop it from being annoying, though. The fact it’s at least partially well-founded makes it worse.

You take a deep breath, turning your attention back to this blasted book. Gojou will just have to wait.

“Why are you even reading that brick?” He muses, tapping the bottom of the book’s spine with one long finger. “You look bored out of your mind. And, you’ve been on the same page for the past five minutes.”

“You know,” you tilt your head to the side, a sour look on your face. “‘Adult stuff.’ Upskilling and all that.”

“Ah,” Gojou grins. “Career work.”

“Mhm,” you sigh. “And some of us can’t just learn on the job.”

Although, you ponder, the thought blurred with gentle melancholy, some of us aren’t constantly risking our lives.

Gojou always tells you not to worry; he’s the strongest jujutsu sorcerer there is, after all. But even that’s not enough to lull you into an uneasy sleep, to bring you warmth when your bed is cold.

You’re never truly at ease until you feel him slip into your bed in the early hours of the morning, his arms slinking around your waist and pulling you towards him. It’s like clockwork how he buries his head in your shoulder as every muscle in his body relaxes. He always thinks you’re asleep – and honestly, it’s easier to let him keep believing that.

What you’ve got isn’t exactly a ‘relationship’. At least, not in the most traditional sense of the word. Gojou’s never pretended to offer you that. But it’s not so simple as a ‘friends-with-benefits’ arrangement.

Gojou Satoru doesn’t suit the domestic. But he relishes in it, the same way a child might enjoy playing at high tea with little plastic teacups and cupcakes made of playdough. Some might find this frustrating – the idea of existing in this grey, a dark, nebulous unknown stippled with moments of affection and vulnerability.

But there’s still comfort in it; a sense of understanding, a place to let loose and relax. Being part of this world is hard. It’s so cruel – sending children out to fight things they barely comprehend, letting them suffer and even die. And what do they have to show for it? A future of doing the same thing while also having to navigate just how shit the world of sorcerers truly is?

Why aren’t more of your colleagues angry about this? One counsellor isn’t enough to maintain the wellbeing of these children. Do the higher-ups even care? Well, you know the answer to that question – it’s enough to make you want to throttle each and every one of them—

“Hey.”

You clatter back to earth, met by a pair of electric blue eyes. It’s easy to forget just how striking they are; it’s like they can stare right into your very core, laying out secrets you never even knew you had.

“Hm?” You blink at him. You can’t risk him knowing you’re worried. He doesn’t stand for that sort of thing; he’ll just tease you for being concerned about him. Though, you’re well-aware that he enjoys being doted on.

“You’re spacing out,” he smiles. “Again.”

Sure, he sounds like he’s joking. But even he can’t disguise that little flash in his eyes, the slight tension in his face. It’s the same expression he has when he talks about that new student of his.

Gojou understands you better than you’d like. Every little tell, every tiny hint towards what you’re actually thinking. It’s near impossible to hide anything from him; it’s irritating, really.

But, at least he’s got the decency to leave the direction of the conversation in your hands.

You weigh it for a moment, deciding how exactly to respond. Should you play it off and throw his brattiness back in his face? Or should you pry open that conversation like the doors of an old temple?

Today’s not the day. Neither of you are ready for that.

You stick your tongue out at him. Perhaps it’s not how an adult should behave, but you don’t care. Neither does Gojou.

“I think,” he sighs, plucking the book out of your hands and tossing it across the room, “it’s time you took a break.”

You yelp a moment too late, watching your book slap against the wall and flop to the floor. It’s only a paperback – thank God – but you’re not ready to fix another dent in the wall caused by the force of mayhem known as Gojou Satoru.

“And I have been waiting long enough,” he grins, wrapping his arms around your neck and launching forward.

“Satoru—”

It’s too late. He’s got you pinned beneath him – and not in a sexy way. All six feet and three inches of him is laid flat on top of you, your face smothered by his chest.

You punch his side weakly.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he laughs.

“Fine,” you try to say. All you get is a mouthful of Gojou’s shirt. You slip your hands up said shirt and tickle his sides.

“Hey, hey, hey—” He splutters, grabbing at your wrists.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” You smirk, continuing your assault.

Gojou whines, propping himself up by his palms and arching his back like a cat in an attempt to shake you off.

“Get back here,” you grin, lifting your torso in response.

His arms are immediately wrapped around you, pinning your own arms to your sides. You yelp in surprise, finding yourself laid gently against the couch with your face pressed against his neck.

“Much better,” Gojou chuckles, still on top of you as he nestles his head into your shoulder.

It’s not the most comfortable position, but that’s rarely a priority when it comes to Gojou. You wouldn’t be surprised if this wasn’t just his way of goading you into relocating to your bed for ease of cuddling (although you have your doubts that it’s the only thing on his mind).

“You want attention that bad, huh?” You chuckle, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck.

“Mhm,” he smirks, bringing his head up to get a proper look at you. “I’m a busy man, you know. I don’t think you’re appreciating my free time enough.”

“And yet, you never seem to leave my damn house,” you muse. “I’m starting to think you don’t actually have a job.”

Gojou laughs, leaning down and kissing you properly.

“That’s not an answer,” you say against his lips.

He ignores you, taking the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth.

You sigh, conceding. His lips are so soft yet so persistent, somehow both desperate and playful. He’s aggravatingly good at this sort of thing – before Gojou, you didn’t really understand what it meant to be a ‘good kisser’. But of course, he manages to excel at this, too. And annoyingly enough, he’d been right to brag about it.

He brings one hand up to cup your cheek and moves another down to your waist. It’s a surprisingly chaste move for him, but you don’t mind. You tangle your own hands in his hair, resisting the urge to tug it. If you do that, you’ll officially lose any chance of getting more reading done tonight. Although your ability to focus on anything other than him is waning quickly.

When Gojou pulls back, he’s got that look in his eyes. The one that always makes your cheeks flush, makes your heart feel a little lighter. The one that almost makes you say something stupid.

Thank God you always have your wits about you.

“You get five minutes,” you sigh. “And then you’ve got to let me finish the chapter I’m on, okay? Then I’m all yours.”

Gojou’s grin blossoms with delight.

He slots himself beneath your chin and rests his cheek against your chest. A hand snakes around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

You smile, propping your chin on the top of his head and wrapping your arms around him.

Despite all his big talk, his irksome demeanour, even his obnoxious height, Gojou Satoru loves to be held.

You always oblige. He never asks – that’s too close to admitting weakness.

But you understand. He needs this. Sometimes he just wants to be tended to.

Being let in like this is an honour. He’s letting you be part of his life, despite his grand plans. Plans that, when he’d told you them, shifted your whole understanding of him.

Gojou represents change.

You have to have faith in him. You have to believe he’ll make good on his promises and turn the sorcerer world on its head. It’s no easy burden; and despite what he claims, even he falters in the face of something so monumental.

But despite all that, he’s still him. He hasn’t let the weight of his goals crush him; at least, not entirely. He finds the little joys, indulges in mundane delights, sees the humour in things.

Gojou Satoru wants to change the world, but he still lets himself be a part of it.

Perhaps that’s why it’s so easy to love him.

Even if he can’t offer the stability and promise of a stable relationship.

Even if he’s a little brat.

#gojou x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo saturo x reader #gojou x you #gojou staoru x you #today on: rowan can't shut up!#free me from this hell!

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mordoriscalling · 4 years ago

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Secret pt.2

A follow up to my fanfic about Geralt talking (and eventually confessing his love) to Jaskier in Polish, thinking that Jaskier doesn’t understand. @artistsfuneral came up with that glorious idea in this fic! Now, pt 2 is about how Jaskier learns the language, as requested by blue_midnight on AO3. Hope you enjoy!

(This fic also includes background, brief Lambert/ Aiden)

At the beginning, Jaskier suspects that it’s Geralt’s way of being as rude as possible. Why on earth act like that, he has no idea, but one thing is for certain: the rustling sounds leaving Geralt’s mouth, which Jaskier thinks are supposed to be words, are set to drive him insane.

It must be some kind of language. Geralt uses it when talking to his horse a lot. Jaskier almost finds the behaviour endearing but then the witcher speaks in that tongue when answering many of his questions. Jaskier just wants to get them better acquainted but Geralt couldn’t care less about the offerings of friendship, apparently.

Even though the witcher can be a right bastard like that, one thing is clear from the very start: Jaskier can only wish to be half the man Geralt is, but the world thinks it’s Geralt who is less than human. Jaskier finds he can’t stand by and let it happen.

It’s a simple exchange. They both need each other to prove that they’re more than what everyone thinks they are. The transaction is uncomplicated: Geralt fights monsters for Jaskier to sing about, Jaskier softens the hearts and the minds. As time passes, however, it changes and becomes more complex: they share food, rooms and coin, start caring for each other in all the small but significant ways.

Five years pass and it’s a friendship in full bloom, but Geralt still often talks to him and snaps at him in that damned tongue, like he doesn’t think Jaskier worthy of knowing his thoughts. It’s never stopped angering him but at this point, he’s also intrigued in what Geralt wants to hide and why the hell it seems to concern him so often. (A certain feeling that shall not be named blooms in his chest at the thought and he squashes it).

Then there’s that one bath. Geralt looks at him as if he was the most fascinating puzzle in the world which, fair, Jaskier is interesting if he does say so himself, but not that much. It’s on that day that he decides to learn that bloody language, even if it’s the last thing he does.

Jaskier goes to Oxenfurt that winter and searches the vast library through and through. The librarians shoot him looks indicating their suspicion about him being a maniac but Jaskier is simply a man on a mission. In the middle of winter, his madness finally bears fruit – he finds an ancient book written in a language he has never seen. “Wiedźmiński bestiariusz” the title says. Inside, there’s a loose piece of parchment with the first few paragraphs of the book translated, including the title – “Witcher Bestiary”. The book is full of sketches of monsters and descriptions, the words containing several strange letters. Many passages aren’t readable anymore because they’ve faded with age but Jaskier treasures the book anyway. He spends the rest of the winter copying all the legible pages, indulging in life’s pleasures much less, which only fuels the rumours of his insanity. All the while, he hopes that this is the language Geralt has been using.

The answer comes surprisingly quickly in the surprising shape of another wolf witcher. They stumble upon each other in late spring in Redania. It’s such a funny coincidence that there’s no way Jaskier’s not going to make the best of it.

“See, master witcher,” Jaskier says as they drink ale together, “When I rummaged through my university’s library, I stumbled upon an interesting volume.” He forgets to mention the translated passages as he pulls out his copy of the book and lays it on the table in front of Lambert. The witcher’s eyes widen when they rest upon the title and Jaskier knows this is it. He grins and carries on, “It seems to be full of precious knowledge and wisdom, yet it’s written in a language I don’t understand. It concerns monsters, so I was hoping a witcher could assist me in decoding this tongue.”

Lambert says nothing for some time, only regarding Jaskier with suspicion. “Why would you want to learn it?” he questions.

“Call it academic curiosity.”

The witcher’s eyes narrow. Hadn’t Jaskier spent so much time with Geralt, he would certainly squirm under the hot, searching gaze.

“It’s not a secret language of your guild, is it?” he asks to break the tense silence.

“It’s not,” Lambert answers, “But no one really bothered before, is the thing. Dunno what to make of you.”

Jaskier sighs and decides to reveal the malice of his intentions because, from what little Geralt told him of his brothers, he knows that Lambert will appreciate it. “Listen,” he says as he leans in towards the red-haired witcher, “just imagine how it’ll freak Geralt out when he finds out.”

Lambert lets out a delighted laugh. “Fuck, I wanna be there when it happens.”

Jaskier can’t make any promises of the sort, so he says nothing to that. Instead, he asks, “Do we have a deal, then?”

“We’ll see.”

Lambert’s reserve didn’t make sense at that moment but Jaskier almost wishes he didn’t find out why the witcher was so cautious about his enthusiasm.

It turns out the language is a demonic creation. Lambert starts explaining some basic words and phrases to him and it already makes Jaskier’s head spin – there are so many forms and conjugations that Jaskier’s task of achieving fluency in that damned tongue suddenly appears almost too daunting. Almost.

He still wants to see the look on Geralt’s bloody beautiful face.

Lambert lets Jaskier join him on the Path for a few weeks. Throughout that time, he teaches Jaskier a bit more, especially how to read in the language. The wonderful thing about it is that, once he knows all the rules of pronunciation, he can read everything out loud. The dreadful thing is that the pronunciation itself is so tough and tongue-twisting that it may as well be a form of diabolical punishment inflicted upon Jaskier for all the transgressions he committed.

Lambert laughs when he voices his frustrations. “Przyzwyczaisz się.” You’ll get used to it, the witcher answers, his voice producing the mad consonant clusters with ease.

“I doubt it,” Jaskier grumbles under his breath.

The two of them part ways as Jaskier pays for Lambert’s services with a song. Jaskier saw the wolf witcher take down a vampire in a truly spectacular manner, so it was no hardship. After Lambert leaves, Jaskier starts learning on his own. Whenever Geralt hunts, he reads out loud from his copy of the bestiary (and how Geralt never overhears it is truly beyond him. Melitele likes him calling upon her tits so frequently, it seems). He tries to decipher the words in the book using all knowledge he has, translating some more passages. He and Lambert also exchange letters but Jaskier fails at writing in the tongue miserably. The last one he wrote returns to him with a multitude of Lambert’s corrections and a short note from the witcher himself:

"Cały list do przepisania, skowroneczku." The whole letter needs rewriting, little lark.

Jaskier huffs at the nickname, ruffling his figurative feathers in indignation. Although a lark’s voice is beautiful, very much so, its plumage is too plain. Jaskier could never. He would be a blackbird at the very least. Or a siskin. A bullfinch, preferably. If Jaskier was honest, a peacock would best fit to describe his exterior, but the sounds peacocks make aren’t pleasant, so he would be willing to settle on some colourful songbird.

Damn Lambert, in any case. The witcher knows far too well how to rile him up. It’s a bit unnerving.

"Skowronek to nie jak ja." Lark doesn’t sound like me, Jaskier answers in the next letter.

"Rzeczywiście, tak ładnie nie śpiewasz." True, your singing isn’t that pretty, Lambert writes back.

Damn him indeed. Jaskier responds to that comment with a simple, efficient “fuck you”, to which Lambert replies “chciałbyś” you wish.

Jaskier can’t exactly deny this. He would certainly show his appreciation for Lambert’s fiery spirit if not for one little, tiny problem. The problem is so minuscule that Jaskier does everything in his power not to think about it. He seeks out lovers constantly and falls into the Countess de Stael’s arms almost every winter. She wants his attention now, as it’s a puppy love no longer, but during his stay at her palace, someone else always catches his attention. She kicks him out the moment she finds out. And so their romance goes, rinse and repeat.

No matter whether Jaskier winters at the Countess’s court, Oxenfurt, or some other place, he always devotes much of his free time to search for any book containing the Witcher tongue, as Jaskier started calling it. There isn’t much anywhere, and Lambert’s letters are few and far in between. Jaskier can feel himself getting stagnant in his learning and he can’t afford it. Not now, after six years of gargantuan effort that he’s put in already. Not when Geralt sometimes says something to him in that quiet, warm voice, and he still doesn’t understand.

Jaskier seems to enjoy more of Melitele’s blessing than he really should because, just when he’s getting desperate, there’s a godsend dropped on his way on a lovely spring day.

Quite literally dropped, since that witcher falls from a tree Jaskier’s about to walk under as he’s on his way to find Geralt. There’s a cat medallion around the witcher’s neck, and his body is gravely injured. He’s unconscious and Jaskier takes the liberty to use his witcher potions to help him not die. After he finally opens his eyes the next day, he introduces himself as Aiden.

It takes Aiden two more days to stand back on his feet. Soon after he manages that, Jaskier makes him trip when he speaks in the Witcher tongue to him, and the poor Cat witcher actually falls to the ground when Jaskier mentions Lambert. Sensing some story there, he sticks by Aiden’s side for a week or two. They make fast friends and promise to write to each other frequently.

Aiden’s letters are just what Jaskier needs to improve. The witcher is more expansive than Lambert and a touch flirty, which is perfect. As their correspondence goes on, Jaskier grows to like him only more and more. Not that much, though; he’s still stuck in the merry old mess of admiration and friendly affection getting out of hand. At least he’s not the only one – the story that Aiden and Lambert share is there in the letters, between the lines, and Jaskier is clever enough to see it.

Jaskier and Aiden meet for a drink in Novigrad once. When they’re deep into their cups, they start whining about their predicament.

“Cholerne wilki.” Damned wolves, Aiden grumbles.

“Cholerne wilki.” Damned wolves, Jaskier agrees wholeheartedly.

Ten years of learning the Witcher tongue have passed when Jaskier finds Geralt fishing for a djin in the lake near Rinde. He’s known Geralt for sixteen years now, so it takes him exactly one moment to see through the sorry excuse of insomnia. Destiny can’t be trifled with like that, he knows, so he doesn’t let it happen.

When Jaskier sings his friend to sleep, Geralt wonders about deserving him, that silly witcher. As if it wasn’t Jaskier who could only dream of deserving Geralt. As if Jaskier wasn’t a cheater, a homewrecker and a bastard who shouldn’t even deserve to look into those warm, gold eyes that allow a peek into the heart of gold.

As they meet Yennefer, the chemistry between her and Geralt is so strong that Jaskier can almost see the sparkles fly. Jaskier holds his breath all throughout their stay in Rinde. After they leave and nothing happens, there’s no relief. Now the witcher and the sorceress can get together any time and Jaskier turns bitter at the ripe, sweet age of thirty-four.

He lets go of many things after that. The silly affair with the Countess, caring about what the educated think about his works. He lives, breathes and grows, at last, fuelled by the one thing that he’s driven by best – sheer, absolute spite. Jaskier’s learnt the Witcher tongue out of spite (among other motives that he refuses to think about), and out of spite he will survive now, no matter how much he worries about a purple-eyes sorceress being such a great match for the White Wolf that even he wants to write a ballad about it.

Jaskier doesn’t ask, of course, and Geralt doesn’t say. They keep travelling together and Jaskier basks in the glory of knowing exactly what Geralt says about him when the witcher thinks he doesn’t understand. It’s wildly satisfying indeed but only up to a point – until the day Geralt calls him beautiful. Jaskier accepts the compliment with a smile, since it is the truth after all, but he can’t trust his voice to answer. He tries to fight the idiotic hope blooming in his chest and blames the warmth in Geralt’s gaze on the firelight. He reminds himself that Geralt doesn’t see him that way because it’s only women that the witcher’s ever been interested in. Life goes on.

Then his world crashes around him as he hears the words about love leaving Geralt’s mouth. That is when he can’t hold it in anymore and his secret is out. Or both his secrets, really.

It’s so freeing that he’s heady. Or maybe the giddiness can be all on Geralt. Or perhaps on the fact that, when Jaskier bares his heart in the Witcher tongue, it touches the witcher’s heart to its very core. He can feel it, in the way Geralt clings to him, and he already knows he won’t find any words to describe it properly in any language he knows.

That's how he knows it's something worth living and loving for - it means too much for words.

***

A/N: Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it! This fic is also available on AO3. Part 3 is coming, hopefully soon. It will be a 5+1 kind of thing about Geralt and Jaskier using the language.

Part 3

#myfic #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #the witcher netflix #the witcher fanfiction #canon divergence

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incorrectjourneyshippingquotes · 5 years ago

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So I have part one of a fanfiction I’m writing on Wattpad, and it’s regarding the Kalos Crisis AU. Also, before I present this awful fanfic to you, I wanted to make it clear that Satoshi and Gou are both 15 and Koharu is 14. So now, I present to you-

Chapter One

_________________

Gou rushed ahead of Satoshi, who was clearly more exhausted from running past him the previous five times.

Satoshi! Why are you so slow!" Gou called to his friend, who was sweating by the time he caught up to him.

"It's not my fault you're so incredibly fast!" Satoshi whined, tripping over his feet.

"Pikaaa-" Pikachu cried as Gou saw Satoshi fly towards him.

"Satoshi!" Gou opened his eyes to see Ash sitting on top of him. His face flushed a crimson red.

"Ah, Gou! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean too." Satoshi scrambled to his feet, hiding his face that was blushing mess.

'Heh, cute.' Gou thought, not realizing Satoshi holding his hand out to help him up.

"Uh, Gou are you gonna stop staring at me and get up or.....?" Satoshi questioned. Gou blushed even more.

"Oh! Yeah, sorry." Gou apologized as Satoshi grabbed his hand and pulled him up.

"Here. You've got to stop apologizing, Gou." Satoshi said while laughing softly. Gou turned away, muffling under his breath.

"Whatever."

"Let's start heading to Professor Sakuragi's lab." Satoshi cheered. "Race you there."

By the time they got to Professor Sakuragi's lab, it was Gou's turn to be sweating.

"Gou~ why are you so slow!" Satoshi taunted while sticking his tongue out.

"Oh, boys! You're here! I have more research that I would need you two to investigate." Professor Sakuragi had called from the doorstep, letting the boys inside.

"So, what is it Professor?" Gou asked, walking to the lab full of computers.

"I need you to visit Kalos and get information about Zygarde controlled by Team Flare." Gou looked at Satoshi with excitement, though he wasn't excited at all.

"Satoshi, what's wrong?" Gou asked, noticing the gleam in his eyes was gone.

"Huh? Oh, sorry, I must have gotten sidetracked. It's nothing, I'm fine." Satoshi stuttered out, his Pikachu rubbing against him.

"Pikachu?" The electric mouse cooed towards his trainer. Satoshi scratching his Pokémon's chin, assuring him he was fine.

"Alright, I have the tickets here. You're leaving tomorrow morning, so you can pack today." Professor Sakuragi handed each ticket to Satoshi and Gou.

"Thanks professor!" Gou said before he saw Satoshi wasn't with him. He sighed softly.

"I can't go back there not after what happened with them-" Satoshi muttered to himself, thinking he was alone. He looked at the burnt picture of his friends, reminded of the time they helped Korrina find Lucarionite.

"Pikachu." Pikachu sadly responded.

"Satoshi, what is it with you?" Gou entered the room. Satoshi quickly stuffed the burnt picture of Korrina, Clemont, Bonnie, and Serena in his bag.

"Satoshi!" Gou shouted, making Ash tremble at the sudden outburst.

"I'm sorry for scaring you, but please. I hate seeing you like this..." Gou started to tear up. "I want to help you, whatever it is."

Satoshi got up, putting Pikachu on his shoulder. "You wouldn't get it." He retorts blankly while walking out with his Pokéball's.

Satoshi sighed as he looked off the balcony. "Greninja, Bonnie, Clemont, Serena, I'll see you all soon."

"Pikapi..." Pikachu cried softly, he hated seeing his trainer sad. It wasn't before the other Pokéballs lit up and out came Riolu, Gengar, and Dragonite.

"Gen?" Gengar questioned, noticing a difference in Satoshi's voice.

"Dragonite?" His Dragonite was just as confused as Gengar.

"Riolu. Riolu." Riolu tugged on Satoshi's shirt, making him lean down and pick Riolu up.

"Why'd you pick me Riolu?" Satoshi asked out of the blue, Riolu looking up at his trainer.

"Rio! Riolu!" It cried, exaggerating it's movements.

"Okay, okay." Satoshi said, laughing slightly. His Pokémon cheering slightly for Riolu.

"It's because I saw how you cared so much for me." Riolu said, but only he could hear it.

Satoshi was star struck. "Woah, Riolu, did you just use your Aura to communicate with me?" Riolu jumped up with excitement.

"You're amazing! I'm so glad you got to come with us." Satoshi pats Riolu on the head as his Pokémon cheer with happiness.

