#i feel like i could make a somewhat legible picture of him with my eyes closed at this point

[silvermun]

i've had to draw shadow at least 12 times today his impact truly holds no bounds

[sciapod]

KINDA SHITPOST SMUT

- But it's with Tom Hardy

[all gifs linked from this here post]

Pairing: Tom Hardy x Female Reader (non-descript body type+ethnicity)

Summary: No plot, just morning sex with Tom.

Warnings: This is pure smut, but it's pretty vanilla. Fluffy smut. The F-word and similar *explicit language* occurs regularly. Crackfic.

A/N: This is an oooold thing I wrote [strongly inspired by this thread] and spontaneously decided to finally edit (somewhat) and share.

Not beta'ed. I'll die with my typos like... I don't know. Use your imagination. The possibilities are literally endless.

Masterlist <- if you like this shit <3

--- 🖤---

He's smelling all fresh from his morning stroll, wind in his hair and such. He comes back and sees you still in bed, warming up for the next round.

You crawl to the edge to open his pants, but as soon as they fall to the ground …

Does he A) push you back down and haul your legs over his shoulders, or B) turn you around on all four, ass in the air?

Let's say A ... That way, you can easier at some point run your hands up his torso, underneath the hoodie ... Or, you can attempt to sit up more and slide your hands around his neck, feeling his cool skin ... then let them wander down, exploring his traps, feeling that his skin under the hoodie is much warmer. The soft fabric on the inside adds to the pleasure and sensation …

So … this is how it could go down:

SMUT UNDER THE CUT. 18+. READ RESPONSIVELY RESPONSIBLY.

You’re lying in bed sprawled on your back, finally having caught your breath. Slightly dozed off but your fingers have found their way between your legs – to your crotch. Your craving and lust for Tom is a never-ending-story and despite how ravaged your folds are, you still want more, so you touch yourself while he’s out to get breakfast. Gently, ever so gently … it doesn’t take long for you to get moist, so you spread your lust-oil around your lips, soothing yourself.

He comes back … sees you lying there, gently caressing your entrance. He chuckles and asks if he can take a quick picture of you.

“Wait, what?”

Looking down at yourself, you see that the t-shirt you’re wearing spells “FUCK” across your chest. The entire text says “FUCK BIEBER”, but right now, it’s only the word “FUCK” that’s visible and legible, perfectly mimicking your bodily state of content. Your lips curl to a grin at this realization and you grab a pillow to cover your sex and throw an arm over your eyes just in time for the flash from his phone to capture your spiritual essence.

Lifting your arm again to look, you see him place the phone on a shelf and walk up to the edge of the bed. In one swift move, he grabs you by a leg and hauls you over, then tosses the pillow covering you to the floor.

A moment after he gently pushes two fingers into your mouth. Instinctively, you lick them wet. Then he leads them to your 👇 lower lips and begins to carefully caress your clit. Nice and smooth but quickly gaining speed.

Lust has quickly filled in you both. He leans in and you grab him around the neck, pulling him close. As your lips meet in a starved kiss, your hands run through his hair, fisting it and pulling it slightly, making him moan ... His plump, open lips hovering just above yours … His dick pushes vigorously against your sex, not entering though, just sliding between your folds …

Moaning in unison to feel each other again, you run your hands down the back of his neck, over his bulging traps, feeling his skin getting warmer the further down his hoodie you reach.

“Fuck me, Tom!” you basically preach.

He proceeds.

“You’re so fucking tight! We JUST had sex and once again, I almost can’t fit!”

You look kinda worried at that, but shake if off, because … well, it’s a good thing, isn't it?

Taking one leg up over his shoulder – so deep.

Both legs up – so tight.

URGH.

You: Quivering, shaking, pulling your own hair.

Him: Groaning, grunting, moaning.

Oh the SOUNDS. Also the ones you make, which mainly range from “OH GOD,” to “OH FUCK” to “FUCKING HELL,” and “FUCK ME,” etc.

At some point he leans forward and you kiss. Deeply, passionately, ruffling his short hair, caressing his beard, oh, his beard and jaw and chin and … urgh, just his pretty face and strong neck and traps. You dig your nails into his skin.

Then he sits up, turns you around on all four. Fucks you like that. He pushes your face down. Fucks you harder. Deeper. You’re moaning nonsense into another pillow. He fists your hair, pulling your face free from there.

“Let the neighbors learn my name, darling.”

“FUck, TOM!!” And so it goes …

Holding you now on your shoulders, halfway around your neck, thrusting deep and hard into you, his balls slapping against your clit – it’s too much.

“Fuck?!” He grunts, with a slightly different tone than before …

“What?!” panik in your voice.

“Oh, you’re just squirting all over me, babe. So fucking hot.”

And he growls, pushing you down into the mattress again, but pulling your face free – fucking you even more vigorously. [Somewhere in there he complains that you’re “pushing him out”, so he proceeds to fuck you with even more effort.]

After some time like this, you’re both drenched in various bodily fluids. He hauls you up to stand on your knees, his shaft still buried deep. You lay your head back on his shoulder and run a hand through his hair. The other lands on his hip, stabilizing your shaking corpse body. The sudden change in position makes you dizzy. He kisses you and whispers in your ear, but you’re so dazed that you don’t understand what he’s saying. Maybe he’s just whispering grunts?

He runs his hands down the front of your body, rubs your clit just to make you quiver all over again. He chuckles, then runs his fingers up along your sweaty body again, thrusting into you ever so slightly … feeling your stomach, breasts … he gives them a little squeeze, then continues up to your throat. He gives it a squeeze as well … one of his hands stays there, holding firmly just under your jaw, holding your face up lightly. His other hand reaches around your chest. Then he asks, “Are you up for more?”

“Just … the last bit. To get me down.”

He pulls out and lies down on his back. You lie down on top of him, his still slightly hard dick pressing against your clit and you grrriiiind. Holding him tightly, arms under his back and holding onto his shoulders, breathing into his ear, you grind against him. The tip of his dick is just outside your opening, so when you grind down, you brush your lips along his shaft until your clit meets his head. His hands are firmly placed on your ass, following your rhythm, enhancing the friction. Increasing your tempo, the tension quickly builds and within what seems like hardly a minute, your entire body tenses. Keeping the grind deep, he holds you tightly in place, causing your orgasm to last longer than your mind is able to make sense of. Then finally, you ease onto him … or, well, collapse. Fuck.

“Would you like some breakfast?” he asks, but you’re already fast asleep.

---

Thanks for reading this far! I hope you enjoyed it. Tags in the reblog <3

[themanip]

late nights

SUMMARY — you and bang chan are both equally as stressed out. your solution?  sleep with each other. boom, problem solved.

PAIRING — bang chan  x  reader  WARNINGS — mentions of stress and mental health problems, unprotected sex, soft!dom chan, mentions of kinks, really soft, really cute smut basically, crying (not sexually), sad thoughts, angry and frustrated emotions, angsty GENRE — heavy angst, fwb, coming-of-age kind of, smut, romance, porn with a hint of plot WORD COUNT — 4.9k, i got carried away my bad

“How do you deal with stress?”

Chan’s question wasn’t ill intentioned by any means, and as you both sat in his studio, you pondered on whether or not to actually answer truthfully. “I mean, you’re the leader of two more trainees than I was, and navigating as a girlgroup is much more difficult than boygroups,”

“Do you want the honest answer, or the more appropriate answer?” you crossed your legs, Chan’s couch feeling quite comfortable. He stared down at you for a moment, the height of his chair offering him that leverage.

The room was quiet, the lights were dim, and the entire environment was soothing. “Well, honest, of course. No point in me asking if it’s a fib, no?”

You nodded, blowing a puff of air out of your nose thoughtfully. “Truthfully, I use sex. It allows me to physically and mentally drain myself, and I sleep really well after getting fucked. It allows me to refresh the next morning, and my stress, at least physically, is diminished.”

You didn’t look at him until you finished talking, and his face was blank. Once you two locked eyes, he sputtered out, “Oh, I—”

“This is why I offered two options, Chan,” you laughed, and at the lighten of atmosphere he giggled a bit too. “I didn’t mean to, y’know,” he stopped, and you nodded lightly. “I get it, but as of now I don’t do it much anymore. I usually just let out my anger or stress during dance routines or working out but it doesn’t work the same, and sometimes I deliver moves too harshly while dancing.”

“Why not?”

You were unsure what he was referring to, and you crinkled your eyebrows. “How come you don’t do it anymore if nothing else helps the same way?” he asked softly, his eyes swimming with genuine concern. 

“I’m a lot more conservative with my body, I just have to trust someone. It’s hard to get to know a guy without them immediately wanting to jump into a relationship. You can’t really do that in what we do, and the second I start to trust a guy things go haywire. I just really have to have a good friendship to have sex, I guess.”

The entirety of the conversation, Chan’s cheeks were turning peach. Even in the dark, dim light, you could see it. “I understand, it’s a very tangible thing. Just giving yourself to someone like that without a basic relationship, platonic or not, is important depending on how you view relationships,”

You nodded in response, and a silence fell over you two. There wasn’t much to be said, but for some reason you decided to blurt out. “If you don’t know how to deplete stress, I suggest it. Just the no strings attached part, because otherwise things get messy and stress becomes inevitable. Just try it sometime, Chan. If you don’t like it, then consider it a learning experience,” you shrugged, and Chan pursed his lips.

“I mean it doesn’t sound like a bad idea, per se. I just don’t know how I’ll casually ask someone to have sex. Most women just run off the moment I mention it, and who knows if they’re even into the same things I am? There’s just so many things to be unsure of.” His chin was now laying on his thumb, and his pointer finger was laying above his top lip. He was deep in thought. 

You stood up, which cause Chan to unexpectedly flinch, and he watched you with careful eyes. “Chris, if you ever feel like you need a de-stresser, you know where to find me. Nothing will be weird unless you make it weird. Or we can always just talk, either way, I’m here. I have to go before Sumna comes and drags me out of here, but seriously. Whatever you need, no strings attached. Nothing leaves this room,” you mentioned softly, and his eyes widened at his English name. It’s rather rare you used it, so he pondered the specific use of it in this scenario.

“Thank you,” he muttered simply, and he watched you as you walked out. Was she being serious?

Chan and you had not talked in a few days. Whether it was a crazy schedule, you embarassing yourself, or him not knowing how to approach the situation, you didn’t know. All you did know was that you missed your friend. 

You and your bandmates had a hectic schedule today, and as the leader, you’d had to sit in on a meeting with your manager and JYP’s public relations manager. Apparently, Dispatch had caught one of your members, Lanzi, out doing something with another k-pop idol. Dispatch had only obtained two pictures of it, but it was clearly legible on who they were, and what they were doing.

The cost to get those pictures thrown out was much more than JYP would have liked, so she had to sit and get chewed out. Instead of being angry at Lanzi, she became more angry at herself. She had talked to them about things of this sort, but clearly not well enough. It was her job as leader, and she failed doing so. 

After a three hour long meeting, you were absolutely exhausted, mentally at least. And now, just after that, was choreography practice. You’d just learned the choreo a few days before, so for the most part you had it down. As lead dancer, you also had to make sure everyone else in your group understood that too. 

So, thirty minutes into practice, when none of your members seemed to be latching on, you sighed. Your entire job was to simply lead, and do well. Somehow, you couldn’t manage to do that. Once more, you started the choreography, and told your girls to simply stand back and watch.

You had a slight tone, but you needed them to understand that rhythm is just as important as the real dance moves. Your entire body was covered in sweat, and you were growing more frustrated by the minute. 

The way your body moved was no longer elegant, just harsh, angry strokes of somewhat rhythmic actions. You did your best to do it just as you were shown, but the overwhelming anger and emotion in your body was just more than you could handle. 

Little did you know, next to your bandmates, stood Hyunjin and Chan. They had come to ask something, but instead found you dancing your angered heart out. All stopped and stared, and Chan could only focus on the way your hips contorted, the patterns your hips followed.

As the music stopped, you turned around, and your eyes widened at the visitors. 

“We can leave if you’re busy, Hyunjin-ah just wanted to ask if he could borrow the studio tomorrow, and I wanted a word with you, if that’s okay,” Chan asked, and all of your bandmates went silent, expecting you to take the lead of the conversation.

“Hyunjin-sunbaenim, the studio is yours whenever you need it. Let me know what time, and Chan-oppa, would you like to talk now?”

Hyunjin bowed, and gave a quick thank you before heading out of the room. “Yes, please. If you’re too busy, no worries,” and you looked at your girls and told them to head back to the dorm. You were done for today, no reason to beat a dead horse when clearly today was not a good one to get skills in. 

“Can we talk in my studio?” Chan came closer to you, almost a whisper, and you knew this was going to go one of two ways: he was going to fuck your brains out, or he was going to let you know that he did not think of you in that way, and to please never discuss things like that with him again. You don’t think you could handle either, at least not today. 

“Yeah, let me grab some other clothes,” you said softly, rubbing your forehead in anxiety. Chan quickly started to mention something, and you shut him up quick. “I don’t—”

“Chan, I’m getting new clothes because I am sweaty and tired, nothing else. I will meet you in your studio after I am changed,” you sighed, your hot knees feeling good against the cool floor of the choreography studio. Your duffle bag now wide open, you grabbed an oversized long sleeve shirt and a pair of loose jeans. 

You also reapplied deodorant and some perfume so you didn’t smell like you lived in a sewer, the amount

As your girls were long gone, you felt free to change in the studio. Your clothes quickly fell to the floor, and you were now in more comfortable apparel that is not drenched in sweat. Dreading this conversation with Chan, you swiftly collected your things and moved them to the corner to come collect after you spoke to Chan and was ready to go home. 

Guiding your way to Chan’s studio was a walk in the park. The amount of times you’d go in there to talk to him, or for him to let you hear what he’d been working on, was countless. You two had budded a beautiful friendship, and he had been somewhat of a rock. He had always been so sweet, so loving. And you’ve possibly ruined it because you couldn’t think of anything other than sex when trying to guide him through dealing with stress.

Your eyes almost welled at the thought. You couldn’t cry though, not now. So, as you stood outside of Chan’s recording studio, you held your breath for a moment and looked up, letting the tears vanish.

A soft knock sounded, your knuckles rasping at the door. The hallways were silent, and you couldn’t hear a single thing from inside Chan’s studio. Your own heartbeat pounded in your ears, and you tensed as you heard footsteps leading up to his door.

He opened the door, his face showing no clear emotions. He didn’t seem angry, but he wasn’t too happy to see you, either. His hair was clearly ran through by his hand, blonde tufts falling back towards his ears. His makeup was done to perfection, light brown tones covering his lids. 

He wore a simple outfit, a loose black hoodie and dark blue sweatpants. He’d changed from earlier, his black ripped jeans now nowhere to be seen. “Come in, you can sit anywhere,” his voice was always soft, even though he could be fuming, his tone would never soar. 

“Chan, I just want to say I’m sorry,” you muffled out, plopping down unconventionally on his couch. “I just, I don’t know why I said those things or did that,” at this point, you just didn’t want him to think differently of you. He was the closest thing you had to a mentor, and he was an amazing friend. 

If you lost him, or ruined your relationship, you don’t think you could ever forgive yourself. 

You pulled your knees up to your chest as he took a seat in his chair, staring expectedly at you. Silence followed, so you continued, unsure of what he was expecting to hear. “I just don’t like you being stressed, and the only way I know how to cope with things is kind of like that, so I figured maybe you could too, and then I offered, and I feel like I just fucked things up between us. I.. just I’m so sorry.”

At this point your eyes had clouded up, and your voice had cracked multiple times. The day you’d had just piled up, and your exhaustion was visible. Chan’s eyes immediately softened, and he felt bad. He wasn’t mad, he just didn’t know how to approach the situation. 

“Hey, hey,” he soothed, and he stood up from his chair and joined you on the couch. At this point, you’d started full on crying. “I ruined our friendship, and now I’m sitting here crying so you’re gonna feel too bad to be honest with me about what I did wrong,” you were now sniffling hard, and your chest was dense you were surprised you could breathe. 

“No, love, that’s not it, I promise,” your heart pumped blood a bit harder at his nickname for you, and he placed a warm hand on your back. “I came here to ask if you were okay,” his tone was now nothing but soft and supportive, and he continuously rubbed your back. Warmth spread throughout your entire body. 

“I heard about the meeting, and everyone kept discussing how stressed out you were today,” in the dim light once more, his eyes glowed. They were so soft, so sweet. His entire aura was just warm, loving, and nothing was more assuring. 

“No matter what happens between us, you’re my friend, and I care about you,” he smiled softly, “Nothing would change that, unless you like, stabbed me or something,” he laughed soulfully, and you laughed with him. He pulled you closer to him, your head now leaning on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Chan. I just didn’t know what to do, and today has been really shitty,” you smiled, and let your head fall even closer to his chest. His thumbs ran circles around your back, and he held you close. “It’s okay, I understand. Trust me,” a warm silence encased the entire room, and as Chan now cuddled you warmly, your face was now red at the reality of the situation.

“Do you feel a bit better?”

“Yeah, I just needed someone to remind me of how things are and to keep me grounded,” you sighed, and Chan’s thumb was now no longer rubbing your back. His hand had stilled, and all you could hear was the heartbeat from inside Chan’s chest. He was so broad, and the expanse of his torso provided a very comfortable pillow.

“I wasn’t offended, or taken back or anything when you offered, you know that, right?” Chan spoke out of nowhere, the rumbling of his chest vibrating intensely. “I wouldn’t have known, I tried my best to ignore you in case you never wanted to speak to me again,”

A small laugh came out of Chan, and his chest pushed your head a bit. “No, in fact, I think I’ve thought about it a little too much.”

You pushed your head off of him at this point, and resuming your position before he sat on the couch. You pulled your knees back up to your chest, and looked at him. “Really?”

“You said you wanted to have sex with someone you trust, and I feel the same way. It’s really hard to come by good people with good intentions, and you also happen to be beyond gorgeous. Why would I not want to?”

With cheeks now flushed red, you giggled. School-girl giggled, specifically. You had no idea how to take this compliment, but then the realization hit you. Christopher Bang just said he wants to fuck you.

His face also turned a deep scarlet, and he looked down, waiting for a reaction. “Mr. Bang, the things you say. So scandalous,” you both laughed lightly, and you hummed in response to the silence. “If we decide to ever do something, it’s important we talk about it first,” you mentioned, and now the conversation went from light-hearted to a bit more serious.

 “Of course, but in what way?”

“I don’t know, what kinds of things do you like? I can’t promise I can pertain to everything, but there’s no harm in trying. Especially if it happens more than once,” you clutched your legs, and Chan leaned forward a bit, his elbows on his knees as he stared ahead.

