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wheelsup · 3 years

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the taming of the shrew | two

if i be waspish, best beware my sting

after some setbacks, penelope is willing to do anything to get you back on board. but has spencer already ruined things?

A/N: hello! im so sorry that this posting schedule is super inconsistent. the more i thought about this chapter, the less i liked the more technical aspects of it. but! i hope you enjoy to plot aspect of it nonetheless <3 thanks for reading!

category: fluff, slow burn series, spencer reid x fem!reader

wc: 4.4k

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Since that phone call with Penelope, she’d been over nearly every night for a week with plates of treats and onslaughts of apologies. Each time she came knocking, you told her there was no amount of persuasion that could change your mind. And yet the following night, she’d be there, a new type of pastry in hand and a new set of reasons why Spencer was worth the trouble.

First, she brought blueberry muffins and reasoned that deep below that prickly exterior, he really was everything she promised –– sweet and caring. But that must be deep, deep down. Like, The Lost City of Atlantis, deep down, because you didn’t expect it to surface any time soon.

Then, she brought fudge brownies and explained that his behavior wasn’t personal –– he was getting snippy with everyone lately. And while you maintained that anybody would have a hard time getting along with Spencer, you were absolutely positive that it was now impossible for you.

Quite frankly, it wasn’t just Spencer who was unwilling to play nice. You hated him. More than you’ve ever hated a stranger.

You wished him a lifetime riddled with minor inconveniences that would drive him to the edge of insanity. You wanted him to miss all his trains by just a quarter of a minute; close enough so that he could see it leave the platform, knowing he almost made it on. You wanted him to constantly feel like he was about to sneeze. You wanted his socks to be perpetually wet, and if he should happen to put on a dry pair? You hoped he stepped in a puddle.

That was all you could think about as you laid out on your couch, munching on one of Penelope’s lemon bars while she paced around your apartment. She kept going on and on advertising Spencer to you. As annoying as it was, she was also saving you a ton on groceries that week.

For the most part, you filtered her out. Not a single word that came out of her mouth was believable anymore, especially not when she was talking about Spencer. Despite what Penelope thought of him, you saw in him what she refused to accept.

As her speech came to a close, she looked at you like she expected a response to dignify her prattling.

“Give it a rest, Penelope. He’s a lost cause,” you laughed dryly. “He doesn’t need –– nor does he want –– anyone in his life.” At the very least, he definitely didn’t want you.

“Yes, that’s the problem!” If you’d been listening to her, you would’ve heard her saying the same thing. “He doesn’t want to date!”

Your head just about exploded when she said that.

There had been countless, fruitless conversations about this, and all along she saw the gaping hole in her supposedly airtight plan?

“If he doesn’t want to DATE, then WHAT was the point of this?!” Your fingers pressed the bridge of your nose; you suddenly felt a headache coming on. Funny how it always happened around the time of day that Penelope came to visit.

Penelope stopped pacing. She stalked over to your couch, picked your legs up by your ankle, and moved them to make space for herself. You begrudgingly sat upright as she took her place beside you.

“Because he’s not himself anymore. He’s not open like he used to be. Not to the people who care about him the most, and certainly not to the world.”

Penelope toyed with the hem of her dress, distracting herself from her quivering lip before pressing on, “Spencer Reid has always wanted love. And it’s not right that he no longer believes he can have it.”

You hadn’t seen Penelope look so desperate until now. It was concerning. Because what could make her look so hopeless? What could make Spencer so hopeless?

“Penelope, I don’t know what’s wrong with your little friend, but… there’s a lot more bubbling inside him than you’re letting on.”

She chewed up the insides of her cheeks, wincing to herself at your incredibly accurate claim.

“You are hiding something, aren’t you?” You narrowed your eyes on her. You were no detective, or whatever exactly her team did, but she was just awful at concealing her thoughts.

“It’s not my story to tell,” she murmured.

She could already feel herself about to give it away and doubled down her mental defenses against it. Focusing extra hard on keeping Spencer’s privacy intact. If only you knew her track record with secrets, you’d be proud of her for staying quiet this long.

“What isn’t your story?”

“That his girlfriend died last year.”

She spilled it before she even realized what she was saying. You’d just asked so nonchalantly that she forgot she was talking aloud. Penelope turned purple, terrified now that the whole truth was out there.

You couldn’t even take satisfaction in the fact that your trick worked. You were just as mortified as Penelope, and if you weren’t already sitting down, you knew you’d need to. You assumed there was something deeper going on with him, you didn’t think it was a dead girlfriend. That was some Nicholas Sparks shit.

“He pretends like he’s fine but I know he’s not. And if he found a way to move on, maybe he’d start feeling as okay as he claims to be,” she sniffled before snot could run from her nose, tears lining the rims of her eyes. “I know I should’ve given you the full picture, but I didn’t think you’d go for it if you knew…”

You were too floored to process it all right away. This added a whole new layer of complicated to an already uneasy arrangement.

“Well, I know you’re right about one thing. I would’ve said no.”

She gave you a set of pleading eyes, praying you’d see where she was coming from.

“I know,” she whispered defeatedly. “But maybe... now that you know, you can understand why he acts out the way he does.”

“Penelope, I can’t just… make someone move on, or –– or get them to believe in love! Especially when it’s fake.”

How on Earth did she expect you to pull that off? Did that guy from A Walk to Remember move on when Mandy Moore died? You hadn’t seen the ending of the movie, but you assumed not.

“I’m sorry, this is just… a lot bigger than the favor I thought it was ––”

“What if I could return it?” she cut in. The gears in her head started to turn, figuring ways to patch up the holes she made.

“There’s nothing I need from you.”

That couldn’t be true. Penelope looked around the room and it didn’t take her long to think of it.

“I can help you sell your art,” she tempted, gesturing to the scattered canvases. “You make all your income from this, right?”

You didn’t want to give any fuel to her fire, but you nodded. “What if… what if you didn’t have to settle for local buyers? What if I told you that you could make way more money selling them to the whole world?”

You chortled at her idea.

You were a local artist, through and through. Your art got put in local galleries and sold to local buyers. Nothing more, and that was fine with you. You realized it a long time ago that it was just a pipe dream to think you’d be more.

“I’m serious! You could get a separate painting studio, and stop living in one? Huh?” She wrapped her hand around your shoulder, waving the other in the air, urging you to picture it with her. “Imagine this: a kitchen that’s separate from your living room. A bed, inside it’s own four walls, and more than twelve feet from where you cook your meals.”

Pushing aside her so blatantly insulting your apartment, if that were a possibility, you’d want nothing more. But it already sounded foolish and you hadn’t even heard how she planned to pull it off.

“Penelope, I’m fine where I am. I make the money I need, and that’s... it’s fine.”

She gave you a pointed look. “You know, I can hack all search engine results to make sure you are what comes up first anytime someone enters the word ‘painting’, right?

An airy chuckle left your lips. Of course she could. You patted her thigh twice and stood up, prompting her to follow you to your door –– hopefully, so she can show herself to the other side of it. “Still no, Pen.”

“Just take some time to think about it!” Her voice carried through the wood as you shut it on her.

There was this one bench in Kenilworth Park – the one that overlooks the crystal clear pond – that you’d always been able to rely on to fix any problem.

There was hidden magic in the bushes that sprawled out from the edges of the water, surrounded by spiky green blades of overgrown grass. A simplicity you loved in baby ducklings paddling into the tiny body of water, swimming close together so they don’t get lost in, what seems to them, a whole ocean. And clarity provided by the freshest air in the world, under the shade of the big oak trees on a late summer afternoon.

But at the present, none of that came close to being enough.

The artist’s block started off as a minor inconvenience, but without your permission, had stretched into weeks of steadily declining motivation. Each new idea felt even worse than the last, and you were acutely aware that there would come a point where you’d officially hit maximum capacity for how awful they could get.

Still, that didn’t seem to light a fire under you. You happily coexisted with the blank pages of your sketchbook. Staring down at them, laying open on your lap in their stark-white glory, you felt like you were playing a waiting game. If you stared long and hard enough, maybe they’d flinch.

Unfortunately, you never got to find out who won, because your phone rang inside your pocket. As if the caller had interrupted an incredible genius at work (which couldn’t be farther from the truth), you hastily raised the phone to your ear, slamming your sketchbook shut.

“Hello?” Your voice wasn’t as kind as it could be for someone with nothing better to be doing. Two seconds later, you learned who was calling and came to regret it.

“Hi, This is Rebecca from District Arts, calling with a message from Andre ––”

“Oh, hi!” you tried to walk back your previous tone, straightening up in your seat and pitching your voice higher, “Yeah, I’ve been waiting to hear from him!”

While Rebecca intimidated you, Andre happened to be your closest friend at the gallery. He worked closely with the artists to curate their collection and help them make sales.

“Does he want to sort out what to set the opening bid prices at for my new pieces?” A handful of days ago, you sent him pictures of your new work and were waiting to hear his thoughts. You’d always been able to trust his opinion, and a vote of confidence from him might be just the thing to inspire you.

“Uhm…” There was a criminally long pause on the other side of the line, ended by Rebecca’s weary inhale. “Unfortunately, we’re calling to inform you that your pieces will not be included in the next rotation.”

For a minute, you weren’t sure what to make of what she said. You’d never heard those words before.

“What – what do you mean?” you laughed nervously. She probably misspoke. Perks of friendship aside, Andre always included you in sets.

“Ugh, let me just get him…” her voice faded away as she put the phone down.

That wasn’t exactly the reassuring statement you were looking for. In the time it took for the call to switch hands, your confusion finally melted in. And then quickly boiled into anger.

The District Arts gallery changed their entire collection every two months. The pieces shown accepted rolling bids throughout the full eight weeks, finally selling at the end of term to their highest offer. After that, the pieces got taken down, sent to happy new owners, and the entire gallery reset with entirely new works.

So if you missed one rotation, that meant waiting two months to get back in.

“Andre, how am I just cut from the gallery!” you barked before he could get a word in. If he didn’t like your work, he could’ve just said so.

“No one said that ––”

“Okay, let me rephrase.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, something you found yourself doing quite frequently lately, and took a deep breath in and out. It was seemingly just for show because it did absolutely nothing to calm you down. “Why wouldn’t you put me in the next set? I’m in all of them!”

“I know you are!” He sounded just as upset. “It’s just that… we give you the biggest space we have, because you always manage to fill it up. But this time… I’m not so sure you can.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you scoffed. “What makes you say that?” You asked that, but you knew.

“You’ve only finished three pieces… I’m worried how you’ll deliver seven more before we set up.”

“But… it’s four weeks away, I could do ––”

“And it took you four weeks to make what you have... I’m sorry. We couldn’t take that gamble.”

He took your silence as an opportunity to turn off the work talk and speak, just friend to friend.

“You know that I trust you and I’d hold that spot if I could. But, I also know what you’re going through right now, and… I don’t know, maybe letting yourself rest would be a good thing?”

Your heart paused. By, “knowing what you’re going through”, you assumed he didn’t mean the little artist’s block.