"You wanna go train Riolu?" Satoshi asked, getting the Aura Pokémon's attention.

"Rio!" The Pokémon cheered, following his trainer to the battlefield. Dragonite, Pikachu, and Gengar following.

"Alright, Pikachu! Use Quick Attack." Satoshi called to his Pokémon.

"Hey Riolu, can you hear me? You're gonna watch Pikachu's movements and dodge." Satoshi commanded. Riolu focused on Pikachu, dodging at the last second.

"Yes! Now get behind Pikachu and use vacuum wave!" Satoshi praised. "Pikachu! You use Thunderbolt!" He commanded. Gengar and Dragonite loved battling, but loved watching battles as well.

"He looks so happy, maybe I pushed it a little too far." Gou sighed as he watched the trainer battle. His Raboot staying close behind.

"Alright, I think that's enough training for today. You guys wanna help pack?" Satoshi asked with both Riolu and Pikachu on his shoulder.

Satoshi got back to his room to see Gou's luggage out by the door.

"Oh goddamnit Satoshi, you screwed up yet again!" He yells as he throws himself on his bed. "You screwed up your relationship with the only person you liked."

His Pokémon all looked at him with sadness. Little did Satoshi know, Gou was listening behind the door. All Gou heard muffled screams along with swearing.

"I mean, Greninja is fine, he's helping Zygarde take care of Kalos. Me and Alain took care of Team Flare and saved Chespy." The black haired boy ranted on.

"I mean, sure I traveled with girls. Misty, May, Dawn, some time with Korrina, and Serena, but I'm gay, Pikachu! I don't like girls!" He ranted to his electric Pokémon. Gengar, Dragonite, and Riolu had gone back into their Pokeballs.

"Pika?"

"Yeah I know, you wouldn't get it." Satoshi sighed.

"Hey Satoshi, I heard yelling. Are you alright?" Gou walked into the room.

"Oh, uhm, yeah." He muttered softly in response.

"Okay, well, it's only 12:30, you wanna go hang out somewhere?" Gou asked.

"Yeah sure." Satoshi responded, avoiding eye contact.

What is this feeling? Gou felt his heart flutter everytime he was near Satoshi. Was this what love was? Certainly not, but he'll ask Koharu when he gets back.

Focused on the road ahead of him, Satoshi barely said a word. Only answering Gou's questions with a simple yes or no.

When they stopped for a break, Satoshi let his Riolu out, where it was ecstatic to see it's trainer. Though he was saddened when his owner said nothing.

"Master, why are you sad?" Riolu used his aura to communicate with Ash.

"I can't go back to Kalos, not after what happened with Team Flare. What happened with Greninja." Ash communicated back with him, sighing out loud.

Riolu decided to end it there, as they were to start walking again. Both boys were ignoring each other until they got back.

Professor Sakuragi also saw this when Gou had bluntly responded to his questions with no emotion.

Gou decided to talk to Koharu about this. Whatever he's feeling, Koharu's got an answer.

He knocked on her door, hoping she would answer. "What's up Gou?"

Gou looks embarrassed and asks to step inside. After explaining his feelings, Koharu laughed silently.

"What's so funny?" Gou asks, a serious look plastered on his face.

"You have a crush!" Koharu exclaimed proudly.

____________________

I plan on adding more but I just need some constructive criticism since it’s not posted on Wattpad yet.

And yes, if you want to know what my Wattpad @ is @CasualAllinnoel if you want to take a look at my other shitty Pokémon fan fictions.

(Also, I don’t space out my paragraphs that much, it’s just Tumblr spacing god damn it)

#firstfriendshipping #gouacheshipping #journeyshipping #pokemonanime #pokeani #gou x satoshi #ash x gou #pokemonjourneys #not a quote #pokemon #pokemon fanfic

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gumnut-logic · 5 years ago

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The Fight (Bit 18b + Epilogue)

Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4 | Bit 5 | Bit 6 | Bit 7 | Bit 8 | Bit 9 | Bit 10 | Bit 11a | Bit 11b | Bit 12 | Bit 13 | Bit 14 | Bit 15 | Bit 16 | Bit 17a | Bit 17b | Bit 18a | 18b + Epilogue

It’s finished! All 18,380 words of it :D Writing every day before work and at lunch seems to work well :D Though I usually need a weekend to wind up the ending - needs more concentration :D

So many thanks to the wonderful @onereyofstarlight for all her help throughout this fic and for a final read through of this bit :D You is amazing and wonderful.

Also, so many thanks to everyone who has commented and liked and cheered me on. You guys keep me writing these crazy things. ::hugs you all so much::

From here, it is onto the Kermadec fic ahead of Fandomversary ::eyes the date:: Oh dear, I better write fast. It will be a miracle if I finish it before 17 July.

As for Anna....I don’t think this is the last we will see of her :D This is the second story in a new series, apparently. :D

-o-o-o-

“There were some concerns regarding the MacIntyres and their connections to organised crime.” Jack’s voice was matter of fact. “You are a witness and/or a victim of both incidents. The Tracys were concerned for your safety.”

She hadn’t noticed anybody following her. Of course, she had considered the possibilities. Thoughts like that had kept her awake at night. But her conversations with the police had been reassuring.

“The police said there wasn’t anything to worry about. That the MacIntyres were in custody.”

Scott’s voice was quiet. “We have traced a connection to a worldwide crime ring. John, in particular, is concerned.” He held out a mobile phone. “We would like you to have this.”

She reached out and took it from him. Latest Tracy phone, worth a couple of thousand dollars. Completely outside her price range.

She looked up. “Why?”

“It has a direct connection to Thunderbird Five and we will be able to track you.”

“You could follow me?”

Scott’s voice was quiet. “Yes.”

He left it as a simple fact.

“Why?”

“For your safety.”

“What could you do from space?”

“We have security in the vicinity and can respond immediately.”

“So, you are following me anyway.”

“Yes.”

She held his gaze.

“We protect those we care about and Alan cares about you. Virgil, in fact, threw a fit after you left the hospital. He demanded we provide security.” A snort. “If he had given me a chance to answer, I could have told him that I had already spoken to Kyrano.” He didn’t look away, his eyes as challenging as hers. “The threat is there. We want to negate it.”

She hadn’t seen any security following her. She hadn’t seen Kyrano since the incident. Not that she had been looking. The thought that there were people watching her, hiding behind buildings...

“You should have told me.” An indrawn breath. “I work in a school surrounded by children. If I am a danger to the kids...”

“You’re not.”

“How do you know that?”

“We’re monitoring the situation-“

She shot to her feet. “How can you possibly guarantee that nothing will happen?!” The thought of a MacIntyre with a gun in her classroom was absolutely terrifying. “I have a responsibility to my students. How could you let me return to work when you knew that was a possibility?”

Scott stood up, his hands out obviously in an attempt to placate her. “Anna, you are not a danger to your students. Kyrano has you under surveillance, you’re safe.”

“I’m safe? Like Alan was?” The words were out of her mouth before she could think and she regretted them immediately as the man in front of her paled.

“That hole in our security has been plugged. I’m sorry we were unable to prevent that incident.” His voice was still strong and determined, but there was an uncertainty, a guilt in his undertones. This was a man trying to do the right thing.

“An apology is not necessary. That was not your fault. The point I am trying to make is that International Rescue is not omniscient. If there is a threat, I should not be in this school. How could I face the parents of my students should something happen? How could you?”

She grabbed the paperwork on her desk and shuffled it into a pile, her mind going through all the things she would need to do to resign from her position. But then, where would she go? Where would she be safe? She found her handbag in her hands and stared at it a moment. Looking up, she found both men calmly staring at her.

“Anna, I’m sorry.” And there was the young man who had lost his father only a matter of months ago. The suit suddenly seemed too big for him, the blue in his eyes just that touch unsure.

The door to the classroom was pushed open, no knock, no hesitancy. Kyrano strode in as if on cue. Dressed in loose black pants, a grey polo shirt and runners, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck, he appeared insignificant, a dad at the school to pick up his kids.

Only the sharp green of his eyes betrayed that he was anything but.

“Ms Kent, you and your students are safe. You have my word.”

He spoke as if his word was a certainty.

Anna sat down, thoughts swirling around her head, her whole body wilting. “How can I risk it? With so much at stake?” Her career, her life, was not worth those that filled this room, this building, on a daily basis.

And her family...De, her partner, hell, even the dogs. Her flatmate...

Her elbows hit the desk and her head fell into her hands.

The scuffle of footsteps. A tentative touch on her shoulder. She looked up to find Scott crouched down beside her, blue eyes intense. No longer towering above her, now looking up at her. “You are safe, Anna. I promise.”

He held her gaze. He was the commander of International Rescue. He was asking her to trust him.

Trust him.

“You. Are. Safe.”

So many questions. How could they monitor her at all times? Her family? Her friends? Her students? It wasn’t humanly possible.

But this was International Rescue, they dealt in miracles, they made things happen.

A lump caught in her throat.

Voice small. “Okay.”

Those eyes softened just a little and his hand squeezed her shoulder.

His voice was gentle, no doubt the same voice he used on frightened people he was rescuing.

She was frightened people.

Could she be rescued?

A flicker of steel in those eyes answered that question.

“Kyrano is in charge of your security, John is monitoring from orbit and Jack is tackling the legalities. We will find those responsible and remove the threat. International Rescue has resources across the globe and we are mobilising. You need us, that phone will have a Thunderbird on your doorstep in minutes.”

She stared at him. “All for one small town school teacher.”

He unfolded and straightened up to his full height, looking down at her. The confident and certain young man returned and steeled his stance. “It is what we do.”

A blink and she found herself believing him. It was little more than faith. Hope.

“Okay.” This time her voice was stronger. “Tell me what I need to do.”

That suave smile curved his lips again.

-o-o-o-

Epilogue

“Okay, class, pull up page 58 in your grammar text and read the first two paragraphs. I want you to write an expressive piece using first person and present tense. One hundred words minimum.”

She didn’t miss the twin groans from the holoprojector on her desk. She had to smile, they often forgot they were in a class of twenty-odd students and their reactions were obvious. “Alan and Rory, I heard that.”

“Sorry, Ms Kent.” Alan had his head in one hand and appeared thoroughly bored. Rory didn’t even bother to answer. He was doodling on his tablet.

An arched eyebrow. “Alan, I didn’t say what the topic had to be. Perhaps you could write about flying a rocket into space?”

That caught his attention. “I could?”

“You could. And if you finish quickly enough, you could illustrate it.”

Gemma was bouncing in her seat, her hand in the air. “Ms Kent, can I write about a rocket, too?”

Anna smiled. “Of course, you are all welcome to write about subjects that interest you. You have the next forty-five minutes to complete the exercise. Make it yours, make it into whatever you want.”

She didn’t miss the grumble from Jonathon about making it into a way to get out of here. He was overdue some special attention. She wrote a note on her tablet.

All the heads in the room bent down to read.

All except Rory.

She eyed her dejected student who was still doodling. A touch at her own screen and she pulled up what the boy was drawing.

A number of words scattered over his screen, all angry and understandable, interspersed with abstract figures and angry lines.

He was having one of those days.

A sigh and she touched her headset to confine his audio to her alone. His holofigure was removed from the classroom and confined to her screen.

She didn’t miss Alan’s sudden raised eyebrow as he looked up from his work.

Rory received the notification that he was on privacy mode and looked up at her sullenly. “What have I done now?”

She suppressed another sigh. Voice quiet so the class couldn’t hear. “Nothing, Rory. I was just going to suggest that you could write this piece of text using whatever is on your mind today. You don’t have to present it to the class, it can be a private piece.”

“Don’t wanna.”

Her lips thinned. Definitely one of those days. “Do you need a break? Should I speak to your mother?”

“No!” His eyes were alarmed. “Leave Mom outta this.”

Her heart lurched. There was only so much she was capable of doing to help Rory. But she would use what little reach she had to do the best she could. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Still doodling. Apparently, he had forgotten she could see what he wrote on his tablet. Bloody leave me alone was certainly clear enough.

“Okay, Rory, try to write something. It might help.” So much anger. Understandable, but it needed to be managed. She would speak to Rory’s counsellor later today and see if there was another strategy that could help. Rory was slowly working through it all, he just needed a little help.

As for her other long distance student...

“Gordon, getoff!”

The class burst into laughter as Gordon Tracy suddenly appeared in Alan’s stream and gave the younger boy a thorough noogie.

It didn’t last long, as a red flannelled arm reached into the feed and yanked the fish out of receiver range.

Alan, hair now sticking up at all angles, glared at something the rest of the class couldn’t see. “Serves you right, fishboy!”

Blue eyes widened as Alan reacted to something Anna couldn’t hear, but its contents were obvious as the eleven-year-old snapped back to attention, guilt under her gaze. He hurriedly returned to reading his tablet.

Someone in the class snickered.

Anna raised an eyebrow at the room and all heads ducked back to work.

Rory started writing a story about a boy who was scared.

Alan was describing Thunderbird Three...another paper she would have to save to the locked server John had provided for all such possible technology breaches.

The wind rustled through the rosemary bush outside the schoolroom window.

Her phone flashed up with an apology from Virgil regarding Gordon. Apparently, he was sentenced to cleaning the bilge pumps of the family boat. An unusual punishment task, but then the Tracys were an unusual family.

A glance at the room’s security camera. It had become a nervous habit.

An internal sigh.

Unusual indeed.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds #Alan Tracy #Scott Tracy #Gordon Tracy #Anna Kent

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anxiouslyfred · 5 years ago

Text

Love After Exile - Cooking Emotions

I have decided not to start using Janus’s name in this story. He will remain just known as Deceit so I don’t have to change the way the rest of the story was written

Summary: Virgil loved Remus and Deceit long before they fell out. Now he’s dating Logan after beginning to recognise similar feelings. Deceit has an idea over how to start repairing things with Virgil so he makes an attempt.

Formatting: There’s a shifting POV, anytime you see Bold starts of a paragraph then there’s been a perspective shift.

Pairings: Analogical from the start, eventual Analoceitmus

Warnings for this part: cooking, knives being used to chop vegetables, emotional scene

/\/\/\/\/\ Part One /\ Part Two /\/\ Part Three /\/\Part Four /\/\ Part Five /\/\ Part Six /\/\

It was clear that Deceit wanted to discuss something but Logan delayed that to ensure Virgil was feeling better again. Whatever he'd spoken about with Remus had left Virgil in somewhat of a guilt spiral so he had to calm that down before leaving for a while.

“You do realise you could have just text instead of hovering in the living room?” He queried, closing the door to Anxiety's room as he spoke.

Deceit nodded. “Of course but I find they never include the correct levels or urgency or courtesy in them. Waiting patiently where you can see I'm present seems much more reasonable and allows me to check on Virgil as I do so.” The words relaxed some of the trepidation Logan had been feeling. Since the rejection Deceit hadn't been seen in the common area the known sides shared and one explanation Logan had been able to think of was that the invitation to date had come from trying to support Remus's wants. That had definitely been backed when Virgil had mentioned just how badly Remus had taken the scene as well.

“Is this something involving him then?” He checked regardless of his suspicions.

“Partially. I was hoping to confirm what he referred to as he was leaving but there were a few other questions I would like some more information on and who better to ask than Logic for a lesson or two.” Deceit was anything but clear in his explanation.

Thinking for a moment, Logan began walking towards his room, waving a hand so the other would follow. “Very well, What are you wanting to learn about? I have a wide variety of books and information but possibly not on the psychology that seems to be your main interest.”

“Well recently I've been trying to understand the love languages a bit more, hoping it will offer some understanding of Remus as I'm sure you've realised we're very different people.” Deceit began, easily focusing on his own relationship rather than the one he wished to form.

Logan immediately brought a book from beside his bed over at the words. “I believe I can empathise with you on the importance of understanding one another there. Thankfully in my own relationship our primary love languages coincide, although there was originally some misunderstandings over how they are expressed. This book should be able to explain what I cannot, but is there any specific query you'd like to discuss?” He expected there to be a trick in the conversation, or an attempt to focus it back on Virgil and himself but hoped to waylay it with the side comment.

“How would I recognise what language is the one I respond to best? I've been able to recognise Remus enjoys and responds to physical touch primarily as a love language and it appears that he expresses it through gift giving as well, but frankly when I've read the descriptions I'm struggling to confirm which ones might apply to myself.” Deceit's gaze had definitely sharpened at the mention of Logan's relationship with Virgil, cataloguing the comment, but his words raised an intrigue in Logan. “And before you suggest it, we both know how unreliable online quizzes can be.”

“I was actually going to suggest asking Remus. Perhaps going through a few experiments with him to find out what you find most fulfilling if done as part of your relationship.” His voice was cutting, silencing any more counters to possible suggestions that wouldn't be made. “It's preferable to having an argument after trying to do the same things for each other and each feeling unneeded. At least that way Remus will be included in what you want to know and he probably has already noticed the main one you use.”

Deceit's eyes gleamed and his mind was spinning with thoughts, not at the suggestions but at the tiny pieces of information he'd gleaned from Logan. The pair shared their primary love language and had an argument before Logan researched love languages because of it.

“Well I'm fairly sure neither of us have Acts of Service as a love language so coming to an argument over trying to do the same things is unlikely. Pray tell is that what you were referring to?” He pried, remembering the conversation was meant to be information gathering on his prospective loves, and not asking questions he already knew the answers to.

Logan pushed the book he'd carried on holding forwards. “Be that as it may, the other subject you mentioned when requesting to converse is not one I feel at liberty to share. Perhaps you could bring the subject up with Virgil instead?”

Of course the subject turning to focus on Logic would have him retreating, even if they were stood in his room. Deceit didn't mind though, already working on the next steps they could make, even as he nodded and took the offered book. “Many thanks for the information, Logan. I hope we'll be able to receive dear Virgil's forgiveness soon.”

“That's a new book! You seeing the nerd behind my back?” Remus asked as he bounced into Deceit's room, finding him reading still. “Thought he wouldn't date us unless Virgil's okay with it?”

“Not dating, just information gathering so I can come up with a plan to fix some of the damage we've done to our relationship with Virgil.” Deceit sighed, rubbing his eyes, suggesting he'd been reading for too long if Remus was any judge. That was an itchy eyes action that made him want to remove them from his head if he ever experienced it.

Remus tilted his head then, confused by the amount of planning Deceit was trying to do. Acting on impulses seemed to be working perfectly so far. “You mean we need to be doing more than just trying to spend more time with him and talking through some of our emotions with him? It helped a lot when I had the breakdown of him being My People.”

“Yeah, I'm thinking that might work pretty well, but learning about the other love languages he's likely to use can't hurt, might even help me work out a way to let myself be emotionally vulnerable without you know, all my normal automatic misdirections.” He mused, finally marking the page and setting the book to one side.

“Vivi knows you. He's not going to want either of us to change how we are, even if we do it trying to reach out.” Remus comforted him, automatically wrapping their bodies together. He would have done more, but had learnt already that Deceit didn't always take kindly to some actions when there were a lot of thoughts in his head.

With those words Remus decided they were having a nap, muffling any further protests or musings from Deceit with thick blankets and lots of hugs.

It was a tentative hope that Deceit now held, although he knew Remus believed he saw it as enthusiastically as he did. Working with the love languages both that Deceit found himself using and that he'd learnt Virgil held, he would put time and effort into the relationship before anyone brought up dating again.

Of course Logan would be included too but on this first attempt Deceit was approaching Virgil alone. Words of affection came naturally but Deceit wanted to start with an idea of what to say, to explain about what happened before.

After talking it over and over with Remus, helping him to understand how their previous rash actions appeared to impact Virgil as well as wondering if the things they used to do together might help, it was time to actually try something.

"Want to help me make dinner?" the offer made Virgil pause, door only half open when Deceit asked the question.

It had been the activity Deceit thought he'd most willingly do again and they always spoke while cooking. That had been enough reason to try and Remus had supported the idea hopeful they might all share it later.

"Sure. What are you wanting to make?" Finally Deceit could let out the breath he'd held just hoping this might work.

Virgil knew something was being attempted, Deceit had a way of standing when he was trying to achieve a goal but he'd missed working with him doing something simple. He followed easily knowing either of them could make the dish alone but preferred to cook with people.

He took the task of chopping vegetables, even before Deceit answered his question. It was fairly clear that while he had already started getting ingredients out of the cupboards Deceit hadn't actually settled over a specific dish to make. “You know, we actually need a decision over what we're cooking so I don't dice these too small. Do you want to answer my question yet?”

They'd come down too the kitchen as soon as Virgil agreed to cook and while he was thinking through what motivation there could be behind the invitation, it almost seemed like Dee was deciding that at the same time.

“Spaghetti Bolognaise.” He nodded, taking in that Deceit had chosen a dish that would leave him chopping vegetables and turned away from where Dee would be preparing the mince and sauce while the pasta simmered. That positioning guaranteed there would be emotions talked through and about.

Honestly Virgil was glad to realise that. He'd been wondering whether Deceit would just avoid him forever after the scene in the imagination. It was what he'd do when rejected in such a way, at least.

“Do you know how often I lie by omission?” Dee asking the question made him hum a little, focusing on chopping the tomatoes carefully as much as listening. It wasn't one that needed a reply anyway since he carried on speaking a moment later. “You were only nearly matching me before we kicked you out and I couldn't fathom any motive to do so. My roles makes me look for underhand motivations and where safety necessitates a lie but between us you never needed to worry about your safety, not in a way that would be impacted by anything you could reveal or say at least.”

Virgil snorted, shaking his head. “You forget to include emotions almost as easily as Logan does sometimes. There's feelings other than ambition and fear that motivate most of us.”

Deceit paused his speech while Virgil turned to add the tomatoes to the sauce and fetch the mushrooms to be diced next. Virgil still glimpsed the hesitant look, more watching his movements than the mince although it was still cooking evenly so far.

“You'd think being close with Remus and yourself I'd be better at factoring in how our actions make others feel more often, but I never meant to or wanted to create a place where you couldn't tell us even a part of what you felt. I thought the times I listened to your rambles about conspiracies and monsters meant you felt free to share things with me, but those are easy subjects to broach, nothing like emotions.” There was musing in Deceit's voice as he began speaking again, and a sorrow that Virgil understood, including realising that the shields were down for now, no pretences were being used this afternoon.

“Just a bit of a difference in subject there Dee.” He couldn't help snarking, shaking his head at the knife he was using.

“That's everything, Virge! I deal in lies, in distractions to protect and conserve Thomas as who he is or wants to be so he can appear that way while looking after himself and taking the time to become it. I spend all the time working out verifiable reactions and trying to prevent the unpleasant ones that of course I sometimes overlook the emotional ones when all the actions we have say things are fine. You're the one who knows emotions far better even when we have to share self preservation responsibilities and you left me floundering when all I could get was a sense of being lied to where there was no reason or motive I could understand for you to do so.” The rant had Virgil turning, bewildered and concerned over the hurt in Deceit's voice but unsure how to help.

Instead he stood still, watching as Dee sighed, shoulders slumping as he replaced the hat he must have knocked off with a gesture. “I just wanted to understand and help with whatever you felt the need to lie about for all that time. There were so many causes of what it could be when I tried to think of things changing or happening that you wouldn't tell us until it felt like the most reasonable was that you were planning to leave, so I tried to give you a chance to tell us or not and get what I thought you wanted. You'd already spent so much time helping Thomas around those guys that it was all I could understand being omitted. I lashed out, losing you without you saying a word or trying to do it secretly hurt so much to think of until that was what I caused anyway.”

Virgil moved then, standing behind him as the mince was shifted in a pan a little more. It was difficult to hear how everything he'd gone through when being kicked out was from Deceit's point of view, but finally made sense of how sought out he was even when he thought Dee hated him for getting accepted.