“Uh, well,” he laughed, and covered his hands with his face. This was the Chan you liked, who could make any situation, no matter how dark, seem light and easy-going. “It’s not really,” he started, beginning to look at you, then stopping himself, “I don’t know. I never usually talk about it like this,”

“Well, how about this: I tell you what I like, and you tell me what you’re willing to do. Just because I like it does not mean you have to do it, but if you enjoy it too, its mutual pleasure, yeah?”

Chan simply nodded, now mesmerized by you. His face completely tracked yours, and you sighed. “I have always loved your hands. I really, really like if you’d put them around my neck, if you would ever feel so kind. I really love being praised, I love being called a good girl, things like that. My favorite foreplay is just making out, I’m just a big softie, but I can take rough if that’s what you like. I’m a big pleaser, and I want to make sure you’re taken care of and get some pleasure out of this,”

Chan nodded once more, and his fingers instinctively wrapped themselves around his rings, twisting and turning. “Your turn, Channie,” you smirked, and he leaned back, a smile crowning his face. 

“Well, I really like being soft and intimate, I like any position, bonus points if I see your face,” he smiled, his cheeks burning scarlet. He clearly did not talk about these things often, moreso just played them out in the midst of a high and never spoke of it again. But he and you both knew how important communication was, so he continued.

“I have played around with being called Daddy, but I’m not sure, and if you’re not comfortable with it—”

“If I am that uncomfortable with something, I promise I’ll tell you. Besides, that’s really cute. Rolls right off the tongue, right Daddy?”

He visibily shivered, and you smiled. “I—uh, I like if you’d run your fingers through my hair, not too hard, but like soothingly, kind of? If that makes sense. I also like it if you’d verbalise when you’re, uh—”

You knew where he was going, so you leaned close to his ear and finished his sentence for him. “Gonna cum? Oh, it would be rude not to,” you laughed gently, and you saw the last of Chan’s patience snap like a rubber band. 

His hands grabbed your face sternly, yet somehow gently. “Do you want this?” he asked, the lust obvious on his face. Despite any previous conversation, he needed verbal consent to continue, and it would make him feel most okay with doing this. 

“Yes,”

The room was now silent, anticipation filling your entire body. You’d come in here crying, and you couldn’t help but hope you’d leave the same way; just a different type of crying. 

He pushed you so your back was now flush against the couch, the headrest leaning your upper torso closer to him. “Tell me to stop, and I promise I will, alright? The second you tell me to,” he was now looking you dead in the eyes, above you. Your legs were spread open, and his entire body was in the valley of your abdomen. Both of his arms were on either side of you, perching himself up. 

“Chris, just kiss me already,” you whined, and he laughed wholeheartedly, before dipping in. The first kiss was hesitant, exploring new territory. His lips tasted like vanilla chapstick, and the first few were light pecks. It took only a second before he took the initiative and added his tongue to the mixture. 

You rarely ever used tongue, most of your hookups barely even kissed, which is why none of them compared. Kissing was your weak point, it was a vulnerability. And Chan did not abuse that power once.

“Is this okay?” he mumbled against your mouth, your exchanging saliva now making more than your mouth lubricated. “Fuck, yes,” you moaned out, the amount of times he would kiss you now making you weak.

His hands dragged softly, and held themselves at your jaw, a classic sweetheart. His thumb was against your cheek so softly, the pads gracefully rubbing across the expanse of your cheekbone.

Everything about this was so domestic, so warm. His kisses were so soft, and full of love. There was no rush, no push to go any farther had you or him decided not to. His warm hands on your face made you purr on the inside, and when he pulled away, he had looked more beautiful than ever. 

You had no intention of mentioning the wetness that had gathered between your legs, until Chan was staring at you, and momentarily his eyes widened. “Shit,” he cursed, looking around rapidly. “We don’t have a condom. I’m clean and everything, but we don’t have to continue if you don’t feel comfortable,”

“I have an implant, and I’m clean too. I just want you, if you want me too.”

Chan had no other qualms about it, and he attacked your face in sloppy kisses. “Here, can we switch positions, my arm is hurting?” he asked awkwardly, and you laughed with your entire chest. It was a normal question, but the way he asked so ashamedly, as if it was something terrible. 

“Sit up straight, let me get on your lap,” you said softly, and he did as he was told. It was only then that you saw the bulge in his sweatpants, and you forgot that he actually had a male appendage, and from the looks of it, he was either girthy or long. Or both. 

As long as he knew how to use it, you’d be fine. 

He grabbed you by your hand to help maneuver you, and now your entire weight was on top of Chan. As you finally sat your hips down, he groaned. “Oh god,”

You took his face in your hands, and started kissing him again. At this point, you didn’t want him to be respectful anymore. His hands did not waver from your face, and so you took it into your own hands. Grabbing them both, so soft and calloused, and placed them as discreetly as you could, onto your hips. Moreso your ass, but Chan didn’t know your intentions. 

His hands pushed your hips forward, now rutting against his hard on. His lips and yours were now in a frenzy, drenching each other. It was still pretty slow, nothing fast paced, just more intense.

He broke the kiss, and his hands now edged at the bottom of your shirt. “Can I take this off?” he asked, breathless. His lips were now swollen and puffy, and his pupils were blown wide. 

You nodded softly, no words needed to be said. He quickly hauled the oversize shirt above your head, and groaned harshly when he realized you had no bra on. His first instinct was to latch his mouth onto your nipples, sucking softly. A moan left your mouth, and with nothing to hold onto anymore, your hands found his hair. 

Still rocking back and forth, your panties were probably soaked at that point. So much foreplay had you almost throbbing, and you couldn’t wait much longer to have him inside you. 

“Chan, please,” you moaned out, and he bit down on your nipple gently. “Only since you asked so nicely,” he added, and he told you to stand up. You did so, easily willingly, yet you loved the way he spoke to you.

It was almost a request, a plea. There was no power imbalance here, simply one trying to find another. He was so gentle, in everything he did. You wanted to drown in that feeling. 

He pulled your jeans off without a hitch, and eyed your lace panties hungrily, slightly thankful you’d changed earlier this evening. His fingers grasped the sides, pulling them down your legs. You were now completely bare, and he was fully dressed. This was a problem. 

“Not fair, your turn,” you pouted, and his eyes were fixated on your naked body. It felt odd, having him see you like this, but you couldn’t complain. Your arousal was now tainting your inner thighs, and Chan could probably see it too. 

He rid himself of his hoodie and his shirt at the same time, and you finally got a full view of him shirtless. This man was absolutely ripped, and you had to hold in a gasp. His arms were lined in protruding veins, and his abs were impeccable. You worked out, but not in your wildest dreams would you ever be able to maintain that nice of a physique. 

It wasn’t until he pulled off his pants, and painstakingly after, he patiently pulled his boxers off. God, did he have a pretty cock. A bit longer than average, slightly girthy, and it made your mouth water just thinking about it. 

Your first instinct was to pop down onto your knees, but as you were on your way down, Chan grabbed you by the arm. “Not this time, please, I need you,” he whined out, almost painfully. 

As you were on top of his lap, you were careful not to let him inside you yet. You figured he could decide when to do it, and you squealed when he let one hand slide from your face, down to your throat. His fingers, covered in rings, squeezed gently. He coaxed another moan from you as he let his fingers glide down the valley of your body, and found itself on your clit.

His movements were slow, but intense. His fingers glided over your folds, picking up some of your arousal, and placed all of his attention onto your little nub. Small pinprick moans escaped your mouth, and you began to tilt your hips in an attempt to get more friction. “Fuck, you’re so wet,”

Some noise semblant to a mew tried to leave your mouth, but his fingers tangled themselves around your neck further, leaving the sound trapped in your throat. “Are you ready? Or do we need to get you a bit more warmed up?” he asked softly, his mouth now next to you ear. His voice was dark, and husky.

“God, I just need you inside me,” you whined, and his hand let up on your neck, and he grabbed his cock harshly. He pumped it a few times, and spread your lips, and lined you up.

“Beg,” he said simply, and even if you tried to sink down, he now placed a hand on top of your hips harshly. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to. “W—what?” you asked, breathless. 

“Beg, I want to hear you beg for me to fuck you,” he repeated himself, and looked down at you mischeviously. You two were face to face, and his cock was still in his hands, and your lips spread wide open for him to see. “Fuck, please,” you whined, and to no avail, he didn’t budge, “please, daddy, I just wanna feel good,”

As soon as the name sounded from your mouth, he pushed inside of you. The stretch was amazing, it was slightly painful, but it felt like nothing on this earth could amount. His entire cock filled you out nicely, and the lewd sound of him smacking against you was filling the room.

His hands laid at your hips now, piling into you like his life depended on it. His balls were smacking against your ass, and the harsh thrusts stimulated your clit. Everything was so intense, the way he filled you so deeply, you could feel him in places you didn’t know he could reach, and you felt like you’d burst apart the seams. 

Shameless moans spilled from your mouth, and Chan was in your ear, grunting like a man starved. “Such a good girl, fuck, for me,” his groans were so animalistic, and the way his hands would hold you steady.

His fingers traveled down to toy with your clit, and he never stopped fucking you. Your fingers started to tangle within his hair, and his lips attached themselves to your neck, sucking, finding anything to latch onto. 

The second his fingers started rubbing your clit numbly, you knew that you were going to cum soon. Everything he did just felt so good, you were just a hole the second he started fucking you.

“I—I’m gonna, I’m gonna cum,” you breathed out heavily, and your legs started shaking. “Please, can I—please cum?”

“Yes, cum for me,” he breathed out in a husky tone, and it wasn’t long until you felt your thighs start to involuntarily shake, and the feeling inside your abdomen welling up. “I’m so—” you were cut off by your orgasm rushing over you, Chan’s fingers never stopped stimulating your clit.

You moaned out harshly, slumping towards him, unable to control yourself as one of the most harsh orgasms you’ve ever had washed over you. Your entire body started to seize, and you clenched around him harshly. He continued to fuck into you, sucking into your neck, and he starting fucking into you faster. He was definitely close, “Where-”

You cut him off, still under the shock of your orgasm, “inside me, please,” you begged, and he fucked into you once more, even harder. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum,”

He lived up to his promise, as less than a few seconds later, his warm cum spurted inside of you, and he still rutted his hips, begging for more friction. He stroked into you a few more times, now drained of energy. He placed a soft kiss onto your neck, and whispered, “Thank you.”

You got up, and put your shirt back on over yourself, and Chan pulled his boxers and sweatpants on once more. A thought rose over you on whether to leave or not, but you knew Chan would be a skinship type of guy. He would probably have a drop, and not be used to just casual hookups like this.

“Do you want me to stay?” you asked softly, and a large part of you hoped he would say yes.

“Please.”

[thevioletjones]

31, because I can’t see it fitting Ian/Mickey easily and know you’re a good enough writer to prove me wrong ☺️

Thanks! I tried. 🙂

Prompt 6: “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

Ian’s Box of Crap

Being currently unemployed, Mickey didn’t have much of a leg to stand on when attempting to deflect Ian’s demands that he get chores and household tasks done while his husband was out earning an honest paycheck. He wasn’t even allowed to shake people down anymore, let alone pull robberies, or get back into the drug trade. Ian had made it clear that divorce wasn't off the table if Mickey deliberately did something stupid that got him thrown back in prison for a long stretch.

He didn’t much like being told what to do, but what he liked even less was not having Ian in his life. He’d had to go too many years without him in the past, and nothing good ever came during those times. Unfortunately, Ian Gallagher was it for Mickey Milkovich. That meant that he actually had to stay in line and put in the work if he didn’t want to lose him again. Ian wasn’t as soft as he used to be. Never really had been at his core, but the maturity of age had cemented his backbone rather rigidly, and Mickey was actually loathe to piss him off too badly these days.

So he did the bullshit grunt work requested of him, just to keep the peace. He was tired of fighting every day of his life, and what was the point of marrying Ian if they weren’t going to try and make each other happy?

In the past couple weeks, Mickey had done everything from laundry and dishes, to vacuuming and mopping. He’d patched up a couple of big holes in the wall that Frank had made, and fixed the loose parts of the wooden outdoor steps and banisters, both front and back. He’d even gone so far as to babysit the tiny, helpless Gallagher spawn a few times, which had been interesting and somewhat terrifying. Then Ian had given him this look when he caught the scene one afternoon, eyes shining, smile beaming. It reminded him of that brief time they’d helped take care of Yevgeny, which made Mickey’s head spin. He didn’t need Gallagher getting the whole ‘having kids’ thing back in his head right now. Mickey was in no way ready for all that. Hadn’t been the first time, and they’d all seen how that turned out.

Today, he was supposed to clean out the attic. He told Ian that asking someone outside the family to do it sounded like a bad idea. How was he supposed to know what shit the Gallaghers wanted to keep, and what they wanted to get rid of? What if he made a mistake? If anyone had asked him what to keep from the hoarded piles of shit in the Milkovich house, he would’ve laughed in their face, then set everything on fire. Mickey wasn’t the sentimental type. So did Ian want him to just toss everything?

Ian had rolled his eyes, clarified that Mickey was a Gallagher now, and given him a run-down. Anything that had obviously been made or cherished by a Gallagher kid, any family photos and albums, or small boxes of keepsakes, those stayed. Anything that wasn’t being used by anyone, but could be of use and handed down to the youngest or recently shacked up of them, set them aside to be put in rotation. Anything that worked, but they already had one of or didn’t need, donation box (because apparently they actually sometimes donated shit to the local shelter). And anything that looked completely unnecessary for anyone, throw it in a Best Choice trash bag, but don't take them to the curb yet. Ian would go over everything when he got home to make sure it was sorted correctly.

“So you’re gettin' me to do all this boring-ass grunt work, then you’re gonna have to go through it anyway? What the fuck, man?” he’d asked.

“It'll make the whole thing way easier on me, so can you just shut the fuck up and do me the favor? I’ll blow you later for your trouble.”

“Like you wouldn’t be doin’ that anyway.”

Ian had shrugged. “If you don’t, I won’t.”

“Threatening to withhold sex? That’s a bitch move if I ever heard one.”

“Whatever, deadbeat. You want me to support you, gotta help out when I ask. A blowjob would just be a bonus, because I’m generous of spirit.”

“I’m not gonna forget this hardcore manipulation, Firecrotch. I’ll get my revenge eventually.”

Ian merely kissed him on the nose. “Sounds like a plan. See ya.”

And he was out the door.

“Asshole,” Mickey’d muttered under his breath.

And now, a few hours later, here he was; sitting on the dusty, hard planks of the weird-smelling Gallagher attic, sorting through the memories and forgotten things of the family he’d married into less than six months ago. He’d dawdled as long as he could on the couch, eating junk food and watching his favorite daytime game shows, judge shows, and salacious ‘who’s the baby daddy?’ shows. The only hint of fun left in the remainder of his day was in the bong and the beer he’d brought with him up the rickety ladder. After every box sorted, he’d take a rip or two and chase the smoke with a long swig of cheap alcohol.

The most interesting things he’d found so far were some old pictures of Ian when he was little, his hair a curly mess, and his pale skin covered in dark freckles. His smile was too big for his face, and he looked goofy as all hell. Nothing like the hot hunk of man he was today. It was the Ian Mickey remembered from Little League a million years ago. And maybe he’d set one of the photos aside to keep for himself and taken some pics of others with his phone, so what?

Mostly he’d had to sift through little Debbie’s ridiculous girly shit, and Frank’s completely random assortment of insignificant trinkets with a side of what looked like bondage gear. He’d since moved on to a group of boxes obviously labeled by Carl when he was younger. He recognized the scrawl, occasional backwards lettering, and lack of possessive apostrophes. The words were short enough not to be atrociously misspelled, and consisted of a Gallagher first name in plural, followed by: ‘box of crap.’

Everybody had one, including Fiona, who hadn’t taken it with her when she’d left Chicago, and the kids she’d raised as her own, behind. The most scandalous item in there was a dildo of decent size that Mickey definitely would’ve packed in his suitcase if he’d been the one moving away as a single chick. The thought crossed his mind to pilfer it for his own collection, but he figured that Ian would be weirded out by the association. Sex toys were probably the only thing Gallaghers never shared between them.

Carl had a box of his own, semi-well-hidden compared to the others, and Mickey discovered why when he’d managed to get the copious amount of packing tape off. It was full of straight porn mags with big-tittied women and shaved pussies, underneath an array of dangerous weapons the family had forbidden him to have when he was underaged. He found everything from nunchucks, to throwing stars, to switchblades, to brass knuckles. No guns or attempted homemade bombs, thank fuck. He chucked the porn in the trash pile, cuz nobody needed to see that shit, and set the switchblade aside for himself, deciding to give the rest to Ian to sort out.

He saved Ian’s box for last, opening it up to find a grab bag of old army decorations, tattered paperbacks, comics, a bunch of loose paper covered in scribbles, and a stack of notebooks.

Mickey didn’t realize Ian was such a huge nerd that he’d kept his high school notebooks, but giving a quick flip through the first two revealed they weren’t school-related at all. He remembered Ian going through a phase when he was always writing shit down, ranting about having great ideas he needed to save for posterity. Before he went to the hospital. A manic phase. Probably one of many he’d cycled through, yet Mickey had missed some of those extremes.

Everything had been so chaotic then. He’d pushed Ian away, then gotten the same treatment in return. Their typical messiness pervaded everything back then. And now, he had in his hands Ian’s unfiltered thoughts about what happened back then.

“Fuck,” he said to himself, setting the notebooks down and going for the beer/weed combo again.

There were exactly two ways to go about this: he could put the notebooks back into the Ian box and not invade his privacy, or he could skim through them and hone in on the interesting relevant bits and maybe get a few long-pondered answers. On the one hand, Ian would probably get pissed if Mickey read them. On the other hand, Ian never had to know about it, did he?

It really wasn’t much of a choice… he’d always been curious as to what the hell was going through Ian’s head back in the day. They’d never exactly been great at talking things out, and he didn’t have it in him to try and make Ian relive some of the lowest moments of his life just to give Mickey some peace of mind. Plus, they were always facing some new bullshit obstacle head-on, so the past always just kind of got lost in the shuffle of their present difficulties.

Mickey took a deep breath and opened one of the notebooks again. The pages weren’t dated, and a lot of it didn’t make much sense. There were many lists with lines crossed out, but they didn’t describe things ‘to do,’ more like an endless inventory of concepts and feelings. The thought patterns were totally abstract, and Mickey couldn’t really make heads or tails of them. It hit him sharply in the chest when he realized that when Ian had been out of it, he’d really and truly been fucking out of it. These seemed like the crazed rantings of an unmedicated schizophrenic babbling on public transportation. It pained Mickey to the core, and it scared the shit out of him too.