“If you’re implying that I can’t do my job because of what happened with Cyrus –”

“I’m not, I’m not....” he backtracked as quickly as he could. “But take another look at the paintings you showed me and tell me if they feel like you.”

Even if he was right, you wanted to fight him. You wanted to cry. You wanted to beg that you didn’t need that big space; you were willing to downsize and just turn in the three that you had. Even if they got shoved into the corner where hardly anybody bothered to look. You just couldn’t afford to go two months without the income.

But even with tears beading up, you realized that the gallery couldn’t afford it either. They needed to bring in money and you couldn’t do that for them this time. So they were right to go to someone who can.

“Right,” you sniffled, recollecting yourself so he can’t hear the shakiness in your voice. “I understand. It’s a big risk, like you said… It’s for the better.”

Andre tried to thank you for being understanding and spewed some sort of encouragement. The words flew over your head. You managed to toss in a few ‘mhmm’s and ‘sure’s at the right places to coast you along until the call finally ended.

As soon as it went dead, you dropped your phone to the side and brought your hands to your face, rubbing them furiously over your cheeks. Your fingertips pressed hard into your eyelids, trying to forcibly reabsorb the tears threatening to spill.

It almost worked, until you tried to breathe.

A full sob escaped in that one gulp of air and you succumbed to it. But the loud crunching noise of some pedestrian walking over the falling leaves destroyed your sense of privacy, and you quickly wiped away all signs of your breakdown. The crunching stopped just short of your bench and on instinct you flicked your eyes up to see who the intruder was.

You did a double take. It was him. That fucking asshole.

He was standing there, looking dumber than you could even remember, with his hands in his coat pockets and a curious look on his face as he watched you cry. Tucking your sketchbook under your arm in haste, you made it a point to stand up with as much aggression as possible, rolling your eyes at him.

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” you barked. “No need to yell at me this time.”

You bristled past him, barely refraining yourself from checking his shoulder as payback. You wanted to believe you were better than him, but it did sound incredibly tempting. He stood there for a moment before turning on his heel and following you.

“Wait,” he groaned.

You didn’t listen, neither stopping nor slowing down.

“I said wait,” he huffed as he caught up to you, popping up at your side and jogging along as you kept going.

“Yeah, because I need to listen to a guy who yells at strangers in bookstores.”

Now that you’d brought up the elephant in the room, your feet started moving even faster, working double time to get you away from him.

Damn the fact that he had those long legs. He didn’t even break a sweat trying to keep up. He was inescapable.

“Well, if you waited like I asked, you would’ve gotten an apology for the ––”

“Gee, thanks!” you yelled, stopping for only a second to turn to him and give him a mocking bow of your head, hands clasped together like you were praising at his altar. “I was waiting with bated breath for that! Thank you, kind sir, for now my life can go on.”

“Look, I’m actually sorry,” he snapped. Then in realizing the irony, softened his voice, “I’m sorry for being rude. I was having a bad day… not that that’s an excuse.”

You stared at him blankly, just watching his mouth moving quickly and waiting until it finally stopped.

“Did you need something?”

“Did you… did you not hear what I just said?!”

“No, sorry,” you smiled, voice sweet like sugar. “My ears filter bullshit. Wanna try again?”

He scoffed, looking away like he couldn’t believe you before stepping even closer. “What’s your problem?”

“Me!? The fuck –– what the fuck is your problem?” You turned and stormed off again, seething at his audacity. Spencer just couldn’t relent his annoying tendencies and followed yet again.

“My problem is that I’m trying to be nice, and you’re not letting me!”

You got a good, hard laugh out of that. “Okay, first of all, having to apologize for yelling at me and pushing me isn’t exactly the best starting point for the journey of becoming a nice person.”

“Like I said, I was having a bad day.”

Under your breath, you muttered, “Well, I hope this one’s even worse.”

“Why are you such a ––” He stopped himself from finishing that thought. Even in his worst mood, he wouldn’t cross that line.

But he didn’t need to finish it, you knew exactly where he wanted to take it. The soles of your shoes scraped against the loose gravel as you came to a grinding halt, ears ringing.

“A what?” You turned to face him, a sarcastic smile on your face growing wider as he started to shrink more and more. You got up close in his face, daring him to say what he really wanted to. So he could reinforce your belief in exactly the type of person he was. “A what?”

Spencer pursed his lips and shook his head, refusing to say it no matter how much you challenged him. If he wasn’t going to have the balls to say it, you decided to take it upon yourself.

“Tell you what, you keep thinking about it and get back to me the next time you’re in a cunty mood.”

The word he was thinking of was probably not as bad, but you had a habit of escalating things. Even if you took this one too far, you didn’t care.

Before you tried to take off again, Spencer’s hand flew to your elbow. He tugged you back, forcing you to turn around and face him. He didn’t know his own strength; without any resistance, you came stumbling into his chest, at risk of falling over if it weren’t for his tight grip on your arm.

It took you a beat to push him away with both your hands on his chest, vocalizing your disgust for being so close to him.

“Can you stop trying to disagree with me for a second? I’m trying to tell you that you’re right, I was being a… well, you know…” He avoided the word. Apparently ‘cunt’ was where he drew the line. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.”

Your nostrils were still flared and blood hot as ever, but he made you pause. He looked sincere, if not a little tinged with guilt as well. You were suspicious of it.

“You saw me crying and felt bad, didn’t you?”

He laughed darkly. “Well, I saw you, yes. Did I feel bad? No.”

“Oh, my God,” you growled, berating yourself for getting close to believing he might be capable of decency.

“I’m joking! I’m joking.” He squeezed your elbow twice in earnest. “I did feel bad, but that’s not why I wanted to say it.”

“Okay.” You weren’t ready to give him a real smile, so you flattened your lips into a thin line and nodded once slowly, and left it at that.

You still weren’t a fan, but the apology did dampen some of the resentment. Maybe he wasn’t the worst person alive. You’d settle for saying top ten most annoying, instead.

Minutes later, you came to the startling realization that he was still on the path, just two paces behind you. You flinched when you saw him out of the corner of your eye, not expecting him to still be here.

“Uhm. Where are you… why are you still following me?”

“I’m not. My car’s that way,” he gestured to the parking lot at the end of the long walkway. “I forgot my loaf for the ducks.” He didn’t mean to offer that information up, it just slipped out. He could practically see your smug expression coming before it even got there.

“You’re not supposed to feed bread to the ducks. It’s bad for them.”

“I don’t.” He didn’t care to explain this to you, but he couldn’t have you thinking he was any less competent than he really was. “It’s a special bread made from water and seeds that were ground into flour. It’s duck-safe.”

“They make duck-safe bread?” Now that was something you’d never heard before.

“No… I make duck-safe bread,” he said softly under his breath.

You didn’t know how else you were supposed to react to that besides laughing wildly.

“You make it?” He nodded like you were the crazy one here. As if he wasn’t the one spending his spare time grinding up seeds and baking loaves of bread for ducks, donning a frilly pink apron and oven mitts as he did so. At least that’s how you imagined it. “Why not just feed them the seeds?”

“Because, loose seeds will sink in the water and can potentially clog waterbeds and cause foreign bacteria growth in the pond.”

“So you… hand-make the seeds into a little loaf of bread so it doesn't do that?”

He confirmed. You pondered silently for a moment, then absolutely had to ask, “You ever eaten the duck bread before?”

Spencer was caught off guard by that question. His cheeks deepened to a rosy color.

“Yeah, well, it was the house so…” he laughed nervously and stared at his sneakers. “It’s actually not too bad.”

You weren’t entirely surprised by that. You remembered what his grocery basket looked like, and given those same options, you probably would’ve tried the duck bread too. Still, you cracked the smallest of grins at knowing he makes bread for ducks. The one, sole redeeming fact you’ve learned about Spencer.

You reached your car first, and Spencer stopped in front of it with you.

“I’m actually sorry, you know,” he whispered once more, hand resting at the top of your car door as you opened it. He wasn’t talking about the incident at the bookstore.

“Yeah…” For a while you were so busy being angry at Spencer that you forgot about your own problems.

He noticed your nose was still red around the edges, eyes still a little bleary. “Are you okay, by the way?” His voice was too soft, too genuine.

You shook your head no.

“Is there anything I can do?” You shook your head again. And then you had an awful thought.

You knew he was just offering to help just to say it, because that’s how people react when you say you’re not okay even if they don’t care. But there actually was something he could do for you… Something that Penelope could do.

“Uh, no but…” you fixed your hair and tucked it behind your ear, seamlessly switching to a flirtier voice. “If you still feel bad about the other day, you’re welcome to make it up to me.”

Spencer cocked his head to the side, unsure of how he could do that.

“Hang out with me sometime.”

“H-hang out?” You could tell that it flustered him, even if he tried to play it off. He swallowed thickly, nose twitching and brows scrunched together.

“Relax, I really do just mean hang out.” You were lying through your teeth. He didn’t need to know that.

As if he didn’t want to think about it for a second longer and just get out of this conversation as quickly as possible, he agreed without thinking it through. He didn’t even ask why an almost complete stranger would want to hang out with him.

You stuck your hand out, expecting him to hand over his cell so you could put your contact into it. He rocked on the balls of his feet, watching as you input your contact and sent yourself a text on his phone.

“Hi, this is…” you read out your message as you typed, pausing at just the right place. “What’s your name by the way?”

“Oh-uh, I’m Spencer.”

A devilish grin took over your face, hidden from his view while you were looking down at the screen. He was going to be easy to fool.

agh! im still not in love with how this chapter is turning out, but it came to a point where i just had to stop fiddling with it and just post it. any feedback or comments about this story is very much appreciated 💕

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kcatta-wodahs · 4 years

Text

MC Who Does Not Fear Death x OM! Demon Brothers

Or maiming, or apparently any other consequences. You’ve walked into this situation with absolutely no filter and no fear. Time to tear down every structure of Devildom society.

Lucifer

You look at him with a withering stare when he tries to intimidate you into behaving.

“I was summoned out of my trashy apartment to this place, where literally anyone could snap me like a twig on accident. I’m just working on the assumption that I’m already dead.”

He sternly looks at you. “You’re under my protection during your time here. No harm will come to you.”

You snort derisively, which visibly irritates him. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t come back to haunt you if it happens.”

As you continue through your life in Devildom he keeps calling you out for meddling and all that, like usual, and he HATES that you literally *do not care* when he threatens you.

Like HE knows that he wouldn’t hurt Diavolo’s transfer student but YOU are supposed to be AFRAID of him dammit.

His frustration at this ends up turning into a form of respect. You’re about the only person who will stand up to him, and tbh like you’re so fucking fragile but you’ll yell at him all day? That takes guts. Annoying guts. But you’ve got guts.

But also STOP IT. He has enough stress in his life and now he’s constantly terrified that you’ve decided it’s a great idea to adopt a baby balrog

Which you did once. He’s just afraid that “Flamin Hot Cheeto” is going to come back since you somehow managed to imprint on it.

despite the fact that the BABY could easily tear your arms off on accident

Not to mention he gets the flack for EVERY SINGLE ONE of these following stories. You stress him out so much. Please. Please, stop.