It felt like Deceit had just bared his heart in the speech he'd just made. It wasn't quite what he intended to do and the silence from Virgil was biting at him now. Still he stepped to one side letting Virgil add the last vegetables diced and mixing the sauce, vegetables and mince all together while he drained the spaghetti, just waiting for a response.

“You always focus on Thomas living in society when arguing with the others. I think we all forget that we live as parts of Thomas with our roles impacting how we see the world and react to emotions.” Virgil sighed, and Dee froze taking a moment to realise that Virgil wasn't ready right then to carry on the emotional talk immediately. “I don't know if you're looking for forgiveness or just trying to explain the bullshit you and Remus pulled but if you need it you're forgiven or whatever.”

There was a sensation of a weight lifting at the words accompanied by a dread that everything he'd just said had been misunderstood. “No, Well yes and thank you but no, I was just... I wanted to say I was an idiot who didn't deal with that well at all, and hoped you could understand a little of what I thought was happening.”

“Story understood then, I guess. Now can we break this sappy moment and go feed the starving beast before one of us has to do a supply run for more soap and shampoo?” Virgil's shoulders were beginning to slouch in more than usual and Deceit knew he couldn't take much more high emotion talk either so he nodded, letting the talk drop and splitting the food between four plates.

“Do you want to invite Logan to eat with us all down here tonight?” He suggested, smiling a little as he saw the confusion about the number in Virgil's face.

Perhaps he hadn't focused on using their love languages as much as he had intended when planning the evening but this seemed to have had a better ending than he'd expected anyway. Especially as Virgil darted off up the stairs with a yelled thanks and agreement to invite Logan down.

/\/\/\

@book-of-charlie asked to be tagged

/\/\/\ Part Eight /\/\/\ Part Nine /\/\/\/\

#dukeceit #Janus Sanders #deceit sanders #virgil sanders #remus #logan sanders #Analogical

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astrogone · 5 years ago

Text

ANXIOUS MUNDAY MEME

@seekesotsibteadmist: What is something you want people to know right away about yourself?

PLEASE REMEMBER I AM EXTREMELY SLOW AT EVERYTHING!!!! I swear, there is a no apologizing for quick or late replies oocly and icly policy in this household because if you message me with an apology over that, you may get my response after a few days, if not a week, and I get so embarrassed like shdjsjd please, don’t be sorry at all. I get every reason behind any pace of the responses, so do not ever feel bad or anything replying to me too late or too quickly. Hell, you can take a whole damn MONTH to reply to me oocly or icly and I’ll still act like I would only be waiting for a day and be like “Ah! My friend! I love you”... But yeah, while I am easily distracted and exhausted to do this stuff, I usually have to reply back to ten to fifteen people oocly, and I will always have many people to reach out to when we haven’t interacted yet ( which if you haven’t interact to me yet, please, this is invitation that you can slap yourself in my IMs Now ), and my social energy / motivation to interact with people? It’s erratic as Hell. Also, I usually take way too much time replying to a post / message when it shouldn’t be the case. Like? For me to reply to a one paragraph in the thread will take me at least an hour to two. If you straight just say hi to me and ask how am I doing, it’ll take me at least five minutes to ten to just answer your very simple question.

I have an intellectual disability that gives me difficulties reading the given information, understanding them, and responding to them at a pace the average amount of people can do, but I can’t. The longest time you can get from me oocly is usually six days. Icly though? Boy, am I a lost cause with that. It can be anytime as I can reply to our thread for a month later, if not longer, I will have to let that be known, lmfao... But you’re more than welcome to give me a nudge for anything anytime. It may not get a quicker response from me anyway, knowing me, but just know that my silence towards you while I’m being noisy on dash or to others or such has nothing to do with you, ever. At least with oocly, I try to prioritize replying to people who I haven’t replied to the longest over those that I have done so recently, but I’m an absolute slow and low mess at everything, so! As that’s something I can never change, unfortunately, I can only wish that everyone interacting with me would be grateful for what we have already.

@sinisteraugurey: How much anxious internal screaming goes on with you on a regular basis?

It’s a 24/7 thing, man. I would just try to distract myself with whatever is in my way to block them, but, yeah, it just really be like that with me. Last night while I was trying to sleep, I kept staring at my window in concern because it had these shadows constantly moving behind the curtains, and there’s that small part of me that KNEW it’s just the tree branches that got caught in the lights of the streetlights, but, my mind kept telling me “they’re coming” and I was just constantly like,, “who tho,,, omg,,,,” but,, think about it,,,, I live in the sixth floor of a building, so how the Hell could the shadows reach up there?¿...

@vsentis & @arsonbeast: What’s a tip you would give to people trying to get to know you?

Ask me questions from something simple like what’s my favourite colour to something over the top like how often do I get existential crisis lmfao even if it’s completely out of the blue or we don't know each other well yet, I wouldn’t ever mind answering them at all. As well if / whenever you are comfortable, talk about yourself as it will usually prompt me to do the same in return. I often don’t throw facts about myself to others because I think it would have others feel like they would be suddenly placed in a position of having to bring up information about themselves to me and I know not many people are comfortable to talk about themselves and / or their lives when they’re on this Hellsite to write and develop, which is totally understandable and I’m more than okay to be interacted with for just writing / plotting.

On a different note, I am planning to create a Carrd about my interests ( like what shows, music artists, etcetera I’m familiar with ) and slap it on my pinned post so it can give others a chance to get to know me more and bring them up to me to break down any tension from their end, so you can randomly pop into my DMs like “biTCH yOU WATCH B.UZZEED U.NSOLVED!?¡¿” and I’d be like “FUCK YE A H, I DO” and create chaos from there sndnsmd

@vsentis: Is communication important to you?

Beyond important. I personally think communication is THE most important aspect in not just roleplaying, but in general. It’s what builds a strong relationship with the parties. The more they will interact with each other with a lot of patience and understanding, the higher chance that trust and comfort can be built stronger and tighter within a connection. Now, what do I have to say with me? I love talking to people, even when I’m a slow motherfucker at it and I get extremely frustrated and sad at the fact. I love when people talk to me and I can read about their days, personal projects, characters, so forth. I want people to feel that they can trust me and be comfortable coming to me for anything from a random chat to ranting / venting. Man, just straight up slap my DMs with a random photo of a forest and I’ll just not shut up about the time I nearly got lost in the forest.

Now, it does take time for me to reach out to people first, at least usually not because of IC related like plotting calls. For me to come to you randomly and talk about anything not roleplaying related? Again, I can’t be sure if people are comfortable with talking about themselves and their lives, but the more they come to me first for random ooc conversations, the more comfortable I will be to reach out to them first for so frequently. Another thing I do want to mention that if I do or say anything wrong or it’s making you uncomfortable, please? Reach out to me? I mean, I get that people aren’t obliged to teach others and whatnot, so do what you gotta do it the block and follow buttons to avoid wasting more energy and time, but it would truly help a lot with me and anyone else who I am / will interact with in the future. Just be honest with me and share your thoughts to me— I will listen and take them in mind. I absolutely hate to make people uncomfortable without knowing and I would be extremely appreciative if I was told why so I can be more considerate in the future.

@goldenornstein: Do random asks out of the blue upset you at all?

Not at all! In fact, I encourage sending me random asks! It might take a bit for me to reply like anything else, but I LOVE random asks! Makes me go “!!!” whenever I see a number on that mail symbol thingy. So, send me random memes, random thoughts, straight up just slap the word, P.ikachu, in the ask and send it to me and I’ll be like, “me fucking too, pal” jsjdkdk

@seekesotsibteadmist: What are some things you worry about in terms of new people?

I know I apologize for rambling or taking a long time to reply, but in the end, people being impatient or easily annoyed by me or whatever are my least worries. What I should be more concerned about but am somehow not is if this person actually holds good intentions with a good mindset. Even though I had my generosity taken advantage of way too many times by way too many people who I thought were really good friends in real life and online, I still? Somehow don’t ever think about the possibility that this person is actually very shitty when I interact with them as much as I should, considering how absolutely chaotic this site is. Being cautious is highly draining for me personally as I literally just want to vibe, so…

Just know that I take anyone in who my mutuals haven’t mentioned on their rules page ( yet if I do happen to interact with your abusers or people you’re not uncomfortable with because they’re doing / saying predatory / harmful things? Lemme know and I’ll instantly get out of their hair— you don't even need to give me an explanation, just don’t hesitate to say their URL and I’ll do my shit ), but I will instantly kick them off of my household the moment I see or learn anything from them that is predatory or harmful to people. If you do / say something that I don’t like, like misgender my muses or keep godmodding my muses or whatever, I’ll let you know how I feel, but if you’re gonna be stalking people, being disrespectful / abusive to anyone based on their genders, sexualities, ethnicities, disabilities, etcetera, write / make headcanons based those disgusting things we all know what, and so forth? I will hardblock and never look back, and that’s that.

#long post cw #( because I dread that the read mores isn’t working but )#//#( really took me close to three hours to reply to all of these shdjsjd )#( thank you guys so much for sending these though! )#( this actually makes me feel better / less anxious )#( knowing that people will see what’s up with me especially with how TERRIBLE I am at replying so )#( bless y’all ;; )#( now I want to take a nap I am so hshdhJSJS @ myself )#࿐ ˚ . ‧✧̣̇‧⎛ ooc ⎠ : ❝ take me far from here . ❞

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for-a-flower · 5 years ago

Text

Show Time!

A spot light flashed on above the robot. "Welcome beauties, to today's quiz show!" announced the robot. He waved at a camera mounted on the opposite wall. Two disco balls lowered from the ceiling, casting colorful lights in the room.

“Uh . . . Mettaton?” said Alphys.

"Oh boy! I can already tell it's gonna be a great show!" said Mettaton. "Everyone give a big hand for our wonderful contestant!" The robot motioned toward Frisk then clapped. Confetti fluttered down from the ceiling.

Frisk smiled a little. "Uh, I've never played this kind of thing before," he said.

"No problem!" said Mettaton. "It's simple! There's only one rule. Answer correctly . . . or you die!" Frisk's smile faded. That was not something he wanted to hear. He was hoping to avoid death, not end up in a trap quiz show dependent his childish answers. On a single wheel that held his rectangular body, Mettaton rolled toward Alphys. Frisk’s heart was already pounding. "Let's start with an easy one!" said Mettaton.

Frisk nodded. "That's a good idea."

"Alright then! What is the prize for answering correctly?"

"Um . . . more questions?" said Frisk.

Mettaton threw a hand in the air with excitement as more confetti dropped from the ceiling. "Right! You got it! And here's your terrific prize!" He lifted a paper and read out the next question. "What is the king's full name?" Alphys was nervously fidgeting with her hands.

Frisk didn't have to think long. By now, he knew it well. "Asgore Dreemurr," he said. A strange tension filled him. The voice he had heard before seemed to be absent at the moment.

Mettaton clapped. "Oh, right again! But enough about you. Let's talk about me! What are robots made of? A: hopes and dreams, B: metal and magic, C: snips and snails, and D: sugar and spice."

Frisk took a second or two to think, making sure it wasn't a trick question. "Metal and magic?" he said. Alphys let out a relieved sigh as she stood near the robot, her gaze fixed on the human. Confetti scattered around Frisk after his third correct answer.

Alphys gave him a thumbs up. “Y-you’re doing great!” she said.

"Too easy for you, hu?" said Mettaton.

Frisk shook his head. "No, it's actually really hard to answer these,” he lied.

Mettaton laughed. "But the show must go on! Next question!" He flipped through the papers and handed one to Frisk. "You have thirty seconds!" Frisk grabbed the paper and almost fainted when he saw a paragraph of text. There was no way he could read this in thirty seconds. He couldn’t even pronounce half the words. His mind went blank. He would have better luck guessing but didn't want to reap the consequences of guessing wrong.

Frisk frantically skimmed over the words as Mettaton counted down out loud. This wasn’t fair. At ten seconds, Frisk glanced over four choices at the bottom of the page. All of them were large numbers. He was running on pure instinct, picked the largest number, and lowered the paper. "D?" he said. Mettaton paused the countdown at “two” and the human cringed. A painful silence followed. Frisk was sweating.

"Correct!" said Mettaton. Frisk let out a sigh and dropped the paper on the floor. "Next!" The robot lifted a jar of flies. "How many flies are in this jar? Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, or fifty-five?"

Frisk squinted pretending to make a quick estimate. "Fifty-two!" he guessed.

Mettaton lowered the jar. "Wrong!" Frisk's heart sank. Mettaton pointed a finger, striking the child with an electric bolt. Frisk yelled and staggered. Alphys was nearly biting her claws. The child trembled and collapsed, catching himself with both hands. He had expected the shock to kill him. Frisk slowly lifted his head and glanced at Alphys, who was sweating nervously. The child took a deep breath then stood again. What kind of horrible game was this? How was he supposed to answer questions like these?

"Screaming is against the rules," said Mettaton.

Frisk scowled. "What? But you said there's only one rule."

"Next question! This one is a memory game." Mettaton lifted up a paper to show Frisk an image. "What monster is this?" It was a frog-like face.

The child rolled his eyes. At least he knew this one. "Froggit!" he said.

“Ha! Wrong!" Mettaton shot another bolt at Frisk. The child tried not to scream and winced instead. It felt worse this time. Mettaton unfolded the paper to show Frisk the rest of the image. It was a picture of Mettaton wearing a shirt with a Froggit on it.

Frisk glared as Mettaton lowered his hand. “Stop it! This isn’t fair!” he shouted. Alphys waved at Frisk to get his attention. She signed letters with her fingers, a, b, c, and d. Frisk gave a slight nod. She was trying to help him, and he was grateful.

"Alright then! Here's a simple one!" The robot lifted a tablet device on which his name appeared. "How many letters are in the name, Mettaton?" Frisk was about to give an answer when more n's started typing across the screen at the end of the name and four choices appeared. The human flashed a glace toward Alphys. She was making a 'c' with her hand.

"C!" Frisk said.

Mettaton gasped and tossed the tablet into the wall behind him. "Oh! Correct!" More confetti fell from the roof as the robot clapped. "Time to break out the big one," he said. He shuffled through his papers to the next question. "Here we are. In the dating simulation video game Mew Mew Kissy Cutie, what is Mew Mew's favorite food?" Frisk glanced at Alphys again.

She gasped then raised her right hand and waved it over her head. "Oh! Oh! I know this one! It's snail ice cream!" she said. "In the fourth chapter, everyone goes to the beach, and she buys ice cream for all of her friends, but it's snail flavor, and she's the only one who wants it!" Alphys excitedly jumped up and down. "It's one of my favorite parts of the game because it's actually a very powerful message about . . ." She slowed when she realized Frisk and Mettaton were both staring at her. "Friendship," she finished. Her hand still in the air, she glanced at Mettaton.

The robot sighed. "Alphys, Alphys, Alphys . . ." he said. "You aren't helping our contestant, are you?" Alphys lowered her hand and shook her head with a nervous grin. "You should have told me," said Mettaton. "I'll ask a question you'll be sure to know the answer to." Alphys covered her mouth with wide eyes. Mettaton faced Frisk again. "Who does Dr. Alphys have a crush on?"

Frisk paused. How was he supposed to know? He looked at the scientist, who was shaking her head as if begging him not to respond. "You have four choices!" said Mettaton. "Undyne, Asgore, yourself, or . . . you don't know."

Frisk shrugged. "I don't know. I hardly know her," he said. Alphys sighed with relief.

"Well! At least you're honest, darling!" said Mettaton. "Technically, you're right! She has a crush on no one, so there's not much to know. Sure, she likes a few monsters out there but she's never had the guts to talk to them in person, much less get into a deeper conversation." Alphys’ gaze drifted to the floor. "So really . . . it's impossible for anyone to know who she likes or for how long. Anyway, there's no point for this to continue," said Mettaton. "With Dr. Alphys helping you, the show has no dramatic tension!” His dull tone switched back to one of enthusiasm. “But this was just the pilot episode! Next up, more drama, more action, more bloodshed!" Mettaton waved and turned to leave. "Until next time, darlings!" He made his exit through the hole in the wall. The lights in the lab flashed on. Frisk rubbed his head then approached Alphys.

She grinned. "Well, that was certainly something," she said.

Frisk nodded. "Yeah.”

"That last question . . . he wasn't supposed to ask that one," she said.

"You should try to meet more people though," said Frisk.

"Well . . . we're going to be leaving the underground soon, right? So I don't have to worry about that." Frisk stared. Alphys glanced away. "No, I know what you mean. You’re right." She looked at the human again. "So . . . on to Hotland?"

Frisk nodded. "Yep." He walked to the back exit of the lab.

"Wait!" Frisk stopped and turned around. Alphys rushed forward, taking a phone from a pocket of her white coat. "Let me give you my phone number! Then if you need help, I could . . ." Frisk took out the phone from Toriel. Alphys gasped when she saw it. "Where did you get that phone!? It's ancient!"

The little human paused to look at it. "Uh . . ."

Alphys grabbed the phone to examine it. "It doesn't even have texting." She glanced up at Frisk, the phone held between her claws. "Wait a second, please." Before Frisk could protest, the scientist rushed through an open doorway on the right. The human moved to follow just as a series of bangs and thuds echoed from the room. He rushed to the doorway just Alphys ran back out. She almost bumped into him. She smiled and handed the phone back. "Here, I upgraded it for you!" said Alphys.

Frisk looked it over. It was quite different now. "Thanks," he said.

"It can do texting, store items, it's got a key chain . . . I even signed you up for the underground's number one social network! Now we're officially friends!" Alphys laughed a bit. Frisk stared at the phone in his hands. His thoughts had gone back to Toriel despite his efforts. Alphys awkwardly glanced away. Frisk blinked and looked up suddenly when he realized she had stopped talking. "I'm . . . going to the bathroom," she said. Alphys rushed back to the door through which she had come and shut it behind her. Frisk sighed and put the phone in his pocket. Before heading out, he stopped by Alphys' fridge. It was full of soda and instant noodles. Frisk took a pack of noodles in case he got hungry. He walked to the back exit and stepped through another automatic door.

Full Chapter List

#undertale #undertale fanfiction #Hotland #frisk #mettaton #alphys #part three #frisky business #foraflower au

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innuendostudios · 6 years ago

Video

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We’re talking about adventure games again! Or, more accurately, we’re speaking in the context of adventure games about why some genres are hard to define, different ways of thinking about genre, and what genre is even for.

If you'd like to see more work like this, please back me on Patreon! Transcript below the cut.

Hi! Welcome back to Who Shot Guybrush Threepwood? Meditations on the life, death, and rebirth of the adventure game.

Adventure game.

Ad. Ven. Ture. Game.

What kind of name is that, “adventure game”? It’s an atypical way of categorizing video games, I’ll say that much. We usually give game genres titles like "first-person shooter," "real time strategy," “turn-based role-playing game.” Real nuts-and-bolts kinda stuff. Meanwhile, "adventure" seemingly belongs on a turnstyle of airport paperbacks, in between "mystery" and "romance." When they slap that word on a game box, what is it supposed to communicate to us?

Other one-word genres, I can see how they get their name. A horror game is horrifying, a fighting game earns its title. But how is exploring an empty, suburban house an adventure? Why is exploring a universe not?

When I started this series, I offered up the rough-and-tumble definition of adventure game, “puzzles and plots,” and said maybe we’ll come up with a better definition later. That was… four years ago. Sorry about that. I know it’s a little late, and a lot has changed, but I did promise. So we’re gonna do it.

Today’s question is: What makes an adventure game an adventure game?

This is a tricky sort of question to ask, because, upon asking, we might stumble down the highway to “what makes an adventure novel an adventure novel?”, “what makes a rail shooter not an RPG?”, and that road inevitably terminates with “what even is genre?”, the answer to which is a bit beyond the scope of a YouTube video essay… or, it would be on anyone else’s channel, but this is Innuendo Studios. We’ll take the long road.

Welcome to Who Shot Guybrush Threepwood? A philosophical interrogation into the meaning of genre in and beyond the gaming idiom, with the adventure game as our guide.

***

The historical perspective reveals only so much, but it is a place to begin.

If you don’t know the story, in 1976, Will Crowther released Colossal Cave Adventure, a text-based story game set in an underground land loosely based on a real Kentucky cave system. The game would describe what was happening in a given location, and players would type simple commands to perform tasks and progress the narrative, usually a verb linked to a noun like a book that writes itself and responds to directives. This was the first of what we’ve come to call “interactive fiction.”

Crowther’s game - often abbreviated, simply, Adventure - inspired a number similar titles, most famously Zork, which was called an “adventure game” for the same reason Rise of the Triad was called a “Doom clone” - because they were more or less mechanically identical to the games they descended from. This is where the genre gets its title.

But the evolution from then to now has been oddly zero-sum, every addition a subtraction. As more and more adventure games came out, the text descriptions were eventually replaced with graphics, still images replaced with animations, the parser replaced with a verb list, and the keyboard itself replaced with a mouse. In the progression of Zork to Mystery House to King’s Quest to Maniac Mansion to Monkey Island, you can see how each link in the chain is a logical progression from the game preceding and into the one that follows. But you end up with a genre that began comprised entirely of words on a screen but that, by the early 90’s, typically possessed but did not, strictly speaking, require language. There is no question wordless experiences like Dropsy and Kairo are direct descendents of Monkey Island and Myst; that they are therefore in the same genre as Wishbringer, despite zero obvious mechanical overlap, is, for a medium that typically names its genres after their mechanics… weird.

(Also, for anyone confused: Nintendo used to delineate games that explored a continuous world from games that leapt across a series of discrete levels by calling the latter “platformers” and the former “adventures,” and an earlier game in that model was the Atari game Adventure, which was, itself, a graphical adaptation of the Crowther original, so what 90’s kids think of when they hear “a game in the style of Adventure” depends on whether they played on computer or console, but that lineage eventually embraced the even fuzzier “action-adventure” and is not what we’re here to discuss.)

So the connection between the genre’s beginnings and its current incarnation is less mechanical than philosophical. Spiritual, even. Something connects this to this, and we’re here to pin down what.

Now, you may be readying to say, “Ian, it’s clear the determinant of what is or isn’t an adventure game is pure association and there is no underlying logic, you don’t need to think this hard about everything,” which, ha ha, you must be new here. I would counter that, as soon as a genre has a name, people will (not entirely on purpose) start placing parameters around what they consider part of that genre. Even if it’s just association, there is some method to which associations matter and which ones don’t. So shush, we’re trying to have a conversation.

***

Another one-word genre named after a philosophical connection to a single game is the roguelike, christened after 1980’s Rogue. And, in 2008, members of the International Roguelike Development Conference in Berlin set about trying to define the genre. (I promise I’m not just going to summarize that one episode of Game Maker’s Toolkit.) Attendees began with a corpus of five games that, despite not yet having an agreed-upon definition, were, unequivocally, roguelikes, an attitude roughly analogous with the Supreme Court’s classification of pornography: “even if I can’t define it, I know it when I see it.” And, from these five games, they attempted to deduce what makes a roguelike a roguelike.

So perhaps we can follow their example. We’ll take a corpus of five games and see what they have in common. How about The Secret of Monkey Island, Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers, Myst, Beneath a Steel Sky, and Trinity? All five visually and mechanically dissimilar - three third-person and two-dimensional, one first-person and three-dimensional, and one second-person and made of text (no-dimensional?) - yet no one would dispute they’re all adventure games.

Okay! We can see a lot of common features: dialogue trees, inventory, fetch quests. But here’s the rub: to define the genre by the first two would be to leave out Myst, and defining it by the third would leave out Gabriel Knight, and, honestly, any one of these would exclude LOOM, which I think anyone who’s played one would look at and say, “I know an adventure game when I see one.”