He flipped through it fairly quickly, then opened the next one. It seemed to be calmer, more legible, and less unintelligible. It was more like a diary with bad poetry sprinkled in, and it only took a few pages for Mickey’s own name to jump out at him among the wall of words. It must have been written during Ian’s lost months, after going AWOL from the Army when he was 17.

He described running away from Chicago, scamming his early enlistment, crashing and burning his way out of bootcamp, shaking and selling his ass as a club boy, snorting, smoking, and swallowing all manner of substances, and crashing anywhere from penthouses to flophouses with sexual favors sprinkled in liberally. It was like the chronicle of a person going mad and coping in all the wrong ways. It surprised Mickey how emotional it made him to read these things in vivid detail. He’d completely forgotten how worried he used to be about Ian. When he was gone, when he went missing again, and when he started doing irrational things that could’ve ended so much worse than they did.

Ian was the one that had to live out all the drama and trauma of his disorder, but Mickey was the one caught on the sidelines, not having a single clue what to do or how to fix it. He’d never felt so useless or helpless in his entire life, even through all the bullshit he’d suffered growing up with Terry as a father. Maybe it was because of his age, or how Ian made him feel a certain way he’d never felt before. He just remembered hating it, and being so fucking sad.

These pages reminded him that through the mania, Ian was a bottomless well of sadness himself.

It was tough text to get through, and more than once, he felt like maybe he shouldn’t be reading it at all. Ian had never intended for other people to see his innermost thoughts, even Mickey. But it was impossible to stop now that he’d opened that floodgate. It was like reliving a part of their shared history through the eyes of his partner in crime. It was too fascinating.

After countless pages of dark tales from the void, Mickey came upon a page that was actually addressed to him. Surely, Ian had never intended to hand it over, but it was his nonetheless.

Mickey— I never had the balls to tell you this, But you’re the only boy I’ve ever loved. I thought you loved me too, But now I’m not so sure. I’m so confused and I go back and forth, Never really knowing what to actually think, Or what the truth is. All I really realize now is that I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you. It took you forever to let me, And now I just do it with anyone, Cuz I don’t fucking care. I just miss you, And I wish you were here. But also, I don’t, Cuz I don’t want you to see me like this. I’m having a great time on my own adventure, But also not. You shouldn’t be a part of it right now. You’re on your own strange journey, I guess. Maybe one day we’ll be on the same road together again, And also for the first time, since we never really were.

Mickey barely had enough time to sniff and wipe away the stray tear that had fallen, when his husband’s voice startled him out of his reverie.

“You’re still up here?”

“Jesus Christ!” he cried out with a visible jolt of his body.

His head snapped toward the attic hatch, where Ian’s dumb red head was surveying the musty space. Mickey let the notebook fall from his grasp, but Ian was already climbing the rest of the way in before it occurred to him that he was about to be caught red-handed with journals that were supposed to be deeply private. He could only flip it closed and grab his beer to polish it off, before Ian was crouching in front of him and taking a seat.

“Can’t believe you actually did this for me, to be honest,” Ian said with a chuckle, glancing at the bong. “Anything left?”

“Baggie’s right there,” Mickey replied nodding his head to the left.

“Nice.”

Ian got distracted with loading a bowl, so Mickey very subtly tried to nudge Ian's notebooks aside with his foot, like maybe if they were slightly farther away, he could claim complete innocence as to knowing what they were.

He watched Ian take a couple hits before passing it to him, and Mickey welcomed the opportunity to temper his suddenly sullen mood.

“How was work?” he asked between hits, before passing back to Ian.

Ian snickered and furrowed his brow. “You never ask me about work.”

Mickey shrugged. “Don’t mean I don’t care.”

“Uh huh.” Ian looked even more skeptical, and finally glanced around at what Mickey had in his vicinity. That sent his brow up high, in a decent imitation of Mickey’s usual expressiveness. “Oh. That my box?”

Mickey gulped and nodded. “Yeah. Just sorting it out. Should’ve just left the whole thing for ya. Sorry.”

Ian’s gaze snapped to his face. “You read stuff.”

It was a statement rather than a question.

“Just a little,” Mickey admitted. “I shouldn’t have. Fuck, I’m an asshole.”

But Ian only shook his head. “Nah, it’s okay.”

“You don’t have to say that. I’d be pissed.”

“I’m not. I promise.”

“Really? You’re not mad?”

Ian shook his head again. “No. Actually, I’m kinda relieved.”

“How the fuck so?”

“It's all stuff I wanted you to know. I mean, part of me used to be really ashamed, maybe still is, but… another part of me always just wanted to be totally honest with you. In a way I haven’t ever been with anyone. Even Lip. But I didn’t have the words to say it, you know? And I know a lot of it is just scary rambling. I don’t even understand what some of it means, but the stuff that’s real… the lucid stuff… it’s depressing as fuck, but it’s the truth. We didn’t always tell each other the truth, but we showed each other. And this was something I couldn’t really show you. So maybe you were meant to find these. Do my dirty work for me.”

“Damn, Gallagher, that’s kinda heavy. These were… kinda heavy. Made me feel shit I’d forgotten about, you know?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t read ‘em in years, but I remember. It’s why I wanted to put ‘em away, I guess. Plus, I didn’t want someone else snooping around and finding out too much. I mean, you never know in this house. It’s possible every fucking Gallagher already read them, but I hope not.”

“Ian…” Mickey started, but didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say. Words of reassurance? It was all in the past, and Ian was doing so well now. He was diligent about his medication, and he hadn’t spun out of control since before prison. Anything Mickey said now would just be cold comfort, since that notebook version of Ian barely existed anymore. Ian was always afraid that it would recur, but Mickey wasn’t. They were truly in it together now, and he’d never let Ian cross the threshold into the uncontrollable. “I wish I coulda been what you needed me to be back then. However impossible it was. Some of it was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t even my fault, really. It was some shitty shit that happened to me. I reacted the only way I thought I could. There’s no use in either of us wishing we’d done things differently now. At least we got the right outcome, right? We’re together.” He clasped their left hands so that their wedding rings touched. “Forever.”

Mickey couldn’t help but snort. “Okay, you didn’t have to get that gay about it. I already had to suffer through a buncha your faggy teen poetry. I deserve a break from the high drama of it all.”

Ian laughed, kissed his hand, dropped it, then smacked him on the cheek. “Fuck you.”

“Just say when,” Mickey responded with a smile.

“After we go through all this shit, Romeo. Explain the piles.”

“Well,” said Mickey, pointing to the nearby corner, “Carl has a shitload of contraband in there. Weapons, not drugs. Frank has some shit that might be S&M gear, not sure, then aside from your lunatic journal ramblings, everything else is boring as shit. Oh, and Fiona left a big blue dildo.”

[evqnbuckley]

Chapter 1: Hopeless

Okay so i wrote my thoughts on what I wanted the finale to be and this got out of hand...this is like almost if not 6k and i’m not even finished. If this is popular enough I’ll continue to post on here but I’m gonna continue to update on ao3! @princesscas

Sam awakens from his nightmare, disoriented. The visions of seeing himself grow old, having a family and dying feel all too real. The beginning of his nightmare is fading and somewhat fuzzy but he remembers Dean making an appearance. He remembers seeing himself fight alongside his brother, killing some vampires, a normal hunt. Then his memory clears and the image of his brother impaled against a wooden pole catches his breath.

He wipes a hand across his face, trying to erase the images of Dean saying goodbye, of Dean's hand dropping as he took his last breath, and the image of lighting his own brother's pyre.

Sam pulls the covers off and walks toward the kitchen for a glass of water. The bunker is quiet, peaceful even. He still hasn't gotten used to calling it home, not really. The thing about a home is, four walls don't constitute it. Family is similar. It's not based on who you're related to but who loves you and has your back. Family, a home, whatever they are things you build around you. He had learned that long ago.

The wooden floors creak as he walks through the library. The silence is deafening yet comforting. It's a reminder that, for once, the world isn't ending. The linoleum sends shivers down his spine as he enters the kitchen. Sam replays the nightmare in his head while he downs a glass of water from the sink. The images slowly become distorted and misplaced in his memory. He eventually cannot picture it in his mind.

Sighing, Sam places the glass in the sink and walks back to his room. His feet make a pit-pat noise, approaching the hallway. Dean's door is cracked open slightly with faint light seeping through. Sam turns toward the door and peers in. His face softens, taking in the scene. Dean is cuddling a pillow adorned with a worn, rough, blue pillow case. The light emits from a lone lamp on his desk. Some type of paper for a mechanic position sits atop a few books from the library. Sam eyes the paperwork, puzzled. Dean never told me he got a job. Underneath, one of the books has a bookmark in three different places. There are a few crumpled up papers on and around the floor. Sam picks one up and unravels it.

Cas I know you're in the empty and you probably can't hear me….why did you do it? Why didn't you tell me about the deal before? I know I messed up and Billie was about to kill us both but….we could have died together found another way.

Why didn't you tell me?

Sam picks up another one. This time it's the one closest to the trash can. The markings are a bit sharper than the paper before. Almost more angry. It appears some words are smudged but still legible.

I try to move on and put on a brave face for Sammy. He needs to know now that Chuck is gone we can move on. We have to. I have tried to find a way to bring you back Cas. None of the books are fucking useful. I can't read Enochian. I don't even know if Enochian text is the key to saving you. I've tried contacting Rowena but i think she's busy. I'm at my wits end. I haven't gotten much sleep to be honest. As I'm writing this I have looked through 28 books all based on portals to other dimensions, hell, sacrificial rituals and reverse rituals. Even Astral projecting. I don't know what to do….

Sam swallows past the dry lump caught in his throat. He glances at Dean, making sure he's still asleep. Dean briefly shifts, pulling the pillow closer. Sam relaxes and picks up one more crumpled up paper. This one appears fresh, as if Dean wrote it tonight.

I tried praying to the angels. They didn't listen. No one is listening. Jack isn't even listening. He took himself out of the story, I know but this is you I'm talking about. How can he just sit by while you're suffering. I guess I'm on my own.

Why did you say that now?

The last sentence confuses Sam. He burrows his eyebrows as he studies the three entries. Dean is searching for a way to save Cas. To bring him back. And he didn't tell me? Sam quietly crunches the papers back up and places them back where he found them. Dean doesn't move. As Sam switches the lamp off, he feels the heaviness of the dark engulf him. I have to talk to Dean tomorrow.

Dean rolls over as the aroma of burnt bacon fills his room. He rubs the sleep from his eyes as he sits up. Realizing that Sam is about to burn the bunker down, he slips on his robe and jogs to the kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?"

"Well good morning to you too," Sam replies a bit offended. He's flipping bacon as Dean yanks the tongs out of his grip. "What- I am making breakfast. Can I not make breakfast?"

"I don't know what you think you're making but it definitely, definitely ain't breakfast," Dean smarts. He trashes the burnt bacon and starts a new batch. "Sit. No, why don't you make some coffee."

"Already did. Here ya go," Sam slides Dean's mug across the island, "your highness," Sam says under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I actually wanted to talk to you about something."

"Yeah, me too," Sam perks up. "I think I found something that screams our kinda thing. We should head there after we eat breakfast. It's not too long of a drive." Dean finishes as he places the cooked bacon on some paper towels and grins from ear to ear. Sam just watches as his brother starts on some scrambled eggs. This might be more challenging than I had hoped.  

"So when you said our sorta thing you meant pie?"

"I meant pie," Dean confirms with a satisfied smirk. "Now, I'm gonna go eat me some of that pie."

"Didn't we-Dean we just had breakfa- nevermind," Sam gives in and follows Dean through the crowd.

Several families are participating in the pie fest. Some are gearing up to find out who can eat the most pie, who makes the best pumpkin pie, and some are just making whip cream pies and pieing each other. Sam observes those around him with a small smile. A life he desperately wants someday but knows he can't have. Or can I?

Dean approaches Sam with a big box and almost runs into some bystander. "Hey, watch it."

"What is that?" Sam raises an eyebrow.

"I couldn't pick just one! Come on, Sammy we're at a pie fest. What do you take me for?"

"An idiot."

Dean ponders his answer and let's it slide. He picks up one of the pies and offers it to his brother. Sam declines. "Dude, you gotta at least try it."

"No, really I'm good."

"Alright, what is it? What's got you so down today?"

"Nothing. I'm fine," Sam replies.

"No, see I know my baby brother. So I know that is your sad Sam face. Fess up, what's wrong?"

"I'm not-" Sam begins, but Dean gives him a look.

"I don't know. I'm just thinking about Cas, about Jack."

Dean's expression falls. He looks down and places the pie back in its spot. "Yea me too. I think about them too. Every day. But we have to move on, Sam. Live our lives. Or else that sacrifice, it will all be for nothing," Dean looks at Sam. "So help me finish this pie."

Dean reaches down for the same pie again but his face is met with a cold surface. Sam smothers the pumpkin pie in Dean's face, laughing. "You know what, I do feel better!"

Sam shakes his hand to free the whip cream, watching Dean rake the remainder of the pie off his chin with his fork. Suddenly, Sam's temples begin pulsing painfully and he has an immense sense of deja vu. His smile falters and he feels out of place. Almost, as if he's reliving this moment. It's similar to the feeling he had this morning.

"Hey, Sam. You okay?"

"Uh, yeah." He's not honestly sure if everything is okay.

Sam texts Eileen and tells her he wants to make up for the date they missed months ago. She agrees it has been too long and tonight would work for her. Sam doesn't want to make promises, as the day is still young, but they plan for their date tonight at 7. Dean teases Sam about it even though the two are already a couple. Saying things like, "don't do anything I wouldn't do" or "make sure you use protection." Sam just sighs and shakes his head.

It's 6:35 pm and nothing has come across the wire. Social media is quiet, so Sam texts Eileen that the date is a go. She replies five minutes later, ready to go and excited to see Sam. Dean offers to let Sam take the Impala out to pick Eileen up. For once in a long time, Sam is excited. When he reaches the garage door, Sam glances back at his brother and sees him nursing a brand new whiskey bottle. Sam frowns at the sight. Dean deserves to feel excited, to be happy. Sam will go on this date with Eileen, tell her about Cas, and they will come back to help Dean. Help Dean get his best friend back. Our best friend back .

Dean waves his brother off and slumps into the chair in the library. It's not very comfortable. In fact, the wooden back is digging into his thoracic spine and causing some pain. But it's better than the alternative. The alternative of thinking about what he's lost, who he's lost, and how he lost them. That pain will never go away. Right now I can focus on this acute pain and center my thoughts on it. Keep myself from sinking into the dark hole of nothing I've been trying to climb out of since I lost - since I lost

Dean finishes the whiskey bottle before Sam gets home and he's still not drunk enough. He rises from the chair and walks to the liquor cart. All the bottles are half empty or nothing but drops of whiskey, gathering at the bottom of the glass. He picks up one empty glass bottle and stares at it for several moments. His vision becomes distorted from the small glass textures, his left ear begins to ring from the silence as he falls into a trance like state. Then, a glint of sapphire reflects in the textured glass. It catches his eye; Dean swallows. Suddenly, he's thinking of Castiel. Cas. He's thinking of "I love you's" and "Goodbye, Dean" and black goo. He's thinking of how the image of his best friend disappearing into a black mass of nothing is seared in his memory forever. He's thinking of how he didn't get to say goodbye, or anything really, and now he never will.

He grimaces at the bottle, squeezes the neck so hard his knuckles blanche, and throws it across the room, into the kitchen. It lands by the island, shattering to pieces, with a deafening crash. Dean feels his eyes burning and hot tears gathering at the corners. Before he realizes, Dean is grabbing all the glass bottles and throwing them into the kitchen. In his fit of rage, Dean throws one bottle too high and it shatters against the side of the kitchen table. Glass spreads across the floor. He doesn't even register the intensity of the mess until one bottle knocks off another, shattering it at his feet. He stops throwing the bottles, breaking from his trance.

"I tried everything! I can't save you! There's nothing left! How could you do this to me, you son of a bitch," Dean cries. He places his hands on either side of his head, thinking. "Jack! How can you just leave us? We need you. Cas needs you! Fuck this all powerful, all knowing God bullshit. We're family!" Dean tosses the cart over. "Isn't that enough?" He pauses and glances around for a moment. Nothing. "Dammit, Jack. Why won't you answer my prayers? I need some help!" He cries out and slowly sits down. "I can't do this on my own," he whispers between his sniffles. He begs over and over again please please please in his head for a few moments. But he's met with silence like every other time. Dean accepts this and wipes his tears away, picks the cart up, grabs the broom and dustpan from the kitchen and picks up his mess. He can't have Sam see what a hypocrite he truly has become.

Dean cuts himself on a few lone pieces of glass, but it's nothing he can't handle. In fact, for a brief moment, the pain gives him something to focus on. He mindlessly watches the crimson slowly drain down the sink as he holds his palm under the running water. He wonders what it feels like to float down the water, through the pipes, through the darkness, into nothing. What is wrong with me? But that's where Cas is right now. A bunch of nothing. Dean grabs a hand towel and wraps it around his left hand before returning to the broom. The kitchen is just about clean. Within about 5 minutes, all the glass and spilled whiskey is gone. Almost as if it never happened. Dean places the broom and dustpan back in the corner and trudges through the hallways.

There is a secret stash of whiskey in his man cave that Dean hid for emergencies. And this constitutes an emergency. He walks to the wall, removes a Star Wars poster from the fifth movie, and pulls out a few bricks, revealing the beautiful brown bottle of Jack Daniel's. Not his favorite but Dean was in a rush when he bought it a couple of weeks ago before they defeated Chuck just in case anything went sideways. Also, in case Sam found his stash at least it wouldn't be his good whiskey. Popping the cap off, Dean takes a long swig as he stumbles toward the couch. Sam should be home soon. I'll be done with this bottle by then and be able to forget anything blue for a while. Except all he dreams of is blue.

Bright blue swirls fill his dreams as he drifts off. He feels immense warmth as the blue wraps around him like a large ribbon and he floats above the grass. The ribbon caresses Dean like a soft, silk cloud, holding him in place. A slight breeze causes the ribbon to ripple in harmony and alternate between hues of blue. The colors circulate between indigo to azure to cobalt to cerulean to teal and finally midnight blue effortlessly. Dean sees dark angels wings above and feels safe. He flies higher as the ribbon ascends toward the wings. Flashes of cerulean eyes skip by, sad and yearning, before Dean is pulled down into dark azure ocean water by the wings. The ribbon of blue dissolves into nothing. Dean feels alone. In dreams, people don't usually have their sense of smell, but Dean swears he smells hints of sandalwood, a campfire, and honey. Then, he sees Castiel materialize before him with his wings extended, long and wide. Beautiful. They're untouched with no sign of rebellion or impurities. Just as Dean had first seen them. Before he met me. Before he rebelled and lost everything for me. I cursed you, Cas. Green eyes lock with blue and Castiel smiles at Dean. Then suddenly, Castiel's wings begin to dissipate and burn away. He appears to scream in pain. Dean reaches out just as soon as the water darkens and swarms around Castiel. He thrashes against the thick water but cannot break free. Dean is frozen in the water and at once cannot breathe. He screams out to Castiel but no sound comes out. He, instead, inhales the water. Castiel disappears within the black, thick water just as soon as he appears. He's gone.