He’s almost to the point of begging. The Avatar of Pride is three steps away from either locking you away for the rest of the year or begging on his knees for you to calm down.

But you know you’d find a way out if he locked you up so no worries. It’ll be a good challenge.

Mammon

“Well you WON’T be dead because it’s my job to protect you! Are you doubting the Great Mammon?!”

Stupid human. Yeah, you’re fragile and weak, but that’s why HE’S your bodyguard now, and there’s no way in hell (lol) that he would let you die on his watch.

Lucifer would kill him.

You welcome the challenge, and he thinks it’s funny at first but quickly becomes a flustered mother hen.

“NO, we are NOT going out to Madam Scream’s at 3am! Do ya know what kinda CREEPS are out there at 3am?!”

And you sneak out the fucking window.

He has had more heart attacks in the past week than he has had in the last 100 years of life.

He starts agreeing to your ridiculous adventures JUST because then he can actually keep an eye on you.

He adores the chaos of the laugh that bursts from you every time you narrowly escape death.

He HATES how often you have to NARROWLY ESCAPE DEATH. So he will never tell you.

He almost doesn’t have time for his own shenanigans anymore, because all his time is taken up by trying to make sure you stay alive.

And you’ve figured out that if you turn *any* of your ideas into a money-making one, he will join you whole-heartedly.

So you bribe him because what’s money to you anymore anyway?

Leviathan

I mean he doesn’t leave his room much, so tbh he probably just gets texts from you that make him want to scream.

‘hey uh levi say if someone were to hypothetically be stuck in a succubus’ devil basement to become an unwilling sacrifice to asmo what would that person, hypothetically, do?’

‘probably die’ is usually all he sends back

You always come back, because he always sends a text to the other brothers. In that case Asmo came to rescue you himself and scold the succubus.

You become the friend that he makes funny throwing-shade reddit posts about. (Devvit? Devil reddit? Eh??)

‘Levi so this has nothing to do with anything but is there a cure for a dangerously potent ‘always win at rock-paper-scissors' curse? Asking for a friend’

‘Friend is being held hostage tho so maybe be quick about a response’

He didn’t even know that kind of curse existed. None of them did. What the fuck did you do.

How did you get taken captive by playing rock paper scissors?

He doesn’t know. Nobody does. He expects the play-by-play so he can recommend it as a new anime to his favorite producers.

Somehow your chaotic plans end up with stories almost as great as TSL.

Beelzebub

He physically carries you around.

He’s like “fuck this you can’t get into trouble if I’m holding you.”

If Beel’s on MC watching duty, he’s almost the only one who is successful, just because you physically cannot get away.

But at the same time, he is very easily bribed.

So yes, he’ll go to Madam Scream’s with you at 3am. Sounds like fun.

But he is very protective after losing someone he cares about (who you remind him of so much….) so he keeps you close when you’re out and about too.

If you start getting into a fight with some other demon he literally just takes the fight for you and wins with no trouble at all.

You like having Beel with you.

Especially finding street festivals! You’re in a whole new world and there’s a MILLION things to try. Beel is more than happy to try them with you.

But that leads to arguments about whether deadly creatures to humans are still deadly when dead.

“No, you can’t eat that it’s on fire. I know even small fires hurt humans. I’ll eat it for you.”

“That hot sauce makes every demon I know cry. You really shouldn’t buy a bottle. Please. No, don’t try it. No, that’s too much for one-- oh. Oh no.”

He forgives you as long as you don’t actually get hurt and you give him your leftovers.

Asmodeus

“If I get wrinkles because of you I promise you will never hear the end of it. I will curse you forever.”

He swears on every single one of his lovers that you have started giving him grey hairs.

GREY HAIRS, MC.

Why can’t you just settle down and let them all take care of you? You don’t have to prove anything to the other demons!

But you will. You’re living in Devildom now, and by everything unholy, you are going to live that life to its fullest extent.

He was thrilled at first when you were all for joining him at his nightclubs and parties. Now he hides every party’s date from you.

That time you almost threw yourself off a balcony to try and emulate a very drunk demon’s newest dance move.

“I need to stay TRENDY, Asmo!! I’ll be fine!!”

Ever since learning Demonus doesn’t affect humans you have challenged every single stuck-up tough boy to a drinking contest.

And every single time you win, Asmo has had to *narrowly* save you from being killed by said demon.

And you just say “he deserved it” every time.

And like, yeah okay, he probably did but YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO DIE.

Somehow, you manage to out-party Asmo.

dON’T TELL THE OTHERS but he lives for the times when you practically fall asleep on his shoulder while coming home from a rager. You may not get drunk, but when you’re sleepy, you’re so affectionate and something in his heart melts.

Satan

At first, Satan was all for the rebellious “life life with no restraints” thought process you explained to him.

I mean, he didn’t like the assumption that he and his brothers couldn’t control themselves to not accidentally kill you, but also… fair.

But he didn’t realize that this mindset followed through for EVERY demon in ANY place.

Including RAD, where old and wizened demons were *really* not used to being contradicted

Which led to you “accidentally insulting” your 5000 year old Human Studies professor by giving them a pop quiz on current memes (which they failed).

And left Satan as the one who had to make sure that said professor didn’t kill you.

And the thing is, this keeps happening.

You’ve written all over the school’s library books, pointing out every error.

You *continue* to argue with the demons who threaten to kill you when you say silly things like “No, Solomon did not learn his sorcery at Hogwarts because Hogwarts isn’t REAL.”

(Solomon, meanwhile, refutes you vehemently and seems to grow three inches taller every time you glare at him.)

Satan assures you that he values knowledge and truth and all that, but could you maybe find a less dangerous way to push it?

No can do, Satan, because you already had plans with Mammon to use a curse that writes the history of the actual Sorceric Academy that Solomon attended like 400 years all over the desks in Human Studies. It’s activated by anyone saying “Hogwarts”.

No, no, Satan, it’s brilliant, because you can’t do magic. It can’t be you who did it.

Satan, no don’t tell Lucifer.

I thought you hated him. Satan, wait.

You are the only person in the history of ever who convinces him to come to Lucifer for intervention. You wear that badge with pride and also deep, deep, bitter sadness.

Belphegor

Like, through the plot your willingness to be a thorn in anyone’s side just to get more information really works for Belphie.

He’s like all I gotta do is ask? Sweet. Yeah. Go, human.

But then when he’s all big and threatening and “im gonna kill you” and you just kind of look at him and nod like “yeah, this checks out.”

Frankly, that’s rude, MC.

And then he keeps threatening to kill you and it doesn’t even PHASE you like. You just keep listening to him rant and going “OH i think i get it now”

He liked that you were always looking for more information when he was the one pushing you around, but now?

No. Human, he is going to KILL you here, STOP ASKING QUESTIONS.

And then you do the time-travel bit, and see that he *literally has killed you in one timeline* and you just like

Shrug it off and keep talking about Lilith???????

Tbh what probably stopped him from doing it again is just that you’re fucking insane, MC

“MC, you literally just saw yourself dead in Mammon’s arms”

You wave your hand vaguely in his direction and say, “Yeah okay, but can we talk about the lack of communication in this household because it is tearing this family apart.”

What the fuck MC

When he’s back to normal, tbh he loves that side of you. He loves getting into shit when he’s not sleeping. He will 100% encourage you and be there to make sure that you *don’t* actually die again.

He’s the only one who doesn’t actually try to stop you. Who knew he was so into chaos.

But if you try to drag him to a plan when he should be sleeping he will be like Beel and literally just hold you down while he naps dammit. You brought this on yourself. He needs sleep.

#obey me #obey me!#obey me shitposts #obey me crack #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me beelzebub #obey me asmodeus #obey me satan #obey me belphegor #bast babbles #my writing #obey me headcanons #gender neutral mc #re-reading this makes me vibrate with the need to destroy things #tldr is that humans are fucked up

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plus-ultra-oof · 3 years

Text

Pretty | SakuAtsu | Haikyuu!! | Tickle Fic

A/N: Ok hi so I wrote this a little while ago bc my SakuAtsu brainrot never stops and I figured I might as well share it. This is my first time posting a T-fic so please be kind lol. Also, sorry if the formatting is a mess I am on my phone.

Disclaimer: This takes place post timeskip so minor spoilers for Haikyuu! It’s nothing to major other than some vague things mentioned in passing. Also includes swearing and centers around tickling within a romantic setting (all sfw).

Summary: Sakusa’s stubborn as hell, but Atsumu is more than willing to get his boyfriend to go to sleep by whatever means necessary. Especially if that means he gets to see that pretty smile of his.

——————————————————

“Ya know, yer hair is really soft Omi,” Atsumu said, breaking the calm silence that had settled over the room. It was actually Kiyoomi’s room in his apartment this time. Atsumu was lying on his bed, running his hands through Kiyoomi’s dark curls as the other man laid across the bed, head placed conveniently in the setter’s lap as he attempted to read a book. He was far too tired to do so, in Atsumu’s professional opinion. The way his eyes kept falling shut for longer between blinks and how his grip on the hardcover kept shifting until he was barely holding it open where it lay against his propped up legs supported it too.

“You already- said that,” he replied, trying for flat and uninterested but the cute yawn that interrupted his sentence completely contradicted his unbothered persona.

It’d been a long practice for everyone, but especially the spikers. Both Bokuto and Sakusa had to run an insane amount of cut shot drills on top of their usual work. Just watching it had made Atsumu tired, so he could only imagine how Omi was feeling. The man had been practically dead on his feet when they’d gotten back to their complex, so the way he had melted into their bed upon finally brushing his teeth was unsurprising. His attempts at staying up were though. Atsumu blamed that on his insistence on keeping his routine no matter what.

The stubborn bastard could barely keep his eyes open, but sure, making it through a whole chapter of that thick ass book was totally plausible.

“It’s true though,” Atsumu was quiet for a moment and then, when he got no response he added on, “and it’s so pretty too,” For that he received a half hearted glare that was dampened by the way he could feel the man leaning into his touch as his fingertips scratched lightly again his scalp. The twin smiled, his boyfriend really lost his filter when he was this tired.

Gone were the biting remarks and cold expressions, leaving him far more pliant than he would ever admit to. Hell, here he was, letting Atsumu play with his hair and letting out little sighs of contentment. His eyes were even gradually falling closed as he relaxed into his boyfriend’s touch.

The harsh lines of his face were softened by the low light in the bed room, and with his brows uncreased by any worries and his hair pooled around his head like a dark halo, he looked almost angelic. Like something out of one of those fancy paintings.

“Yer so pretty Omi,” Atsumu murmured absently, the words falling from his lips easily. It was a statement to him. A simple truth of life.

The sky was blue, volleyball was the best, and Atsumu’s boyfriend was a damn masterpiece.

This was only proved further when his cheeks began to warm, the pink flush only complimenting smooth skin and pouty lips, twitching down into a petulant frown despite his flustered state.