For the sake of inclusivity, we could go broad, as I did with my “puzzles and plots,” and, while this does include everything on our list, it also, unavoidably, includes games that provoke the wrong reaction, like Portal - “I know a puzzle-shooter when I see one” - and Inside - “I know a puzzle-platformer when I see one.” Trying to draw a line around everything that is an adventure game while excluding everything that is not is no easy feat.

The best adventure game definitions are written in a kind of legalese; Andrew Plotkin and Clara Fernandez-Vara have both tackled this, I would say, quite well, with a lot of qualifications and a number of additional paragraphs that specify what counts as “unique results” and “object manipulation.” It takes a lot of words! And no disrespect - I can’t have an opinion in less than twenty minutes anymore - but I can’t help thinking we could go about this a different way.

What the Berliners cooked up in 2008 was, instead of a lengthily-worded definition, a list of high- and low-value factors a game may have. The absence of any one was not disqualifying, but the more it could lay claim to the more a game was… Rogue-like. These were features that could exist in any game, in any genre, but when they clustered together the Berliners drew a circle around them and say, “the roguelike is somewhere in here.”

A central idea here is that the borders are porous. If we apply this thinking to the adventure game, we could say that Inside and Portal are not lacking in adventure-ish gameplay; they simply have too low a concentration of it to be recognized as one.

This is genre not as a binary, but as a pattern of behavior.

***

So, to unpack that a little, I’m going to use an allegory, and, before I do, I want you to know: I’m sorry.

In 2014, professor and lecturer Dr. Marianna Ritchey, as a thought experiment demonstrating the socratic method (I’m sorry), hypothesized a conversation between Socrates and Euthyphro (I’m sorry) in which Socrates posed the internet’s second-favorite argument: is a hotdog a sandwich? (I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We’re doing sandwich discourse.)

Ritchey imagined Socrates asking Euthyphro to define “sandwich,” and sparking the dialectic in which Euthyphro offers up increasingly-specific definitions of “sandwich” and Socrates challenges each one with something non-sandwich that would necessarily fall under that definition: is a hotdog a sandwich? is a taco a sandwich? are three slices of bread a sandwich?

Now, in this scenario, Socrates is - as is his wont - being a bit of a tool. Euthyphro does all the work of coming up with these long, legalistic definitions and, with one, single exception, Socrates sends him back to square one. But Socrates is making a point, (or, rather, Ritchey is): can we really claim to know what a sandwich is, if we can’t explain why it’s a sandwich? Perhaps we should admit the limits of our common sense. Perhaps we should embrace the inherent uncertainty of knowledge.

Or perhaps we could tell Socrates to stop having flame wars and think like a Berliner.

Does “sandwich vs. not-sandwich” have to be a binary? Could we not argue that a sandwich has many qualities, few of them critical, but a plurality of which will increase a thing’s sandwichness? Are there many pathways to sandwichness, a certain Platonic ideal of “sandwich” that can be approximated in a variety of ways? What if the experience of “sandwich” can be evoked so strongly by one factor that some leeway is granted with others? What if many factors are present, but none quite so strongly that it generates the expected sensation? The question then becomes which factors contribute most to that experience, and how much slack can be granted on one axis provided another is rock solid.

A sandwich is not merely an object. It is a set of flavors, textures, sensations, and cultural signifiers. We so often try to define objects by the properties they possess and not by the experience they generate. But a sandwich does not exist solely on the plate, but also in the mouth, and in the mind.

Let us entertain that it’s fair to say a difference between a chip butty and a hotdog is that one feels like a sandwich and one does not.

***

In 2012, the internet was besotted with its fourth favorite argument: “Is Dear Esther a video game? You know, like really, is it, though?” And David Shute, designer of Small Worlds, a micro-exploration platformer (and maaaaaaaaybe adventure game?), countered this question with a blog post: “Are Videogames [sic] Games?”

Shute invoked the philosophical concept of qualia. A quale is a characteristic, an irreducible somethingness that a thing possesses, very hard to put into words but, once experienced, will be instantly recognizable when it is experienced again. Qualia are what allow us to, having seen a car, recognize other cars when we see them and not confuse them with motorcycles, even if we haven’t sat down to write a definition for either. And if we did try to formalize the distinction - say, “a car has four wheels and fully encloses the operator” - our Socrates might pop in to say, “Well then, friend, is this not a car? Is this not a car?” To which Shute - and, by extension, we - might comment that Socrates is, once again, being a buttface.

“If I remove the wheels from a car, then it no longer provides the basic fundamental functionality I’d expect a car to have. But it’s still a car – Its carness requires some qualification, admittedly, but it hasn’t suddenly become something else, and we don’t need to define a new category of objects for ‘things that are just like cars but can’t be driven.’”

What’s special about qualia is that they’re highly subjective and yet shockingly universal. We wouldn’t be able to function if we needed a three paragraph definition just to know what a car is. Get anywhere on Route 128?, forget about it. These arguments over the definition of “game” or “sandwich” ask us to pretend we don’t recognize what we recognize. Socrates’ whole rhetorical strategy is pretending to believe pizza is a sandwich. And anyone who doesn’t care about gatekeeping their hobby will see Dear Esther among other first-person, 3D, computer experiences and know instantly that they fall under the same umbrella. Certainly putative not-game Dear Esther has more in common with yes-game Half-Life 2 than Half-Life 2 has with, for instance, chess.

Shute goes on, “To me, it’s obvious that Dear Esther is a videogame, because it feels like one. [W]hen I play Dear Esther I’m experiencing and inhabiting that world in exactly the same way I experience and inhabit any videogame world – it has an essential videogameness that’s clearly distinct from the way I experience an architectural simulation, or a DVD menu, or a powerpoint slideshow. I might struggle to explain the distinction between them in words, or construct a diagram that neatly places everything in strict categories, but the distinction is nonetheless clear.”

This is the move from plate to mouth. If you’re trying to define the adventure game and you’re talking only about the game’s features and not what it feels like to inhabit that world, you’re not actually talking about genre.

***

So if we want to locate this adventure experience, and we agree that it can, theoretically, appear in any game, we might look for it where it stands out from the background: in an action game. Let’s see if we can find it in Uncharted. It’s a good touchstone because we know the adventure experience is about narrative gameplay, and Uncharted has always been about recreating Indiana Jones as a video game; converting narrative into gameplay.

When attempting such a conversion, a central question designers ask is, “What are my verbs?” Nathan Drake’s gotta do something in these games, so we look to the source material for inspiration. A good video game verb is something simple and repeatable, easy to map to a face button, and Indiana Jones has them in abundance: punch, shoot, run, jump, climb, swing, take cover. All simple and repeatable; you can get a lot of gameplay out of those.

But that’s not all there is to Indiana Jones, is there? There’s also… well, colonialism, but turns out that translates pretty easily! But... Indy rather famously solves ancient riddles. And he cleverly escapes certain death, and has tense conversations with estranged family members, and finds dramatic solutions to unsolvable problems. And none of these are simple and repeatable; in fact, they’re dramatic because they’re unique, and because they’re complex. And Uncharted renders all of these sequences the same way: with a button remap.

When Drake talks to his long-lost brother, or discovers the existence of Libertalia, his jumpy-shooty buttons turn into a completely different set of mechanics for just this sequence, and then go back to being jumpy-shooty. Where, typically, you have a narrative tailored around a certain set of core mechanics, here, the mechanics tailor themselves around a certain narrative experience. And each of these narrative experiences tailors the mechanics differently.

What if we made a whole genre out of that?

Adventure games are the haven for all the misfit bits of drama that don’t convert easily into traditional gameplay. In the old games, you’d never ask “what are my verbs,” because they were at the bottom of the screen. Or, if it was a parser game, your list of possible verbs was as broad as the English language; if a designer wanted to, they could, technically, have every valid action in the game involve its own, unique verb. Rather than specialized, the mechanical space of possibility is broad, the verbs open-ended, even vague, meaning different things in different contexts. The idea is that any dramatic beat can be rendered in gameplay provided you can express it with a simple sentence: push statue, talk to Henry, use sword on rope. Nathan Drake shoots upwards of 2000 people in a single game, but he’s not going to solve 2000 ancient riddles, and he shouldn’t. What makes ancient riddles interesting is you’re not going to come across very many in your life. So maybe the mechanics should be as unique as the event itself. And maybe discovering what this event’s unique mechanics are is part of the gameplay.

The best word we have for these moments is “puzzle.”

Adventure games aren’t named after their core mechanics because, by design, adventure games don’t have core mechanics. Puzzles have mechanics, learning them is the game, and they can be whatever you can imagine. Which is not to say they will be; many games over-rely on inventory and jumping peg puzzles. Even in a near-infinite space of possibility, there are paths of least resistance. But many adventure games have neither, and many are built around single mechanics that don’t appear in any other games.

An adventure game puzzle isn’t simply a thing you do to be rewarded with more plot, it is an answer to the game’s repeated question: what happens next? It was literally the prompt in many versions of Colossal Cave. How did The Stranger find the linking book that took them to Channelwood? How did Robert Cath defuse the bomb on the Orient Express? How did Manny Calavera find the florist in the sewers of El Marrow? It is story told through gameplay, and gameplay built for telling stories.

So I would amend my prior definition, “adventure games are about puzzles and plots,” to “adventure games are about puzzles as plots.”

Beyond that, if you want to know what understand the adventure game experience, you may just have to play one (I suggest Full Throttle).

***

Rick Altman argues we too often define genres by their building blocks, and not what gets built out of them. If you want to write science fiction, you have many components to work with: spaceships, time travel, nanomachines. You can make sci-fi out of that. But what if you take the component parts of science fiction and build… a breakup story? Or a tragicomic war novel? Is it still sci-fi? Let me put it to you this way: if somebody asks you to recommend some science fiction to them, and you say "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," how likely are they to say, "yes, this is exactly what I was asking for"?

Blade Runner is what happens when you use science fiction to build film noir. Dark City is what happens when you use film noir to build science fiction. So what defines a genre, the bricks, or the blueprint? Any meaningful discussion should account for both.

Adventure games are mechanically agnostic, all blueprint. You can build one out of almost anything. We took the long road because the ways we’re used to thinking about genre were insufficient.

***

So: from a few steps back, the adventure game isn’t even that weird. Game genres are usually named after their mechanics, and a small handful are left in the cold by that convention. This would have been a much shorter conversation if not for the fact that video games run on a completely different set of rules from every other medium that has genres.

...but do they, though?

What actually is genre for?

Well, Samuel R. Delany - yes! yes, I’m still talking about this guy - describes genre not as a list of ingredients but a recipe. Imagine for me that you’ve just read the following four words: “the horizon does flips.” If this is just a, for lack of a better word, “normal” story - not genre fiction - that’s gotta be some kind of metaphor, maybe for the protagonist feeling dizzy, or when the drugs start to hit. Whatever it is, it can’t be literal; the earth and sky do not change places in naturalistic fiction.

But they can in fantasy. Certainly stranger things have happened. And they can in science fiction, but by a different set of rules: now there’s a “why.” It’s gotta be something to do with gravity or the warping of space; even if the story doesn’t explain it, it has to convince you, within a certain suspension of disbelief, that such a thing is happening in our universe. Whatever it is, it’s not magic.

These four words can mean many things. Genre informs you which of the many possible interpretations is the correct one. (For what it’s worth, they’re Barenaked Ladies lyrics about being in a car crash.) The label “science fiction” isn’t there to tell you whether a story has rayguns, it’s there so you know which mechanism of interpretation you should employ.

Genre not what’s in the book. It’s how you read the book.

The opening chapters of a mystery novel may be, by the standards of any other genre, excruciatingly dull. A lot of descriptions of scenery and a dozen characters introducing themselves. But, because you know it’s a mystery, these first pages are suffused with portent, even dread, because you know someone’s probably gonna die. And some of these mundane details are just that, but some of them are clues as to who committed a crime that hasn’t even happened yet. You are alert where you would otherwise be bored. And you know to watch for clues, because you know you’re reading a mystery. Those are the genre’s mechanics.

Genre dictates the attention to be paid.

Words, sounds, and images don’t mean things on their own. They have to be interpreted. If part of genre is the audience’s experience, it’s an experience that audience co-creates, and it needs clues as to how. I’ve said before that all communication is collaborative. Here’s what results from that: all art is interactive.

Video games are not unique in this regard, they are simply at the far end of a spectrum. But if the purpose of genre is to calibrate the audience into creating the correct experience, perhaps it makes sense that the most interactive medium would name its genres after what the player is doing.

So the label “adventure game” is, to the best of its ability, doing the same thing as “adventure novel,” and as “first-person shooter,” if, perhaps, a bit inelegantly. There may be better ways to straddle all these lines, but the shorthand reference to an old text game gets the job done.

So that’s the end of our journey. I really hope we can do this again, and preferably not in another four years, but we’ll see how thing shake out. Regardless, I’m glad you were with me, and I’ll see you in the next one. It’s been an adventure.

#video essay #adventure games #who shot guybrush threepwood

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feral-anarchy · 6 years ago

Text

The Etiquette of Roleplay

I've been working on this for a little while and i’m pleased with how its come out. These are the standard rules that I play by and I hope that others will read and learn from it as well to ensure that your experiences are just as enjoyable for not only yourself, but for those your interacting with too.

Shoutout to @claudia-talks for inspiring me to do this with your super flattering message :D

Here we go:

This is probably the most important part- Be grateful that your getting a reply at all because if your thread participant/s are too slow for your liking, please consider that they may have real life, other duties, or other threads to reply to, too. Your thread may be plot-centric to your character, but not so plot-centric to their character. If a thread is progressing too slowly for your liking, you can always place it on hold or it and try again later or try it again with a different character or even suggest you drop your current thread for another one.

But please bare in mind that sending a bunch of thread starters may just overwhelm the person your trying to play with, communication with the Mun behind the scenes in DM is always appreciated if not darn near a mandatory.

Give Action: Note your character’s quirks, movements, body language, gestures, and so forth. Don’t overload your posts with action. Do remember that if your post is all thought and speech, there’s very little for the other writer to respond to. If you throw in a little bit of action into each roleplaying post, it makes the thread that much more interesting!

Respond To Action: If the other character made a move, action, or betrayed something in their body language (and your character was likely to notice), do respond! If their character stepped forward in their roleplaying post, perhaps your character steps backwards. Or — doesn’t, depending on the interaction. Make sure you’re not skipping over anyone else’s action that requires response, either — such as a handshake, high five, etc.

Dont Forget The Scenery: Especially in long threads, the scenery is sometimes neglected. If the characters are standing outside in a forest talking for hours, maybe the sun starts to set and they have to begin making their way home. This can change the flavor of the thread from simple idle chat to a real adventure — and a great way for two characters to bond. If the characters are sitting in the main camp tent late at night, perhaps a few NPCs join them for drinks and dancing?

Show Dont Tell: This is important in roleplaying and writing. Rather than telling your audience flat out how your character feels, you should show them instead.

So in short: What is your character doing with their hands/feet/body/other? Where are they? Outside, inside, by a fire, by a window, lounging with their feet up on someone elses head? What time is it? Is it dark or light? Are you underwater or in space?

Is your character cold? Perhaps they are hot? Maybe they cant feel anything, whats that like? Give the other person something to go off on, something to react to.

The glory is in the details, bulk up your posts- its not hard and can make for a much more enjoyable experience for everyone involved.

Lame: “Azazel felt awful for what he had done.”

Better: “Azazel’s ears drooped and his eyes fell to the ground, unable to look at the other canine. The corners of his lips drooped in the beginnings of a frown, and when he opened his mouth to speak, he found shame had taken the words out of him.”

Even NSFW material can be SFW safe if you add in the correct details and neglect the ‘ehem’ finer points. Remember: Body check, surrounding check, words. It goes back to the above list; action, scenery, show dont tell.

Try not to respond to every bit of speech. Give non-verbal responses — nods, stares, shakes of the heads, funny looks, waves of the hand, thumbs up, smiles, grins, shrugs, crossing of the arms, and so forth. This simplifies the thread and can help prevent awkward speech patterns between roleplaying characters.

Try not to overthink. Don’t immerse yourself completely in the character’s head. It’s great that she’s thinking of her dead parents in this somber moment, but it gives the other roleplayer very little to reply to. Make sure your post doesn’t consist solely of thought — it’s verydifficult to reply to.

Try not to overdo the action, either. Don’t over-stuff with action, changes, and alterations. A slight change of scenery, like the sun beginning to set, is great. A major shift — such as a cliffside cave beginning to flood — may not be so appreciated by the other rpger(s).

Don’t be over-controlling. It’s important not to entirely direct the course and flow of a thread. AKA God-Moding. Allow the other player to make some decisions, even if it’s an unplotted thread—this is easily done by leaving open-ended replies. For example, if two wolves are hunting a moose, the first character’s reply could detail their approach, the second could detail the selection of suitable prey, the third could detail the actual attack, so on and so forth. Each roleplayer gets to dictate a different part of the interaction and advance the storyline a little; it’s more fun for everyone this way.

The sandwich method is a common strategy you can use to construct paragraphs within a paper and to prepare the elements of a particular paragraph. Clarity and unity are keys to well-constructed paragraphs. The sandwich method helps you frame a paragraph with introduction and conclusion statements that provide the "bun" for key points within the "meat/veggies" of the paragraph.

The sandwich method is my absolute favorite and you can see me implementing it on various threads if you happen to follow me.

I strongly believe that if your going to make a post, you might as well make something worth the other person’s time. A give and take, if you will.

Not only does the sandwich method help me bulk up a post, but it offers something for the next person replying to go off of so that they dont feel as if they are starting an entire thread all over in their reply.

Basics

The sandwich method essentially uses a sandwich as a metaphor for the structure of a typical paragraph. The opening statement provides direction for the paragraph and mirrors the top bun of a sandwich. The middle, support statements provide details and mirror the meat and ingredients within the sandwich. A closing statement summarizes or ties up the content within the paragraph in the same way the bottom bun holds the sandwich together.

Top Bun -- Opening

The opening statement is a critical launching point for a distinct, clear paragraph. Each paragraph within a paper should touch on one key point. The opening is a general statement that frames the subject of the paragraph. In a paper outlining top strategies to find a job, you might start a paragraph on networking with the sentence “Carl’s sandwiches are the best sandwiches in all of New York." This statement introduces the topic of sandwiches and leaves the reader asking "Why?"

The Meat -- Detail Statements

The meat of the paragraph is made up of supporting, evidential or detail statements that answer the reader's question about the topic sentence. They clarify or give evidence to support the main point. In supporting the networking topic statement, you could have a second sentence stating "Carl’s has won multiple awards for best sandwich in the national championship sandwich making competitions." A third sentence could build on this with "Not to mention ive been coming here for years and I absolutely love them so they have my stamp of approval." Both of these sentences speak to the reader's "Why?" question.

Bottom Bun -- Conclusion

Interestingly, a concluding statement in a paragraph is considered optional, though a missing bottom bun on a sandwich would likely make a mess. In the conventional sandwich paragraph, the last sentence wraps up the paragraph's topic or summarizes its key points. If you have an especially short paragraph with just two to four sentences, a conclusion isn't necessary. In a typical paragraph with five to seven statements, it makes more sense. In the sandwich example, your bottom bun statement could say "While you can look up the awards and take my word for it, your always welcome to try them out yourself and make your own conclusion- here, lets go grab some for lunch."

Once again, please remember that we are all people- we have lives and cannot always be here to play. Do not send threats or hate or hurtful messages. Communication behind the scenes with any and all Muns you play with is key to creating a wonderful story together that will bring both of you joy- Thats why we do it. No one is getting paid for this (and if you are lucky you and where do I sign up?)

Now go forth and PLAY! :D

#How to roleplay #rpg #tips and tricks #sandwich method #how to write #Feral's writing method #etiquette

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imuybemovoko · 5 years ago

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So I just read an article that talked about brainwashing techniques employed in POW camps in North Korea. (It’s linked here.)

I’m inclined to take this article with a slight grain of salt, but there’s something very eerily familiar about the ten steps it lists for brainwashing. It reminds me quite a damn bit of the way your more fundamentalist churches will tell you to share the gospel. I’m going to take a quick run through them and show what I mean. For reasons I’ll explain as “about half shitty site design and about half trauma” I’m having a hell of a time finding specific examples of what I’m talking about here because it involves navigating confusingly executed ministry websites crammed with the exact shit that spent a childhood and five more recent years breaking me. For that reason I’ll make a shitty gospel tract in paint.net with a slide or two to illustrate each point. I’ll probably be annoyingly close to the real thing. Trigger warning here. If this is going to bring something up that you’re not ready to deal with, please do not read any further.

With that in mind, what would our shitty gospel tract be without some kind of eye-catching title? I’ll take more of a Jack Chick kind of approach to formatting here; Ray Comfort has also been known to make terrible comics following a vaguely similar pattern and typically with far less diverse plots. (Hate-reading Chick tracts is honestly oddly fun sometimes because of the variety and the absolute over-the-top fearmongering about entirely innocent aspects of life and culture.) I’m shooting for a bit of parody energy, so for a title let’s go with:

God’s Blast Furnace Because that seems like the exact kind of cursed energy we should be going for here. I’ll go for a 2x1 aspect ratio here because that also seems pretty typical.

Chick tracts like... usually include people terrified by either God or the flames of hell. I chose the latter. The idea is as much fear factor as you can shove into one tiny page. If you think I’m exaggerating, prepare to be disappointed. Ray Comfort and a lot of campus ministry resources take a less... “in your face” approach to the hellfire bit, but they’ll make damn sure to mention it and how much it’s going to suck to be burned forever. But this is a parody, so if it’s somehow possible to be more over the top than Chick, that’s the goal here.

1. Assault on identity. In most evangelism guides I remember, one of the first things you’re supposed to mention is that God created the earth and humans and wants us to worship him. Finding specific examples would be a bit of a mindfuck for me because this shit is honestly kinda triggering, but they have a strong tendency towards heavily focusing this in the beginning of their approach. A simple scroll through Chick.com’s tract inventory or, if you can find it, this kind of resource on other sites will show that this assault on identity is extremely important in their approach. Since our parody tract is going to include all of these steps (this is a common but far from universal approach; Ray Comfort tends to include them all but Chick will hyperfocus one or two in every piece of literature), let’s make the first page. The idea here is that they’re saying “you are not who you think you are”. If someone tries to tell you that you’re created by a god rather than a product of evolution, this is their true message. They’ll even mask-off this one, saying “these people think they’re accidental descendants of apes, they’re denying that they were created by God”. So for our parody, let’s do exactly that. I’ll introduce two characters, one Christian and one dreaded “other”, and I won’t bother giving them names; in the real industry, approaches vary. Chick typically gives names, Comfort typically doesn’t. They also tend to grossly caricature unbelievers, so I’ll do that too. I’m going for the “tiny graphic novel” approach here, so I’ll make a panel.

Notice how 1. the unbelievers are presented as strawmen, 2. the Christian is presented as totally normal and even wholesome, 3. he presents this like it’s a self-evident truth, and 4. the response by he unbelievers is angry denial. This is very common and based on prevailing perspectives about unbelievers. You’ll notice an approach quite like this in movies like God’s Not Dead as well, where they make a caricature of Christians that’s way tamer than they present in real life (the kid in God’s Not Dead is super vanilla and a lot of Christians are at best passive-aggressive about it) and a caricature of unbelievers, particularly atheists (they have the most problem with atheists for some reason) that’s straight up aggressive and hostile. In Chick’s tracts, sometimes they wear shirts not that different from the shittily-drawn ones I put on these two unbelievers. I also tried to give the one a mohawk, though the perspective probably isn’t that good.