Dean's eyes slowly open. This is a recurring nightmare he's had since Castiel sacrificed himself. Since he left. Dean had hoped the alcohol would impair his subconscious enough to avoid the nightmare. Beer hasn't been strong enough, nor tequila, or vodka. Whiskey is his last resort and apparently it does jack-shit. I need something stronger, if I am to get any sleep. Although the whiskey does not keep the nightmares at bay it does keep him numb. That is enough to continue drinking. He reaches for the bottle and misses. I may be seeing double. After a few tries, Dean successfully retrieves the bottle and downs the remaining third of the whiskey. His head feels heavy and his chest feels hot. Dean can feel his fingers tingling and toes numbing against his socks. This is the sweet spot of feeling drunk, he thinks.

Sam returns from his date, unnoticed, and walks into the room, seeing Dean spread out on the couch. He eyes the empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table and sighs. Sam remembers the other whiskey bottle left on the library table. The same one Dean had been nursing before Sam left. Dean is on a bender again. Eileen shuffles up next to Sam and glances at the couch. She looks at Sam with a sad look. At dinner, he filled her in with everything he knows about Castiel and his sacrifice for Dean. But Eileen didn't realize it would affect Dean this badly. She walks over to Dean and pulls the blanket from on top of the couch and covers Dean. He's passed out again and is slightly twitching. His eyes are racing back and forth.

"We will regroup tomorrow and discuss Plan SOC," Sam whispers while signing.

"I'm still not sure about the code word," Eileen signs with a grimace.

"We'll work on it," he signs with a shrug.

The next morning Dean wakes to his Jack Daniel's replaced with three ibuprofen pills and a glass of water. Grateful, he slowly takes them one at a time due to the agonizing headache. Usually he doesn't have headaches or hangovers but the nightmares don't give him much rest. He really isn't able to sleep off the alcohol. Pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes to push back the headache, Dean sighs with exhaustion. He doesn't even know what time it is. His watch reads 4:32 but Dean is unsure if it's AM or PM.

Suddenly, he feels his stomach growl and Dean realizes he hasn't eaten since about noon today. Yesterday? He sloppily rises up and makes his wake toward the kitchen. Nothing really sounds appetizing except for some string cheese. Only, they don't have string cheese. Of course. So, Dean settles for the two day old pepperoni pizza in the fridge. Not too bad, and he will never say no to pizza. Dean isn't sure how long he was passed out but the effects of the whiskey have certainly worn down a bit. He can't walk a straight line, but his vision is more clear. He clumsily carries the pizza box over to the library table next to his laptop and sits it down. Quietly, he pulls the chair out and takes a seat. The hunter in him wants to make sure everything is quiet out in the world. The clock on his laptop confirms its 4:38 AM.

A few clicks and searches show there's a local mysterious killing. Our kinda thing. Dean smiles, knowing that this case will help keep his mind busy. And he will be able to save someone. At least this way he will feel like his life was worth saving. Ironic. I feel like I've said that before. Why do people feel the need to jump at any chance to save me? I don't deserve saving. Dad sold his soul for me and now Cas. I don't deserve it. He shakes his head and munches down on cold pizza in silence.

Dean finishes the last three slices of pizza, underestimating how hungry he had been. He watches a few dumb YouTube videos for a while, to keep his mind off things, waiting for Sam to wake up. Dean is tempted to grab a beer from the fridge but decides against it. He needs to be as sober as possible for the hunt, for Sam. If Dean were to go alone, he would not care. Not at this moment anyway.

Dean has realized his mood swings are ridiculous lately. At one moment, he's super depressed and doesn't care about anything. He honestly doesn't care if he lives or dies.  The next moment he can't wait to see what life has to offer. It's as if his brain doesn't know how to comprehend what Castiel's sacrifice means to him. His thoughts can become so tangled and incoherent Dean doesn't know how to act - what to say. That's why he started writing down some of his thoughts, and then thought how much of girl that made him and crumpled the papers up. Right now, he can really use a moment to write down his thoughts.

He grabs the notepad and pen on the table and scribbles away. I hate this feeling. What am I supposed to feel? Anger? Sadness? Relief? Emptiness? Frustration? All of the above? Others? You left me with so many unanswered questions and I left you with nothing in return. How am I supposed to go on knowing this? Cas, how can I go minute to minute, hour to hour, knowing what I know now? I fucked up. I had a chance to say what I've been wanting to say for a while and I couldn't. I didn't. Did you even know? I mean do I even fucking know? I can't even hate you to make myself feel better. I can't bring myself to say I hate you for doing this to me. Because I could never hate you. The paper becomes wet with a few tear drops. I will find you, Cas. Just wait for me.

Dean places the pen next to the notepad after a moment. He wipes his nose with his flannel sleeve. Not many tears fell but his nose is running pretty good. Out of all of his thought entries, this one felt the most cathartic. He sometimes pretends that Castiel can hear him read the words to himself or even hear him as Dean writes the words. Just as Castiel heard his prayer in Purgatory. But he doesn't. He won't. The empty is a dark and torturous place. My prayer and words will be the last things he'd focus on.

Dean lays his head on the table from exhaustion, but doesn't shut his eyes. He won't risk falling asleep. Instead, he focuses on counting the books on each shelf to his right. Then, once he's done with those he counts the ones on his left. Dean notices some of these books, he nor Sam even use. He doesn't know half of the content in these books. Unfortunately, Dean underestimated how counting can cause drowsiness no matter the subject at play. His eyes begin to drift when Sam walks in with loud footsteps.

Yawning, Sam says, "What are you doing in here? You should be in bed."

Dean jerks up, shaking his head from thoughts of sleep. "I found us a case," he replies.

"Mhm. Is that all you were looking for during the early morning?" Sam asks, eyeing the covered notepad. Dean notices and quickly turns it over.

"Sam," he warns. "mind your business."

"Good morning," Eileen joins the boys in the library.

Dean isn't too surprised to see her here but is happy for Sam nonetheless. "Morning, Eileen. I hope sasquatch here didn't take up the whole bed."

Eileen blushes and laughs at Dean. "I don't kiss and tell," she winks at Sam as she kisses him on the cheek. "Who wants breakfast?"

"Yes, please!" Sam signs.

Sam joins Dean at the table and a long beat passes between them. Sounds in the kitchen of water running, the clinking of plates, and banging of pans fill the silence instead. Dean repositions himself in the chair, still not making eye contact with Sam. Sam, however, is studying Dean. He appears disheveled, bags under his eyes, day old stubble and crust around his lips from dried whiskey. He's a wreck.

"So this case-" "We need to talk-" They start simultaneously.

Dean glances up for the first time. "You first."

"I know about Cas." Dean's eyes widen slightly. "At least I know there's more to the story. You didn't tell me everything and I know whatever happened is eating away at you." Dean gestures to dismiss Sam. "Dean, I know you. I can see it. I know when you get like this it's because of something close to you." Sam pauses. "I also read some of your crumpled up papers." A dark look crosses Dean's face. Almost like he wants to punch Sam.

"You did what?" Dean says.

Sam continues, ignoring Dean's comment. "I know you're trying to bring Cas back. I want to help," Sam offers.

Dean sighs, looking to the side. He knows the many dead ends and how disappointing it is trying to save Cas. He doesn't want to subject his brother to the very same thing. "It's no use, Sam. Everything is a dead end. I've tried everything I can think of. Cas is gone," Dean resigns, defeated. "All we can do now is save people, hunt things, and live our lives. It's what Cas would want. It's what everyone, who we have lost, would want."

"Dean," Sam starts. "You're giving up way too easily. There is always another way. Don't you always say that?" Dean doesn't respond. "I know how it may seem hopeless but we have options. We have the resources to continue the search to save him. You can't give up now, Dean. This is Cas."

"I've tried everything I can think of, Sam. Everything! Praying, research, calling Rowena. She doesn't answer. Jack is off grid. I've tried! There's nothing. He's gone!" Dean's voice cracks. He swallows down the pain. "We have to accept that. And however I deal with it is my business. So don't give me those judgy eyes like you are now." Dean says pointedly.

"But, Dean-"

"I said no Sam."

Dean gets up, signaling he's done with this conversation and takes the notepad with him. He doesn't even acknowledge Eileen as she brings breakfast to the library. "The case is pulled up on my laptop. I'm going to get ready." Dean turns the corner and is gone before Sam can reply.

Eileen's face falls as she holds a plate of french toast, bacon, sausage, and lots of syrup. Then one plate of regular scrambled eggs with toast for Sam. She sits the plates on the table and watches Dean leave. "Is he not hungry? I made his favorite." She says.  

"It's not that, he's dealing with some, he's just-" Sam doesn't seem to know how to finish his sentence, or fully explain his brother's behavior.

"Cas?" Eileen offers. Sam nods.

Sam reads the case on Dean's laptop and begins to feel nauseated. He has a bad feeling. He, again, has a sense of deja vu. Two days in a row, it can't be a coincidence. It's like there is an itch at the back of his brain, crawling to the surface, wanting to show him something. He feels a headache come on and the pain is similar to when he used to get visions as a young adult. The pain grows stronger as the itch continues, pulling toward his frontal lobe.

Then, a flash of images of Sam and Dean dressed in their normal FBI threads quickly blink by. Another image of them at an abandoned barn fighting some strange, masked creatures. Sam recognizes the mask from Dad's journal. And then a burst of images, showing Sam and Dean fighting these creatures appear. They're vampires! The brothers are winning, slicing the vamp's heads off one after another. The last image shows Dean pushed against something sharp and… Oh no, Dean Sam thinks.

He grabs his head and shakes the images away. Groaning in pain, he sees he's on the floor. He must have fallen while the vision took over. Eileen is at his side, freaked out. She's signing, "Are you okay?" over and over again.

Slowly, Sam regains his thoughts and tells Eileen he's okay. Dean rushes by Sam's side by this point after hearing the loud thud from his fall. Dean places his hand on Sam's shoulder, in concern.

"Dude, what the hell happened? Say something. You alright?" Dean glances over Sam, and around the bunker, checking for any intruders.

"Yea, yea. I'm fine. I feel like I just got hit by a freight train. Like how my visions used to feel." He pauses. "I actually think I just had a vision." Sam looks at Dean with bewilderment and Dean returns the look.

"I'm sorry. Did you just say you had a vision?"

"Yea." Sam breathes.

"You haven't had one of those since you were like in your twenties and yellow eyes was after you. Why the fuck now?"

"I-I don't know. I thought it was a nightmare, but last night the same images played in my mind. I went all day yesterday feeling a sense of deja vu. The pie fest, reading the case, even eating breakfast."

All three are silent for quite a while. Their breakfast grows cold but no one pays it any mind. "What if it's a sign?" Eileen questions.

"Like from God, uh, Jack?" Sam offers.

Dean huffs in response. He knows damn good and well Jack is staying out of everyone's business. There isn't any possibility Jack is interfering. "I doubt it."

"It's possible," says Sam. "Maybe he has taken himself out of the narrative, but what if he's helping us still by guiding us through this vision?"

"He hasn't answered any of my damn prayers since two months ago. Why would he start now?"

"I don't know, change of heart?" Sam offers, half-heartedly.

Dean stands and laughs with a bitter shake of his head. "You honestly believe that? Come on, Sam. The kid has a new sense of almighty. We, you, me and Cas, we are now left in the dust. He said so himself. You're just having some freak migraine."

Sam stands, with Eileen in tow. She helps him up by the arm. "You're wrong. I know he's not like Chuck, and stays away, but he still cares. I know he sent me this vision to help us. All of us," Sam stares at Dean's glare of hopelessness. "I have faith, Dean."

"How can you be so sure? How can you be so positive that this is from Jack and he's trying to help us? Doesn't make a lot of sense that out of all the times I've asked for his help, to save Cas, or help me bring him back, he's now warning you of an ordinary hunt?" Dean says frustrated.

"Because in this hunt you die, Dean," Sam blurts out. Dean stays quiet. "You die and I have to go on without you. You leave me and I have to live a life without my brother."

Dean's gaze falls to the floor. He's quiet for a moment, processing this information. "You live a happy life?" He barely says.

"What?"

"After I die, do you go on having the whole white picket fence, apple pie life with the 2.5 kids?" Dean clarifies, calmly.

Sam searches Dean's face for any kind of sign of self actualization or will to live. "Why does it matter? I can still strive for that with you alive. We both can," he adds.

Dean smiles, that tired, sad smile. "No, Sammy. You and I both know as long as I'm alive you will always be in this life." He looks at Eileen. "You two will never have a chance at a happy, normal life with me around. Besides, hunting is what I do. There is nothing else for me. Not anymore.”

"That's not true," Eileen says, with tears in her eyes. She reaches out and places her hand on Dean's cheek, pleading for him to understand how wrong he is.

"It is. I'm the one that dragged you back into this life, Sam. I'm the only one keeping you here. Let me give you an out."

"Stop. Okay just stop. We are not going on this hunt. If you want to be suicidal, fine, but I'm keeping you out of danger. You are always so quick to jump in front of a gun or blade. Do you still care that little about yourself, Dean?" Sam searches his brother's eyes. "What about that job paperwork on your desk? You must have cared at some point. Wanted to live!" Dean is quiet. Sam sighs. "Cas wouldn't want you to die. He died to save you, remember? So, what I am going to do is bring Cas back. Are you going to help me?"

Dean ponders Sam's offer for a moment. "What about the people that will die, if we don't save them?"

"I'll call some hunters and give them a heads up on what to look out for when they go there. It'll be taken care of," Sam reassures.

Dean glances between Eileen and Sam. Fiddling with a loose string on the end of his flannel sleeve, he sighs. On one hand, he'd love to see Castiel again. He'd do anything- to hug him and tell him all the things he didn't get to say. But on the other hand, he's so tired. So very tired. There are no leads. And he's lost all faith in his search to save Castiel.

"Dean?" Sam starts.

"Okay. Let's bring Cas home."

[riseandshinelittleblossom]

Message in a Bottle

Hey guys! This is my first time writing Logan so I hope i got him right! Sorry I’m so late posting, but work and stuff...meh. anyways here it is!

Disclaimer: I am just borrowing Ellie and Logan from PB

Tags: @teja-desai @zaffrenotes @client-327 @brightpinkpeppercorn @desiree-0816 @mrsmckenziesworld @choicesluna @justhereforthefanfic @pixel-thirsty @iplaydrake @liamzigmichael4ever @annekebbphotography @drakeismyweakness @sunflowergirl05 @leelee10898 @fullbeaumonty @tornbetween2loves @ritachacha @valtorian-duchess

     "You don't have to tell me what's on your mind, Logan. I can respect a man's privacy, but you should tell someone. Keeping whatever it is bottled up will only do more harm than good." 

      With that bit of advice, Barry clinked his beer bottle against Logan's and left him alone in his tiny cabin.

       Barry was the captain of a shrimp boat that Logan had come across in his travels. He'd never pictured himself as a fisherman before, but he was in need of a job. 

       Barry didn't ask too many questions, life on the open water allowed Logan the anonymity that he required while lying low from the feds, and the pay was pretty good. He'd taken the job with only a little hesitation, promising himself this was the first step on the straight and narrow. For Ellie. For himself.

      He hadn't expected, however that Barry would take him under his wing becoming a mentor of sorts the same way Teppei had before….

     Logan shook his head. He'd lost many father figures in his life, and if he'd learned anything from that it was that allowing yourself to linger in the loss helped no one, so he pushed Teppei from his mind.

     But the words Barry had just spoken still echoed in his mind, so he dug in his sea bag, found his journal and a pen, and made his way to the upper deck.

     A nor'easter was blowing in and it ruffled Logan's now somewhat shaggy hair as he stepped out onto the deck. Something about the cool sea breeze made him think of Ellie, and that was exactly why he'd come out here.

     She was what he was keeping bottled up inside. He missed her like crazy, constantly asking himself if letting her go was really the right move. He hated that he couldn't be with her-that he couldn't protect her. 

      "Staying away keeps her safe, Logan. Just stay the hell away from her. It's time to let her go." He thought. 

   He sat down on the weathered wood of the deck, crossing his legs and opening the journal. After several long moments he capped his pen and ripped the page he'd been writing on from it's binding. He reached in his pocket and fished out the smooth bottle within. It was made of tinted sea glass, a novelty he'd purchased at their last port just because he thought it looked pretty. Now it had a purpose.

      Logan would never trust anyone enough to tell them about Ellie or the depths of his feelings for her-but the sea would keep his secrets.

     He rolled up the paper and slipped it into the bottle, replacing the cork and ensuring it was sealed tight.

     Logan wound up as if to release a helluva pitch. He tossed the bottle with a heavy sigh...and all of his hopes for Ellie Wheeler. 

**********************

      Ellie deftly maneuvered her car into a parking spot close to the docks. 

     She loved everything about Langston and the east coast, but it wasn't home. The docks, just over a mile from her off campus apartment helped with that. Something about the salty air reminded her of LA beaches, even if it was a different ocean; and LA beaches made her think of Logan.

        The docks were bustling this evening, fishing boats making port, the fishermen coming home. She took her normal seat on the edge of the concrete slab, feet dangling over the water and she watched the men-and a few fisher women- as they worked.

      "Well hey there, Ellie. Must be feeling homesick." A voice came from behind her. 

     Craning her neck the young woman found a burly man with a long white beard. He wore fishing overalls and rubber boots and he approached her with a warm smile.

     "Hi, Louie. How'd you know?" She greeted the man.

    Louie let out a laugh that started deep in his belly as he took a seat beside her.

     "Well you certainly aren't out here for the pleasant aroma." he chuckled, clapping her gently on the shoulder.

       Louie was a friend she'd made during her first visit to these docks. Ellie wasn't sure why, but she felt like she could tell him anything and they often sat together when she'd visit. Ellie would tell him about growing up on the west coast, about her stresses and fears at Langston. Louie would tell her about the adventures he'd had in the Navy when he was a young man, and about the love of life, Pearl.

      "How was today's haul?" 

       Louie sighed, "We caught enough to call today productive, but it just isn't what it used to be out there. But! I did catch me a message in a bottle."

     "Really?" Ellie's face lit up. A message in a bottle seemed like the stuff of fairy tales.

    The old man nodded, reaching into his pocket and producing a small, tinted glass bottle. It was topped with a cork and inside there was a rolled up piece of paper, something metallic poking from the center of the scroll. He tossed it to Ellie before he stood up.