“Shut it,” he mumbled in reply, unable to come up with a proper comeback in his half asleep state. Atsumu smirked. Another thing he loved about sleepy Omi was his inability to disguise any of his reactions. It always made messing him even more fun.

“Omiiii, Yer so cute m’gonna dieeeeee,” he teased, leaning down to admire his expression more closely. The new angle let him see the minuscule twitch of the corner of his lips, a sign that his adorable boyfriend wasn’t really as grumpy as he was trying to appear, “Aw is that a smile I see?” Said boyfriend had abandoned all hopes of reading his book in favor of moving off of Atsumu’s lap and onto his side of the bed, laying back and closing his eyes.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Atsumu,” he stated, his voice still managing to stay level and unaffected, a true testament to Sakusa’s insane amount of self control, “Now its late, let’s go to sleep,” Too bad Atsumu was too much of an asshole to let him be. And, he knew him well enough to chip away at that carefully crafted mask until his boyfriend was puddy in his hands.

Miya pouted and moved closer, letting his right hand come back up to rest in his curls again and the other land at his back, rubbing slow circles into it the way he knew Sakusa liked.

“Oh c’mon baby don’t be like that, I just want ta see that gorgeous smile of yers,” he let his chin rest on Kiyoomi’s shoulder, pressing close to his back as his arm trailed down to wrap around his waist. He placed a light kiss against his boyfriend’s temple. The first in a trail that led down his cheek to his jaw and then took a detour down and up his neck to reach his ear again, earning soft sighs and hums as he went. Atsumu smiled, his Omi really was sweet like this: All peaceful and relaxed and unassuming, “Do me a favor and lemme see it?”

He shifted from kissing at his neck to mouthing lightly and letting his lips graze the expanse of soft pale skin at his disposal and the reaction was immediate, even if Sakusa tried to hide it. Sure, he stayed quiet, but Atsumu could feel the shivers that ran through him when he started and how his shoulders began to shake the longer he went on. He felt him jump when he let the fingers at his waist trace lazy shape into his toned stomach.

“Atsumu-“ His name was rushed out in a breathy way that only Atsumu got to hear.

“Yes Omi?” He purred, directly into his boyfriends ear, savoring the little squeak that came from the man shaking in his arms.

“N-no,” he whined, actually whined, shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of the tingly sensations that were quickly perforating his sleep addled mind and making him want to give into the bouncy feeling rising in his chest.

“Why not Omi? M’just tryin ta kiss ya?” He followed his movements easily, continuing the playful torment of his boyfriend.

“You- you know exActly whehy not!” The squeak was louder this time and Kiyoomi even let a few titters loose as Atsumu started using his other hand to lightly scribble at the other side of his neck while simultaneously blowing into his ear.

“Ooh was that a giggle there Omi? What’s happenin’ baby? Somethin’ funny?” Atsumu knew that if he could, Sakusa would be griping about the teasing and how this whole thing was immature and unfair. For now though, he was too busy trying (and failing) not to devolve into a ticklish mess, so Miya was content.

“Nahaha stahahap yohuhu bahahastard!” He forced out through his giggles. The sound was light and filled with gasping breathes and squeals. Kiyoomi hated it, but it was one of Atsumu’s favorite sounds. Especially when he knew he was the cause of it.

Whether it came from unraveling him like this or timing a sarcastic joke just right, he savored it each time he got to hear it, so he didn’t appreciate it when both ungloved hands flew up to muffle it.

“Hey what’dya do that for?” He asked, his own pout forming on his lips as he leaned up to see his boyfriend’s face. His eyes were squeezed shut again and the flush was even brighter now. What was really captivating though, was the way his whole face seemed to brighten, even with his open mouth smile covered up.

Atsumu couldn’t help but stop and stare for a few seconds before remembering the task at hand. To see that pretty smile for real.

“C’mon Omi, just pull yer hands away or m’gonna haveta resort to extreme measures,” Atsumu increased his effort at leaving barely there kisses along Kiyoomi’s neck, feeling his heart race against his lips when he reached the pulse point. This got a cacophony of muffled squeaks and giggles before he finally gave into instinct and moved one of his hands away to push at his face.

As soon as it came up, Atsumu saw his chance and took it.

The hand that was drawing shivery patterns over sharp hip bones immediately skittered up Sakusa’s side to find its mark just above his ribs, sending the arm crashing right back down with a muffled shriek.

“Pffft phmp uff,” Came the dampened response as the other hand stayed stubborn in its quest to deprive Atsumu of his happiness. He decided to take it up another notch, because despite his tiredness, his Omi-Omi was still able to put up a good fight. He wouldn’t have him any other way: As headstrong as he was talented.

“Fine, don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” Atsumu leaned back just enough to leave some space between himself and Kiyoomi’s back. For insurance and safety purposes, he threw a leg over his waist to make sure he would fall off the bed.

Then all bets were off.

He started actually scratching at his armpits in tandem with leaving sloppy kisses along his spine and shoulder blades and any other part of his back he could reach at the moment, and the reaction was instantaneous and oh so satisfying.

“Mmmmphhhuhuhuck AtsuhuHU! NaHAHA STAHAP!”

“What babe? Somethin’ wrong?” He made sure to speak against the skin of his back, his words sending ticklish tremors through Kiyoomi as his worst spot was attacked.

“NOHOHOT THEHERE AHATSUHU!” Something seemed to switch off in his brain as his arms finally fell limp at his sides and he threw his head back against the pillows, laughing fully now. When they did, Atsumu immediately toned it down, abandoning his underarm in favor of leaving feather light scratches down the sides of his boyfriend’s back, making him shiver and keeping him caught up in his giggles without torturing him too bad.

Omi could never say that he was anything but nice about this....Well at least at this particular moment. Sakusa definitely kept a dated list of the times that his boyfriend had ruthlessly abused this specific weakness, but that was besides the point.

“Ahatsuhuhu,” Atsumu looked up at the sound of his name falling from upturned lips and found himself mesmerized by the sight.

Now that Kiyoomi had given up on stopping him he’d shifted to flop down on his stomach, bracing his head on his arms as he tried to contain the shaky laughter still spilling easily from his mouth. His hair was tousled from the struggle and his eyes were teary from laughing so hard and he was in an eternal state of flushed and fuck he was beautiful.

Too pretty for his own good. And Atsumu’s. At this rate, he was gonna die before he got to the Olympics.

He could just see it now: Miya Atsumu, beloved son, brother, boyfriend, and teammate. Cause of death: Seeing his godlike boyfriend laugh his heart out.

Shit, ‘Samu was right, he was whipped.

“Tsuhuhuhumuuu, m’tired,” Whiny giggles followed by a familiar yawn brought him out of his thoughts and he let his fingers slow to a stop, moving up in the bed to be beside his still giggling boyfriend. He turned him over onto his back before placing his book onto the nights stand and turning out the light.

“A-asshole,” Sakusa groaned, through breathy pants, giving him a half-hearted shove as he turned to face the blonde.

“But ya love me,” he teased moving in closer to lay his head on the dark haired man’s chest, listening patiently as his heartbeat finally started to slow down.

“You suck,” he murmured in response, his tone empty of any real malice. Plus, the way he was snuggling closer and lacing their hands together across Atsumu’s waist contradicted his words anyway.

Atsumu smiled and took a final look at his boyfriend before closing his eyes to follow him into sleep. And as a man of a limited vocabulary when it came to most things other than volleyball, his last thoughts prior to drifting off were as simple as they were true: Omi’s so pretty.

#sakuatsu #ticklish!Sakusa #haikyuu! tickle fic #tickle fic #tickle #tickles #tickling #fanfiction #haikyuu!!#thanks for reading

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samsrowena · 2 years

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hello a few days ago i kind of went on a stealth hiatus and i'm still probably not gonna be very active here because this whole thing really soured my desire to participate in the fandom (and my desire to return to spn because i was taking a break from watching before this anyway). but i didn't want to just leave all of this unaddressed because it's really bothering me. so let me make some things perfectly clear:

as i have already said before but apparently need to reiterate, i do not ship w*ncest/w*nkline or ANY i*c*st ships at all. i do not support i*c*st ships or the people who post about them. i do not follow ANYONE who makes these posts. if i see anyone interact with my posts with i*c*st URLs or reblog comments or tags, i filter their URL or softblock if they followed (sue me for not blocking every idiot i come across, sorry). and the only time i have ever interacted with these people is ACCIDENTAL (i often reblog from the #spnedit public tag and i don't always check the blog first) and in these cases i have almost always received an ask letting me know and i took appropriate action

however --and this is what got me unfollowed and blocked by several mutuals and accused of i*c*st in the first place -- which is absolutely ridiculous, mind you: i DO "ship" cashannah. this is in very loose quotes because this is a ship i've made about four posts in my entire 12 years of having this blog??? and it's a very minor and unpopular ship anyway (not once have i ever seen this be because of "i*c*st" though. only because cas was seemingly not interested in her the same way. and the desticule is not known for caring about non-destiel ships lol)

but regardless, listen when i say that if i thought for a single second that that relationship was i*c*st i would NOT support it. not in the slightest. now i'm not trying to deny "angelc*st" is a thing because i think it is (like the archangels for instance) but i do not consider EVERY single angel siblings (just like no one considers all the demons or even all the humans siblings. IMO it's the exact same thing). now if angel ships make you personally uncomfortable, that's fine and i completely understand. your reasons for engaging or disengaging with whatever type of content is perfectly valid. and the point of this post isn't to argue or try to change your mind on a ship. i'm just asking you to please be mindful of what accusations you're placing on people.

with all this being said, i am also NOT going to sit here and spend every waking moment of my life policing the interactions of every single person i follow. i do not want anything to do with i*c*st content and if i see it on my dash, i WILL unfollow. you will never see it from me either and i do NOT purposefully engage with it. but this absolute insanity of "oh em gee i saw this user like this user's post and that user was a friend of another user who did blah blah blah and likes blah blah blah" like?????? how does anyone have time to waste doing this

again if something makes you uncomfortable, no matter what it is, that is TOTALLY understandable. but these callout posts and block lists and anon bait bullshit is soooo incredibly immature. if you have a problem with something someone posts, you can handle it PRIVATELY. instead of publicly slandering one person over whatever "proof" you think you have and then dragging other people into it who aren't even involved and definitely do NOT deserve it

anyways if anyone actually read all this long incoherent rambling, then thank you to all of you are going to stick around after this <3 if you unfollow, then okay cool i guess. just don't accuse me of something i'm not please. k byeeeee

#i am so sorry for all of this i hate being involved in fandom drama :/#a.txt

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five-rivers · 3 years

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Snow and Song Chapter 5

About five seconds after Danny registered the huge crowd of people gathered in the park (and why were they there? Had there been some kind of event he forgot about?), it began to snow. Danny looked around himself in alarm. He was often insensitive to temperature changes (and a few other things, according to his sister), but it wasn’t nearly cold enough snow. It was September.

He looked up. There weren’t even any clouds.

A snowflake, perfect and crystalline, stuck to his eyelash.