Some literature you’ll find in the wild takes a much more detailed approach to this, attacking established scientific facts such as evolution, but others simply present the creation narrative or something akin to it as self-evident and move on. I’ll take the second approach here to save space. Thus, having our unbelievers respond with “how dare you” fits even better because there’s a strong tendency for Christians to think they’re challenging the entire worldview of unbelievers (again, particularly atheists) by even presenting this “fact”. This sets us up perfectly for point 2.

2. Guilt. In the evangelical view, and in these evangelism resources online, a combination of guilt and fear is very important. Point 2 of the ten in the article is summed up as “you are bad” in the paragraph detailing it; in these forms of Christianity, and very strongly in evangelism techniques, this should be summed up more like “not only are you bad, but the consequences for that are going to be unending and extreme when you die”. This is the strength of the hell narrative in a sentence. On someone who believes it or can be led to believe it, the impact is profoundly damaging. In every “properly-done” evangelism, it is included. Jack Chick goes fucking mental with this narrative and it features in most of his work with vivid pictures of fearful people being yeeted into the flames after pleading for their lives. Ray Comfort also hammers this point fairly hard, framing it as a natural consequence of a life not lived for Jesus and using a metaphor likening death to a long fall and his message to a parachute. In our tract let’s take a mixed approach. Our Christian will yoink Comfort’s parachute metaphor and, much later, we’ll show one of our unbelievers being Chicked. More on that later.

I’ve started to establish a dichotomy of a type that Chick often uses here where he shows one person getting saved and one getting yeeted into hellfire. “lol sex is epic” is going to dig his heels in like the scary atheist and “there is no god” is going to have his world absolutely rocked by this news. Also, a common caricature is that unbelievers haven’t heard the hellfire bit before. "there is no god” gets this treatment while “lol sex is epic” digs in and gets mad. (It seems to me that the reader is likely meant to find this fitting because he’s the one with the mohawk.) Chick might draw shadowy demons around “lol sex is epic” here, but he doesn’t in every case. Also, note that I’ve brought our title, “God’s blast furnace”, into it here. “there is no god” is walking right into step 3 here.

3. Self-betrayal. The trick here is to get you to agree that you’re bad. You don’t necessarily have to agree to the hellfire thing; Comfort doesn’t hit that very hard during this phase of a conversation. His approach, which I’ll more or less emulate here, is to get the person to admit that they’ve lied about anything at all, stolen anything at all, or had any lustful thought at all (and, with the latter, referencing Matthew 5:28). Most humans have done at least two of these things at least once (some don’t steal and some are asexual, and there’s most likely overlap, but I feel confident in saying literally everyone lies at least about minor things from time to time), so once he has the confession, Comfort will catastrophise it with a line like “ok so that makes you a lying thieving adulterer in heart” and then pressure the person into answering whether a “just God” will call them innocent or guilty based on this standard. Many people say “guilty” here, as desired. (He paints the ones who say “innocent” or question the standard as dishonest when he makes videos of this.) With guilt thus established, he then asks whether this means a person goes to heaven or to hell. Again, in a typical conversation, the other person answers that this means hell. Ray has triumphed in this moment, because whether he says it or not, the connection is made in the person’s mind that as one guilty of these “sins”, they are bad and deserving of hellfire. So, for our tract, let’s have “there is no god” ask some questions and learn just how “dire” this is from our Christian, a la Ray Comfort.

“there is no god” betrays himself; “lol sex is epic” stays mad.

In evangelism, at least in Ray Comfort’s approach, step 3 most often comes in tandem with a lite version of the compulsion to confession, step 6. I’ve condensed this process a bit to fit it into a single panel. “there is no god” now proceeds into step 4.

4. Breaking point. “there is no god” is now in the trap. This has him questioning everything about himself, his life, and the world. I’ll change his facial expression for the next few panels to illustrate the change. In real life, it takes a lot of repetition, scare tactics and/or other abuse, application during childhood or a moment of great weakness, or a combination of more than one of these to get this done. Since these tracts are a caricature of reality, this is always shown as a fast process. The fast process is also seen as normative because of the belief that God is self-evident, but I am aware of almost no Christians who had this kind of shift because of a single conversation. To my knowledge, this is a months- to years-long process even in most cases of childhood indoctrination. In any case, the victim reaches a point where their view of the world has begun to shatter around them. Or, as the article puts it, asking “who am I, where am I, what am I supposed to do?” We’ll have “there is no god” ask this latter question and add an interjection from “lol sex is epic” to add weight to this.

“lol sex is epic” gets mad again and says something that many Evangelicals caricature as a common saying of unbelievers, particularly atheists, and progressive Christians (who they have mad beef with for a variety of reasons. Like, I genuinely think they hate progressive Christians more than atheists sometimes). This shows that, in the evangelist’s eyes, “lol sex is epic” has missed the point. Meanwhile, “there is no god” has arrived right at that breaking point, questioning his moral character and asking desperately if there’s a solution to this problem. Our Christian is right there to provide an answer.

5. Leniency. Our Christian is going to give “there is no god” the out he’s looking for, declaring that God has given him a solution in the form of Jesus Christ. To show the remaining steps I’ll separate a few things out more than tracts often do. Let’s have a bit more rage from “lol sex is epic” and, for now, have him leave the scene because his use as a character is over until the “and then they both died” bit.

“lol sex is epic” is now gone. Meanwhile, our evangelist has a captive audience for the other steps of this process.

At this point I’m going to list a couple of steps for each panel because I’m not completely sure how to parse it out the way I’ve been doing thus far. In my perception of this, I tend to view these more easily as far fewer steps. I’ll probably draw this as two or three panels, followed by one where “there is no god” is happy about the decision he’s made. (And wearing a new shirt.)

6. Compulsion to Confession. Part of the process of salvation is a confession. The fledgling Christian must admit to their status as a sinner and their need of a savior, often in prayer but sometimes also in person to an evangelist or spiritual mentor. This is framed as a relief, a part of casting one’s burdens onto Christ or, as the article puts it, “ the target is faced with the contrast between the guilt and pain of identity assault and the sudden relief of leniency. The target may feel a desire to reciprocate the kindness offered to him, and at this point, the agent may present the possibility of confession as a means to relieving guilt and pain.” The person has been carrying a “lifetime of sin” and a “guilty conscience” and is now letting it all go for the first time. The Catholic church goes absolutely nuts with this, institutionalizing regular confessions. “there is no god” will be presented with a call to confess to Christ.

7-8. Channeling of guilt; releasing of guilt. The groundwork for this was already laid in the beginning; I forgot to include that part in this tract, but many evangelists will touch on their beliefs about the beginning of the world and the fall of Adam. Thus, they establish the concept of an in-born nature towards sin in all humans. They can give this concept to their target in the form of framing sin as an inherited curse that they can’t avoid having, but isn’t their fault (their actions are but the curse isn’t) and thus can be considered the source of all their “evil” motivations and actions. In this process, a lifestyle of sin is what they channel their guilt into, saying, “I feel bad because I’ve been living this way and not believing in Jesus!” Then, they can use this curse of sin to say, “it’s not me, it’s my bad nature.” Thus, this sense of guilt is channeled and released. This is repentance described in a paragraph.

9. Progress and harmony. At this point, the target is encouraged to choose Jesus and the abuse and negativity will stop. They must now make an active and conscious choice towards belief. The fears of hell will be abated. (At least for now).

10. Final confession and rebirth. Evangelicals go full mask off with this, touting a “born again experience” as proof of someone who is truly Christian. Often, the previous several steps are confessed in what’s called the “sinner’s prayer”. I’ll paste it below for a full explanation before I draw the panels for this. At the end, the person invites Jesus into their lives and grants him lordship over their life, then thanks God for this occurrence. This is the end of this process, though the church behaves in ways that reinforce every step of this. You know, for maintenance. The sinner’s prayer, in one of its several, similar forms: “Dear Lord, I’m a sinner. Please forgive me. Come into my life and cleans me of my unbelief. I believe in you and in salvation through the blood of Jesus. I turn from sin and trust in Jesus alone as my Savior. In Jesus name I pray, Amen.”

Here we see the Christian offering the solution and the broad outline of the sinner’s prayer. Also, “there is no god” is greatly relieved. I’ll make one panel of him doing the sinner’s prayer, then we’ll touch on the “after they both die” thing. Our Christian character is also disposable and this, in this case, is his final appearance.

Here he is getting saved. (His shirt changes alongside this.) And, of course, he ends this with a desire to go tell literally everyone about this. That’s normative in evangelical circles too.

After this, we’re back to more fearmongering, this time involving a dichotomy meant to imply hope, as I yoink a page right out of Chick’s playbook for a couple more panels.

Here we see a (shittily-executed) great white throne with our Christianized “there is no god” and our angry unbeliever standing before it. The circumstances of their deaths are outlined (fuck you Jack Chick that’s a creepy vibe) and their condition now is clearly explained. Notice how “lol sex is epic” is still angry. But not for long...

The mask drops:

They never portray Jesus putting it exactly like this but this is the kind of energy, at least it’s how it comes across to me when I read these after deconverting. Tracts tend to give a more detailed reaction to the “but I was good” and “give me a chance” things if their damned victims say these things. They assert that deeds aren’t enough and no one is good. Convenient for brainwashing, there’s also an artificial sense of urgency in that this life is listed as your only chance to accept this message and avoid having your flesh boil away before your eyes over and over again for all of time.

Chick is a big fan of showing the damned being dragged or frogmarched to the pit by angels.

And here, mohawk man gets the big yeet.

After this, particularly if they take the Chick approach and include the hell yeet scene and/or the thing at the throne of judgement, they’ll tend to have some questions like this:

Again, parody. They’re not this goddamn on the nose with it.

I could translate this entire thing in one image:

So this has been a painful little look at what goes into a gospel tract/the brainwashing inherent to the gospel message as understood by fundies/evangelicals.

I hate that I used to think this way and unironically tell people this kind of shit. It’s manipulative and stupid, and also deeply cringey. If you’ve read this far, I’m sorry/congratulations.

Oh, and one final thought: People who don’t generally do this with tracts use verbal, often shorter, versions of the exact same process. CRU reduces it to five points in their resources (and this is a common approach): something like 1. God made the world, 2. we screwed things up and deserve the big yeet, 3. but Jesus makes a way to fix this shit, 4. He died on a cross and rose from the dead so we could be saved, 5. so believe in him and live forever in a realm that doesn’t have to be filled with fire all the fucking time. They’ll tell you to do something involving counting on your hand while explaining this shit. It’s goddamned cursed, and you’ll notice it goes through the exact process I mentioned above. It literally intends to break you down and mold a new person out of the shards and ashes this produces.

Evangelists are assholes.

#ex christian #religious trauma #fuck jack chick #fuck ray comfort

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huntertales · 6 years ago

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Part One: Head Games. (Taxi Driver S08E19)

Episode Summary: Sam, Dean and the reader respond to a call from a terrified Kevin who claims to hear Crowley’s voice in his head. Also with the good news that he’s discovered the second trial from the tablet—rescue an innocent soul from hell. The reader has to team up with a reaper named Ajay to complete the task, meanwhile the boys get a visit from the angel Naomi. But when things go awry, Dean must find Benny and ask him for a huge favor. Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Word Count: 7,773.

Previous Part | Supernatural Rewrite Masterlist

Five months into your pregnancy and your third visit to the doctor's office still made you nervous about these kind of things. You sat in the waiting room trying to occupy your racing mind with an outdated parent magazine, reading up on some article that told you the benefits of feeding your child all organic diet. Right now your main concern wasn't about the dangers of too much processed foods high in fats and sugars. Your mind was occupied with the things Cas said to you about how your body was handling itself after you completed the first trial. It was damaged in ways that even he couldn’t heal. The angel who could heal people from illnesses and make bleeding wounds back to normal with a simple touch. You were broken beyond repair.

The first red flag you saw came a few days after completing the first trial. You and the boys took a case right after you accomplished the task, and while the boys would have been happier to see you resting up, you insisted that you were fine. You were a more tired than usual, but nothing a good night's sleep couldn't fix. At least that's what you thought. It was on the way back home to the bunker when you coughed up a few droplets of blood. Sure, it scared you at first. You brushed it off as a one time thing and didn't think about it. Until it happened again. And one more time that came when you had a coughing fit that you brushed off as a cold coming on. The bloody tissue Dean found in the trash can told a very different story.

It was hard to tell where the effects of the trials stopped and the symptoms of the pregnancy were making day to day life difficult. You were starting to feel even more changes to your body from things getting bigger and frequent trips to the bathroom. You heard of a thing called "pregnancy brain" that was hitting you harder than you expected. Not to mention the heartburn that made picking food to eat even harder with your fussy attitude. Some things you liked, and a simple whiff of another food you enjoyed last month made you sick to your stomach. When you were fixing yourself breakfast this morning you were excited to enjoy, it was quickly ruined at the sight of something red. You freaked yourself out when you realized you were having a bloody nose. Thankfully, the baby book you read told you it was a common symptom.

While you had been trying to keep your worried thoughts to yourself, it seemed Dean picked up on the energy that was overwhelming you. He balanced a magazine on his knee and reached out his hand to intertwined his fingers with yours, giving the flesh a squeeze like he always did when you got nervous. Dean might have said he supported you with your decision, but he still wasn’t completely a hundred percent on board with you completing the trials in your conditions. It was his protective nature over you.He understood your motivations that drove you. Still, the things that Cas said made him scared as well. Not only for your health, but the baby's as well. You'd been complaining about some strange pain that came and went over the past week. Add it on to the list of symptoms he should worry about.

The both of you heard your name called by one of the nurses, breaking your concentration away from the same paragraph you'd been trying to read for the past few minutes. You and Dean made your way into the exam room to complete the same routine you were used to by now; check your blood pressure measure your bump and weight yourself to see how many pounds you put on this month. You handed over a simple of your urine as the usual routine of checking to make sure things were okay, this visit Dr. Miller needed a bit more from you to make sure the baby was in good health. While the both of you went over a list of symptoms you'd been having and what you were eating, you gave her your arm so she could draw a vile of blood from you.

"And what's this for again?" Dean asked what felt to be the millionth question during the visit. To say he was going to be an overbearing father was an understatement, he watched the nurse and Dr. Miller like a hawk while they worked together in doing the simplest of tasks they did dozens of times per day. You roll your eyes from how he watched everything unfold as the nurse sterilized your skin for the needle.

"We check the urine and blood for any possible genetic disorders and if there's a chance Y/N developing preeclampsia. We want to make sure Mommy and baby are still healthy." Dr. Miller explained to the expecting father. "Next visit you'll be doing the dreaded glucose test. That's to check to make sure you're not at risk for diabetes."

You winced slightly at the prickling pain you felt when the needle was inserted into your skin, the nurse mumbled a sorry before continuing on filling the vile with some of your blood. Dr. Miller warned about how you might feel a bit more dizzier than normal. When that was done and your fluids were taken off for testing, now it was time to check the status of the baby. You had an ultrasound done a few times before to make sure everything was well with the progress and how the heartbeat was going with the baby. Dr. Miller wanted to do another one to make sure the baby was forming at a proper rate. Every time you got to see the grainy outline of the baby and hear their heartbeat, you felt the same kind of excitement. Like you were learning all over again.

Everything seemed to be going well from what the doctor told you; the baby was growing at a healthy rate, getting bigger with each passing week. You told her about the strange feelings and pain you were having over the past week and a half since getting into the fifth month. Dr. Miller said that it was a good sign. It was either trapped gas...or you were feeling the first movements of the baby, quickening as it was better known. The baby wasn’t strong enough yet to kick just yet, but they were able to do small things like yawn and suck their little thumbs. Which was the reason why you were having all those strange feelings.

"Now, since you're far enough along and the baby seems to be cooperating with me today, I've got the news every parent bugs me. 'When can I find out the gender of the baby'?" Dr. Miller proposed a question you honestly hadn't even wondered about since you found out. You felt a little bit taken off guard with the possibility of knowing. "What do you say?"

"Oh. That honestly didn't really cross our minds." You admitted, feeling a little overwhelmed at the step in the pregnancy you hadn't thought too much about. You were so wrapped up in the trials you forgot you were getting closer at figuring the gender of the baby. If you were carrying a little boy or girl. A part of you want it kept a secret. "I mean, I don't know..."

You looked over at Dean when you realized you might be able to find out the gender of the baby today. Learning about this was much his choice as it was yours. You weren't going to pressure him into siding with your decision. Dean felt a little bit thrown on the spot from the pressure he suddenly felt. It felt a little cliche to say that he didn't care. Long as the baby remained okay though all of this, he was perfectly content with not knowing until the doctor announced it to the both of you after she delivered a healthy baby. He wasn't the father who was secretly praying for a little boy. And having a daughter wasn't going to change anything either. He was going to love and protect them the way he never was.

Dean shrugged his shoulders, giving you his honest answer. "What do you think, sweetheart?"

"I..." You let out a sigh from what your gut was telling you to do, despite how most would jump at the opportunity to know what they were carrying. "I don't want to know. Whatever they turn out to be, we'll be happy. Long as they’re healthy.”

“Interesting. Most parents want to know the gender of the baby so they can start going crazy on decorating the nursery.” Dr. Miller said. She grabbed a box of tissues and handed them over to you to clean off the sticky substance from your stomach after completing the ultrasound. “Not to mention the baby clothes they’re gonna grow out of in the blink of an eye.”

"Oh, don't get me started on all of that. I've been looking u themes for the nursery. I'm stuck between so many different ideas and color pallets. Not to mention all the things that I've been saving." You said. You always find yourself unable to ramble on about the simplest of things when it came to getting ready for the baby. From the endless list of things you needed to get, to figuring out which room you were going to transform into the baby's room. Because for a moment you forgot about the trials and your health. It was a chance for you to focus on the future. Dean found the excitement that crossed your face whenever you talked about the baby adorable. He loved how your face lit up, how you were anticipating this new family member despite all of what you've been going through. "Of course before I know it they're gonna be here."

“About twenty-two weeks if I'm correct. So we're almost halfway there. Either way, the baby’s looking good.” Dr. Miller reassured you once again the things you had been stressing yourself about lately. You felt yourself let out a sigh of relief. “I’ll call you about your tests results when they get back in. You shouldn't worry too much. And with that, I’ll see you three next month.”

You grabbed your second grainy ultrasound picture of the baby and went on your way with Dean to the front desk to make your next possible appointment with the doctor. You understood what Cas had said about you and how the trials were taking a toll on your body, the point of no return. But the consequences weren’t clicking in your head just yet. As you walked to the desk to make your next appointment, you looked down at the picture of your growing baby, a small smile spreading across your lips at the sight of them. If they were okay, then you saw no purpose of stopping. After all, the reason why you were doing the trials was for them. To give them a better future you never had. And to give the boys a taste of the normal life they always wanted.

+ + +

The name Dean Winchester struck fear in the hearts of many; he made a reputation for himself over the decade as someone who hunted down monsters and would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Seek revenge on those who wronged him. He spent a year in purgatory fighting and slaughtering his way into freedom. You could see that it messed him up psychologically pretty badly, it took him a while to adjust himself back to civilized life. And while he wasn't the type of person who liked to show his emotions, preferring to put up a wall ...the man you saw right now was the complete opposite of those things.

You felt another involuntary giggle escape your mouth when you felt Dean’s breath tickled the sensitive part of your stomach while he talked to the baby. You sat upright on the bed with your shirt bunched up to your waist and Dean lying down so he was at level with your bump. You’d been feeling all sorts of strange feelings and pains the past week, while you were presuming it was just another symptom of the pregnancy, you learned that it was the very first movements of the baby. Flutters and quickening as Dr. Miller called it. You were starting to distinguish the different movements that possibly meant your baby was fussing around. And Dean was trying to somehow feel any sort of activity when you complained.

“Hey, kid. How you hanging in there?” Dean made it a habit of talking to your baby bump every chance he could get, despite telling him that it was going to be a while until they could hear him. He didn’t care. Dean took every opportunity to just let himself be near his child. It was strange at how different he turned into whenever the both of you talked about the baby. He got softer. And happy. It was the complete opposite of him that you saw on a daily basis. “You good? ‘Cause Mommy keeps telling me and your Uncle Sammy you’re not making her feel so happy.“

"Well, how would you feel if your body was growing and you had heartburn almost all the time? Not to mention the gas. And the stretch marks." You complained of the many symptoms you had been dealing with over the past few weeks while your index finger traced the faint line in the middle of your stomach. "Mommy just wants a break."

You knew that wasn't going to happen any time soon, and you really didn't mind the things your body was going through. You complained in the same breath that you were starting to get hungry, which lead you to the challenge of trying to figure out what you wanted to eat. Something that your stomach and overly sensitive nose could agree on. While you shot down every option Dean gave, you felt a slight pain suddenly appear. You placed your hand down to see what it was, Dean quickly placed his on top of yours to see if he could feel anything. You rolled your eyes when he shifted his head upwards. You were starting to grow annoyed, and things only got worse when you saw the bedroom door swing open.

“Hey…what are you guys doing?” Sam walked into the sight of his brother lying with his head on your stomach, ear pressed against it as if he was trying to listen to something. You told him about how you were starting to feel possible movements from the baby and Dean was attempting to experience it for himself. “Okay, well, that's great and all. But we gotta go. Kevin just called me. He needs to see us. It sounded pretty serious."

"Did he finally translate the second trial?" You asked, hoping for any kind of progress when it came to closing the gates of hell.

"I don't know." Sam said. "He wouldn't tell me."

"It better be freaking important." You grumbled in annoyance from having to leave the bunker and check up on the kid. What was so important he couldn't tell you over the phone was beyond you. Right as you were about to push Dean off of you and get ready for the overnight trip, you felt yourself stop when you figured out the pain in your stomach. "Yeah...now, that was gas."

Dean already figured out what it was before you announced it, making him sit up in bed and get started on packing a bag. You smiled to yourself and pulled down your shirt, knowing there was some things you couldn't control. People say pregnancy is a beautiful thing. But nobody tells you about the downsides of creating a new human life. Four months to go until you got control of your body back. And this little bundle of joy would be in your arms.

+ + +

The next morning you and the boys arrived at Garth's houseboat you had been to a few times before for the occasional welfare check up and when Kevin made progress on the tablet. You were hoping that was the reason why he called you here. But you weren't so sure. Kevin didn't look so good the last time you saw him. Sam said he sounded frantic and needed all of you. You let out a sigh and crossed your arms over your chest when Dean called out the prophet's name, waiting a second to hear any sort of movement to detect the kid was still alive. When he didn't answer, Dean slapped his palm against the rusting metal door to announce your arrival. All of you waited for Kevin to answer, but the boat remained silent.

Dean tried one more time to get the kid’s attention and lucky for you, the heavy metal door swung open a few seconds later to reveal Kevin. While you were happy to see that he was still alive, his mental state wasn’t doing as well from the looks of him. You winced slightly at the sight of Kevin looking like he hadn’t slept well in days. Dark circles underneath his eyes and an unshaven face, not to mention the iron skillet he had in his hand like a weapon. Before any of you could come inside, Kevin peeked his head out to check and make sure it was just the three of you before allowing you to step into his home away from home.

“Geez.” Dean muttered underneath his breath after taking a good look at the kid. You stepped inside the boat after him, watching where you were going before you could trip. “What’s going on? What’s with the S.O.S.?”

“It’s him.” Kevin said.

“It’s who?” Sam asked, wondering who the kid was talking about.

"Crowley." Kevin said. The mention of the king of hell threw you through a loop, wondering what he had to do with anything. Kevin and Crowley hadn't seen one another in months, ever since you rescued him from the demon's clutches after he attempted to make Kevin read the tablet. But it seemed the prophet believed otherwise. "He's in my head."