      "Maybe there's a story in there, Ellie. Why don't you uncork it and find out?" He patted her shoulder once more before ambling away into the crowd.

      Ellie turned the bottle over in her hands, the smooth surface of the sea glass was definitely inviting.

      A part of her wondered what one would write in a message in a bottle. A secret? A wish? Both?

      She almost felt guilty opening it since it clearly wasn't intended for her eyes. Then again, surely the author never intended the true recipient to receive it right? It seemed a shame that no one would ever read the words within.

       In the end Ellie's undying curiosity got the better of her, and she gingerly uncorked the bottle with a tiny pop. She tipped it so that the contents slid into her palm, unfurling the paper to find a spark plug.

       For a moment her heart stopped. What were the chances that Ellie would find- not just a message in a bottle - but one with a spark plug inside of it?

     She turned the small car part in her hands over and over unable to look away, the paper it was wrapped in all but forgotten. A strong breeze blew by ruffling the message and pulled Ellie from her far away thoughts.

      Thoughts of home and of Logan- of the whole Mercy Park Crew. The thoughts she came to stare at this harbor to try and sort through. The memories in her heart that just wouldn't quit.

       With much trepidation, her eyes scanned the words on the page scrawled in a half legible script:

       "Dear God,

            The only thing I ask of you is to hold her when I'm not around-when I'm much too far away."

     Although the odds were astronomical, a smile bloomed across Ellie's lips. She rolled the spark plug in her hand and allowed herself to imagine that Logan had written this message. That it was his wish for her.

      She watched the east coast version of the sunset, imagining where Logan could possibly be right now and what he could be doing. Catching a glimpse of the moon as it began to dominate the sky, she remembered that everyone all over the world was looking at the same moon, and perhaps that meant he was too. 

     "I love you, Logan, and I'm safe. I'm waiting for you to come back to me, and I'll never stop." she whispered aloud to the celestial body, hoping somehow he could hear her and be reassured.

[imagineteamfreewill]

Home Is Where the Heart Is

Title: Home Is Where the Heart Is

Pairing: Hungarian!Reader x Sam

Word Count: 2,806

Warnings: Possibly bad translations

Square Filled: Speaking Another Language

Summary: The reader is a hunter from another country, and her first encounter with Sam Winchester doesn’t go quite as she’d planned.

A/N: This is one of my fics for @spnfluffbingo! The reader speaks Hungarian, for those who may be wondering. The translations are at the bottom of the fic. Please enjoy, and leave feedback to let me know what you liked!

X

Your name: submit What is this?

_______________

You’d been talking to Sam Winchester for over three months in preparation for your trip to America. The two of you had met in an online chat room for people interested in the supernatural, and soon after it had been discovered that both of you were hunters. You, of course, had heard all about Sam, but he’d been eager to learn all about you. Simple questions had grown into long conversations, and soon the two of you were sending messages back and forth at all hours of the day. It wasn’t long before your discussions had turned into a full-blown friendship.

Now, however, you were nervous to finally see Sam in person. He’d seemed nice enough online, but anxiety filled you as you walked through the enormous terminal towards the airport’s passenger pickup area. Sam had promised to be waiting for you when you arrived, and the thought of him being one of the first people you spoke to in America was terrifying. What if he thought your accent was funny? Or what if he was disappointed in how you looked or how your English was better when you were writing, rather than when you were speaking?

The meeting area was full of people clamoring to find their friends and family, and you frowned in frustration when you realized that you had no clue how to find Sam. He didn’t say if he’d have a sign with your name on it like so many others seemed to have, and you only had a general idea of what he looked like. Plus, it wasn’t like you just ask someone where Sam Winchester was. Nobody would know who he was, and if they did, that wasn’t somebody you’d want to meet.

“Y/N!”

You looked up, confused. Did someone just call my name?

“Y/N, over here!”

Turning to your right, you smiled wide when you saw a tall, shaggy-haired man waving at you from behind one of the metal barriers. He was smiling from ear to ear, and you laughed when you saw that he held a piece of white computer paper with your name printed on it. It was slightly crumpled from his tight grip, but the letters on it were legible nonetheless.

“Sam?” you called as you started walking towards him, rolling your suitcase behind you. He nodded, and as soon as you were close enough, he reached out and pulled you into a tight hug. The metal fence between the two of you dug into your hips, but you couldn’t help but smile as you settled into his embrace. Hugging Sam was like being wrapped in a warm, safe blanket, and you didn’t want to let go.

“It’s great to finally meet you.” He grinned as you reluctantly stepped back and moved around the barrier.

The woman nearby gave you a strange, tight smile when you inadvertently caught your eye, and you felt your cheeks flush in embarrassment.

Does she think I sound funny?

Sam reached out and took your suitcase before you could object, then began leading you towards the parking garage.

“You too,” you replied, smiling nervously. He glanced over at you as you spoke, and you self-consciously tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. Does he think the same thing as that lady?

“How was your flight?” Sam asked.

Shrugging, you answered, “Alright. I’ve never been on a plane. I’ve never been out of my home country.” You paused. “This plane was better than the one to New York. There were many less bumps.”

Sam nodded in understanding as he stopped by a sleek black car. He unlocked the trunk and lifted your suitcase inside, then gestured for you to go around to the right side. You followed his instructions without a word, and a few minutes later, you and Sam were pulling out of the airport garage and onto a busy highway.

“Dean’s excited to meet you,” Sam told you after a while. He glanced over at you as you gave him a small, non-committal smile. As much as you wanted to talk, you really wanted to soak in as much of America as possible. Plus, the strange looks you’d received from the woman standing by Sam had made you embarrassed about your accent.

“You’re staying for a month, right?” he asked.

After slowly tearing your eyes away from the cityscape outside your window, you nodded. “Maybe.” Sam’s expression turned quizzical at your reply, but you didn’t bother to clarify your reply. “How long until we get to your home?”

“Uh, about three hours,” Sam answered, still somewhat confused by your vague answer. “You can sleep if you want. I’ll wake you up if I stop for food or gas.”

You nodded and pulled out the small travel pillow you’d bought for your flight, then positioned it between the car window and your head. You truly were exhausted, and though you normally didn’t sleep in the presence of strangers, Sam made you feel safe.

I can trust him, you thought as you closed your eyes. He’s good, and he’ll wake me up if anything happens.

Soon after, you found yourself being shaken awake by Sam. You opened your eyes again only to find yourself in a dimly lit room. There were other cars parked along the gray cement walls, and you blinked in confusion.

“Hol vagyunk?” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes as you pushed yourself up into a sitting position.

“What?” Sam asked.

It took you a second, but you realized that you’d slipped up and forgotten to speak in English with him. Sam didn’t speak Hungarian like the people you normally spent your time with.

“Where are we?” you repeated.

“We’re at the bunker. This is the garage,” Sam explained.

You looked over at him, even more confused now. The bunker?

Sam picked up on your reaction right away. He gave you a kind smile as he said, “This is where I live. It’s not a military bunker. It’s a, uh…” He held up a finger for you to wait as he pulled out his phone and quickly typed something into it. After a moment, he continued, “It’s an óvóhely. An underground shelter. It’s the safest place in the world.”

Slowly, you smiled. “Óvóhely,” you repeated. “You’re learning Hungarian.”

Sam blushed. “Not quite. I have a translation app. I figured that some things won’t translate into English and vice versa, so I downloaded it while I was waiting for you to get off your plane.”

“Thank you,” you said, leaning across the seat. You pressed a quick kiss to Sam’s cheek, then climbed out of the car and went around to the trunk. You unlatched it and pulled out your suitcase, and by the time you’d closed it again, Sam was waiting for you off to the side. His cheeks were flushed pink, you noticed with a small smile.

“Are you ready to meet Dean?” he asked.

You nodded, then hesitated. “Will he like my accent?”

Sam chuckled and held out his hand for your bag. You handed it over, watching him carefully.

“He will,” he replied. “I promise. Now come on, you’re probably hungry. When was the last time you ate?”

As if on cue, your stomach growled, and you grinned up at him. “A long time ago. Do you have food I like?”

“Probably,” Sam laughed. He tilted his head to one side, gesturing for you to follow him, then began to walk towards one side of the garage.

You followed in silence, trying to absorb all that you could. There were beautiful, old cars that you knew from Sam’s messages were a favorite of Dean, and as soon as you walked through the door that had separated you from the rest of the “bunker”, you smiled wide. The place felt like home, even though it was over five thousand miles away from your where you’d spent the entirety of your life.

“This is extraordinary,” you murmured as you followed Sam to the kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder and caught your eyes, then smiled. “I love this place!”

“Me too,” he agreed.

Still smiling, you sat down on one of the kitchen chairs Sam pointed at. He began to pull out various food items from the refrigerator, and you watched in interest as he began to make you something to eat. Something about the way Sam moved was mesmerizing, and you couldn’t force yourself to look away.

Sam was just turning around to bring you his creation when another tall man walked into the room. He looked a lot like Sam, except he had sandy, light brown hair and green eyes.

“You are Dean!” you gasped, getting to your feet.

Dean, startled, whirled around to face you. A gun was in his hands and leveled at you before you’d even had a chance to blink, and you quickly glanced in Sam’s direction, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Dean,” Sam started, “this is Y/N. She was coming to spend time with us, remember? From Hungary?”

It took a moment, but Dean reluctantly lowered the gun and tucked it back into his waistband. You let out the breath you’d been holding as soon as it was out of sight.

“I’m sorry to scare you,” you breathed, licking your lips. “I thought you would know me.”

Dean blinked. “You thought I would know you already? Why?”

You frowned, confused. Sam didn’t show him my picture? You glanced over at your friend, who pointedly looked away, and you found yourself becoming even more confused.

Dean looked between the two of you, but after a moment, he seemed to decide that whatever was going on wasn’t his problem. He shrugged and grabbed the plate from Sam’s hand, then headed out of the room, leaving the two of you alone again.

“Hey!” Sam called after him. “That was for Y/N!”

Sam’s brother’s reply was unintelligible, but you giggled anyway. It was nice to see Sam is his natural environment, where you could learn about him from the little things he did, not just from what he typed into a computer.

“I can make food, Sam,” you laughed as you got to your feet. “I’m not a… háziasszony.” You frowned, searching for the right word. “I am not a wife of house? Is that what you say?”

“A housewife,” Sam corrected, smiling.

You nodded. “I am not a housewife, a háziasszony, but I can make sandwiches! Do you want a sandwich?”

“I would love that, Y/N,” Sam replied. He leaned against the counter as you walked over and rifled through the ingredients he’d pulled out. Most of them you recognized, with the exception of a few sauces, but within a few minutes, you’d managed to make something that you could enjoy. Sam seemed pleased with his meal, as well.

Once the two of you had finished eating, Sam asked, “Do you want to get some rest and then I’ll show you around the bunker? You’re probably still tired.”

You thought about it for a minute, then nodded. You’d been travelling for almost two full days, and you’d been stifling your yawns ever since you’d arrived at Sam’s home. ‘Tired’ was an understatement.

“I’ll take you to a room,” Sam said, picking up your plate and putting it in the sink with his. “Just follow me.” He grabbed your suitcase from its spot by the door and started down the hall again, leaving you to catch up before he could get too far ahead of you that you wouldn’t be able to easily follow him.

“Are you live here alone with Dean?” you asked.

“Sometimes Cas is here,” Sam answered. “He’s the angel I was telling you about.”

Frowning, you made a mental note to look through Sam’s old messages when you weren’t so tired. You couldn’t remember a single thing about their angelic friend.

“Thank you,” you smiled when Sam finally stopped outside a door.

He nodded in response, rubbing the back of his neck. “Of course. My room is right down the hall and the bathroom is two doors to your left.”

“I’m glad to be here,” you told him. “I’m glad that we are friends. I want to become your nagyon jó barát, Sam, which is why I am here.”

“My…?”

“Very best friend,” you translated. Sam’s cheeks turned pink. “Is that okay?”

“Of course that’s okay, Y/N,” Sam quickly replied. “I’d love to be your nagyon jó barát.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Sam’s pronunciation, and you could tell that he knew it was terrible as well. “Jó éjszakát, Sam. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, his voice softer. “I’ll see you when you wake up.”

_______________

Three months had passed and you were still staying at the bunker. You and Sam had grown closer and closer with each day, and four weeks after you’d arrived in America, the two of you had decided to stay together in his room. Dean had teased you mercilessly for it, but you’d never been happier.

You’d been going on hunts with them, too, and both boys had been impressed by your skills. The three of you were working like a well-oiled machine from the very start. It was like you’d been hunting together your whole life.

“Sam!” you shouted, sticking your head out the bedroom doorway. “Sam, can I come to you now?”

“Not yet!” he replied. His voice echoed throughout the hallways, as did the sounds of him moving things around in the library, and you sighed as you slumped against the doorframe. You’d been waiting for him to finish your surprise for almost half an hour, and you were getting sick of waiting.

“Türelmem fut vékony,” you muttered. Crossing your arms over your chest, you stared at the wall opposite you.

“Mit mondtál?”

You looked up to see Sam coming down the hall, a broad smile on his face. You couldn’t help but smile back; his smile was infectious and it always made butterflies stir up in your stomach whenever he spoke in your native tongue. He’d been trying to learn it, and so far he’d only picked up on a few important phrases, but Sam was a fast learner and you knew he’d catch up sooner or later.

“I was complaining, but they say, ‘Ez van, ezt kell szeretni.’”

Sam reached over and grabbed your hand, tugging you out of the doorway and down the hall to where he’d been working.

“I don’t know what that means,” he began, “but I can promise you that you’re going to love this.”

“I will?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise!”

Laughing, you shifted your hand in his so that your fingers were laced together. You didn’t fail to notice how the corner of Sam’s lips twitched up even farther.

Only a minute later, Sam announced that the two of you had arrived at your surprise. He stopped just outside the entrance to the library and freed his hand from yours.

“The library?”

“You’ll see,” he promised. “Go on inside.”

Hesitantly, you stepped inside the library, then smiled wide. The entire room was decorated in red, white, and green, and you let out an incredulous laugh when the speaker system Sam had installed shortly after your arrival began to play traditional folk songs you remembered from celebrations as a child.

“Sam!” you laughed. “What is this? Did you make this for me? Did you make the library like this?”

He came out from the other side of the wall and entered the room with a smile of his own. “Of course I did, Y/N. I wanted to bring a part of your home here to Kansas, since you seem so dead set on staying here with me. I found out that today was a holiday back in your home country, so…”

“Nemzeti ünnep is more than part of home. It is part of me,” you replied, unable to shake the grin from your face. “Thank you, Sam. I love it. I love you.”

“Én is szeretlek,” Sam answered. He didn’t hesitate when saying the words, even though neither of you had admitted your feelings, and the realization made butterflies stir up in your stomach.

“Sam Winchester,” you murmured, stepping closer to him, “You are too…” You stopped, searching for the word.

Sam chuckled. “I’m too what?”

Shaking your head, you continued, “Kenyérre lehet kenni. It is a saying we use to say your heart is good. I love your heart, Sam. I am staying here because I love your heart.”

“My heart?”

“Home is where the heart is, yes?” you asked. He nodded in response, his smile broadening slightly. “Well, then my heart is home with you. You are my home, too, Sam.”

_______________

I got all my translations from Google Translate and the two sites linked below, which have some Hungarian colloquialisms.

Hungarian Colloquialisms 1 2

Hol vagyunk? = Where are we?

Óvóhely = Shelter

Háziasszony = Housewife

Nagyon jó barát = Very best friend

Jó éjszakát = Goodnight

Türelmem fut vékony = My patience runs thin.

Mit mondtál? = What did you say?

Ez van, ezt kell szeretni. = This is what it is, it has to be liked.

Nemzeti ünnep = National Day

Én is szeretlek = I love you too

Kenyérre lehet kenni. = “You can spread him on bread.” or rather, he’s “good-hearted”.

_______________

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[onceimogenburchelluponatime]

Comparing book front covers 

Covers for Hans Christian Andersen books (Part 2)

These are some of the book covers that I found for the Tinderbox. 

The one in the top left is the cover that was on my version of the book and I think is meant to replicate Penguins original book cover style with the two stripes of solid colour with white in the middle. Which seems rather fitting since it is part of a set of classics. I think I could say more or less the same things about this cover that I did about the first/oldest cover of The Little Mermaid. It gives no information (apart from the title) about the actual contents of the story which makes it somewhat easy for anyone to pick up as you cant have any preconceived judgements of the story based on the cover. The contrast between the black and the white does make the book appear quite bold/stand out. But as far a book covers go it is still rather basic/boring. 

Despite the Penguin cover being very simple I think I actually like the cover in the top right the least. I think this is one of the older covers and the choice of background colour looks really odd to me. It’s a badly done gradient between red, white and blue. If it was just either the red and white or blue and white I think it could be fine. But blue and red rarely work well together in my opinion as they naturally clash and just make the cover look pretty unpleasant. The illustration itself on the cover isn’t too bad, It matches the description of the solider in the book pretty well as there is the added detail of the gold coins in his hat which he gets from the tree as well as the tinderbox in his other hand. In terms of the drawing style I’m not overly keen on it. It’s semi realistic in terms of body proportions. But the soldiers face looks really weird to me, his eyes are really small and along with how his mouth is positioned in a rather awkward smirk I just find his face mildly disturbing to look at. 

The book cover in the bottom left corner I think is one of the better covers out of these four. The white background is rather plain but the illustration is very relevant to events that happen within the story as well as being more detailed with lots of little people running around in the background for example. It depicts one of the dogs from the hollow tree taking the sleeping princess from the castle. The art style is more cartoony, at least the dog is but I think that’s because of the large eyes. Although considering how large the eyes of the dogs are described in the book I feel like they could be bigger.  Although due to having a more cartoony look I feel this cover is definitely geared more towards a child audience.  I do just generally prefer this cover as it has a lot more going on visually, but it does cut off any potential older readers due to being a child geared cover, (at least in my opinion.)

The cover in the right bottom corner is probably my favourite. It’s the one that uses the most illustration making it more visually interesting while also being very relevant to the story. I’m not so keen on the middle part of the cover which is used to display the books title as it has the issue that the previous cover did of having a more or less plain white background and the illustration of the solider is rather generic. It’s not a bad drawing they just look like a random solider which I don’t find overly interesting. While the second cover at least made an effort to include details that related the solider in the story. What I really like about this cover is the illustration that's around/borders the middle of the cover. It depicts a bunch of trees twisted together to make a thick wall which connects back to the hollowed out tree and within the gaps between the trees are the heads of the three dogs. I really like these dogs as they are the most accurate depiction due to the illustrator making a real effort to give them very large eyes, unlike the previous cover. It helps to show the more fantastical elements/nature of the story which the other covers don’t really do. I suppose the previous cover sort of does this with the dog being particularly large, but that's not really what makes them exceptional in the story, their eyes do. I can understand the choice to put the title and other details in a white box in the middle along with the solider as the border design uses a very limited colour scheme and along with the trees any writing would struggle to be legible. Also the solider is very relevant to the story due to being the protagonist so it makes sense to include him on the cover. I just think they could have been a bit more creative with the background or soldier's design considering how elaborate the border is. 