Alright. When something weird and unnatural started to happen in Amity Park, usually there was a ghost involved. All Danny had to do was find the ghost causing it to… snow…

Oh. Right. He was a ghost that could make snow.

He was an idiot. He hadn’t even noticed his core activating. His cheeks flushed with cold. This was so embarrassing.

Wincing, he looked back down at the crowd. Only about a tenth of the people had phones in their hands, winking camera lenses pointed up at him, but that was more than enough. He felt entirely too visible.

… Which he could fix because he was a ghost, darn it, something that he kept forgetting about tonight. Berating himself, he adjusted his visibility down to zero and flew away.

Almost at once, all the birds took off, the sound of wings obscuring whatever the humans down below were saying.

Danny didn’t stop until he got home, trailing snow all the while. He was not looking forward to tomorrow, but for tonight, maybe, he could forget what had happened.

He went human, phased off his clothes, laid down on his bed, closed his eyes, and started to-

“Maddie!” shouted Jack. “The ghost-kid is on TV again! He’s in the park!”

“Oh, good! Go start up the GAV! This time, we’ll catch him! I’ll be with you in a minute!”

Danny let out the breath he had been holding since his dad startled him from his doze in a long sigh. He resigned himself to being woken up at least once more that night.

The first rays of sunlight filtering through Danny’s window brought with them something that would have chilled Danny to the core if his core weren’t naturally frosty.

Music.

He peeled his eyes open slowly, grudgingly, because it was still September, and sunrise was still quite a bit before the time he had to get up in the morning. Hoping he was hallucinating, he trudged over to the window and pulled back the curtains.

Ah, yes. He hadn’t quite expected to find a bunch of cultists standing outside his house with a boombox, playing back a rather scratchy version of Tale as Old as Time, but, somehow, he was unsurprised to do so. What exactly were they attempting to accomplish here?

One of the younger (about six years old) cultists waved up at him. Resigned, Danny waved back, then let the curtain fall back down.

He rubbed his eyes. Normal teenagers didn’t have to deal with cults that worshiped them as a god. Even that dude from Nazareth was a full adult before he got hit with the heavy stuff.

(Yeah, because it wasn’t at all a sign of megalomania, mental instability, or good old-fashioned insanity to compare himself to that guy.)

(He didn’t want a cult, darn it.)

What did they want, anyway?

He got dressed and started downstairs. To his horror (but again, not surprise) he heard more music emanating from the kitchen.

“What are you guys doing?” Danny asked.

“Oh, morning, Danno!” boomed Jack.

“Shh, shh,” said Maddie. “We need to go over that last part again. There are pancakes on the stove, sweetie.”

“Oh,” said Danny. “Thanks. But, really, what are you doing?”

“Analyzing the sound patterns of Phantom’s voice!” said Jack. “We missed it before, but he must have a low-level mind control power! Just like that Rockstar ghost!”

“Sneaky post-human ectoplasm glob,” muttered Maddie. “That’s how he’s got so many people on his side. He’s brainwashing them. But don’t worry, sweetie. As soon as we figure out how he’s doing it, we’ll be working on a cure!”

“Well,” said Danny, trying not to sound bitter. They had made him pancakes. “That’s news to me.”

Danny stepped out of the house and sighed in the general direction of the cult.

As always, acknowledging them in any way shape or form proved to be a mistake. They rushed at him.

“Daniel Fenton,” intoned today’s leader, a man wearing robes colored in an approximation of Phantom’s suit. His beard was… interesting.

“What?” asked Danny. If only there was a way to skip through awkward conversations like this, like there was in video games. But, no, life was like one, huge, un-skippable cutscene. Tragic.

“Last night, our Lord Phantom gave us a message. A message, and a divine task.”

Danny was pretty sure he’d remember that. “What task?” he asked, resigned.

“To spread his word through song! And you, his prophet, his chosen, his blessed consort, shall reveal his intent upon the stage of the Casper High School Musical!”

“I’m begging you, call it anything but that.”

“We will do anything to make the Casper High School Musical go well! We are at your command!”

“Please stop picketing my house and harassing me on the way to school.”

“We have fine members of our choir here to audition for you! Please take word of their worthiness to our Lord Phantom.”

Several of the cultists began to sing.

“Danny!” called Jazz from the driveway. “Stop feeding the cultists, or we’re going to be late for school!”

“So,” said Sam. “The Ghost Watch feed blew up last night.”

“I know,” said Danny. “I feel so stupid.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” said Tucker. “But we really do have to put some time aside to test whether or not you really do have a pied piper ability.”

“I made it snow while I was singing,” said Danny.

“Ah. We’ll have to look into that, too,” said Tucker, making a note on his PDA. “Who wants to bet that the ‘Phan Club’ will try to incorporate last nights performance into the play somehow?”

“That’s not funny,” said Danny, closing his locker. “Guys, what if I accidently mind control the audience? Or start a snowstorm inside? The cultists are already on top of this. They were outside my house this morning.”

“Again?” said Sam, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, again.”

“What did they want?”

“They seem to think that there’s going to be some kind of revelation in the play,” said Danny. He caught the look in Sam’s eye. “Sam. No.”

“Sam, yes.”

“Cults are not a toy,” cautioned Danny.

“Not the way you’re using them, they aren’t.”

“Seriously, Sam. No matter how much you want to change the world, do not use a cult to do it. It never goes well.”

“Christianity started off as a cult.”

“And would you say that went well? I’m asking you this as a Christian.”

“Are you a Christian?” asked Tucker. “I’ve never seen you in a church. Can you go in a church? Have we tested that?”

“I—What? I’m not a demon, Tucker. I went to church, uh… Last Easter. I can totally go in a church.”

“You had to think of that for an awfully long time.”

“What about a synagogue?” asked Sam. “Or a mosque?”

“I don’t know. But you’d think that if I could go into a church, that’d mean I could go into the other ones.”

“But what if you couldn’t?” asked Sam. “Would that mean that religion is more right than the others?”

“Or more wrong,” said Tucker, “since Danny is a good guy.”

“I—” started Danny.

“PHANTOM!” screamed Wes from down the hall, interrupting whatever revelation Danny could potentially have had.

“Oh, great,” said Danny. “I’m not Phantom, Weston!”

“Kids,” said Miss Lyn, poking her head into the hallway. “Please don’t shout in the halls. Class is about to start.”

“I have proof, this time!” crowed Wes. “I have video.”

“Oh, no,” said Danny, with perfectly flat affect. “Are you here to harass me with yet another badly photoshopped, grainy, vertically filmed, twenty-second clip of me ‘transforming’ into Phantom like some kind of anime heroine?”

Wes reared back, face coloring and nostrils flaring.

Danny would feel worse about what he had said, if half the videos in Wes’s last ‘Fenton is Phantom’ presentation hadn’t been exactly that. Tucker had made several of them and stealthily dropped them in various chat rooms for Wes to find, as something halfway between a joke and an exercise in misdirection.

As soon as Wes had included one of those in his presentation, it was doomed to be a laughingstock. Again, Danny almost felt bad.

“No!” said Wes. He puffed his chest out. “From Ghost Watch!”

“Uh huh.”

“I kind of feel like we’d be hearing about it from more than just you,” said Sam.

“Yeah,” agreed Tucker. “If the news decided Danny was Phantom’s dead twin or whatever, you’d think some of his groupies would be swarming.” He pointed at a pair of Phan Club members who were having a sedate conversation near the water fountain. “Where are the groupies, Wes?”

“Did you not learn your lesson from the beauty pageant?” asked Sam. “Or Egypt?”

“I don’t know, didn’t you learn yours from Desiree?”

“Who’s learning what from Desiree? Because you should ask her for a better naming sense. I mean, you just copied. Lame.”

“You’re talking to me about copying? You vegans are the copiers! Vegetable burgers, tofurkey, where does it end?”

“With the abolition of the cruelty of MEAT!”

At this point, most people would have started edging away from Sam and Tucker’s patented and infamous meat vs. veggies argument. However, Wes had long since proven himself to be of sterner stuff, and Danny wanted to hear what he was on about.

“Guys,” he said, “guys, it’s not working. He’s still here.”

Sam and Tucker turned back towards Wes. “Bummer,” said Sam.

“Yeah, Wes, why do you have to be such a bummer?” asked Tucker.

“Let him speak,” said Danny, magnanimously, twirling his hand.

Wes glowered. “Well, now I don’t want to,” he said, mulishly.

“Come on, Wes, what’s the video, don’t leave us in suspense!”

Wes attempted to glower harder but failed. Grudgingly, he held up his phone, which did, indeed, play a video from Ghost Watch. Danny watched himself singing for several long seconds before returning his gaze to Wes.

“I’m not sure what this is supposed to prove.”

“The song, you idiot! It’s from Beauty and the Beast! And I know the drama club gave you that music.”

“A movie that thousands of thousands of people have watched and know the music for?”

“That doesn’t matter! You’re the only one who has any reason to sing it.”

“You mean, other than everyone else in the drama club?” asked Sam, bored.

“Or anyone who likes Disney?” said Tucker.

Wes opened his mouth to make some kind of riposte.

The warning bell rang.

He closed his mouth. “I’m watching you, Fenton!”

“You and everyone else,” muttered Danny as Wes retreated down the hallway, pointing at him.

Why was everyone around him so ridiculous?

“We’re doing Snow White, not Beauty and the Beast!” howled Razor, baring his teeth at the hapless Phan Club member that had suggested adding ‘Tale as Old as Time’ to the song list.

“If you guys had taken that bet, I’d have so much money right now,” said Tucker.

“Students, please,” said Mr. Lancer. “We can’t have any actual copyrighted music in our play. Not without paying for it. And I’m not negotiating with Disney.” He looked into the distance. “Not again. Never again.”

Danny did not want to know the story behind that, but nevertheless, he had to ask… “Are you okay, Mr. Lancer?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Fenton,” said Mr. Lancer. “Thank you for asking. In any case, my lovely drama students! Today, we are going to do our first round of auditions!”

“But, sir, we haven’t finished the script, yet!” protested Mikey.

“Right you are!” said Mr. Lancer. “But I have found that things go more smoothly when we have people already in the main roles. There’s less… outright sabotage and script jockeying.”

“What does that even mean?” whispered Samhain (aka Kevin) loudly.

“People trying to change the script to fit a certain person so that person gets the role,” said Paulina. “Or exclude a certain person. Which I would never do, Mr. Lancer.”

The covetous glare shot in Danny’s direction indicated that Paulina’s words might have been less than truthful.

Mr. Lancer chuckled. “I didn’t think you would, Miss Sanchez!” He began writing on his whiteboard. “Now, we already have our Prince Snow White, our Princess Charming, and our Evil Queen.” He nodded at Paulina as he wrote the roles on the board. “Now, we need our seven dwarves—”

“Ghosts!”

“Excuse me, yes, ghosts. Thank you, Mr. Baxter. Our Huntsman—”

“Or woman!”