"He's...in your head." You repeated after him, sounding not all that convinced what the prophet was saying was all that true.

“Do you know what that means?” Kevin questioned all of you when you weren’t taking the situation serious as he was.

"Yeah, it means we need to up your anxiety meds. Kevin, you're dreaming.” Dean tried to somehow reassure the prophet all of his worries were all side effects from the months spent locked up in here without anything else to do but translate a tablet. Kevin knew the king of hell would do anything to get his hands on, which was probably why the kid was going crazy. “Look, if Crowley knew where you were, he'd do a hell of a lot more than mess with your head."

Sam looked around the place to see if there was any sign of the hunter who was supposed to be checking up on him frequently. Isolation and little human contact could mess with anyone’s mind. It seemed that Kevin had been alone for a while. "All right, where's Garth?"

"On a case or—or the dentist. I don't know." Kevin said. "I haven't heard from him."

“Okay, well, what did you want to tell us that you couldn’t say on the phone?” Dean asked. He found himself momentarily distracted by the iron skillet that Kevin was still holding, who was on edge already. Probably ready to attack anything that moved a little too fast. Since all of you were here, Dean figured the kid wouldn’t need it anymore. "Would you put the frying pan down, please?"

Kevin didn’t realize he was still holding it until the older Winchester mentioned it. He put it down on the stove he was standing next to you before getting to the reason why he wanted you here in person. "I translated the second trial from the tablet."

"You...crazy prophet, you. Nice work!" Dean complimented the prophet at hearing the news you were hoping for. You felt your lips stretch into a smile at the progress he made.

"And if Crowley's in my head, he knows.” Kevin nearly shouted from the paranoia overcoming him once again. You rolled your eyes in annoyance from how he was getting himself worked up.

"Relax, kid. He's not in your head. And if he is, how is he gonna get you? This place is warded against demons. You're safe. I promise you. Besides, I know a little something about dicks trying to mess with your head. It's all cheap tricks.” You tried to reassure him that he was under no real danger. “Now, we know you’re under distress, but you gotta stay with us. All right? Can you tell me what the second trial is?”

"An innocent soul has to be rescued from hell and delivered unto heaven." Kevin told you the next step, which sounded like gibberish to you at first. You blinked and made a slightly confused expression, trying to figure out if what you just heard was exactly as you thought it was going to be. "'Unto.' That's how God talks."

"Rescue a soul from hell? Like actually...go to hell? Great. Like two other times wasn't good enough. Let's go for a third time. Bet it's real nice this time of year." You felt yourself starting to slightly panic at the next obstacle you were going to have to face. Not to mention, the real kicker that left you scratching your brain as to what God meant by his riddle. "How do you get a soul unto heaven? I mean, how do you even get a soul out of hell?"

"We're gonna need an expert." Dean said.

+ + +

Where does someone go when you need intel on the ins and outs of hell? Go straight to the source. It had been a very long time since you visited a crossroad, but you remembered everything you needed to summon a demon. Sam was the one who buried the tin box and covered it up with dirt. You weren't sure if this was going to work at all if they knew who was ringing the bell to get their attention. You were pretty sure Crowley blacklisted yours and the Winchesters' names from doing business with his demons. Good thing you weren't here to sell your soul. And there was dumb enough of a schmuck to at least greet the three of you.

“Y/N and the Winchesters.” You turned around at the sound of someone's voice from behind you, making you turn around to see someone took the bait. It was a crossroads demon from the looks of it when he blinked, showing off his red eyes you saw a few times before. Like you were the least bit intimidated by him.

“What happened to all the hot chicks?” Dean asked.

The demon scoffed, not finding Dean's joke the least bit funny. "I'm out of here."

You felt your lips stretch into a smirk when the demon attempted to do his famous vanishing act before he was pulled into one of your plans that would most likely end up with him dead. However, thanks to the devil’s trap Sam spray painted across the street, the demon wasn’t going anywhere. “What’s the rush? The party’s just getting started.”

You and the boys changed the scenery when you got what you needed, dragging the demon into an abandoned warehouse and underneath another devil's trap to keep him in place. You handcuffed him to a chair to make sure he wouldn't do anything stupid by throwing punches to defend himself. You asked him about getting into hell, the demon thought it would be funny to respond to you in a colorful way. You responded back with your own witty way by throwing holy water in his face. He could scream and groan in pain all he wanted, there was no one to rescue him. The four of you were far away from civilization to have a private conversation.

Holy water felt like acid to his kind. When you were still a half demon and getting worse towards the end, you felt the effects and how badly it burned against your skin. Luckily it didn't hurt the poor soul in the body the demon was in. Chances were the person along for the ride was long gone. Which meant if he kept mouthing off and giving you the answers you didn’t want to hear, you weren’t scared to give him a few scars with the knife that killed his kind.

“I ain’t got nothing.”

“Hmm. I think you’re lying.”

The demon thought the best response to your accusation was "bite me" in a bitter sounding tone. You shook your head in disapproval, as if telling him that was the wrong answer. You looked up at Dean, who stood behind him with his own flask of holy water ready for any cue to continue on with the punishment if the demon didn’t cooperate.

“Well, then how about another owie?” Dean suggested.

The oldest Winchester poured a small amount over the demon's head, making him groan in pain from the continuation of the punishment as his skin burned from the effects of the holy water. No amount of it was going to make him break. "You know,” Sam tried to sweet talk the demon into talking if he wanted the torture to stop. “wouldn't it be a lot easier just to tell us how to enter hell uninvited?"

“It’s a secret.” The demon told you.

“We promise we won’t tell anyone.” You reassured him the secret would be kept close between all of you. When the demon remained silent for longer than you wanted, you let out a sigh and started to twist off the top to the flask. "This is foreplay compared to what I really want to do—”

"No! Wait. I can't. It's forbidden. They're gonna kill me." The demon tried to somehow pull the sympathy card on all of you, as if what you were doing to do to him was a walk in the park. You didn't fall for the trick, pouring another small amount of holy water over his head to make him talk. He knew your reputation and what you were capable of. "All right, look...for a price, y'all can be smuggled across hell's border."

“By who?” You asked.

“Rogue reapers.” The demon said, giving you all the information you needed to hear. “They got secret ways, in and out. Not just hell—the veil, heaven.”

“Rogue reapers smuggling people?” Sam repeated what he’d just hear, all of it sounded absurd. It was the truth. They worked with people and souls to get them where they wanted to go. “So, what? They’re like hell coyotes?”

You didn't know why you were so surprised at hearing there was something like this going on underneath your noses. You learned something new everyday about the supernatural. "Now kill me. Come on, man." The demon pleaded for some kind of mercy. "Better death than Crowley."

"Hmm. Good point." You said. You had a feeling the king of hell had a few tricks up his sleeve to torture the poor demons under his control. However you weren't going to let him go just yet, you were just getting started. "But first you're gonna tell us...well, everything."

+ + +

The demon confessed and told you all what you needed to know about how a person could sneak into hell without the king figuring out. There was a reaper not too far who did business under the table for some extra favors, he was in the city posing as an off duty cab driver. He was your ticket into going to hell without the red tape restricting you from completing the next trial. The demon said he was always parked at the same street corner, waiting for those who wanted a different kind of ride.

You stepped out of the Impala when Dean parked against the sidewalk after driving into town a little after night fell. You managed to avoid a puddle from the storm that was brewing outside, another crack of thunder could be heard over the passing cars and city life. You spotted a yellow taxi cab just across the way, a man enjoying the slow night by reading up on current affairs. You and the boys made your way across the street and approached the man, breaking away his concentration from the newspaper he was reading for a business opportunity.

"Ajay." You called out the reaper's name, heading forward to him. "We need to talk to you for a second."

“You know my name.” He said, seeming surprised at how you got knowledge of it.

“And what you do.” You added even more things you knew about him. Before he could get into his cab and run for the hills, you showed him good faith when you told him the reason why you were here in the first place. “We want to do business.”

"But you are mortal—flesh and blood." Ajay said. The look on his face seemed as if being human was going to make this even harder, like you were doing this just for kicks. The demon told you others had done it before. You proposed the idea of the three of you sneaking into hell with a visitor's pass What you were asking of made the reaper scratch his head in confusion as to why you even wanted to go there in the first place. "No one wants to get into hell."

“But could a coyote like you do it?” Sam questioned the reaper for a straight answer.

“It’s possible.” Ajay admitted. However everything comes with a price with these sorts of things, moving humans to the underworld to retrieve a soul wasn't going to come cheap. “But I have special skills. I have overhead. It will be pricey.”

“How pricey?” Dean asked, willing to pay any amount to get where he needed to go.

“You three are resourceful.” Ajay told you his payment. “One day, you will owe me a favor."

“You say that like you know us.” Sam said.

“Of course. You’re Y/N Y/L/N and the Winchesters brothers." Ajay said. You furrowed your brow slightly, not remembering in your many dances with deaths of meeting him before. But it seemed all of you had a common friend. "I am the reaper who took Bobby Singer to hell."

"Bobby in hell?" Sam scoffed at hearing the information that sounded impossible. There was no way Bobby slipped through the cracks and landed himself a ticket downstairs. "We burned his bones. Once we did that, it was over. End of story."

"Not necessarily." Ajay said.

"No, no, no, 'cause, see, Bobby was on the good side of things, and good guys go to the penthouse." Dean said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, his index finger pointed upwards to the night sky to prove his point.

"Usually, mostly. Depends on who you know, what palms get greased." Ajay said. You would have never expected reapers would screw up their job to let a certain demon get his way. Which means you found out your soul that needed to be freed from hell. "If you're on the king of hell's no-fly list, no way you cruise the friendly skies."

"Crowley." Dean muttered the demon's name. The older Winchester saw it was just details at this point, the king of hell hated your guts already. What's another chance at screwing him over by sneaking yourselves in there and retrieving a soul that didn't belong to him. "Okay, let's do this. How much for three tickets down and three back?"

It would have been an ideal situation for the boys to join you on this unwanted trip to hell, but you knew the details of this meant only one person could have a round class ticket. You nodded your head for them to step off to the side for the three of you to have a private conversation. Dean gave you a confused look as to your sudden heistance. He could fight you on this all you wanted, but you were too far in to let go. There was no "We" in closing the gates of hell. The sooner they learn that, the sooner you could spring Bobby free and bring him where he deserved.

“What the hell are you thinking?” You whispered to him.

“You heard the guy—Bobby’s in hell.” Dean told you. “We’re gonna spring him.”

“We’ve gone over this, Dean.” You reminded him. “I have to do the trials solo.”

“This is Bobby we’re talking about, Y/N. Now let’s face it—you have not exactly been up to full speed lately, okay? And you've got extra cargo you're carrying around. We can't risk anything going south." Dean said. You rolled your eyes in frustration at how he still doubted your skills of keeping yourself safe. "We got one shot at this. We can't miss."

“I’m not gonna miss. I'll bring him back." You promised the boys for the safe return of the man all of you cared for deeply. You wanted the old man in heaven much as they wanted. To prove you were serious about this, you opened up your jacket to reveal the demon killing knife you carried in the waistband of your jeans. You've been to hell, you were prepared for whatever and whoever tried to come in your way from springing Bobby free. You walked forward to Ajay, booking your ticket to downstairs once more. "I'm in, just me."

"Follow me." Ajay instructed.

"Wait." Dean stopped the reaper from taking a step and leading you to the path to hell before learning about the mechanics behind it. "How does this...work?"

"Not to fret. She'll be back in exactly twenty-four hours time." Ajay explained. "Return for her then."

You felt a little pressured at the timeframe you were given, but you didn't want to spend any more time than you had while in hell. You could see the resistance on the boys' faces at the journey you were going into alone. You reassured them that everything was going to be okay. You gave both of them a smile before you followed behind Ajay down an alley that looked sketchy enough as it was. Dean checked his watch and set a timer, counting down the hours until you were returned back safe and sound. Along with the soul of Bobby.

You and Ajay continued to make your way through the alley and a metal fence door that lead you to a dead end. You looked around the walls to see that almost every inch of the place was covered in all sorts of graffiti. But you didn't have much time to examine before Ajay instructed you to do something that you weren't expecting to do. He told you to take his hand. You did as you were told, not without making a remark about how creepy all of this was. If you wanted to go to hell, this was how you did it.

You weren't sure how a reaper snuck a human into hell; maybe there was a secret passage you were supposed to take. Perhaps chant a few words before you were at your destination. However that wasn't the case. You noticed the graffiti on the walls began to almost appear like it was liquify off the bricks, making you feel as if you were suddenly taking an acid trip. However you suddenly felt a blinding white light appear out of nowhere taking you off guard, bringing you and Ajay to the path of your destination. You didn't think it was going to be that easy to sneak yourself into hell, these kind of things never was.

Hell was a place you would never forget. Not even after all these years from being away from there. It was worse than your nightmares, and no amount of torture could even touch what you went through down there. You would remember if you were there. You were standing in the middle of what appeared to be a forest, too pleasant for it to be pit. You thought for a second Ajay made a wrong turn. Maybe you were in another part of the country. Looks could be deceiving to the human eye. You’d find out soon enough you weren’t on earth anymore.

“Downstairs looks a lot different from last I remembered.” You said. “This can’t be hell.”

“That’s because it isn’t.” Ajay said. “This is purgatory.”

"What do you mean this is purgatory?" You questioned the reaper. You suddenly felt your heart drop into your stomach at the trouble you just landed yourself into. You remembered all the horror stories Dean told you about, what little he admitted about the time he spent here. Endless miles crawling with every flavor of monsters you hunted. You were beyond pissed off, and you made your dissatisfaction be known in your tone of voice. "This isn't what I paid for. I booked the hell tour."

“Whoa, whoa, Y/L/N, detach.”

“The only thing I’m going to be detaching is your head from your neck.”

"This is hell-adjacent. Been down this highway many times before. Follow the stream to where three trees meet as one. Where they meet, there are rocks. Between the rocks is a portal." Ajay explained the steps you needed to take in order to get to your destination. You felt he should have told you upfront, but you handle a little bit of walking. You asked him about the portal ad why it was so important. "A back door to hell. Trust me—it'll work.”

“Wait. So you’re not coming with me?” You asked him.

"Don't be ridiculous. Smuggling a mortal across the border is risky enough. But gate-crashing a Y/L/N into hell seriously blows." Ajay chuckled at what you thought he was going to do for you. You gave him a dirty look at how he was leaving you high and dry, just to save the skin off his own back. "No. I'll be back in twenty-four hours, precisely. Be here."

You forced yourself to inhale a deep breath from the task you were about to do all on your own. Nobody to help you if you got ambushed by a group of monsters, no one to guide you through this endless miles of forest. You pulled out the demon knife from the waistband of your jeans, your fingers wrapped around the wooden handle to get a good grip on it. There was no point of waiting around, you began on your journey to find this portal before time ran out.

“It’s a good thing you bought that.” Ajay said. “It is not an easy place.”

You survived four months that felt to be forty years in hell. You spent what felt like an eternity in the cage with Lucifer and Michael. You went up against every kind of monster crawling around here, chances were all of them were here...running around, lost. Trying to survive. Most of all, you killed a hellhound with your bare hands. Spending a little time tracking through purgatory seemed like it was going to be a challenge you were capable of going up against. At least, that's what you told yourself when you turned around to see Ajay was gone.

You swallowed and looked around at the endless sight of trees all around you. It wasn't hard to feel the dread and confusion coming over you, not sure where the right place to go was. A fear that someone might be watching you from the shadows, waiting for the perfect opportunity to kill you before you could kill them. Dean spent one year in this place and somehow survived. You could handle how many hours you needed to walk in order to find this portal and go to hell. Find Bobby and get the both of you the hell out of here. All under twenty-four hours. Yeah, this wasn’t going to be a problem.

+ + +

The boys knew there wasn't much else they could do for the next twenty-something hours while you were completing the second trial on your own. All they could do was check up on Kevin and keep an eye on him before he could push himself into a mental breakdown. Dean wanted to be with you every step of the way, Sam's mind wandered to everything that could go wrong. The thought of you being in hell while five months pregnant and physically weaker because of the first trial made both of them nervous about the chances at things might go south. But you always defied expectations. You were going to be okay.

"You, Kev, it's us!" Dean called out to the prophet who was around here somewhere when the boys arrived back at the boathouse with some early lunch they picked up on the way back. The both of them headed deeper inside to see that it was more quiet than usual. "Kevin!"

Sam looked around the place to see if he could find any trace of where the kid ended up. He thought Kevin might have taken a nap to help rest his troubled head while they were gone or took some time to shower. However he was in none of those spots when the door to a small storage room opened up, revealing Kevin. "I believe the closet would be the safest."

“Safe from what?” Sam slowly asked the kid.

“Crowley. He’s in my head, guys. And if he’s in my head, he knows where I am!” Kevin shouted. Sam let out a quiet sigh from the paranoia about the king of hell tracking him down, Dean rolled his eyes and set the still warm food down on the table. “You know, we—we should move out. We’ll find another place.”

"He's not in your head. It's okay, Kev. You need to relax." Sam tried to reassure the kid he was still safe on the houseboat. "When's the last time you ate? Have a burger or something. You'll feel better if you did."

"Come on, don't lose it on us now, dude." Dean said. He grabbed a perfectly warm burger from the paper bag and handed it out for Kevin to grab it from his hand, the entire situation making him feel like he was trying to lure out a timid animal from hiding. It seemed to work, Kevin slowly stepped out of the closet and made his way forward. "There you go. That's it. Enjoy the burger while you still can. Y/N hates the smell of meat. She's been making us go vegetarian the past few months. Talk about torture."

Kevin managed to give himself the courage to grab the food from the table, his stomach involentarly growling when he realized it had been a while since he had something to eat. "Just tell me when this all ends, 'cause that's the only thing I want to hear."

Sam understood the feeling of wanting to get out of this world and go back to the cushioned lifestyle he was used to. He kept himself quiet, focusing on his food, knowing deep down it was all just a dream. "No, like I told you before, this isn't going to end." Dean was the one who broke the news to the poor kid who wanted to hear different. "Look, man, other guys, they got it easy, you know? It's all backyard barbeques and...bowling teams, but the three of us? We got to carry a little extra weight."

Kevin shook his head and nibbled on his food, “I can’t take it.”

The kid was being pushed to his breaking point of how much more he could handle this lifestyle before it pushed him over the edge. Kevin's appearance was enough to show the brothers he wasn't doing well. From translating the tablet to thinking the king of hell was messing with his head, all Kevin wanted to do was go back to his old life. He wanted his mom, he wanted to be at college studying and cramming like other people his age. He was sick and tired of being trapped on this houseboat translating the word of God with no reward for his hard work.

"Yes, you can. Hey, look at me." Dean said, getting Kevin's attention so he could have a pep talk he so desperately needed at this time. And, maybe, Dean was talking to himself as well. "Now, this whole thing sucks. I know. But you suck it up and push through because that's what we do. And when you get on board with that, the ride is a lot smoother. Now...french fry?”

Kevin grabbed the paper cup tray with the fries he was offered along with the drink, taking it all for himself. Along with something that Dean had been looking forward to on the way back here. "I'm gonna be in my room. Let me know when there's a good day."

If there was something Dean loved anything more in this world other than a good burger was a slice of pie. He picked up some from the fast food joint him and Sam stopped at for lunch. He'd been thinking about it for a while, considering every time he bought himself a slice you went and ate it on him, claiming the baby was making you crave it. Since you were gone and you hated the smell of any kind of meat, he decided to treat himself to both of his favorites. Only Kevin took the one thing he was really looking forward to.

"That's my pie." Dean muttered to himself, hearing the slam shut behind Kevin.

He had to admit he felt a little disappointed at his treat being taken away from him. But if the kid ate something and got out of this funk, Dean guessed it was worth it. He sank his teeth into the burger and continued on eating, wondering how you were doing. He looked down at his watch to see that four hours had already passed since all of you parted ways. Only twenty more to go before you were back home safe.

[Next Part]

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rose-oracles · 6 years ago

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Two paragraphs affirmations and sayings about money and law of attraction to bring into your life.

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Dream interpretation spread: $3

What these dreams are telling you and how does it relate to your life.

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What Someone's Intentions Are or Feelings Towards You: $3

This about how someone feels or thinks about you and if they any good or bad intentions.

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Spirit Guide Reading: $3

Who your spirit guide is, how this spirit guide helps you and do you know them from a past life.

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Past Life Reading: $3

This is about your past life and information on how this affects your current life.

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Less Detailed Chakra Reading: $3

All about your chakra, how it affects your current life, and a complementary affirmation.

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Career or School Spread: $5

This spread is on what you need to know or work on regarding career or school. Will you get a promotion or into a class you like and more.

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All About Someone: $5

What they think about you, do they like you back, do they have any intentions good or bad intentions, and should you persue him or her.

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Mediumship Reading: $5

These are general messages from one’s in heaven who wish to speak with you. This can also help heal your grief and receive answers.

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What psychic abilities you have: $5

Which of the four psychic abilities you have, how you use them, how to strengthen them and who helps you with them.

__________________________

Simple Love Reading: $10

Love reading how you’ll meet, what they could possibly look like, what season you’ll meet, and more!

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Message from Spirit or Ancestors: $10

Eight to twelve sentences from a message from spirits or ancestors.

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All About Your Ex Reading: $10

This is your current relationshop with your ex, how she or he feels after the relationship, and how to move forward.

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In Depth Love Reading Spread: $15

Includes what could be your partners personality, what they could possibly look like or how you’ll meet, what season you’ll meet, what your partners intentions are, feelings for you, and more!

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In Depth Relationship Love Reading Spread: $15

This spread is how you and another are feeling or thinking, the potential from now on to the future, your weaknesses and strengths in the relationship, and what you need to know about your relationship.

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Chakra Reading: $15

This spread is all about your charka. It can be about healing your chakra, how to balance it, and clarity. This offers a deeper connection and expanded awareness of each situation in your life. It explains the body’s energy field. Includes long paragraphs.

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Crystal Reading: $20

This spread is about the most powerful crystals, which can be used for tools for personal information and healing. You can seek guidance and direction from this spread. Your deepest questions will be addressed with clarity as you open yourself to healing. Includes long paragraphs.

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One Year In Depth Reading: $25

Includes anything that comes up, love, work, finances, school, guidance for living unique life and authentic life, guidance from angels or fairies, and everything all mixed in one year’s time. Includes long paragraphs and a picture of the cards.

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Channeled Past Life Spread: $25

Includes many cards and channeled messages on how you lived in your recent past life, what did you did for work, if you had any kids, wives, nationality, how you died, did you know your mom or dad in a past life, phobias, what your health was like, and so much more. Includes long paragraphs and a picture of the cards.

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Where can I get my paid reading?

I take my payments in my Paypal or CashApp account. It’s a way that I can do my card readings. If you have a problem with this, then you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If you do then message me in my PM on Tumblr or my email [email protected] and copy and paste which reading you want.

{Rose-oracles}

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mssjynx · 7 years ago

Text

Same But Different

ohmtoonz warnings: exotic dancer, mentions of lap dances, mentions of sex 8496 words . one of the stories from my old blog, chinxino5. hope you enjoy! (whether it be for the first time or the second !!) merry christmas!

The café was always busiest on Sundays. Couples going for coffee dates, Mom’s bringing their kids out for iced chocolates, college students escaping their apartments and study schedules. Ryan adored the place. It was simple, sweet and filled with good vibes. He didn’t care how busy it was, there was never a time where it felt claustrophobic or uncomfortable. Tables and booths were filled with locals, yet no one felt out of place or too crowded.

That’s how it worked.

“Luke!” The familiar barista called out a familiar name. Ryan’s roommate, Craig, had worked at the café for all four years they’d been living together. They earnt money from very different professions but got along all the same.