Overall (at least from looking at these covers) the more modern cover designs tend to have a lot more going on visually/rely more on illustrations to draw readers in. I find I tend to enjoy the more visual covers more as they are more interesting to look at and draw me in as a result. Although in my experience heavily illustrated books tend to be marketed more towards children due to their limited reading abilities. Pictures help draw them in because its something they can understand. I get that impression with these covers which makes sense as the story was originally aimed at children so over time the covers had more of an enthesis on drawing in that particular audience. (Or this could be because books were becoming affordable to more people over time so they were able to be more creative with the covers.) But considering the darker nature of Andersons stories I feel the bottom right cover for The Tinderbox works best. It’s visually interesting but also suggests the darker tone due to darker colour scheme of the border as well as the slightly unsettling imagery of the dogs. I think covers that both indicate/suggest the tone and some of the contents of the story as well as being visually interesting work best. 

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: The Darkness Within (17/?)

Summary: When washed-up paranormal investigator Rum Gold meets Belle French, he does not quite know what to make of her claim of a supernatural presence in her life, but sensing her genuine fear, he begins to investigate. What he uncovers shakes the cynicism he has so long held to its very core, and he calls in the help of disgraced ex-priest Father Macavoy to help him lay some demons to rest…

A slow burn, eventual rumbellavoy. The rating may increase in later chapters.

Rated: T

[One] [Two] [Three] [Four] [Five] [Six] [Seven] [Eight] [Nine] [Ten] [Eleven] [Twelve] [Thirteen] [Fourteen] [Fifteen] [Sixteen] [AO3]

====

Seventeen

Gold drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair, no doubt annoying the nurse behind the emergency department reception desk, but in that moment he couldn’t bring himself to care. It was too early in the morning to play into social niceties and on top of that, Belle was somewhere in there having collapsed in the back of a police car following an episode.

The nurse shot him another dark look, and Gold ignored her. Storybrooke was a quiet town and its hospital never too busy, especially this early in the morning, so he was the only person in the waiting room. That was probably a good thing; had there been any other patients or family members there, then awkward questions might be asked about what the hell was going on.

Graham had called him again just after six to say that Belle was awake and he was going to speak to her; Gold had wasted no time in racing out of the house and making his way to the hospital to check that she was all right. He hadn’t bothered going back to bed after the sheriff’s visit and had instead stayed up, working on Belle’s case and trying to piece together everything that they had already found out, trying to shed some light on the current situation. He wondered if Belle’s apartment would show any evidence of the entity trying to communicate, or if it had bypassed all of their questions and come straight out to try and find him.

“Mr Gold?”

Graham came out of the door that led to the ward, and Gold shot to his feet.

“Is she all right?”

Graham nodded. “A bit shaken, and she’s on painkillers for her feet, but other than that she seems to be ok.” He shrugged, and looked a little apologetic as he spoke again. “She doesn’t remember any of it, but that’s par for the course with sleepwalking cases, as far as I’m aware. The nurses will tell you more.”

“Thanks.”

“All in the line of duty.” Graham smiled. “It’s obvious that you care very deeply for her.”

Gold sighed, that was all part of the problem, and there was no use in denying it. A small part of him wondered if the entity was counting on that and using it, although for what ends he did not yet know.

Graham stepped back so that he could get through into the ward, and a nurse took him over to Belle. She was at the end of the ward, staring at the sunrise through the window, and she didn’t notice his approach immediately.

She was paler than she had been when Gold had last seen her, no doubt as a result of her dramatic night, and she was picking nervously at her fingernails.

“Belle?”

She turned suddenly when she heard his voice, startled, but then her pensive face relaxed slightly, and she waved him over. Her eyes were downcast as he settled himself in the chair beside her bed.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” she muttered. “It’s been a long while since I ended up in the hospital. I suppose I should be grateful that Graham didn’t run me over.”

Gold reached over and took one of her hands, and she returned his grip gratefully; her fingers were still freezing and her nails felt like little shards of ice digging into his palm.

“Still no memory?” he asked.

“Nothing. One minute I was at home, the next I was in the back of the police car and the next I was in the hospital. I don’t think that second one was anything to do with the Thing, though. I think that was just shock.”

“How are you feeling?”

Belle shrugged. “Ok, I guess. No worse than I usually feel after an episode. My feet hurt, of course, but that’s to be expected. All the same…” She trailed off, and Gold could tell that there was something else bothering her.

“Belle? What is it? Even the slightest thing could help us shed some light on what’s happening with the entity.”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it, but this time seems different to the other times. I can’t remember what happened during the blackout but it feels more intense, somehow. Like whatever I was doing, I was doing it with more of a sense of purpose. This time it feels scarier than before, even though I didn’t wander as far as I have in the past. I’m worried. If the Thing’s on some kind of mission, and it got unexpectedly interrupted when Graham pulled up and I snapped out of it, I don’t want to think about what it might do to get itself back on track.”

Gold closed his other hand over hers where she was still clinging on desperately.

“It’ll be all right,” he said, although he knew that it was foolish to make such promises in the face of all the unknowns that the situation was throwing at them. “We’ll get to the bottom of what it wants and then we’ll be able to make it go away.”

Belle snorted. “I wish I had your optimism.”

She turned away, looking out of the window again, and Gold wondered if he ought to leave her in peace. If it wasn’t for her hand still holding his like a limpet, then he’d probably slip away quietly. He knew that his positive thinking wasn’t really helpful when he wasn’t the one that all these scary things kept happening to, but at the same time, if Belle was the one thinking that everything was going wrong and she would never be free of her entity, then he had to be the one keeping morale up. They couldn’t both give in to a downward spiral of thought or they would never get anywhere.

Presently Belle turned back towards him.

“Could you do me a favour please?” she asked. She sounded sheepish, and there was an embarrassed little smile on her face as she looked at him.

“Of course. What is it?”

“Could you go to my apartment and get me some clothes and shoes please? If this time is like any of the rest of the times I’ve wandered then the door should still be open, just left on the latch. For all the effort it takes me to get out of the place, whatever it is seems to want me to be able to get back in again in a hurry if needs be. And, you know, if you could check that my laptop and the TV haven’t been lifted whilst I’ve been out of it, that would be great too.”

Gold nodded. “I’ll go right away.” He paused. “I am going to need my hand back.”

Belle laughed, and brought his hands, clasped tightly around hers, to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before finally letting go of him.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Thanks for everything. I know that since I walked into your life, all I’ve done is bring trouble with me, and I get the feeling that I’m only going to be bringing more over the next few days. So thank you for sticking with me. You know, if you want to back out at any time, I won’t be offended.”

Gold shook his head. “No. I think I’m too invested in what happens next to give up on you now.”

Her smile was weak, but genuine.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” she said. “So many people have given up on me over the years. Including myself. You’re the first person who’s stuck by me since my dad.”

Gold knew that the memory of her father and the agony of not knowing exactly what had happened to him, especially knowing that she might have been able to do something to save him had she been mentally present, were painful things for Belle to deal with, and he knew how much her father had meant to her.

He just nodded. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thank you.”

On impulse, Gold leaned across and pressed a kiss to her forehead, earning a little giggle from her in return. As long as he could try to keep her humour up, then the battle was not yet lost.

It didn’t take him long to get across the town to Belle’s apartment, and as expected, the door swung open with just a light push. A cursory sweep of the place showed that her electronics were all still where they should be and no opportunistic sneak thieves had seen her door open and decided to take a chance. The little home security cameras that she’d installed were watching him with their ominous red recording lights still on, and Gold wondered if they would hold any clues, but he didn’t feel comfortable in going through the footage without Belle present. They had watched some of the recordings from her episodes over the last couple of days, but mostly there was nothing to be gleaned from them; she usually just sat on the end of her bed staring at her bedroom door or stood in the kitchen.

Quickly he moved across the apartment and into Belle’s bedroom to fetch her stuff. The bed covers were messed up in a heap on the floor but the rest of the room seemed to be tidy enough. Belle had already said that the entity didn’t seem to be malevolent towards her own life per se, not like a ghost or poltergeist that would move things around or cause chaos.

It was then that he noticed the back of the door. Like before, they had tacked up a sheet of questions that they had hoped the entity would provide answers to. Up until tonight, it seemed to have ignored them, or perhaps just been unable to respond for whatever reason.

Now it was a different kettle of fish. The writing was laboured and scrawling, just as it had been the previous time, but these messages were far more legible, written in plain English, albeit with somewhat peculiar syntax.

Gold pulled the paper off the door and snapped a couple of pictures of it on his phone before folding it up and putting it on the side. It was unnerving enough for him; he didn’t really want Belle to suddenly see it when she got back into her own place having already had enough shocks for one night. She could choose to look at it in her own time, on her own terms.

He felt awkward going through her closet and ended up grabbing what was obviously a gym bag containing running shoes and comfortable workout gear; she wouldn’t want to be wearing any of her sky-scraping high heels with her feet all bandaged up, after all. Before he left, he took another look at the paper, committing the words thereon to memory. Belle’s neat handwriting asked four questions, suggested by Joseph in the hope that they would complement his own research in the UK. Gold had no idea whether these answers were even relevant to the questions, but either way, he hoped that they would prove enlightening to his partner in crime.

Where did you come from?

Darkness. I am the dark and I will return to the dark. Before was nothing and after will be nothing.

How far have you come from where you began?

I have crossed many seas and many miles, many obstacles put in my way. I fly. Fly. On my own wings and the wings of others, the wings of the wind.

Who were you with before Belle?

I was abandoned cut loose the bloodline was broken.

It was the final question that put the fear into Gold. Joseph had suggested that the easiest way to find out about the bloodline and whose it was would be to ask the entity about it directly.

Who broke the bloodline?

Traitor pride villainy trickery greed THEY KNEW I WAS COMING AND THEY SHUT ME OUT I WAS BETRAYED BUT MY TIME DRAWS NEAR.

They had already surmised that the entity was upping the ante, but these stark capitals, the harsh lines of the pencil on the paper showing anger and frustration, told them in chilling black on white just how much it was on the warpath. It was clear that they had to get a move on and stop the thing before it was too late and it did whatever it was going to do when its time came.

Gold shivered, and left the flat, grabbing Belle’s outdoor keys from the dresser and locking up in case the opportunists got a second wind.

She was waiting for him anxiously by the time he got back to the hospital.

“What did you see?” she asked as soon as he got back to her bedside. “You’re looking as pale as I feel. Did it leave a message?”

Gold nodded.

“Let’s just put it this way, I think we might need to start working a little more quickly.” They had to find a way of communicating the entity directly, rather than just through the paper messages, and Gold had an idea. It might not be the safest or most thought-through of ideas, but it was the only one he had.

“Belle,” he began, “would you be willing to go under hypnosis again?”

[teenycabb]

Royai Week 17: Day 5

So this is a combination of angst and fluff. Because I have a pattern this week and can’t simply write fluff to save my life.

Day One Day Two Day Three Day Four

Theme: Letters

Words: 3,994

Riza removed the rest of the hangers from the closet and set them in the box. It was already filled with other miscellaneous items she had found and gathered from around the bedroom. A small bedside lamp, a couple of empty picture frames that had been hidden behind the dresser, one of Hayate’s balls, and an old book about the alchemical properties of gases. Just small things that the movers had missed when they took the large furniture out of the apartment.

Not that they really needed to move the furniture out of the apartment. The presidential mansion would be fully furnished when they moved in.

Riza’s lips ticked upward at the thought. They had finally made it. Roy had finally made it. All of the trials and the hard work paid off in the end and Roy was the leader of the nation. The image of Roy being sworn in on stage in front of a crowd of thousands would remain burned in her memory for the rest of her life. Even though she had been on duty, not even her stoic professionalism could prevent the smile from breaking across her face that day.

The same smile was spreading across her face now. Turning back to the closet, Riza stood on her tiptoes to see if there was anything left on the top self in Roy’s closet. He had been whisked away to a meeting with foreign dignitaries to discuss their treaty and had asked Riza if she would finish clearing his apartment for him. She responded with a dry quip about it being her day off and not being his wife, to which he gave a brief smile she couldn’t decipher before dropping a kiss to her forehead and leaving to meet Havoc outside.

Her eyes barely peeked over the edge of the shelf. There was a large amount of dust on the shelf with a few voids where boxes had been. She sighed and went to grab a dusting rag when a small box tucked into the corner of the shelf caught her attention. Reaching as far as she could on her tiptoes, she grabbed at the box. When she finally had it in hand, she pulled it across the dusty shelf, raining specks of dust down onto her head.

She sneezed at the irritants but looked at the box closer. It wasn’t coated in the layer of dust that the rest of the shelf had been and was in fairly good condition when compared to the other boxes she had unloaded from his closet. Her curiosity flared and she removed the cover to look inside.

There were papers inside. Some were yellowed more than others, indicating the age in which they were added to the pile. Her fingers drifted over them, feeling the edges underneath, before she picked one at random and pulled it from the box. The worn paper crinkled as she unfolded it, and Riza’s breath caught. It was a letter.

Addressed to her.

The date was faded and blurred by water but the year was legible. From the year it was likely to have been written sometime after her father’s funeral and the subsequent sharing of the secrets of Flame Alchemy. Riza glanced back at the box and wondered if they were all like this one. Letters addressed to her. She licked her lips quickly before sitting down on the sill of the window, letter in hand. The box she set on the floor beside her.

For the first time, she read the old letter scrawled out by the familiar chicken-scratch of her oldest friend.

Dear Miss Riza,

Forgive me. My train back to Central leaves in two hours from the time I’ve sat down to pen this letter to you, and by the time you read it I’ll be on my way down the tracks. I suppose I could have woken you prior to leaving, but you finally were in a sleep that seemed free from your nightmares, and I didn’t want to disturb that.

No. I don’t want to feed you another lie, even if it holds truth in it. I left without saying a proper goodbye because I’m ashamed. You’ve given me so much in these past few weeks, more than you’ll ever know, and there’s little I can do to repay you. You gave me a way help the nation, yet I could not help you when you needed my help most. Please forgive me for that too.

I’ll return to you and pay back my debt to you one day. I don’t know when that would be, or what I may be bringing you, but I swear that I’ll come back. Wait for me.

Your Friend,

Lt. Roy Mustang

Lowering the letter down to lap, Riza thought of the morning she had woken up to find that Roy had left for the State Alchemist’s exam. Ironically, it was due to a nightmare that she woke up.

She glanced down at the letter and pursed her lips together. Did he still think he owed her? Because he didn’t. If he had at one time, he had paid for it in full by now. In any case, she still needed to talk with him about the ‘debt’.

Folding the letter, she replaced it in the box and looked through a few more of the letters. Every one she opened was addressed to her. Though the way she was addressed changed as the date progressed. The earliest letters were addressed formally, always with ‘Miss’ preceding her name. But those eventually disappeared and he simply used her first name. The content of the letters were all similar. He catalogued what he did during the day. The training he was doing, the research he was conducting, the antics his family would get into at the Madame’s bar. Occasionally he rhetorically inquired about what Maes was doing.  A sad smile would appear when the younger Roy talked about his friend. From the dates of the letters, Maes would have been in Ishval for the majority of them.

The next letter she drew from the box had no addressee, no date, no signature. It held only two sentences, and Riza’s heart dropped. While the other letters had been written from the heart of a boy that was still somewhat naïve and hopeful, this one was not. She had no doubt when this one had been written. Ishval.

Don’t wait for me. I’m not worth it.

Riza’s fist clenched against her thigh. She didn’t know where the surge of anger in her veins was directed towards Roy or towards the corrupt government that had manipulated and betrayed their country. Towards the homunculi that played people like puppets on strings.

In the end though, it didn’t really matter. They were all complicit in the act. They all bared the blame.

She picked up the next letter after returning the scrap in her hand to the box. The new one in her hand wasn’t in much better condition than the small scrap she returned. The whole thing was crinkled, like it had once been waded into a ball before it was smoothed back out. In addition, there were places where the paper was warped due to water, sweat or tears. It didn’t matter at this point. It wouldn’t make a difference.

The noise that filtered in from the street grew louder. More vehicles were being driven on the road to get to their owners to their places of work on time. Voices, male and female, shouted into the street after others reminding them of things forgotten.

They all drowned in the scream the paper gave.

God damn you, Riza Hawkeye. Why did you have to come here? To this hell? This is not the place for someone like you, with your kind disposition and generous attitudes. This is not the place for people who want to do good for the people.

Whatever happened to you reconnecting with your mother’s side of the family? To finding something that you could claim as your own? Your father didn’t leave you with many options, and I know that you are brilliant enough to go on to achieving a higher level of education. I know you talked about that, before all of this.

You haunt my dreams, did you know that? On the nights I’m even capable of sleeping at all. There were times when all I could think of was your father’s face, your face, when you learned of what I was doing with the alchemy that you gave me. The way your disappointment would be written across your face; a stone face with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. It plagued me along with the faces and screams of the people I murdered with my flames.

But my nightmares couldn’t hold a candle to seeing that expression in real life. Because it wasn’t the same. Because it was like looking into a mirror and seeing all of the loathing I had for myself personified and taking the form of someone who once cared for me.

Do you loathe me as I do? There are times when I wish you do. Yet there are times, lowly selfish times where I wish that there was some small piece of your heart that could forgive me. But as I said it’s selfish. There’s nothing I could ever do to regain that trust I’ve broken and to erase the pain I’ve caused and will continue to cause.

I guess I could say I’m sorry, but such simple words would never cover everything I’ve done. Perhaps one day, I could find something more than words to achieve these things, but until then, all I can offer are my words. And for that, I’m sorry.

Sincerely,

Mjr. Roy Mustang

Riza dropped the letter to her lap and rested her hands over the words. There was so much about Ishval that had broken everyone. But he was right. She had hated him. Almost as much as she hated herself for not realizing that her father had taught her everything she would need to know. Those in power would do anything to exercise their will upon those below them, even if, especially if, they were working for the greater good. She had her father’s ink to remind her of that fact every single day.

The street outside quieted down a little. Vehicles were still making their way across the stones, but the large amount of shouting that had been going on had ceased. A few birds twittered as they flew overhead. Riza breathed deeply.

They had changed so much since then. Yet, in a way they didn’t change at all. His dreams could still be idealistic, and she believed in him and his dreams.