“Yes, thank you, Miss Thunder,” said Mr. Lancer. “Huntsman, or Huntswoman. And… Let’s see… Snow White’s parents, for the prologue, Princess Charming’s retinue, and… I think that’s it. Alright, let’s start with the ghosts.”

“Shouldn’t they have names?” asked Mia.

“Well, sure,” said Mr. Lancer. “But we can’t use the Disney names. You’ll have to come up with your own.”

“Phantom!” screamed Paulina.

“Here we go,” said Danny, burying his head in his hands.

“You want to bet that we’re going to wind up with your whole rogue’s gallery?” asked Tucker.

“If you need money, Tucker,” said Sam, “you just have to ask. Rates on my loans are very reasonable.”

“Isn’t usury against your religion?” asked Tucker.

“Nope,” said Sam. “Not at all.”

“I am incredibly against this development,” said Danny. “The cults are going to have a field day.”

“Ember! Ember! Ember!” Chanted the punk goth crowd, which had split off from the larger goth subgroup.

“I am somehow even more against this development,” muttered Danny. “Mr. Lancer! I don’t think it’s a good idea to include a ghost who gets power from people saying her name!”

“Shut up, Fentonnage, what do you know about ghosts?”

“My parents study them. I know a lot. More than I ever even—”

Danny narrowly dodged the workbook Dash flung at him.

“Mr. Baxter!” scolded Mr. Lancer.

Sadly, when everything shook out, Danny did not get his way. One of the seven ghosts was named Ember and was going to be played by Star. Because why not?

“At least the Box Ghost and the Lunch Lady aren’t on the list,” said Sam.

“But ‘Hamlet, father of Hamlet,’ is,” said Danny. “Why does that bother me more than Ember?”

“Because you hate Shakespeare?”

“No, I don’t,” protested Danny. “Shakespeare is a perfectly nice person. I just don’t like how his writing is taught in schools.”

“You’re going to break Mr. Lancer’s heart saying stuff like that,” said Tucker.

“He wrote love poems to boys. Why do they skim over that?”

“Excellent point, Mr. Fenton!” exclaimed Mr. Lancer, who had somehow materialized behind them. “Shakespeare was definitely bisexual. I wi—” The teacher stopped. “Nope, can’t use that word. It would be nice if the state let me teach it like that. Along with the crossdressing. School board won’t let me.” He shook his head. “Dale Baxter. Someday, someday he’ll lose an election. Eventually.” He took a deep breath. “Next time we meet, we’ll be doing auditions, okay? I want you all to think about what parts you would like! And, Miss Gray, I’d like to have a word with you about your role in our production, alright?”

#Danny Phantom #snow and song #fic #my fic #phanfic

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hiccanna-tidbits · 3 years

Text

Autistic Hiccup x ADHD Anna Headcanons

SO I’ve been really into the whole Autistic x ADHD ship dynamic and Hiccanna...highkey fits??? Like y’all know I will die on my “Anna has ADHD” hill, but after reading this post by @hobie-brown I’m like wait, the autistic Hiccup headcanon is wonderful too??? And blends SO WELL with ADHD Anna??? And I absolutely HAD to explore it more so BOOM headcanon time! Another special thanks to @hobie-brown for writing the super lovely autistic Hiccup headcanon masterpost that inspired me to do this!

Disclaimer: I myself am not on the spectrum (part of the reason I’ve always felt a little weird about definitively HCing characters as autistic unless I see actual autistic people HC them that way too), so most of the stuff here is stuff I know secondhand from my autistic friends! I do have ADHD, so I can always promise that ADHD Anna will be 100% authentic XD

~Anna absolutely gets into Hiccup’s special interests to try and impress him. The most obvious one being, of course, dragons, but also dinosaurs (extinct dragons), lizards (tiny dragons), and Dungeons and Dragons (An RPG game that does, in fact, include dragons). Hiccup absolutely had that dragonology book as a kid and got obsessed with it beyond all reasonability. Hilariously, Anna’s wooing strategy of indulging his special interests works like a charm--mainly because a) he’s pretty flattered that someone takes THAT much of an interest in what he likes and b) half the time, ANNA finds that she genuinely gets into whatever said special interest is and finds them easy to hyperfixate on. It helps that the more she obsesses over it herself, the more she has to talk to Hiccup about XD

~Specifically, Anna definitely joins a DnD campaign at some point so that Hiccup will think she’s a “cool gamer girl”--and then gets unironically obsessed with it and starts writing 10-page backstories for all of her characters. She later tells Hiccup it started out as a ruse to win his heart via nerdiness, and he absolutely loses his shit laughing.

~One of their overlapping special interests/hyperfixations is high fantasy. Hiccup is, unsurprisingly, all about the mythical creatures while Anna is more into the magic and the zesty political drama, but you dun best believe they catch every CGI-ridden fantasy movie that ever comes out. They’ve both spent a literal fortune on fantasy movie tickets, even moreso on watching them in 3D or Imax. How embarrassing for both of them.

~Another less-obvious overlapping interest is history. Hiccup gets into it while looking into the cultural mythos of dragons (he’s pretty fascinated by the fact that so many cultures around the world thought up similar creatures independently), while Anna gets into it because she grew up cooped up bored and lonely in a big house, and entertained herself by looking into the history behind some of the family paintings. They don’t seem it at first, but they’re actually both huge medieval and ancient civilization history buffs.

~Hiccup is THE most touch-repulsed person you will ever meet. This is unfortunate, as he is also SUPER touch-starved and absolutely does not realize it (I mean, I’ve never gotten the vibe Stoic was the super huggy type, considering his and Hicc’s relationship in HTTYD 1). This means he has absolutely no fucking clue what to make of Anna when they first meet meet. Anna’s the sort of person to give physical affection pretty freely, especially if she likes you--usually in the form of hugs, arm pats or playful swats, putting her elbow on your shoulder, etc etc. Hiccup is kinda just like “this is way too much touching but like??? I kinda like having her this close to me??? What do???”

~Anna, meanwhile, notices that Hiccup kinda stiffens up whenever she touches him and seems to not be crazy about it and she’s just immediately like “yo what’s wrong???” And as SOON as he admits he’s not all that crazy about being touched randomly she’s like “OH MY GOD I AM SO SORRY” and never touches him without asking again.

~As soon as she finds out touch a kind of A Whole Thing for him, Anna is like...AGGRESSIVELY respectful of Hiccup’s boundaries when it comes to physical affection. Almost annoyingly so. She gets in the habit of basically never initiating any kind of physical touch without asking first--even long after they’ve started dating, and he’s told her it’s okay to initiate touching as long as she’s not smothery about it. She still refuses out of principle.

~They come up with a kind of “consent language” so Anna can pretty quickly determine when it’s all right to touch Hiccup--because Anna still really likes being physically affectionate with him, and he does actually like receiving physical affection a lot of the time (because, again, touch-starved), he’s just choosy about who does it. They work out a system based off of small, light touches that Hiccup doesn’t mind where it’s basically 2 taps on his shoulder for “can I hug you around the neck,” 2 taps on his side for “can I hug you around the waist,” 2 taps on his arm for “can I grab/lightly slap/punch your arm,” and 1 tap on is shoulder for “can I put my arm/elbow on your shoulder.” If he’s cool with it he’ll either nod or just say “yeah go ahead.” It works a lot quicker than asking “can I do such-and-such specific touch” every single time, and allows Anna to keep some of her spontaneity. They develop this during their friendship and it ends up rolling over into their relationship, even after Hiccup has basically told her she doesn’t need to ask permission for a lot of these anymore. She adds a new one after they start dating--she taps him a couple times wherever she wants to kiss him to ask if it’s cool to give him a smooch! It usually is.

~INFODUMPING. Literally SO. MUCH. INFODUMPING. Hiccup absolutely WILL NOT SHUT UP when he gets to talking about one of his special interests. Anna just will not shut up in general, but when the topic changes to one of her hyperfixations, it’s even worse. If you try to have a conversation with these two while they’re infodumping, you WILL get talked over. Honestly, left to their own devices, they could probably infodump to each other for literal days on end.

~Despite how much they both like to infodump, they’re both pretty good about being patient and indulging the other when it’s their partner’s turn to infodump in the conversation XD They are, however, notorious about accidentally triggering a barely-related infodump in the other person. It’s not uncommon for one of them to finish a rant and then the other goes “OH THAT REMINDS ME” and sets off on a completely different, barely-related rant.

~Hiccup actually really appreciates how overexpressive--and occasionally overdramatic--Anna tends to be. He never has to try and figure out what she’s thinking because she just says everything in her brain, and her body language basically always matches how she’s feeling to a ridiculous extent, so he never has to give himself a headache trying to read her. The fact that she’s the opposite of subtle and has no filter whatsoever works great for him, because he doesn’t have to drive himself insane trying to understand her. He gets her better than he gets most people because she’s an open goddamn book. The boy’s never been the best with social cues at all, never mind the nuanced, obscure ones, so Anna’s general straightforwardness and utter inability to hide her true feelings at literally any time is a breath of fresh air. What you see is basically what you get, and Hiccup wouldn’t have it any other way.

~People think when Anna and Hiccup start dating it’s gonna be a disaster, mainly because he’s so blunt and she can be...”oversensitive” (i.e. has a REALLY bad case of RSD). Turns out they’re dead wrong--because Hiccup has RSD too! (I mean, come ON--look how BADLY he wants to get his village’s approval! And how hard he takes it when his dad or someone else is mad at him--even if he tries to hide it with snark) He’s actually one of the few people who can be blunt enough with Anna that she realizes when she’s being a dumbass but tactful enough not to hurt her feelings or set off her RSD--because god, has he been there. When Anna is being especially difficult and has worked herself into a real bad funk, Hiccup (and sometimes Elsa) is the only people who can talk to her and get through to her without getting blown up at.

~They stim in similar ways!!! They both tend to fidget or kinda bounce up in down in place as a way to comfort themselves and calm themselves down (I see them both having a lot of anxiety and generally being kind of paranoid, although Anna is MUCH better at hiding this via putting on a cheerful face). They both do the leg bounce!!! Also if they get SUPER excited they’ll do a little awkward happy dance!!! They both also tend to stim by rubbing things in small, repetitive motions--with Hiccup, it’s usually his sketching pens, his ear, his head, or the back of his neck, while with Anna, it’s usually her other hand, her arm, her clothes, or really anything with kind of a comforting, consistent texture (some favorites are rubber, felt, and velvet). After they start dating, they actually will stim with each other’s hands while holding hands--usually by squeezing the other person’s hand in kind of a repetitive pattern or doing the thumb-rub thing on the back of the other person’s hand. It’s not uncommon for them to each be doing something completely unrelated while holding hands and just stimming on each other’s hands the entire time. Anna especially really loves when she feels Hiccup stimming on her, because it’s her little indicator that he’s happy and feels at peace and content in her presence and she LOVES being able to do that for him!