The familiar name belonged to a man Ryan didn’t exactly know but one he definitely wanted to know. He was someone the brunette had been aware of for over a month on his café visits. The man sipping a black coffee, either on his phone or just staring out a window. Ryan had to remind himself not to outright stare every time he was in the same building.

The man was Godly. He was probably the most attractive guy Ryan had set his eyes on, and everything he did was undeniably hot. Ryan spent his coffee runs ignoring Craig’s suggestive looks and trying to seem busy on his phone, instead of staring at Luke.

Craig made eye contact across the store as he slid the coffee across the bench, well aware of Ryan’s thoughts after weeks of “he looks like he’s been carved by God Himself” and “I don’t know how you can look sexy by frowning at a phone, yet he does it”. The blue-haired man made a face when Luke turned away, aggressively pointing at Ryan and flicking his head towards Luke’s back.

Ryan smiled, raising a hand and wiggling his fingers childishly. There was no way he’d bother trying anything with Luke. It wasn’t as though he were scared or anything, he just typically wasn’t date material and didn’t want to bother trying to hook up with the guy. He seemed too real and genuine (though those assumptions were ridiculous, Craig claimed, seeing as he’d never even spoken to the guy). Seeing as anyone Ryan bothered with tended to be too much, or too romantic. Romance never went too well with him either.

If they didn’t have an issue with him, they definitely had an issue with his lifestyle.

He dropped his gaze to his book, coffee warm against his wrist as he stretched out in the booth. So far, he’d managed to keep his own space in the busy café. It was often on Sunday’s he’d find himself sharing with one or two people in the busyness of it all. There wasn’t ever an issue with that, of course, the place only ever held an atmosphere of welcoming and kindness.

He did, undeniably, enjoy his own space though and revelled in the niceness of his own booth.

Without thinking, his eyes flicked up, seeking a familiar face and familiar coffee by instinct. It wasn’t something he meant to do as he stretched his hands up over his head, it was just something he was used to doing, something he didn’t care much for. His gaze sought out attractiveness, at least that’s what he told himself.

Unfortunately for him, attractiveness had eyes that were looking his way. Luke stood between two tables, dragging his feet slowly as he decided where to settle. There was, unsurprisingly, no empty tables or booths, so the bearded man looked to be searching for who seemed most approachable to share a space with.

He was looking at Ryan, and upon making eye contact, he didn’t bother to look away. Instead, Ryan blinked once and dropped his gaze back to his book, blank expression as though the eye contact was unspecific and unimportant. His arms fell back beside him and fumbled with pages as he reopened his book.

The same page he’d been staring at since he arrived stared back up at him and he tried to actually read some of it instead of drawing pictures between the inked words. After another minute of keeping his eyes under control, a body shifted into his space, sliding into the booth across the table from him.

“This seat taken?” Ryan looked up to calm, dark eyes and a perfect face. He didn’t falter, little smile on his lips as he pointedly ignored Craig’s erratic movements in his peripheral vision.

He took a sip of his drink, blinking slowly. “Is now, apparently.”

Ryan wasn’t one to get easily flustered, keeping his cool as Luke watched him with eyes that didn’t betray anything. The two had a mutual comfort between one another, faces of disinterest, yet eyes that examined expressions closely. Luke seemed very aware of Ryan, far more intrigued in the man across the table than he normally would be in someone he was merely sharing a booth with.

With some reluctance, his green eyes returned to his book. His eyes drifted over words, reading the same sentences on repeat, skipping paragraphs, going back. His attention refused to remain on what he was reading, very aware of the man across from him, noticing how dark eyes continued to flick up from his phone to Ryan.

The coffee slowly drained, leaving a sweeter taste on Ryan’s tongue. He rubbed worn paper between his fingers.

“What’s got you so distracted?” Luke’s question caught him off guard, dragging his eyes up to the other who watched him with curiosity. At his raised eyebrow, Luke gestured to the book held gently in Ryan’s fingers. “Either you’re thinking real hard about something, or you’re just an incredibly slow reader. You’ve been reading the same page for five minutes.”

Ryan smiled, huffing a small laugh as he let go of the book with one hand. It fell closed and he pushed it to the side, resting his forearms on the table and leaning forward slightly. He just grinned. “Distracted is one way to put it. You’re Luke, right?” He held out his hand, voice smooth and easy. The other smiled also, not unkind as they shook hands firmly. It was manners.

The way Luke was watching him made Ryan curious about how firm his hands could be elsewhere but that was just something to think about.

“Yeah, and you’re Ryan I’d assume, unless you’ve been regularly stealing some poor guy’s coffee whose name is Ryan, who has awful tastebuds and orders coffee far too sweet to be healthy every day.” The jab was light and playful, not at all meaning any offense or harm. It was a note of interest, a hint that the man had been paying attention to Ryan, paying attention to the type of coffee he ordered every day.

A fact that peaked his curiosity.

“Coming from the guy who drinks black coffee.” He took a sip of his sweet drink, unafraid to test the waters. Luke laughed, amusement dancing in his eyes. He was, clearly, just as intrigued.

He shrugged, sitting back in the booth seat. One handed raised in mock-surrender. “Fair point – my wake-up call isn’t the most delicious coffee, but at least I’ll still have teeth in twenty-years.” Before he could offer another comment, possibly a question in the way that his brows furrowed and lips tweaked, a song started from his pocket.

Ryan couldn’t help the little smirk that settled on his face, hands raising to rest his head on, elbows on the table, as he watched Luke scramble for the phone blaring “Baby Got Back”. He flashed a slightly embarrassed smile to Ryan as he answered, finishing his drink. “What’s up Jon?” Ryan took a moment to lower his eyes from studying Luke’s face, instead looking over the cover of his book in mild disinterest. He listened to the disappointed sigh, and glanced at the other, who was running a hand through his hair. “Yes Jon. Yep. Okay. You’re a fuckin’ idiot. Yes, I’ll be home in ten. Yes Jon. Oh my God, tell me when I get back. Goodbye Jon.” The audible squeaking that echoed from his phone was abruptly silenced as Luke groaned. When he met Ryan’s curious stare, he smiled weakly in apology. “My dumbass roommate’s humiliated himself in-front of our neighbour,” he explained, shaking his head. “He’s been crushing on this dude for far too long and is probably going to call an ambulance if I don’t get home in ten minutes.”

Ryan just smiled, sitting up and nodding as he finished his drink also. “I get it, I know dramatic roommates.” His eyes slid to Craig who he happened to make eye contact with in that moment. The blue-haired idiot, made a thrusting motion from behind the counter, earning a disgusted glare from the woman he was serving and Ryan’s rolled eyes. He looked back to Luke who was smiling.

“I’m sure I’ll be running into you again sometime soon,” the other said, winking slyly as he stood, shuffled out of the booth and strolled out of the café. Ryan watched him go, drank in the swing of his hips. Craig strolled up, having just delivered coffees to the table a few metres from him.

The brit wore a proud smirk, taking the seat Luke sat in just moments before. “Does this mean you’ll stop telling me how sweet his ass looks in skinny jeans?”

Ryan rolled his eyes, smile still on his lips as Craig leant on the table. The man flashed a grin, chin resting on his knuckles as he batted his lashes. “Chill; I didn’t get his number or anything,” Ryan said, laughing at the way Craig’s expression fell from excited and suggestive to disappointed. He opened his mouth to protest but his roommate stood, aware of how he would respond. “I don’t date, remember.” It was something he told the blue-haired man frequently, no matter the amount of times he was given someone else’s number, or the amount of times the brit attempted to set him up with someone. He shuffled out of the booth, Craig standing also as to go back to his shift. “You know why too, don’t ask. I don’t need to date either, now go before your boss kicks your ass again.”

Craig groaned, childish glare following Ryan as he left the shop.

Ryan almost ran into Luke as they both stepped up to receive their drinks at the same time. It was a moment of slight embarrassment when the taller smiled down at him, grabbing both drinks and handing Ryan his before turning to find a seat.

No exchange of words. It wasn’t needed. Shaking off his heart-eyes, he followed but chose a booth a few away from that that Luke occupied. There was no need to sit together again. The coffee shop was bare and the Wednesday morning hadn’t provided Ryan with any necessary need to follow up after their other conversation. He’d easily avoided Craig bringing it up at home, the brit being just as persistent and irritating as he was a good friend.

Sinking into the booth chair, he pulled out his book, having read a large portion since Sunday, and was on the last few chapters. He found his place, holding it open with one hand as his eyes skimmed back and forth, and took a sip of his drink with the other.

He had to yank the book to his chest in order to avoid spoiling it as the little sip of coffee exploded from his mouth all over the table. He coughed violently, choking because of his body’s violent rejection of the drink. Having expected his usual mouthful of sugary goodness, he was definitely not ready for a mouthful of bitter thickness.

Bitter thickness that seemed to have coated his tongue and mouth, refusing to leave his taste buds alone. “H-holy, fuh-uk,” he coughed out, the few other occupants of the café watching him with raised eyebrows. He ignored them, standing and meeting Craig’s surprised bright eyes with a glare. “The fuck, dude?” he rasped, only to cough again as the brit grabbed a cloth and rushed to his roommate’s table. The hand over his mouth hid laughter he couldn’t help and other café-goers returned their attention to their phones or the cars driving past.

Someone else arrived at his table before Craig, a drink in hand and an apologetic gaze. Ryan’s glare softened instantly. “I’m sorry, I think I gave you my drink by mistake,” he said quietly, Craig silent as he arrived and began wiping down the table. Ryan’s aggravation melted away almost instantly. “I’m so sorry man, I’ll buy you another one.” Before Luke could even reach for his wallet, Craig’s co-worker arrived with a sweet smile and two drinks.

“Here you guys go, sorry for the mix-up, it’s on the house.” Evan, as Ryan knew him, placed both drinks on the now clean table and both workers scurried away to get back to work, Craig not without an elbow to Ryan’s side.

With quiet “thanks”s, Ryan sat back in his seat, thankful he hadn’t spat all over himself. Surprisingly, Luke sat across from him, seemingly not having the effort or want to return to his own table. Aware of the incoming conversation, Ryan closed his book and slid it to the side, taking a large mouthful of his drink to wash out the bitterness.

He lifted his eyes, meeting Luke’s stare through his lashes. “That better?” the other asked, a smile on his face as he, too, sipped his own drink.

“A lot,” Ryan scoffed, happy as the awful taste washed away. “How do you drink that?” he asked, nodding at the drink Luke held.

His only response was a shrug and an amused smile, before the question was brushed aside in replace of a topic change. “Tell me about yourself, Ryan.”

Unexpected but not unwelcome. Ryan’s eyes drifted to the ceiling, wandering what there was to tell. “Not much to say,” he responded with a shrug. “I live with Craig over there—“ he nodded at the blue-haired barista, “—and I have a dog. I’m an only child, I’m single, I spend too much time in this café and have a shitty sleeping schedule.”

Not the prettiest of introductions, but it wasn’t an untruthful one. Luke didn’t seem discouraged, only laughing and running a hand through his hair. At Ryan’s inviting nod, he hummed in thought. “I live with my friend who’s in love with your roommate’s co-worker, I spend too much time on video games and I’m also single.” The playful smirk on his lips showed his last little fact obviously had more meaning than Ryan’s had. If that wasn’t enough of a hint, the wink that followed was and Ryan bit back the heat that crawled up his neck. Luke didn’t seem to have any intentions in following up on the specific phrase, instead asking a simple, “Got a job?”

Ryan raised a brow. Playing the “I-didn’t-say-that-game” now, are we? He shrugged. “Dancing.” Not a lie, just not very specific. He may not have had any intentions for the man in front of him but he didn’t want to scare him off instantly. His answer seemed to have peaked the other’s interest though.

“Really? I do dancing too, what type?”

Now, Ryan was struck with a distrustful curiosity. “Dancing” was a vague answer, and could mean anything. The smirk that followed Luke’s response was something that made Ryan wander if they did the same type of dancing. Such a thing would be surprising and quite amusing because of circumstance and general coincidence, but Ryan wasn’t about to go and say so. Instead, he sipped his drink and folded his arms. “I don’t know, what dancing do you do?” he asked, trying to make sure he didn’t sound too suspicious.

At Luke’s laughter, he realised his avoidance was fairly childish, but he smiled all the same. The bearded man only grinned, flashing white teeth as he leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “Well, Ryan, two can play this game,” he joked, obviously following the childish antics. “Shall we make a deal?” Ryan nodded, uncaring for the unknown waters he was treading in. Luke grinned. “You can come to one of my shows and see what dancing I do, if I can come to one of your shows.”

It was a simple deal but definitely a risky one. They way Luke’s eyes wavered, almost daring Ryan to agree. He had to be thinking the same thing. They had to do the same sort of dancing.

There was no way he didn’t.

Ryan lifted a shoulder, head tilting slightly with a lop-sided smirk on his face. Confidence never wavering, he leant forward and reached his arm across the table, wrist up. “Deal, but you’ll have to give me your number so I can tell you where and when.”

Yes, Ryan was definitely starting to like Luke’s smile. He also loved the feeling of the pen on his skin, marking a number he would shortly be putting into his phone. When his hand was returned, he casually opened up his phone, dialling the number all the while very aware of Luke’s stare.

When his green gaze lifted again, Luke’s phone went off on the table beside his drink and Ryan cancelled the call, satisfied.

“Wonderful,” he said, standing. Smirk on his lips, he sipped his drink and slid his phone and book into his bag. “I’ll see you ‘round, and I’ll be expecting a time, date and address sometime soon.”

He dropped his right eye closed in a flirty wink of his own, before sweeping past him and strolling out of the café, drink in hand.

Thursday, 23:02

Luke -> Ryan

Luke: I have a show on Saturday night, 8pm. Address is *********** and cost to enter is $30

Ryan: oh hi there

Ryan: that suits fine, I cant wait to see your mysterious dance

Luke: I doubt you’ll expect it

Luke: also sorry if I woke you up

Ryan: you didn’t, don’t worry

Luke: oh yeah, shitty sleep schedule. why you up?

Ryan frowned at his phone, shrugging on his see-through, cropped tank top. The music was muffled in the backroom and he glanced up as Bryce walked through the curtain, several notes tucked into his snug blue shorts.

The blonde tugged the cat ears off his head, blue eyes reaching Ryan with a warm smile. “You going on?” he asked, and Ryan nodded.

“In a sec.” His eyes returned to his phone, typing out his response.

Ryan: night show

Luke: it’s late as shit, when does the show end?

Ryan: soon

Ryan: speaking of which, I gotta go

Luke: sure, sure, go practice your moves ;)

Ryan: not for anyone special

Ryan: ;)

Luke: im offended

Ryan: see ya lukey

He put his phone in his desk, standing and patting Bryce on the shoulder as he retrieved his head band and put on his shoes. “See you in a bit, Brycie.”

“So what if he isn’t a stripper?” Craig offered, strolling into the kitchen as Ryan dipped another plate into the soapy water. The blue-haired man was very curious about the whole exchange between Ryan and Luke. So many things could turn out a total surprise and a lot could go embarrassingly wrong. “Like, I know he was being supposedly suggestive, and I know you know an exotic dancer’s body when you see one, but like… what if?”

Ryan flicked his head, clearing his face of his hair. He needed to book a haircut. “Yes Craig, I’m quite aware of the chances that he might, in fact, not being a stripper. But his ass is really hot and all the guys I work with have really hot butts, so it makes sense.”

He almost thought Craig had left the room at the silence that began to spread around the kitchen but when he turned to glance over his shoulder he met eyes of judgement and disbelief. “I have a really hot ass though.” Ryan almost missed the quiet words his roommate muttered and threw his head back with laughter as the insulted man stomped his way out of the room.

“Your ass is mediocre,” he called after him, earning a violent: “Fuck you!” He only laughed again, loud and happy. He really did adore his roommate, the two having chosen very different paths in life but still finding happiness in them and in rooming with one another. Craig had no issue with Ryan’s job as Ryan had none with Craig’s.

He shook his head.

Luke was surely an exotic dancer. He had the right body, the right face, the right flirty confidence. There was no way he wasn’t.

Saturday, 10:34

Ryan -> Luke

Ryan: address is ********** im working monday, wednesday and friday next week from 7pm onwards

Ryan: just let me know when suits you best so I know you’re coming

Luke: wow you have a lot of shows on

Luke: now im really curious to what dancing you do

Ryan: guess we’ll have to wait and see wont we :)

Ryan had fucked up. He’d done it now. Craig was right, he was just a goddamn idiot. He read everything wrong, he signed up to something he shouldn’t have, there was no way he could go through with this.

When he pulled up to the address, he tripled checked the messages before letting his head hit the steering wheel. He had twenty minutes before 8pm and before the show was supposedly about to start and the address did not lead to a strip club at all.

He pulled his phone into view, head heavy against the leather. “I made a mistake,” he muttered when his roommate picked up. “He’s a fucking ballet dancer.”

Craig’s voice pulled away as his loud laughter rung through the speaker. He just groaned, eyes squeezed shut. “His ass will look nice under a tutu, I’m sure,” the brit retorted, howling with laughter at his own hilarity.

“I fucking hate you.” With the lovely statement having reached his roommate, he clicked the red button and dropped his phone to his knees, the laughter cutting short. “Fuck me,” he muttered, pulling the keys from the ignition. He committed, he was there, he didn’t want a confused, or insulted text tomorrow when Luke didn’t see him watching.

He had to go in. He said he would.

He could just tell Luke not to go to his. He could just try and call it off.

He managed to drag himself out of the car and shuffle into the building, feeling very out of place. A lot of viewers wandered around, a line forming to buy tickets and filter into the theatre. Ryan stopped at the end of the line, hands in his pockets and eyes following people filtering in and out of the room. A group of five teenage girls filed in, trotting along on their toes, separated by wide, firm tutus around their waists.

Any sort of hope that Luke wasn’t about to do a ballet show vanished when two men walked in, hoodies casual and comfortable, but legs clad in tights. Their faces were done in fancy makeup, colours encircling their eyes and crawling up their necks. Ryan had to close his eyes for a few long seconds and collect himself. He offered a kind smile and $30 to the lady at the counter, taking the ticket and tucking it into his phone case.

He forced himself forward, following a couple into the theatre and finding his allocated seat. His rapid-fire messaging to Craig was only answered with winky-faces and he could only turn it off as the lights dimmed and a woman stepped onto stage.

She gave the little introduction, instructing phones to be turned off completely and everyone to be respectful. The show lasted an hour and a half, running through six performances of varying styles of ballet dancing. He settled in his seat, curious and uncertain. He’d never been to any sort of dance shows that weren’t in clubs and the whole scene was very domestic.

Even still, he kept quiet and appreciated the highly contradictory dance style to that he knew so well. Single performances, duo performances, group performances; he waited through a full hour of different emotive displays and themed dances before finally a man stepped out onto stage splattered in black swirls and patterns up his chest and back. His legs were clad in black tights, white shoes on his feet visibly worn and stained from constant wear.

Ryan had to remind himself to swallow as the familiar face appeared, his dance jumping into action before the green-eyed man could even take in the sight of him. His dance lasted about five minutes, varying between different tempos and tones. His expression stayed calm, sometimes fluttering with the strain it took to do jumps and move like he did. Ryan was mesmerised.

He followed to rhythm of the music with his body, feet directing him across the stage, jumping and leaping. It was a type of dancing Ryan had never exposed himself to and it was one he was both curious and intrigued about.

By the time the performance had finished, Luke was visibly exhausted and he bowed slightly before carrying himself off stage on quick feet. Ryan paid half attention to the rest of the shows, the last twenty minutes going by in seconds before the lady from the beginning was back on stage, saying thank you, and everyone was applauding.

He joined in, waiting as the majority of the audience filed out of the room. He followed after a few minutes, leaving the theatre and navigating around groups of people. Moms congratulated their daughters and groups of dancers cheered and talked excitedly. He set his sights on getting out of the crowded room but was stopped just before the door by black-clad legs and a painted chest.

“Hey there, stranger.” Luke’s half-painted face was twisted in a smile, eyes bright and exhilarated from his previous performance. “What did ya think?” he asked. “Ballet?”

Ryan laughed, face crinkling in genuine admiration. “Definitely unexpected, but it was cool.” He gave himself a few seconds to think about how lame ‘it was cool’ sounded before adding: “I liked it.”

Luke looked unbothered, gently grabbing Ryan’s elbow and pulling him through a door that read “backstage, do not enter without permission”. Instantly, the chatter outside quietened and he was following the dancer around the back of the stage and through another door full of bright colours, mirrors and couches. A few other dancers were spotted around and they barely spared the two a glance.

“Make yourself at home while I clean up,” Luke said as Ryan looked around. It wasn’t so different from the back room he was so used to at his club and it freaked him out a little. “I’m excited for your dance.”

Ryan grimaced, dread pooling in his gut. He lifted a hand to the back of his head, eyes on the carpet as the other walked to a sink and soaked a cloth in water. He may not have known the ballet dancer too well, but he knew him enough to know the other would not give up about seeing his dance easily.

“About that…”

He lifted his gaze, making his decision, and met Luke’s dark eyes through the mirror he stood in front of. He almost forgot what he was going to say as he watched the other man wipe the paint off his face and shoulders.

He was jolted back to life as the other shook his head. “Nu-uh. I know what you’re going to say and there’s no way you’re backing out of our deal. You got to see me dance around like an idiot, I want to see you do the same.” His tone was teasing and friendly and Ryan felt reluctance crawl up his throat. Luke was so nice and genuine, it felt wrong to be dragging him to see him dance on a pole in next to no clothes when the guy was probably expecting a hip-hop performance. Luke turned, no longer looking through the mirror as he perched himself on the stool and wiped at the paint on his arms. “Don’t worry, I promise I’m not gonna judge how you dance or what you wear – I’ll come by on Wednesday and then buy you that coffee I promised you on Thursday. Sound good?”

Yeah except once you see my dance, you won’t want to buy me coffee, or talk to me every again. “Honestly, Luke, I don’t think you’re going to want to watch. It’s not the type of dancing you’re expecting.”

“How would you know what I’m expecting?” He turned back to the mirror but his eyes continued to flick between his reflection and Ryan’s. “You can’t be that bad, and either way you can’t stop me from dropping by.” His tone was nothing more than playful, no meaning of offense or nastiness.

Ryan ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t think you’re going to like it much, and don’t bet I won’t say I told you so.” He was beginning to wonder if the ballet dancer ever felt disheartened from anything by the grin on his face.

He rinsed the cloth again, wiping at his chest and abs which were stacked with muscle. Ryan tried not to stare but ended up trying to make it as subtle as possible. By Luke’s casual smile when he turned back around, shiny and cleaner, he hadn’t noticed. “I think you’re exaggerating. Dancing is dancing, I’m not one to judge.”

Ryan knew the conversation was done. There wasn’t anything else to say and Luke was stepping up in front of the other man, holding out the rinsed cloth. “Would you mind washing the rest of the paint off my back?” Luke turned, rolling his shoulders forward slightly and giving Ryan more access to the painted skin.

He tried his best to keep his mind clear as he wiped the remainder of the back ink off the expanse of skin, accidently making eye contact with a blonde girl across the room. She wore a smirk, blue eyes glimmering with amusement, and she winked at him before returning her attention back to cleaning the shoe in her hands.

Hanging the cloth over Luke’s shoulder, he sat back down on the couch. “Thanks, Ry,” Luke said, grabbing a shirt and tugging it on. “Come on, I’ll walk you out so you don’t get lost.”

Ryan nodded, lips pursed as to not openly exclaim how precious the nickname ‘Ry’ was. His smile was gentle, but distracted when he followed Luke from the room, raising his hand in an unsure wave to the blonde who wiggled her fingers at the two of them.