Riza folded the letter and returned it to this proper place in the box. There were only a couple letters left inside that she hadn’t read. She stole a glance at the wristwatch she had been gifted and attempted to gauge how much time she needed to get across town to the presidential mansion. Perhaps if they got everything moved in and in their proper places, she could have the rest of her day off to herself. Perhaps she could finally sit down and finish the book she’d been attempting to read for the past few months but kept having to set aside.

She had time, she decided, and reached in for the last two letters. Neither one looked to be any thicker than the other letters and therefore shouldn’t take very long for her to read. Leaning back against the windowsill, once again, Riza read the words written to her by her oldest friend.

Lieutenant,

It seemed like only yesterday you agreed to stand and my side and help push me to the top of this country’s military so I might change this country to right the wrongs it committed in the past. And true to your word you’ve been there at my side, always dependable, always someone I could count on. But now you’re not. You’re gone, pried from my side in an attempt to keep me in line in a much larger game than we expected.

I can swear up and down that I know you’ll be alright. That you won’t do anything that would put yourself into any more danger than I’ve already put you in. That you are strong and capable, and anything they throw at you, you’ll be able to handle in your own way.

But there’s something else. Something I’ve come to realize recently and haven’t been able to bring myself to actually confront. And I probably don’t even have to tell you, because you already know. You always seem to know things before I tell them to you. I don’t know how you do it, but I am in awe every time you do it.

But here it goes. I, Roy Mustang, love you, Riza Hawkeye. It’s stupid and nothing can ever come out of it, you would make sure of that, but it doesn’t mean that it’s any less true. Perhaps I’ve loved you for a long time now, but I’ve never really been the most observant when it came to things like that have I?

And I know my timing is terrible. Discovering that the leader of the country is a homunculus and that they have some dastardly plans for everyone in this country, and forcing you to become a hostage isn’t the best time to confess and realize what the feeling I’ve had for a while is. But as the saying goes, you never know what you have until it’s gone.

I promise you Riza, I will find a way to topple this and return you to my side. Whatever it takes, however long it takes, I will get you out from under that homunculus’ thumb. Take that to heart.

Wait for me.

Yours,

Roy    

Riza couldn’t help the small laugh from escaping her throat. Even when they were young, he always seemed to be cursed with poor timing. She remembered one time, he spent the whole morning working up the nerve to ask her to for a walk with him, only for it to start raining the moment the question left his lips. She teased him about that for the rest of his stay as her father’s apprentice about that.

So she wasn’t surprised to hear that the moment he became aware of his feelings for her was in the moment it appeared he was losing her. Riza would have been more surprised if he hadn’t.

Trading the letter she had read with the only one she hadn’t read yet, she hoped that he wouldn’t talk about the Promised Day. Not because she didn’t want to know what he had thought about what happened that day, but because she already knew.

There had been a lot of time just to themselves after the Promised Day. All those days in the hospital, sleeping in beds across the room from each other. With her under strict orders from the doctor to limit her movements due to her injuries and loss of blood, and him with his loss of sight, there hadn’t been much else they could do. Their friends had come around frequently, but visiting hours only lasted so long, and there was still so much to do with half of Central Command destroyed in the Promised Day’s proceedings.  

With all of the time they had to themselves, they did the only thing they could. They talked. From the meaningless trivia, like Hayate’s favorite food, to the deep questions and topics that needed to be discussed between them. What had happened on the Promised Day had been covered in depth over and over again. To have to read over that once again would be redundant at this point.

Riza shifted in her perch for a moment, she flipped open the last page waiting for her to read.

There was the tell-tale sound of the hall outside the apartment creaking as someone walked across it, but Riza paid it no attention. She was already deep into the words that had been carefully written across the page in her hand.

Riza,

You’ve been through so much in your life. Much of it at the hands of other people. Yet you were stronger than all of them. When your mother died and it was only you and your father, you stepped up and took care of everything that needed to be done, even though it wasn’t your responsibility. You managed to keep your father and yourself alive, even with the little that you had. You may not have thrived, but you survived. You survived Ishval, and you stood by my side afterwards. A fact that even now, I find myself somewhat amazed at.

Looking back upon my life, the near constant thing I can remember is you. You were always standing beside me in some way. Like when I was only an apprentice under your father’s tutelage, you were there making sure that I remembered to do silly things such as eating and doing laundry. Then you were there in Ishval making sure my dumb ass didn’t get killed. Something you continued to do after we returned home and to the East. Even when we were forced apart in the months leading up to the Promised Day, I know you were still looking out to make sure I wasn’t dumb enough to get killed.

But I almost lost you that day. Just as you almost lost me. And ever since we’ve been dancing around each other, unwilling to move forward, but unable to go back to what we had been before. I refuse to go back into the dark. I’ve made it as far as I can with you pushing me from behind.

Now please don’t think that I’m casting you aside. I’m not. I never could. I’m merely suggesting a change in position. You may not think that it’s wise, but I’ve never been the smartest when it comes to matters of the heart have I?

Riza jerked her head up and out of the reading. He couldn’t really be suggesting what she thought he was suggesting. Her hands gripped the side of the paper a little bit tighter. It just wasn’t possible. That much had been decided when she accepted the position to stand at his side as his bodyguard and adjunct. They were never to become anything more than that.

But they had. The years of working side by side with one another, the unspoken words inside of them, the way they couldn’t help but put the other’s needs and priorities over their own, built up. They bottled it down, but the Promised Day broke the wax seal and pulled the cork. Everything rushed to the surface and they couldn’t contain it anymore.

She could still remember the way everything crashed in the living room of her apartment late one night. And as much as she knew that it was wrong, Riza wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

The wood floor creaked again, closer than the hall outside the apartment this time. Riza’s head spun to look at the door to the bedroom, hand already reaching under her skirt to grasp her gun. It was unlikely to be anyone of real threat, but training never went away.

Riza found that it was the very man she had been reading letters from.

“Sir? What are you doing here?” Riza stood from where she sat and attempted to hide the letter in her hand. “I thought you had a meeting with the ambassador to Aerugo this morning?”

Roy scratched at the back of his head. His face tilted down, but he maintained eye contact with the woman standing across the room to him.

“It was postponed. Something came up that needed my attention right away. I’m hopeful the ambassador can understand and would be willing to extend his trip for an extra day or so while I attend to this.”

Riza’s mind spun. If something had happened that needed his attention right at this moment, why was he there, with her, in a nearly empty apartment? If something happened shouldn’t he be at Central Command, arguing with his generals about the right course of action to handle the situation?

The little voice in the back of her mind whispered about the letter she still had in her hand. No, that couldn’t be it. Logically, he wouldn’t have postponed a meeting as important as one with their neighbor to the south to do what he implied in his letter. His letter that she wasn’t sure she was supposed to be reading in the first place.

“Sir, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Roy smiled at her and walked closer. She watched as his eyes darted to the letter in her hand, to the box it came out of, then back to her. There was a familiar twinkle in his eyes that she had come to associate with trouble over the years. He reached out and grabbed the hand that wasn’t holding the letter. It was her left hand.

“Riza, there are so many things that have gone unsaid between us over the years. And a lot of it doesn’t need to be said. Not when we know each other the way that we do. You probably already know what I’m about to say, but I’m going to say it out loud. Because there are some things that need to be spoken out loud.” Roy raised her hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm before dropping it down to press it against his heart. “Riza Hawkeye, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Riza stared up at him. He couldn’t possibly—But he did. He did and he was waiting for an answer. She swallowed.

“I thought it was customary for the proposer to get down on one knee? And have a ring in hand?” She couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across her face.

Without letting go of her hand, Roy dropped to a knee faster than she could disengage the safety and fire a shot on her gun. His free hand groped around in his pocket for a moment or two before he pulled out a simple gold band with a single stone on it. He offered it up to her, his face beginning to accumulate perspiration near his hairline. His mouth was slightly open, ready to respond to her answer at any moment. His eyes were hopeful.

Riza knew she should refuse. She was chief of his security staff at the moment, and it was a job she took with utmost seriousness. But there was no more pushing for her to do. Only guiding him to ensure he keeps his promise with every decision he made from now on. And perhaps she would be able to keep him there better if she were his wife, to be at his side when he needs her the most, than his adjunct, whose job ended when the work hours were over for the day.

She didn’t recall saying anything, but suddenly he was up on his feet again and she was gathered into his arms. He was kissing her, and she was kissing back to seal the decision. The cool metal band was slipped on her finger while her attention was elsewhere.

Roy drew back. Riza could see that his face was beaming. She wondered how she looked. It was probable that she had a smile very similar to his spread across her face.

“Thank you Riza. Thank you so much for waiting for me. Even if you did it in your own way.” Roy leaned down and rested his forehead against hers.

Riza closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling themselves closer together.

“You didn’t even have to ask.”

[ageeksnerdyworld]

Dead Boy Walking

Characters: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth

Word Count: 3,756

Trigger Warning: Death Mention, Resurrection, Ghost, Haunting, Séance, Slight Swearing

A/N: Parts-- X Sort of another AU going here, I guess. I don’t know really know what this is right now. I had this idea one day and I liked it a lot so I decided to write this little fic. It’s not as good as I’d like it to be as I focused too heavily on one specific aspect, but, whatever. Might do more and might not... We’ll just have to see what happens.

Summary: Instead of being fully resurrected after his death Jason Todd unwillingly comes back as a ghost. After rising from his grave he’s confused and unsure of what’s going on. He wanders Gotham until he realizes what’s going on. And then he makes his way back to Wayne Manor to seek some help.

XXXX

He does not want to do it but something is forcing his hands and feet to move. And so he scratches and pushes at the lid of the ebony coffin. This invisible force is desperately trying to get him to escape before he suffocates. He can’t breathe and his lungs hurt from trying so hard. Pain shoots through his palms and it allows him to take back control of his body. Turning on his side he tries to give in to the cold and the dark, but, the indiscernible force pushes against the lid with everything it has left. That final bit of strength is enough to get lid off and an avalanche of cold dirt falls on top of him; filling his mouth and lungs with dirt and simultaneously mocks his effort to resist.

But his heart and brain do not want to leave.

And yet he continues to struggle against this force; against himself. Pushing through the dirt he starts to climb out, but, he tries his best to fight whatever is dragging him out of the black. All he wants to do is lay back down inside, close his eyes, and return to the engulfing darkness. But his hands and feet continue to ignore his mind’s pleas as they push more and more dirt out of the way.

His hands shoot up out of the dirt and he feels something on his palms.

The name of it escapes him. He knows what the thing is that he feels on his skin but he cannot remember the name. And just as quickly as he felt it; the sensation leaves him with an empty nothingness.

Fully pulling himself out of the dirt he stands up. He starts to look around; trying to figure out where he is. Everything looks dingy, gray, and is completely void of color. It’s like the entire world is covered in a dense fog. All he can see are shapes and sizes of things but nothing is clear enough to see details. He can make out the shapes of the headstones and grave markers as well as the cemetery gate off in the distance. Confused and scared he turns around to see what he crawled out of.

A large round tombstone stands before him bearing his name, birth and death year.

But I’m alive?

He shakes his head in confusion and makes his way out of the cemetery.

And he just continues walking; alone, afraid and at a complete loss. Feet nosily shuffling from lack of use; as walks down the street he notices that no one is looking at him. They should be staring wide eyed at the horror before them. Running for their lives from the zombie that walks amongst them. They should be screaming at the top of their lungs, and calling the police, at least. These people should be doing something. Anything, anything at all, would be better than acting like he doesn’t exist.

But not a single passerby pays him any attention.

“Nobody sees anything wrong with this fucking picture?” he yells gesturing to his torn, ragged, dirt-covered suit and the rotting flesh that makes up his corpse. “I just crawled outta my own goddamn grave, people!”

No one turns to look or even bats an eye when he yells. Bewildered and worried he stands in the middle of the sidewalk; eyes darting about pleading for someone to notice him. Then his eyes land on a lone elderly man waiting at a bus stop. The man seems friendly and nice so he rushes over to ask the man for help. He sits down next to the man but he doesn’t seem to notice. So he pokes the man in the shoulder but the man just shakes him off as if he’s a pesky fly.

He gets up and leaves the bus stop; assuming that the man was just either too rude, or too focused on himself, to pay him any attention. Continuing to walk down the sidewalk he tries once more to get the attention of passersby. Turning a corner he almost collides with a woman pushing her toddler in a stroller.

“Sorry. Excu...”

He doesn’t have time to fully apologize, and move out of the way, before the woman and her baby walk right through him.

The woman shivers slightly and the baby starts to cry. Mouth hanging open in shock he turns around and watches the woman console her child before continuing to walk down the street. Even more confused than before he moves out of the way of walking traffic before it can happen again. Leaning against a storefront window he watches the oblivious passersby.

Then it hits him. He hasn’t been brought back to life like he first thought. But he’s not dead either. And he isn’t a zombie for a number of reasons. The sudden realization brings to mind a passage from Hamlet.

What may this mean,

That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel

Revisits thus the glimpses of the moon,

Making night hideous and we fools of nature,

So horridly to shake our disposition

With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?

Say why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?

He decides in that moment what he needs to do. Turning on his heels he begins to walk down the street.

XXXXX

Now sure of what to do he makes his way to Wayne Manor. If anyone would know what happened to him, and how to fix what was happening now, it would be Bruce. And if B wasn’t there then he could at least talk to Alfred or Dick. Surely, one of them would be at the Manor, they would know something.

Opening the large front door he walks into the Manor.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

No one responds.

Walking through the Manor he sets off on a self-appointed mission to find the others. As he walks he notices that his feet don’t make a single sound as they hit the floor. Shrugging it off he chalks it up to forced habit learned from the life he had before B took him in. A life that was first ruled by an abusive two-bit criminal father and then was ruled by the hard, cold mean streets of Gotham’s underbelly.

The sound of singing hits his ear before the sound of running water.

Someone’s in the shower.

He opens the door and walks in; the off-key singing echoing slightly in the bathroom. The lyrics are to some song that he has a very vague memory of. But the voice singing is clearer in his mind and more recognizable than the lyrics. Hopping up onto the counter he sits on a space next to the sink. Writing a quick message on the fogged mirror he smiles to himself. Then he waits.

A couple minutes later Dick Grayson steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around his waist, and begins to dry his hair; all the while still singing.

My loneliness Is killing me and I I must confess I still believe, still believe

Dancing as he rubs the towel over his ink-black hair his back remains turned to the sink. Dick softly makes a comment to himself about the room not being so cold before. But he shrugs it off, reminding himself to ask Alfred about it later, and turns around. Just as Dick hits the high note he turns around and sees the message written on the mirror.

Hi, Dick. Miss me?

Grayson screams and almost faints.

Quickly writing on the fogged mirror again; he begins a new message directly below the first one. Then he hops down from the counter and stands next to Dick. From his viewpoint both messages are completely legible and he can read them just fine. But apparently Dick is having trouble reading them as he tilts his head to the side and his pale blue eyes squint in confusion. After a minute or two he gets it and his mouth drops open in shock.

“Jay?”

Jason instinctively nods but then remembers that Dick can’t see him. So he writes on the mirror once more. And just like before his message comes across jumbled and backward. It takes Dick a couple of minutes to fully get what Jason is saying.

“Well, that explains the cold at least,” Dick says with a chuckle and a smile. “But I don’t get it, kiddo, how are you here?”

He shrugs and begins to write his response. Jason tries his best to say everything that happened but he doesn’t really know himself so it’s hard. So he starts at the beginning; his death. Then he realizes that the mirror was starting to clear up. Jason rapidly scribbles out the last bit of his half-explanation but it’s no use. He sighs sadly as he watches Dick stare at the mirror; completely dumbfounded.

“I don’t get it. What are you trying to say?” Dick asks after a long while.

Jason throws his hands up in anger and the motion makes a slight breeze which in turn makes Dick shiver.

Crossing his arms and leaning against the sink Jason watches Dick pace the bathroom floor. Dick mutters to himself as he thinks about the situation at hand. Jason Todd remembers bits and pieces of the life he had before. Some things are clearer than others. Those aren’t much, but, they’re just enough. And Dick Grayson, the original Boy Wonder, was one of those few spots of clarity. After a few minutes Dick stops pacing, faces the bathroom mirror, assumingly where he thinks Jason sits, and says “I’ve got it!”

“We need to hold a séance.”

XXXXX

Dick tried his best to convince the others that Jason was somewhat alive. The two agreed that Jason wouldn’t do anything until Dick convinced the others to do the séance. But none of them would hear what he had to say. Bruce brushed it off as some type of grief-related dream. “People don’t come back after they die, Dick. You and I both know that very well, I think.” In his mind there was no other explanation for what Dick had seen and experienced. It was just his emotions, and his mind, playing tricks on him.

Alfred didn’t believe him either. He too chalked it up to fantasy and grief.

Then Jason accidently made his presence known to the both of them.

Bruce was sitting in the Manor library reading over the discussion topics for an upcoming Wayne Enterprises board meeting. He had been in there less than fifteen minutes before Jason walked in. The temperature dropped, as Jason walked past him, but Bruce barely took notice of the change. Jason walked over to the bookshelf and began running his fingers along the spines. Then his eyes land on his favorite one and he plucks it from the shelf.

Bruce just so happens to look up at the exact same moment and sees the book floating in mid-air.

Jason locks eyes with Bruce and stands perfectly; anxious about his adoptive father’s reaction. But then he remembers that Bruce can’t see him. Meaning that the man thinks he’s only staring wide-eyed, mouth agape, at a floating book. Hehas no idea that he’s actually staring at the ghost of his son. So Jason tucks the book under his arm and walks to the middle of the room. Lying down on the carpet, on his stomach, he lays the book in front of him and begins to read.

Bruce stares at the pages turn, seemingly by themselves, in total shock and awe.

He said nothing to no one and kept the incident to himself. Bruce tried time and again to convince himself that it was his grief playing tricks on his mind. Or that it was the lack of sleep in recent weeks due to an influx of criminal activity. One thing was for certain to him at least; Jason was not back from the dead.

Then the second Boy Wonder paid Alfred a visit.

Alfred was alone in the kitchen on afternoon; preparing the night’s dinner. Roast rack of lamb with pine nut stuffing and Jasmine rice. Jason was watching Alfred gracefully move from the counter to the oven; roasting pan in hand. Then the boy, forgetting the state that he was in, got up to help the aging butler. Rushing over to the sink Jason accidentally turns the water on full blast and makes Alfred drop the pan onto the floor. The loud crash startles Jason and he disappears from the sink; leaving the water running to overflow the sink.

All Alfred saw was the sink turning on by itself.

The unwanted, and purely accidental, haunting went on for about a week and a half before either Bruce or Alfred said anything about it. By that time such inexplicable things were happening that neither man could keep it a secret any longer; so they each told the other one. Both agreeing, that Jason was indeed somewhat back from the dead, they decided to take Dick up on his offer to perform a séance.