~They both stim by playing with hair too! Anna likes to play with her own to stim--mainly by figeting with the end of her braids or tucking hair behind her ear. She DOES love to ruffle Hiccup’s hair too (and she LOVES how fluffy it is!), but it’s usually not a stim thing. After they start dating, Anna does occasionally stim by massaging Hiccup’s hair/scalp, but she doesn’t usually do it for very long. Hiccup really loves braiding Anna’s hair, or just playing with it when it’s down. it helps him relax and clear his mind to have something fairly repetitive and/or mindless to do.

~Even after gaining some confidence, Hiccup still has a fair bit of social anxiety, so he and Anna basically always go to parties and social events together and stick with each other the whole time to make it less intimidating for him. Hiccup generally prefers to let Anna do the talking when they chat with people, and sometimes if he’s REALLY nervous he’ll sometimes even let her kinda talk for him (not in a condescending “speaking over” kinda way, but more in like a “I can sense you’re not comfortable speaking here so I’ll help you out as best I can” kinda way). She always makes sure to leave space in the conversation for him to take over talking if he wants. She’s also incredibly prone to bragging about his accomplishments to basically everyone they know. Hiccup is both embarrassed and flattered by this.

~When Anna finds out about meltdowns (probably through Hiccup mentioning it kind of offhandedly--“Eh, sorry I went AWOL last night, I was having a bit of a meltdown. Don’t worry about it, I’m fine now.”) she lowkey gets super anxious and frustrated because she REALLY wants to help, but has no idea how. Cue literal HOURS of research on the internet and AGGRESSIVE memorizing of any and all tips that she reads that she thinks would help. Which, of course, means several MORE hours spent going over flashcards like she’s studying for a goddamn test, because Anna has never been known for her sharp, expansive memory.

~The first time Hiccup ever has a meltdown in front of her (maybe after a really bad phone fight with his dad or something? Just general sensory overload?), she takes him to a secluded room and IMMEDIATELY gets rid of anything that could be agitating sensory-wise. She dims the lights! She closes the blinds! She throws a nearby clock, an alarm, a timer, and several other objects with only the slightest potential of making an annoying noise out of a nearby window in a fit of passion! She goes on a frenzied quest to find Hiccup’s noise-cancelling headphones--and finishes it in record time! Even in a state of emotional turmoil, Hiccup realizes that Anna’s being just a little too methodical in how she goes about all this--these are the kind of things that wouldn’t ever occur naturally to her to do. So as soon as he calms down a bit and has screamed into a pillow for a while, he’s like “...did you go on the internet to look up how to help with meltdowns?” and Anna’s like “...yes?” And Hiccup is lowkey so touched he starts crying all over again...and then, naturally, makes a long string of snarky comments to try and distract from it XD

~For their anniversary Anna saves up a bunch and buys Hiccup a lizard and a terrarium!!! She gets him a crocodile skink because, I quote, “Well, they always look annoyed, they’re kinda shy, they don’t like to be touched, and they look like tiny dragons, so they reminded me of you!!!” Hiccup screams like a goddamn fangirl, he’s SO excited. As luck would have it, Hiccup’s crocodile skink is a lot less skittish and prone to hiding than they usually are, and he actually lets Hiccup pick him up and pet him without much issue. Which is honestly great, because repeatedly touching something smooth and even like lizard scales helps calm Hiccup down when he’s agitated and helps with some of his sensory issues.

~Probably goes without saying, but Hiccup basically NEVER genuinely gives Anna a hard time about her memory problems or how she’s not always the quickest on the uptake, and if anyone tries to call her annoying, dumb, or immature he will absolutely roast them into oblivion. He does sometimes like...lightly tease her about jumping into things without thinking or never shutting up, but he never pushes it if he can tell she’s genuinely bothered by it (and, again, Anna is very easy to read, so it’s not hard to tell XD)

~I’ve seen other people in the fandom HC either Hiccup, Anna, or both of them as BOTH autistic and ADHD, and honestly...fuck yes!!! I’m down for this too! I love the idea of these two disaster ND kids just vibing with each other on so many damn levels that it’s like...incomprehensible to the average human XD Like man, they fuckin GET each other!!! I’m pretty happy with most combinations of ADHD + Autistic headcanons for Anna and Hiccup, so long as they end up vibing!!!

~THEY JUST. THEY LOVE EACH OTHER. SO MUCH. THEY LITERALLY WOULD DIE FOR EACH OTHER. I AM SURE OF IT. I’M CRYING.

#hiccanna #hiccup x anna #anna x hiccup #hiccup #anna #hiccupxanna #annaxhiccup #autistic hiccup #adhd anna #headcanons #hcs #httyd #frozen #crossover #rotbtd #rotbtfd #hiccup haddock #princess anna

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fen1s · 3 years

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Lmaoo so there is this one tweet that actually describes what I really think the insane mauruaders stans and the tweet goes : some of yall heard one fucking word and now yall can't stop saying it (and it's like a reference to those fuckers who say gatekeep, gaslight, toxic but for everything and they act its profound or some shit). I think they um definetly saw those words and deadass went let's be eco friendly and reuse the same arguments and everyone else went yes. And when there was a genuine difference of opinion they go to their backup response : by supporting this element or seeing their pov you are ( anti Semitic /racist / homophobic) and it's just like :you are aware the same people exist in this community right???

(also I really find it funny that some of them literally don't think the mauruaders won't fucking hate crime them, no ma'am they will hate crime you and then proceed to get the slap on the wrist, they are the reasons your school has anti bullying week [also lmaoo pandering to them makes to be in the 'group' makes all of you Peter Pettigrew you know the same dude you all decided to ignore] )

And then I have to remind myself that there will be one of them who will raise kids and try to be 'jily' parents which I assume is living vicariously through your child because God you peaked in highschool and you won't shut the fuck up about it (and lack any fucking development) which is consistent with Canon so hey it does work out. Also like who's gonna pay for your child's therapy when they realize people who are dickish to you are simply just dickish and no why do you think this is an enemies to lovers trope (and also for their kids dry ass personality which they got from their parents because ik they would want them to be constantly involved but like gym teacher with a kid who's into slight sports and now the kid has to try to get in the national team lol)

Like I need them to have a snape attitude towards kids which was very much : fuck them kids ( and I honestly couldn't agree more to.)

Hey so if you're a fan of the m*rauders and this appears in the general tag, im sorry, i tagged the post correctly but sometimes the tagging system doesnt filter content correctly, but just so yall know, below the read more will be content that is very m*rauder critical which yall may not like or may be upset by. this is a fair warning

It's genuinely frustrating how often they repeat the same arguments as if we care. like we know snape isnt a kind person and we know he doesnt make the best or morally correct decisions, but they never hold other characters to a remotely similar standard that they hold snape to

they like characters due to popularity and how much they can add in headcanons, we know almost nothing about the marauders era, so they can make their own universe independent of the harry potter plot line, but they dont actually give a shit about the canon characterizations we already have

the m*rauders are not canonically progressive, their bullying of snape isn't coming from a progressive stance. they literally only bully him because they think hes weird. there isnt any canon evidence that they went after students who were actively causing harm to others, such as avery and mulciber (two boys who actively were attacking muggleborn students), they never went after regulus despite the fact that je was outspokenly supportive of voldemort to the point where regulus basically had a fucking shrine dedicated to him, there isnt any canon evidence that they went after any other junior death eater. there is canon evidence that they attacked random kids simply for annoying them. there is canon evidence that they used illegal hexes on students that had the risk of causing permanent bodily damage. and i think the real nail on the coffin for the idea that the m*rauders only went after snape due to him being a wannabe death eater is something sirius literally says

this means that even during the war, the m*rauders didnt suspect snape of being a death eater, let ALONE when they were at school

they also just think all snape fans are white straight cis women who obsess over the "always 🥺" line. like they dont take into account POC fans, lgbtq+ fans, nonbinary or trans fans, jewish fans, poor fans, disabled fans, neurodivergent fans. they paint us all with the "you never read the books you just want to fuck alan rickman" brush and call it a day so they dont actually have to engage with us despite constantly coming into our spaces

also it BOTHERS me how they'll call snape a n@zi and then turn around and say "awe james was just a bit of a jerk !! 🥺🥺" bestie he was an actual genuine sadist who got off on bullying and sexually assaulting kids he deemed weird. like sorry to the alt m*rauder kinnies, but if you're punk, emo, goth whatever james potter would've bullied the absolute hell out of you. canonically. sirius literally defends his bullying of snape by calling him an oddball, yall dont think you would've been on the other end of their bullying?

#anti marauders #anti james potter #anti sirius black #pro severus snape #severus snape #this got kind of rambly #also if this does find its way into the m*rauder tag id recomment filtering the anti general tags so that this type of content doesnt appea #in the search engines in the future

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cvldbones · 4 years

Text

the (dorm) where it happens

Bellamy knows, deep down, that he could say no and Marcus would be fine with it. Clarke would probably be grateful, honestly. There is literally no reason for him to sabotage his own senior year by partnering with his nemesis.

He has no idea why he does it. A moment of temporary insanity, perhaps.

(Or: Bellamy & Clarke are assigned as head RAs for the same dorm.)

If someone had asked Bellamy, five years ago, he definitely would not have said that a dorm room, of all things, would be making him emotional. They are sort of this global representation of college in the abstract, but not in any kind of poignant or sentimental way. He would have thought the quad or his cap and gown or, hell, maybe even his last day in a classroom would be making him choked up.

As it stands, he’s the head RA of his hall this year, and so he’s the very first one to move in. Standing in the sparse room – bigger than any of the rooms he’s had before, probably than any room he’s ever had, if he’s being honest – there’s something weighty about it all. This year, he’s going to be the first person in his family to graduate from college.

The first. It makes something warm swell in his chest.

When his mom had died, five years ago, and he’d deferred… it had felt impossible. The deferral just seemed like postponing the inevitable. But then Octavia’s aunt had shown up, out of nowhere, frantic and kind and actually wanting to help. He still almost hadn’t gone, when the year was up, had told her he could stay and help, because O was twelve and broody and all things angst. Becca had actually sat him down, eyes serious, and said, “Don’t be a martyr.” And then, after a minute: “I’m going to take care of her.”

And, miraculously, he believed her.

It hadn’t been easy, by any means. They were more comfortable, for sure, but definitely not wealthy. While Becca could make sure O was supported, she wasn’t technically responsible for Bellamy, and he didn’t necessarily want it that way. So he’d applied for the RA job as soon as he’d seen the posting his first year – he knew it meant they’d cover his housing sophomore year, they’d pay him, and there was a small supplement for meals, too. It was a hell of a deal, on top of the financial aid he’d been given.

Plus, he knew he needed a change. RAs got their own rooms, and his first year roommate, Murphy (who went by last name only), was fine, but also gave off the vague aura of having committed various crimes at some point in his life. Which, you know, was never the most comforting of vibes. And because of his strange, makeshift gap year, Bellamy struggled to feel connected on campus, to find his people the way the everyone had promised he would as he’d wandered around campus during Welcome Week.