Before he could think of anything to talk about, they were back in the lobby which had fortunately lessened in busyness. “Thanks for coming by, I’m glad you enjoyed it and I’ll be at the address on Wednesday.” Ryan nodded, not really sure what to do other than smile.

“Thanks a lot, it was cool to see. If you change your mind let me know.” Before he could say anything stupid, he turned and walked from the building and to his car. By the time he shut the door and his keys were in the ignition he had opened and closed his phone three times, going to Craig’s messages, Luke’s messages and the phone app. Allowing his head to hit the steering wheel with a groan, he turned the device off completely and pulled out of the carpark.

The first half of the week travelled by far too quickly. Tuesday was the only day Ryan wasn’t working and he spent the duration of the evening talking over the Star Wars marathon Craig was trying to pay attention to.

It wasn’t like him to panic much about a person. He never really caught feelings or got attached to people, and he was always mighty accurate about them cutting ties when they found out about his dancing. It was unfortunate but never heart-breaking.

For some reason, his urge to not scare off Luke was stronger than he’d expected. He’d texted the guy at least once each day to tell him that going on Wednesday night would be a mistake and he really wasn’t sure about their deal anymore. No matter what he said, the guy was persistent. But he couldn’t just tell him, there was no way. It was often that people he “liked” hung around for a bit and revelled in the first few dates and chats, but the second they hit a snag or he told them about his dancing, the relationship was cut and he didn’t ever see them again.

He never found himself actually caring and he resented that he cared about how Luke would react. He barely knew the guy and they’d shared less than ten conversations together. They’re little deal was just a bit of playing around; testing waters with flirting. It was harmless and obviously stupid seeing as Ryan hadn’t expected himself to get so invested in the other man.

He could barely think of anything else over the three days, spending hours on the pole he had installed back in his and Craig’s apartment. His roommate both loved and hated to watch him practice, admiring the skill and strength Ryan had to be able to do such a dance and fearing for his own sanity and sight at the amount of his roommate he could see.

“You need to chill out. He’s going to come and see you dance and he’ll either never speak to you again, or he’s gonna ask for a lap dance and you’ll get laid!” Craig’s methods of reassurance weren’t amazing but it was the thought that mattered and he tried. Ryan didn’t reject his offers of a movie marathon though, cuddling up under at least six pillows and ignoring the urge to practice his dance more.

He was obsessively careful about his routine, far more than usual, and his focus on Monday was incredible. Bryce had to ask if he was okay at how hard he pushed himself while dancing and he got called over for lap dances back-to-back the whole night. He earnt a lot of money, much to Craig’s amusement, and the brit didn’t hold back on openly wondering whether Luke would pay for three lap dances, or nine.

Ryan brushed him off and pretty much passed out the moment he dragged himself out of the shower. He didn’t even bother to put on pyjamas, instead dreaming of the different songs he could dance to on Wednesday night.

“Dude, are you okay? You look like you’re going to throw up.” Bryce’s worried voice accompanied his motherly expression almost too well as he watched Ryan’s reflection. The blonde was centimetres from the mirror, colouring his eyelids carefully with several shades of blue. He and Ryan had been working together for over a year and had gotten quite close. They didn’t bother with one another much outside of their club nights but had a strong friendship nonetheless.

Ryan swallowed, checking his phone time again. He’d sent Luke a message thirty minutes prior telling him to let him know when he was going to get there. He finally looked up to Bryce and sighed. “Yeah, I’m fine. I should have told him not to come anyway, should have been more firm about it.”

Bryce closed the palettes, packing them away neatly in his drawer, and turned to his friend. “No, no, you know he wouldn’t have let you. By the sounds of it, he would have turned up no matter what.” The blonde had a friendly smile on his face but couldn’t mask the concern his eyes wore. “When he gets here, go out there and do your thing because I can tell you it is amazing and he’ll be at your waistband in seconds, asking for you to sit in his lap.” The blonde strapped his heels on, pausing after a second to lift his eyes and add: “Or on his face.”

Ryan couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a little bit lighter at the confidence the younger man spoke with. He jumped as his phone went off, Bryce grabbing the rabbit-ear headband off his lap and gently fitting it on his head. “I’ll be out there. Give him three minutes to come inside and look around, then strut your stuff and dance for him.”

He didn’t even get the chance to say ‘thank you’ as the kitten ears settled in blonde hair and the man was sweeping through the curtains. Ryan listened to the catcalling and hollering for another second before returning his attention to his device as it rung again.

Wednesday, 19:46

Luke -> Ryan

Luke: I didn’t get the wrong address, did I?

Luke: Ryan?

Ryan: so do I say I told you so now or…

Luke: oh

He couldn’t.

Shaking his head roughly, he put his phone down and stalked up to the mirror. Whether Luke actually came in or not was up to him and Ryan had no say anymore. What little of a relationship they had was gone but that didn’t matter; Ryan had a pole to dance on and money to earn.

He shoved Luke from his thoughts, tugging on his see-through tank top and fitting his transparent blind-fold over his eyes. It looked opaque but only dimmed Ryan’s vision at most. He pulled his booty-shorts up, adjusted his bunny ears and hair before facing the curtain.

His thin fingers pushed the material aside, stalking onto the catwalk effortlessly in the red stilettos. The crowd of mostly men yelled and called, the music drowning them out as he set his lips in a slight smirk. Bryce fell back, legs twisted around the pole to hold him up as he flipped upside down and grinned at his partner. The blonde dropped down onto his hands, legs elegantly swinging off the pole and back over him.

He stood up without a stumble and Ryan paused behind him as he dropped down into a low squat, the music exploding around the two of them. The brunette’s lips pulled back in a grin as he watched his friend slide the loose shirt up his body and over his head slowly. The crowd howled with enthusiasm, the lean, muscled body of the younger man igniting further excitement.

Ryan stood tall and proud as the boy bounced on his heels, standing and twirling. He was only just taller than the older dancer and circled him in long paces. It was a known fact that people loved Bryce’s legs.

Then the blonde was gone from beside him, not bothering to look back. He took possession of the pole on the left, grinning at the hooting as he started to scale and spin around it. Ryan turned his attention away, focus on his own performance as he dragged the toes of his heels along the red carpet.

He slid his hand up and down the right pole, circling it slowly. It was cold under his fingers as he dropped down, ass facing the audience as he pushed himself out and back up. The effect was expected, whistles erupting from around the room and following him as he raised one leg, hooking it around the pole. Every move he made was rehearsed, calculated and flawless.

Doing as he’d done hundreds of times before, he pulled himself up, locking the other leg around the pole and spinning.

Then he was dancing. His shoes barely weighed him down, legs built with muscle and memory of holding him up, spinning, lifting; everything of the sorts. He moved with the upbeat music much like Luke had done in his tights and after climbing another metre off the ground, he locked himself in place on the pole with his legs and feet.

Looking back over his shoulder, he dragged his tank top up over his head and threw it into the crowd. He arched backwards, bending completely upside down and grabbing onto the metal below his feet. Sucking in a breath, he let his legs unhook and swing back over his head, coming to a stop on the floor that had him bent at ninety degrees, ass in the air.

He glanced over at Bryce who was grinning at him, and winked at the blonde as he swung his hips from side to side. Before he was even standing upright, he was scaling the pole once again. It came naturally to him, linking one leg around the metal shaft and holding on with one hand. The other found his ankle, slowly dragging it up through the air and over his head.

The crowd roared, his flexibility just as popular as Bryce’s legs. He managed to impress most with his strength and mobility, holding himself upside down with legs split at 180 degrees. He spun the pole around, dragging himself through the air along with the music and vocal crowd.

His and Bryce’s dance lasted seven minutes before they were both panting and grinning, lined with a thin layer of sweat. They stood side by side and bumped knuckles, soaking in the shouts and whistles.

Ryan almost forgot Luke was even there, almost forgot to look out for him as the two easily strolled down the steps. They retrieved their shirts, pulling them back on and splitting up to wander between tables and up to the bar. They weren’t allowed to drink anything alcoholic but Mike happily supplied the both of them with large glasses of water and heavy compliments before the two took off to talking to their audience and hopeful customers.

He fell out of his usual personality, all batted eyelashes and confident smirk. He flirted and spoke with many eager men, promising to wander back by them later in the evening when the private room was ready. He didn’t rush, or bother getting his hopes up seeing as it was very likely Luke had taken one look at the place and bolted.

It was a rather big surprise when he found himself beside the man he thought to have not even walked inside. He met dark eyes, stopping in his confident walk and faltering in his thoughts. Only for a moment. A moment of “oh fuck, he’s actually here” and “he’s disgusted, he hates me”.

His moment ended.

Luke reached a hand out slowly, giving him all the chance to move away or refuse the interaction. He stayed in place, not able to pull his eyes away from Luke’s, and gasped when firm fingers hooked under the waistband of his shorts. He stumbled forward, pulled right up to Luke who seemed quite the opposite of disgusted.

The bearded man took a moment to let his eyes wander up and down the brunette completely and Ryan had to force down a blush when those eyes returned to his, hazy with what looked scarily like hunger.

“You were right.” When he finally spoke, Luke’s lips twitched with a slight smirk. His voice was low and smooth and doing things to Ryan’s self control. “I definitely wasn’t expecting this.”

Ryan swallowed. Wasn’t he supposed to be the sexy one in this situation? “I told you so.” His voice barely came out as a whisper and he didn’t find the oxygen to say anything else as Luke pulled out a twenty and tucked it into his waistband, folded up nice and neat.

“How much do I have to pay to get you alone?” Oh God Ryan was going to lose it. With a harsh kick to the gut, he snapped himself back into place. He was the dancer, he was the seller, he was not going to get flustered. With that in mind, he stepped closer.

Smirking and bending down, he ran his fingers over the back of Luke’s hand before gently taking a hold of it. “How long do you want me to yourself?” He slowly slid Luke’s hand up under his top, giving him complete access to his abdomen and chest.

The playful, light-hearted Luke Ryan was beginning to get used to seemed to be very out of sight and out of mind. He was instead showing a very sexy, very hot side of himself, one Ryan was definitely not opposed to. Seeing as he hadn’t seen the place and ran in the opposite direction instantly, Ryan was more than happy. Having his fingertips dancing curiously under his shirt was something else.

“How long can I have you for?” Ryan was going to have to decide on what he was doing sooner rather than later or he was going to be giving Luke a lap dance right there in the main room.

Sucking in a breath, he stepped it up a notch and pressed in close. He pushed Luke’s hand flat against his chest and ignored the feeling of Luke’s hot breath on his cheek. “Depends; want me to be on your lap through that door or back at my place?” he whispered into the other man’s ear. Judging by the way Luke coiled up like a spring, the night was going far better than Ryan had even hoped. When he pulled back, Luke’s eyes were dark and sharp, a raw need he had never seen before in anyone. He grinned. “I owe three men a lap dance. In fifteen minutes, come through that door and I’ll meet you there. You can take me back to mine or yours; it’s up to you, baby.”

Luke nodded and Ryan found it almost impossible to drag his eyes away. And maybe he swayed his hips a little more deliberately than he usually would when he walked away.

Through the three short songs, he couldn’t remove Luke from his mind and the idea of being taken home. He’d definitely had a lasting effect on the ballet dancer and it didn’t at all seem to be a damaging one. He collected his payment from all three men, and added tips, before apologising to Mike and letting Bryce know about the situation. The blonde had to smack a hand over his mouth as to not laugh openly, before another guy was taking his hand and moving into his space.

The blonde played his part, linking their fingers and leading him towards the private room. He managed to shoot Ryan a definite wink before he shut the door and Ryan was left strutting back to the back room.

Luke was in front of him the moment the door was shut and Ryan’s parted lips morphed into a teasing smirk in seconds. He locked the door behind him before slinging his arms over the other man’s shoulders. “Want to strip me, baby?” He almost moaned the words into Luke’s ear as he ground his pelvis forward. He didn’t get the chance to say anything more as deft fingers caught his chin, pulling him back.

A hand grasped his ass at the same time as Luke pressed forwards, crashing their lips together. He swallowed Ryan’s smirk and dropped his other hand to his waist. The dancer’s fingers pulled and tugged at Luke’s hair, gasping into his mouth and welcoming the tongue that joined his. His back met the door, the taller man’s hold on him strong and controlling. Hands slid down the back of his thighs and he jumped up, easily locking his legs around Luke’s waist.

He didn’t hesitate to roll his hips forward, eliciting a strained groan from Luke.

“You know you’re not actually supposed to touch the dancer during a lap dance,” Ryan panted when he pulled back. He didn’t even know if Luke heard a word he said as lips and teeth began nipping and sucking at his neck and throat. The moans and gasps that left his lips only seemed to encourage the other and both of them were very clearly being enveloped in their own arousal. “Are we going to just do this here?” He yanked at Luke’s hair hard enough to pull him back, eyes level with his. With his attention, the dancer pressed forward and nipped at his bottom lip. “Or are you going to take me home so we can do this in my bed?”

It took Luke three seconds of thought before Ryan was dropped onto his feet and his hand was snatched up. He let out a hoarse giggle, grabbing his bag of belongings and yanking Luke after him out the backdoor. The bearded man led him to a little silver car, spinning him around and pinning him against the side to taste his tongue again.

The dancer laughed into the kiss, feeling the strong hands almost bruising his hips as they both hung onto the kiss.

When they broke, Luke vanished from him completely, striding around the side of the car. Ryan took his time getting comfortable in the passenger seat while Luke started the car and pulled out, not even bothering with his seat belt. Ryan had to stop him from running three red lights and speeding on the way back to his apartment, giving out quick and simple directions. Neither shared a single word as they rushed into the building, hands still linked. Luke didn’t even try to restrain himself in the elevator, pressed up against Ryan’s back with one hand sliding down his thigh and the other across his chest.

He pressed a wet kiss to the side of the man’s neck, earning a laugh that ended in a breathy gasp when he bit down on the juncture between his neck and shoulder. The moment the doors opened, Ryan was pulling out his key and rushing down the hall. He barely fumbled with the door, slamming it and locking it before turning to Luke.

The grin on his face was lit with excitement and exhilaration as he slowly backed up down the hall. “Come and get me, Lukey.” He almost purred, darting through the main room to his own bedroom. Luke shut the door behind him, eyes alight with hunger as Ryan backed up. Green eyes flickered with a matching grin as he sat back on the edge of the bed. His fingers hooked into the collar of Luke’s shirt, pulling him down to eye level and licking his lips. “I’m all yours, baby,” he whispered.

Thursday, 7:34

Craig -> Ryan

Craig: im happy for you but next time fucking message me so I dont walk into the apartment while you’re getting fucked

Craig: scarred for fucking life wow

Craig: i never want to hear the words “your mouth feels so hot baby” from you ever again

Craig: or im moving the fuck out

#banana bus squad #ohmtoonz #bbs #ohmtoonz fic #fanfic #jynx writes #chinxific

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evangeline-perry · 6 years ago

Text

Dead Poets Society: Neil x OC: part 4

masterlist

complete series

Tonight I join the boys in study group. I sit next to Neil, I am vaguely aware of our shoulders touching. At the moment he was helping me with a part of the latin homework I didn’t get.

Around the room, several students are throwing darts at a small rubber skeleton hanging from the bulletin board. Various students are studying and playing games. Meeks and Pitts are sitting at one table working on their "hi-fi system". Meeks is waving an antenna around with no luck. Pitts points out to him that he forgot to plug it in. Knox enters the room and closes the door behind him, leaning up against it heavily.

‘How was dinner?’ Charlie asks.

‘Huh?’ Knox turns his head.

‘How was dinner?’ Charlie repeats.

‘Terrible’, He sighs, ‘Awful.’

He leaves the door and sits down with us at the table.

‘Why?’ Charlie questions, ‘What happened?’

‘Tonight, I met the most beautiful girl in my entire life’, Knox breathes.

‘I’ll try not to be insulted...’ I joke

‘nono, angie’, Knox states quickly, ‘you’re beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but she…’ Knox let out a rather dramatic sigh.

‘wauw, you got it bad’, I laugh, he nods in agreement.

‘What's wrong with that?’ Neil asks after a moment.

‘She's practically engaged’, Knox states, ‘To Chet Danburry.’

‘That guy could eat a football’, Charlie mumbled.

‘That's too bad’, Pitts agrees.

‘Too bad?’ Knox repeats, ‘It's worse than too bad Pitsie, it's a tragedy. A girl this beautiful in love with such a jerk.’

‘All the good ones go for jerks, you know that.’ Pitts states, before realizing, ‘Except for Angie of course,’ making me laugh.

‘Ahh, forget her’, Cameron scoffs, ‘Open your trig book and try and figure out problem five.’

‘I can't just forget her Cameron’, Knox sighs, ‘And I can't think about trig.’ at that moment the radio Meeks and Pitts were working on begins letting out a high pitched hum.

‘We got it.’ ‘Holy cow.’ they quietly celebrated until Mr. Hager walks into the room, ‘All right everyone, five minutes. Let's go.’

The students quickly pack up their gear and prepare to leave. Pitts tries to hide the radio in his lap. Neil leans in close to me: ‘hey, can I walk you back?’

‘sure’, I smile at him, he returns the smile while taking my books.

As we enter my corridor, he asks: ‘So, how do you like Hell-ton so far?’

‘Never thought hell would be a place on earth’, I state matter-of-factly, making him laugh.

When we reach my room, I opens the door and Neil places my books on the desk before leaning against the wardrobe.

‘By the way’, he tells me, ‘I don’t believe what Knox said.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sure you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen’, he smiles, making me blush, ‘And especially cute whenever you wear those glasses.’ at this point I didn’t even wanna know how crimson red I blushed, because it only got worse when he leaned down kisses my cheek. And I’m sure he saw because his smile changed into a smirk, ‘good night, Evangeline.’

‘good night, Neil.’

The next morning I was just putting my blazer on when there was a knock on the door. When I opened it, it was Neil. He told me Mr Nolan had requested he’d escort me to my classes. So that’s exactly what he did.

In class, dad sits at his desk at the front of the classroom and opens up one of his books.

Neil sits to my right in this class, Todd sits in front of me, and Knox behind me.

‘Gentlemen… and lady, open your text to page twenty-one of the introduction. Mr. Perry, will you read the opening paragraph of the preface, entitled "Understanding Poetry"?’

‘Understanding Poetry, by Dr. J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D’, Neil reads, after putting on his glasses, I couldn’t help but notice how cute he looked with them on,

‘To fully understand poetry, we must first be fluent with its meter, rhyme, and figures of speech. Then ask two questions: One, how artfully has the objective of the poem been rendered, and two, how important is that objective. Question one rates the poem's perfection, question two rates its importance. And once these questions have been answered, determining a poem's greatest becomes a relatively simple matter.’ With that my father gets up from his desk and prepares to draw on the chalk board.

‘If the poem's score for perfection is plotted along the horizontal of a graph, and its importance is plotted on the vertical, then calculating the total area of the poem yields the measure of its greatness.’ I watch my dad as he draws a corresponding graph on the board and I notice the students dutifully copy it down, I didn’t, I must admit I was mostly looking at/ listening to Neil.

He looked over and caught me though, before going back to reading with a smirk on his face, ‘A sonnet by Byron may score high on the vertical, but only average on the horizontal. A Shakespearean sonnet, on the other hand, would score high both horizontally and vertically, yielding a massive total area, thereby revealing the poem to be truly great. As you proceed through the poetry in this book, practice this rating method. As your ability to evaluate poems in this matter grows, so will - so will your enjoyment and understanding of poetry.’

Neil sets the book down and takes off his glasses before shooting me a wink, making me blush an even brighter red than before. Keating turns away from the chalkboard with a smile. ‘Excrement’, he says finally, ‘That's what I think of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard. We're not laying pipe, we're talking about poetry.’

that’s when I saw multiple students, including Cameron looking down at the graph he copied into his notes and quickly scribbling it out.

‘I mean, how can you describe poetry like American Bandstand?’ my father asks the class, ‘I like Byron, I give him a 42, but I can't dance to it… Now I want you to rip out that page.’

I try to hold my laughter as I see the boys look at Keating as if he has just gone mad.

‘Go on, rip out the entire page. You heard me, rip it out. Rip it out!’ and of course, I needed to be the one to break the ice, and ripped out the page, ‘Thank you, my dear’, he called out, ‘Go on, rip it out.’

I look back at the sound of paper tearing and see Charlie has also done it. ‘Thank you Mr. Dalton’, my dad smiles, ‘Everyone, tell you what, don't just tear out that page, tear out the entire introduction. I want it gone, history. Leave nothing of it. Rip it out. Rip! Begone J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D. Rip, shred, tear. Rip it out. I want to hear nothing but ripping of Mr. Pritchard. We'll perforate it, put it on a roll.’ at this point everyone are tearing out the pages, including me. Suddenly I hear my dad call out, ‘It's not the bible, you're not going to go to hell for this. Go on, make a clean tear, I want nothing left of it.’ making me laugh.

Dad goes over to his room and Cameron turns around to Neil, ‘We shouldn't be doing this.’ he calls out, only for neil to respond, ‘ Rip, rip, rip!’ while making Cameron turn back around.

‘What the hell is going on here?’ Mr McAllister calls out while suddenly bursting into the classroom. We all turn around in shock. And I can see Charlie stuffing a crumpled page into his mouth in the corner of my eye. Keating emerges from his room with a waste paper basket.

‘I don't hear enough rips’, my dad states, walking back into the room.

‘Mr. Keating.’

‘Mr. McAllister.’

‘I'm sorry, I- I didn't know you were here.’

‘I am.’

‘Ahh, so you are. Excuse me’, Mr. McAllister slowly backs out of the classroom.

‘Keep ripping everyone. This is a battle, a war. And the casualties could be your hearts and souls.’

dad says while holding out the basket to Charlie who spits out a wad of paper.

‘Thank you Mr. Dalton. Armies of academics going forward, measuring poetry. No, we will not have that here. No more of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard. Now in my class you will learn to think for yourselves again. You will learn to savor words and language. No matter what anybody tells you, words and ideas can change the world.’, he says putting down the trashbasket, ‘I see that look in Mr. Pitt's eye, like nineteenth century literature has nothing to do with going to business school or medical school. Right? Maybe. Mr. Hopkins, you may agree with him, thinking "Yes, we should simply study our Mr. Pritchard and learn our rhyme and meter and go quietly about the business of achieving other ambitions." I have a little secret for ya. Huddle up. Huddle up!’

We all up from their seats and gather around Keating in the center of the class. I couldn’t see clearly through the crowd of boys since most of them were taller, but I felt someone tug my sleeve. Neil had scooted back his chair and gestured I could sit in his lap, though slightly blushing, I sat down. Neils arms wrapped around me so I didn’t accidentally fall off.

‘Easy there, Mr Perry’, my dad says suddenly, ‘Mind the hands.’ this causes the class to start snickering and both me and Neil to start blushing.’

‘Now...’ dad says, continuing his class, ‘We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman: "O me, o life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these, o me, o life? Answer: that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?’ directing that last question to Todd, looking up at him.

After class, the guys asked me about my dad, like ‘how he was when he was in school here?’ but I simply gave them the same answer: ‘ sworn to secrecy.’ all the while the cafeteria filled with students and teachers who stood before the tables saying grace: ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful. Amen.’

With that we all sat down.

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#dead poets society #dead poets #Dead Poets Honor #dead poets society imagine #dead poets society x reader #dead poets society headcanon #dead poets society headcanons #neil #neil perry #neil x reader #neil perry x reader #neil imagine #neil perry imagine #neil headcanon #neil perry headcanons #neil perry headcanon #neil headcanons

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