XXXXX

“I’ve done a ton of research,” Dick says. “And I know exactly what we need to do.”

Taking the day off from their respective day jobs the three men sat in the Manor kitchen; eating breakfast and discussing the séance. Dick had seemingly done his research and comprised a well thought out list from a variety of sources on the subject. He explains that he even went to the bookstore and picked out a few books that he thought could help. One was called The Book of Séance: How to Reach out to the Next World. Another was one focused only on Romani spells, which he thought would be good to use considering his heritage, and the last was all about protection spells.

Bruce nods approvingly and motions for him to continue.

“Okay. So, first we need to only do this with people who believe that the spirit world exists. Or who at least want to contact someone on the other side. They’re called sitters. I think the three of us, and maybe Tim, will do just fine. If you have any skeptics they’ll ruin the positive energy and throw off the séance.”

“The sitters need to prepare questions. That gives the séance structure and makes it easier to contact the spirit you want to talk to. We already know that we want to contact Jason so that will help a lot. Yes or no questions supposedly work better.”

“Oh, uh, also we kind of need a medium,” he adds.

Both Bruce and Alfred give Dick identical confused looks. Neither of them knows where they would find a medium, or how they would even go about finding one. As they discuss they start to second guess the whole idea of holding a séance. Jason, who stood in the corner of the room the entire time, crosses his arms and grumbles to himself. But Dick’s pleading face changes their minds once again.

“Where are we supposed to do this?” Bruce asks.

“I was thinking we could do it right here,” Dick replies. “It has meaning to all three of us and Jason too. It’ll work better than anything else.”

“Okay, anything else?”

“We need a table that we can all sit at; preferably a circular one. But we can all just sit on the floor in a circle if we need to. Also we need to bless the area and light a few candles on it. And we’ll need a Oujia board, or a glass of water, or a pendulum. Something that Jay can use to answer us when we talk to him.”

“I’m confident that we can find most of these things, Master Richard.”

Dick smiles kindly at Alfred. He’s surprised that the two of them had got so on board with the idea. They were so against it from the beginning that the change was rather unexpected. But then again the change of heart came only after they found out Jason was haunting the Manor.

“We can also record it if you want, Bruce. That way we can get some audio or video of things we couldn’t see or hear during the séance.”

“I think that would be a good idea.”

XXXXX

Dick prepares the séance since he was the only one in the group who had some idea of what to do. They couldn’t find a medium that was nearby and who wasn’t a complete money-greedy hack and so they had to perform it without one. But Dick was confident enough that he could do it on his own. He arranges three chairs in a semi-circle around a table and lays a tablecloth on top. Then he places a tape recorder in the middle of the tablecloth. Rushing over to the library’s archway Dick turns the lights off before returning to the table.

“If everyone could please turn their phones off I would like to get the séance started.”

The others oblige without any trouble.

Asking the two to take their seats Dick sits down at the head of the table. After all three men are seated Dick takes out four candles and places them on the four corners of the cloth. Then he lights the candles; illuminating their faces in the small space. When the candles are lit he presses the record button.

“Let us join hands and intertwine our energies.”

They all join hands and bow their heads. Before fully beginning the séance Dick says a prayer of protection; cleansing the area and praying that no evil spirits come into contact with them during the séance. He decides to lead and end the séance with a Romani protection and closing prayer.

Once Dick recites the protection prayer he begins a Latin evocation.

And once he finishes the evocation he calls to Jason in English; “Jason Peter Todd we respectively ask that you honor us with your presence this evening. Please feel welcome in our circle and join us when you are ready.”

Jason stands in the corner, watching the four men, but doesn’t move.

Dick calls out to him again.

Jason walks over and taps on the table; altering the others of his presence in the room. Dick clears his throat and tells Jason that they won’t be able to understand him if he tries to talk. He tells Jason to tap once for yes, twice for no, with short pauses in between, and to use the knock code for anything more than that. Jason quickly taps once.

Silence fell over the room and so Dick decides to ask the first question; “Do you know why you came back?”

Tap. Tap.

“Master Jason? Where will you go when we’re done here?”

Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Pause. Tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Pause. Tap. Tap, tap, tap.

IDK.

“Hey, Jay?”

Tap.

”I just want you to know I’m proud of you, buddy.”

Tap. Tap, tap, tap.

K.

XXXXX

Once they finish, and Jason leaves the Manor, Bruce quietly gets up from his chair and leaves the room in total silence. Then Dick performs a cleansing spell just in case any demons or evil spirits decided to follow Jason into the normal world. As Bruce leaves to go be alone, and Alfred goes to get ready for bed, Dick begins to clean up the séance materials. Eyeing the tape recorder he picks it up and tucks it under his arm. After cleaning the table and getting rid of everything he takes the recorder over to Bruce who sits alone in the study.

“Hey, Bruce?” he asks; knocking on the doorframe.

Bruce sits at his cherry oak desk; his dark blue eyes staring off into the distance. He looks up, when Dick knocks, but doesn’t say anything to his eldest son. Longing, sadness, anger and all lurk behind his eyes and inside his heart. Dick lets out a quiet and defeated-sounding sigh; seeing Bruce like this reminds him of when Bruce confronted him months ago about not attending Jason’s funeral even though he had no idea that the boy died. It tears him apart to see Bruce like this and he hopes that the turn of events doesn’t push Brice back down the self-destructive path he took when Jason first passed.

He enters the room and lays the recorder down on the desk in front of Bruce. “I thought, maybe, you’d want to listen to this by yourself.”

Dick quickly reminds Bruce that he’ll be in Gotham for a few more days in case he needed anything then he leaves. Once he’s alone Bruce gets up and closes and locks the door to the study. He walks back over to the desk and stares at the tape recorder. He doesn’t want to listen to it; worried for the things that Jason might say on the tape. Or the things that Jason might not say. Sitting down he picks up the tape recorder, puts in headphones, and presses play.

The entire séance goes by exactly the way it happened an hour or so earlier.

The recording was pretty much silent in most parts; up until the very end when Bruce asked his question. It was something that had been weighing on his mind every since that fateful night when Joker beat the young boy so viciously and then left him for dead in a building rigged with explosives. The séance was the only time he’d get to ask his question. He needed to ask because he would have done anything to change things depending on the boy’s answer. But in the moment he didn’t even care if Jason answered or not; he asked it anyway just to get the heavy weight off his chest.

Do you wish you weren’t dead?

Bruce can hear the slight hiccup of sadness in his voice through the recording. A slight pause fills the recording with a bubble of dead air. Then Jason’s voice comes through clear as day; as if he was speaking directly into the recorder.

As if he was still alive.

It might not be a popular thought -- but not everyone wants to be alive.

A tear rolls down Bruce’s cheek. Staring off at nothing he rewinds and plays it again. He plays it again, and again, and again. Playing it over and over until tears stream down in face in full force. Playing it again and again until his screaming, tear-filled, hiccupped, cries drown out the tape.

Not everyone wants to be alive.

Not everyone wants to be alive.

[c-valentino]

Splashes Of Paint

Fandom: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic

Rating: T

Characters:

Kevin Day, Betsy Dobson, Riko Moriyama, Andrew Minyard, Aaron Minyard

Warnings:

past abuse, anxiety

Summery:

After joining the Foxes Kevin has a hard time to adapt. Bee suggest painting as an creative outlet for his restless energy. Reluctantly, Kevin picks up the brush to fill the gap until he can join his new team. His paintings get a little more attention than he had intended... 

A three part story about Kevin as an artist, Andrew as his keeper, and Riko as an unexpected visitor and shadow from the past... 

Chapter One - Old Sheets of Paper

“Do you like History, Kevin?” The striker looks up, pulled out of his memories, back into reality. He is sitting in Bee’s office. It’s their third session together. In front of her lie his old school records, provided by Edgar Allan for his transfer. History? Oh… academics.

“I suppose.” He can’t find the energy to get enthusiastic these days, though his resources of nervous, restless energy seems to be endless, his anxiety levels rising, and his frustration limitless. His left hand is trapped in a cast, has become a useless, foreign thing attached to his body. My body is a temple, my body an instrument, my body is a weapon… —well, not anymore.

“I read your essay on the great conquerors and their desire to leave their mark humanities collective memory. Quite inspiring, well written too, but your teacher… a Mr. Collin? Dr. Collins —he didn’t share my opinion, it seems.” Dr. Collins has been his History teacher at Edgar Allan. Kevin believes Collins hates everyone among the living, but is wildly fascinated by old, dusty tomes and artifacts. How annoyed he had been when a young, bright-eyed student came into his office one day to get some advise on his new assignment. Outside his teacher’s office hours —the audacity of the young man! A B minus had been no reason to file a complaint, even though his essay deserved better.

“He and I didn’t have a great start,” Kevin shrugs. Subjects like History never had great importance at Edgar Allan. He fidgets in his seat, his right leg bouncing up and down in an endless rhythm. He notices but can’t help it. He wants to go out and play Exy. Kevin misses the feeling of his racquet in his hands, the familiar weight of it. Will I even be able to hold it again, he wonders, a shadow falling over his pale features.

“Well, maybe you will get along better with your new teacher,” Bee says and smiles kindly.

“Maybe,” he replies vaguely. Doesn’t matter, he thinks. How long has it been since his last time on the court? He can’t bear to think about it, but he needs to know. His skills are getting dull. All those endless hours of drills and training —all going to waste. How many hours will he need to put in to catch up again? Could he cut back on studying and sleep to get some extra hours of practice in each day? Eight hours of sleep had been mandatory at Edgar Allan, even though reality always looked a little differently. He can survive on less sleep, Kevin supposes. In the beginning, he could cut back to four hours of sleep each night; at least until he gets back into shape and can hold his own against the new team again. The Foxes… what a bunch of misfits. One problem kid after another. No, not kids… not anymore.

“I like these,” Bee pulls him back up again, and Kevin blinks a few times, frowns at the pictures she is holding in her hands. He cringes. Why did they include these? His old drawings. Why would his old Art classes matter?

“Yeah? Thanks.” He means it in a ‘oh thank you, can you put these away now?’ kind of way, forces a smile.

“They are good. You have an eye for detail.” She looks at another one, a pencil sketch, and then another —a still life of an Exy ball and a glove of all things. Kevin feels the embarrassment, but it’s not enough to make him blush, it only makes him stiffen and fidget some more. “Have you thought about what you want to do in the meantime until you are cleared for practice again?” She meets his eyes, still smiling her kind smile. He sighs and looks away first, out of the window. His mind comes up blank.

“Study, I suppose,” he answers lamely. “Catch up with some school stuff.”

“Do you need to catch up in any of your subjects? Edgar Allan provides a solid education, does it not?” Yes, it does. It forces all required skills and every bit of relevant knowledge onto its students in a very harsh, uncompromising, yet dull form of education. Repetition, repetition, repetition… Repetitio est mater studiorum, is written on the wall of the main entrance hall. Repetita iuvant has been one of his Math teacher’s favorite lines. Kevin just shrugs again. He will watch the team train and act as their assistant coach, torturing himself in the process. He won’t need to supervise them off the court though. They sure as hell won’t let him.

“I believe you need some kind of creative outlet for all that energy,” she says and looks pointedly at his bouncing leg. He sits up straighter and forces himself to stop. “Have you thought about painting?” Painting? Is this a joke? He can’t even hold a pencil right now. It has taken him way too long to convince his right hand to produce a legible version of his hasty handwriting. He still can’t reproduce his own signature. Although the experience of writing with his right instead of his left hand has been a little eye-opening, in a somewhat of an ‘oh, I never thought about that’ kind of way. It is somehow strange to be able to rest his hand or wrist on the paper without smudging the letters, to be able to see what he is writing without obscuring it with his own hand. He can’t share these thoughts though, they are so obvious and mundane.

But painting? He is not an artist. He is an athlete. They have told him to take it easy for a while. Some words like trauma and abuse and PTSD have been mentioned and made his skin crawl. The last thing Kevin wants is to drag all his years at Edgar Allan into the open and talk about them. I played Exy for the best team in Class I Exy in the US. End of story. —‘My something-like-a-brother broke my hand and I ran away’ doesn’t fit into that story. If Bee had told him to write a book or something, he could understand her intentions. A neat little insight into his past. But painting…

“I’m not a painter.”

“You don’t need to be. There is no pressure, maybe you’ll like it. Why don’t you give it a try. I can get you all you need to get started,” she encourages.

“Yeah? Like —is this some sort of therapeutic —stuff,” he almost said bullshit, “to get over trauma or something? Because I don’t need that.”

“I think you do though.” His anxiety attacks. She knows about them. Maybe even Andrew tells her about them. The goalkeeper sees the team’s therapist on a regular basis and he has seen Kevin at his worst. “Just give it a try. That’s all I’m asking. Can it hurt? We can always look for an alternative.” He just wants to get out of here.

“Fine,” he agrees. And that is that.

                                                                                                     next>>

[sarahcupples]

Sherlock Holmes - TV Series

The Sherlock Holmes series puts a modern spin on the consulting detective, and with this a really compelling and mixed-media approach to the visual approach of the narrative.

Aesthetic

The overall aesthetic feels grungy and dark, helping to set the tone and mood of the series very early on in the first episode. The dark visuals invoke a sense of drama and complexity, which mirrors Cumberbatch’s rendition of Holmes - who has a flair for the dramatic, and isn’t a stereotypical hero detective. Holmes has issues and his moral standing on some areas (such as beating corpses with a stick) means we, as an audience, don’t always side with him. The overall visuals also seem to be somewhat subdued, with the colours feeling as though their saturation has been turned down at times. This isn’t something I would usually like, but because at times there is so much going on that by not having so much bright colouring it ensures the audience doesn’t feel overwhelmed or miss out on key information.

Typeface

Colour and Texture

As the Sherlock Holmes’ story was modernised, so too was its title typeface. Rather than the serif lettering that is so commonly associated with the story, the series opted for a clean, sharp, sans-serif type. The Holmes was dropped, leaving only a capitalised ‘SHERLOCK’ - capitalisation makes it much bolder and eye-catching, while the use of a single word title is much more memorable and mysterious. Rather than leave it as is, texture has been added to the title - it looks as though the texture comes from overlapping and crumpled paper (likely newspaper) and text. This texture adds dimension to the title, and I think it could be really interesting to experiment with this for my own project and maybe use the original Sherlock stories to create the crumpled/overlapping paper effect. Another style choice I thought was really effective is the use of colour in the title. Using pure black and white can feel very stark, so by not relying on these the title has much more depth and looks much more inky (tying back to the original platform of the Sherlock Holmes story - print). Throughout the series text is used throuhgout the episodes to present Sherlock’s deductions and annotate the story (such as through diagrams, texts etc on screen). From what I can tell, this text uses a different typeface than the title which is softer, more condensed and doesn’t stick to capitalisation. All of these factors make it easier and faster for the audience to read (especially when there are longer bits of information), limiting the need to pause or rewind the episode, and making the audiences experience easier.

Heirarchy

Throughout the series, there is always a clear heirarchy to the text that is used onscreen, guiding the audience through the information. Titles are bolder and larger than body text which gives us a clear starting/entry point for the info.

Typeface and Accessibility

The use of clean, sans-serif type throughout the series means that when onscreen text is used, it’s clear and legible (because of its defined edges and stuctured lettering). As well as this, the colour of the text has clearly been carefully considered throughout the series. It always ties in to the colours being used in that particular scene, which helps make it tie more seamlessly and avoid clashing visuals. More importantly than this, though, is the fact that when the text is against a dark background it’s lightly coloured and vice versa. This is essential in assuring it’s easy to read. All of these factors are also important in ensuring that the text is accessible to viewers who may have visual impairments.

Language and Tone

The dialogue used in the series is, for the most part, quick and witty. Back and forth between characters (especially Holmes and Watson) means there’s alot of information to process and digest. To balance this there are small filler/bridge scenes which slow down the pace and allow for more relaxed dialogue. The tone of the episode shifts and changes (depending on the situations the characters find themselves in), for example: • Serious/Dangerous - Most likely when they find themselves at a crime scene or in harms way. This grips our attention and engages us as the dramatic scene unfolds. However, the underlying tone of the narrative throughout is one of suspense. The suspense grows out of the awareness that we, the viewers, know less about something than certain characters do - and we’re always going to know less than the great Sherlock Holmes. Every time another character states how little they understands, the huge gap between our knowledge and Holmes’s is emphasised– something that only increases our need to know how it’s all going to come together in the end.

Pace

The series is fast-paced, dialogue is quick and the progression of each cases only seem to build momentum as the episode goes on. To prevent this from become tiresome or overwhelming to the audience, however, the pace desn’t maintain this speed throughout each episode. Similarly to, and usually in conjuction with, the dialogue the pace is slowed down at times which gives room for character development and a chance for the audience to process all the information shown to them. However, these slower scenes are not separate from the central storyline, and always link back to it in some way (which ensures the narrative isn’t disrupted).

Colour

The colours consistently feel as though some of the saturation has been removed throughout the first few episodes. However, as the series finds its footing this shifts. When the characters are happy or are surrounded by friends the colours appear bright, with yellows (which are key) and other happier colours that seem fully saturated. However, when Holmes and Watson are solving a case and are in that world of crime blue is heavily used to create a cold, dark unsettling atmosphere, which will instantly draw in the viewer. Bold shadows, along with the blue tones, helps make the visuals more mysterious.

Mixed Media Visuals

Texture and Patterns

As the episodes progressed I noticed that almost every set that the characters are in are filled with different patterns and textures, such as in the wallpaper, pictures, carpets etc. This stylistic choice makes the sets feel more busy and complex, and it makes them feel more tied to the original renditions of Sherlock - which, being set in the past, were full of more decadent and rich visuals. Looking closer at the actual patterns used I realised that the majority were floral and repetitive.

Music and Sound

The sound effects/music used works to add to the atmosphere of the series, as well as to emphasise and reflect the actions and content of a scene. For example, when Sherlock is making deductions you can often hear a ‘whoosh’ noise as each of his thoughts quickly succeed one another. This demonstrates to the viewer his powers of deduction and intellect. The fast pace of the series means that the music used is often quick, upbeat and exciting. Staccato pieces and swells of music as key scenes unfold engage us and draw us in. For example, during pursuit scenes the use of jumpier, staccato pieces raise our heartbeat and in turn out sense of anxiety and suspense. - Sets the tone of the scene

Focus on Detail

A big part of the allure of the character of Sherlock Holmes is his ability to see what other, normal people usually would not. Therefore, throughout the series there is a lot of focus on smaller details - whether this be through Sherlock’s observations, deductions etc. Focusing in on these details, sometimes while not making their relevance totally known, makes the story feel more interactive to the user and enables them to build their own theories.