And even though he’d applied for the financial (and personal) perks, Bellamy ended up really liking the whole RA thing. O told him it was because he was born a thirty-year-old dad, which may have been slightly true, but it was nice to get involved on campus and feel like he had responsibilities outside of just class and parties. He actually even made friends, and so he reapplied junior year too, and when the applications for head RA came around, he figured he’d give it a shot.

So, now, as a senior, being an RA is sort of Bellamy’s thing. And it feels… final, somehow.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. He really needs to pull himself together.

He tosses his duffel bag on the bed – a queen this year, which is even better – and opens the window to let the remnants of the summer air filter through. Dusk is settling outside, and he knows he needs to start thinking about ordering something for dinner, since the dining halls won’t open for another couple of days until full RA training starts. There’s a full kitchen on the first floor, but it’s getting late and he’s already feeling drained from the drive into town.

His thoughts are interrupted by a light knock on the doorframe, and he jumps slightly at the noise. When his gaze lifts, Bellamy smiles at his supervisor. “Hey, Marcus.”

“Hi, Bellamy. You getting settled in okay?”

“Yeah, I just got in about a half hour ago. Probably going to take tomorrow to unpack before training starts on Monday.”

“Good, good.” Marcus Kane pauses, hesitant, and that’s when Bellamy realizes there’s someone else standing next to him. His eyes flit downwards, catching on the blonde waves, and he feels his stomach drop. Marcus clears his throat. “So, Bellamy, I believe you know Clarke Griffin?”

Read on AO3.

#mine #bellarke ff #bellarke fanfiction #bellarke fic #bellarke #the 100 #the 100 fic #the 100 fanfiction #the 100 ff #bellarkefanfiction #this is perhaps the MOST self indulgent thing and it is SO LONG and also probably going to have a clarke POV and maybe more parts? idk man #you know the drill pls read & enjoy

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a-dragons-journal · 4 years

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My Experiences of Nonhumanity

I get asked about “what makes you/people in general feel you’re/they’re otherkin” a lot, and while the answer is far from simple and my experiences are anything but universal, I figure it deserves a write-up once in a while. A friend asked about it a couple nights ago, so I wrote up a huge long message on Discord, and decided to rewrite it into a Tumblr post for posterity. This’ll be a long one, folks; hit J on desktop to skip.

It’s worth noting ahead of time: none of these things are required to be otherkin, and none of them automatically mean you’re otherkin. In fact, most of them are little more than mildly “weird” quirks when they occur in isolation, and only start to push outside the range of “normal human experiences” when many of them occur together. You can’t look at someone (including yourself) and say “they like collecting things, they must be dragonkin!” It’s not that simple. You have to take the individual as a whole even as you examine each specific experience in more detail - don’t lose the forest while you’re studying the trees. This is just a description of my personal experiences.

Shifts

- Phantom shifts/supernumerary phantom limbs: Probably the most obvious thing and the hardest to brush off, although I still managed to do so for years. Phantom shifts, aka supernumerary phantom limbs, are the experience of feeling limbs or body parts that do not and never have physically existed. In my case, the most common phantom limbs to show up are my wings and tail; other body parts, such as digitigrade legs, horns, snout, and paws/talons, also make appearances less frequently. While my phantom limbs almost never attempt to replicate tactile sensations/interactions with the physical world, they’re often defined by very vivid proprioception (ability to tell where your body is in space, mainly via muscle stretch receptors), and I can tell where each part of the limb is at any given time - it’s not just a shapeless sense of “weight,” or it wouldn’t be phantom limbs. I can also move them at will, typically. My phantom shifts are typically spontaneous and involuntary, but they’ve been induced artificially a couple different ways as well, though I can’t typically do it at will.

- Sensory shifts: Still not something I’m totally sure I experience, but there are definitely times my sense of smell becomes insanely strong compared to usual even for me, which fits the definition of a sensory shift.

- Astral shifts: While I’m far from an adept astral traveler, when visualizing “traveling” within my own mindscape, I shift form fluidly between human and dragon - although I almost always have wings at the very least.

- Cameo shifts: Mentioned only because it’s relevant to my phantom shifts. I realized at some point that the reason I get cameo shifts of canine/feline ears sometimes is because they usually show up when they’re pricking/flattening to express emotion, and the muscles that move to do that action are basically the same as the ones that do those actions with the crest that runs down my neck, and because of my obsession with cats/dogs/horses as a young child and because that’s not a particularly strong phantom shift for me usually, I connected the dots a little wrong and created a false association.

- Self-image: This isn’t technically a shift, but it’s going here anyway because it doesn’t really fit in any other section either. My body image/self-image is weird. I know, consciously, what I physically look like. However, my instinctive self-image is... hmm. What I “expect” to see doesn’t always match up with what’s actually there when I look in the mirror. Teeth are a huge point of fixation for me for some reason; I always expect them to be larger, sharper, stronger. I expect my neck to be longer, my face to be... different. I expect scales in places. I expect claws. Even knowing consciously that of course it won’t be there, it’s still strange sometimes that it’s not. There’s sometimes some mild disconnect when I see myself. (Sometimes not. But sometimes.)

Homesickness

(Or, the sense of missing something you’ve never had - not of “I want/want to be [x], and it makes me sad/upset that I don’t have/am not that,” but of “I should have/be [x], and it is fundamentally wrong that I do/am not.”)

- Flight: I have always wanted to fly, and for a long time I thought everyone ached for the sky the same way I did. Most people don’t, as it turns out. Yes, everyone’s fantasized about flying, but most people don’t feel bones-deep, crushing, physical pain in their chest thinking about it. Most people don’t lift up onto their toes instinctively straining for the sky. I’ve felt that aching longing for it for as long as I can remember.

- Connection to dragons: For as long as I can remember knowing about dragons, I loved the idea of them and even when I was very young, when I’d only really been exposed to media where they were the great evil for the hero to defeat and received no more character development than “evil, destructive, fire-breathing beast,” I was always on the dragon’s side and wanted to learn more about them. That hasn’t faded. I’ll watch an absolutely terrible movie or TV show that I otherwise loathe if it has good enough animation and sound design on the dragons. (Looking at you, Game of Thrones.*) I would commit arson to see one of those Isle-style dragon survival games actually go through and finish production. (Holding out hope for the Dragon Game Project on YouTube; go check them out if you haven’t already.) I’ve also used dragons to represent myself for pretty much as long as I’ve had an online presence - years before I ever heard of otherkin, I was calling myself Dragonheart.

- Dragon-like creatures: Snakes, crocodilians, and dinosaurs all fall into this category - all of them give me a similar heart-and-breathing-pick-up, aching familiarity to dragons. They’re not perfect, but in a snake’s scales and a crocodile’s bellows and a dinosaur’s spectacular reptilian size I see echoes of us and I have always loved them with a passion, even before I quite knew why.

- Dragon/”monster” noises: Sound generators, creature sound design, real animal noises, etc. that are meant to be monstrous and that most people find unsettling or even frightening, I find comforting and relaxing. Alligator bellows, “monster noise” soundscapes, etc. all apply here.

* No shade on anyone who likes Game of Thrones, I’m just not a fan. :P

Behaviors/Instincts/Urges

- Hoarding: I’m still not sure how much of the crystal thing is "monkey brain say Shiney Colorful," how much is a witch thing, and how much is a dragon thing, but some of it is a dragon thing.

- Territorial/possessive nature: I can get... extremely territorial over my stuff and my home. This can extend right into being ridiculously protective of my people too, although I do try to rein that in to a reasonable amount. This also extends into games like Capture the Flag, because put me on defending the border during middle and high school and I got frighteningly territorial. (Fun fact, this extends to spiritual protection stuff and it has almost gotten me in trouble a few times on that front.) The other main side effect is my brain trying to claim completely inappropriate things as “mine,” like every piano I have ever touched or, that one time, the entire city of Portland.

- Prey drive: Going on a walk in the woods with me will always be an exercise in stopping every twenty seconds because I heard a small animal move in the brush and froze instinctively to track it. Prey drive ranges from "okay I can indulge this enough to track-stalk-chase without actually intending to catch-kill-eat" to "this is entirely inappropriate and needs to Stop Right Now" depending on the day and the situation - sometimes it’s fairly low-key and innocent, but sometimes it's also being confronted with the sudden and completely serious/genuine thought of grabbing someone or something by the neck/around the body with your jaws and hunt-prey-kill-devour when it's completely inappropriate and kind of disturbing or even sickening. It’s one of the more annoying things, although it’s not like it’s severe enough that I’m an actual danger to anyone - it’s just a gut thought that gets filtered out at the conscious level without significant problems. This also bleeds into games (I get... maybe a little overenthusiastic during tag) and even watching TV shows or gaming videos - most of the time at least part of me is rooting for the hunter because I relate to them as a fellow predator, even if the audience is supposed to be rooting for the prey - I mean, protagonists.

- Basking/heat-seeking: Probably only partially a dragon thing, but despite the fact that I hate heat in general, radiant/sun heat and heat from a heated surface are both fantastic feelings provided the ambient air temperature isn't too high. I'm guessing this is at least partially a reptile brain thing.

- Height-seeking: Give me a chance to climb up on top of something - a rock, a cliff, a chair, a table, a bunk bed - and look out over everything else, and I'll take it in an instant. Getting to climb up on the roof is the best thing that's happened to me this entire quarantine.

- Flight instinct: Being mildly leery of cliffs not because I am afraid of falling, because I'm really not, but because there's always some part of my brain that goes "jump, fly, this is a perfect takeoff spot" and I have to squash that before I do something particularly stupid. This manifests in other ways, but that's the most dramatic (and annoying) one. This is also one of the things I noticed as definitively not normal long before my awakening. (The Grand Canyon was fun.) Similarly to the prey drive thing, it's not like I'm actually in danger of throwing myself off cliffs, it’s just - there's a not-insignificant part of my brain that thinks "hey we should go run and jump off and take a quick flight," in the same way I might also casually think "hey I should stroll across to the corner store for a bag of chips" before I consciously decide whether or not to do that. It’s the exact same type of thought process, despite the fact that one of those things is something I might do on any given school day, and the other is, you know, physically impossible.

- Combat instincts: I get in a fight and my pure instinct is to bite or claw, not kick or punch or whatever it is humans do instinctively. I have those reflexes now courtesy of Krav, but I had to train them in - if you’d thrown me into a fight before, I absolutely would have resorted to claws/nails and teeth immediately (and I still will, when pressed into a corner). Sometimes, unfortunately, this goes off completely unwarranted, either in an anger situation that does not deserve a physical response, or for no apparent reason whatsoever. It's one of the more problematic things, but once again - it’s not like it’s a compulsion, just a gut-emotion thought that gets filtered out at the conscious level.

- Scent focus: Who knows how much of this is environmental influence and how much is instinctive, but I always have and still do focus on scent more than most humans seem to. I can identify people by scent, I seem to pay more attention to it than most people do. I also seem less bothered by natural body smells than most people do, but considering the responses when I asked around in the otherkin community once about that, unclear whether or not that's connected.

- Nonhuman noises: I make just a bunch of weird nonhuman noises, and always have. Growls, hisses, croons, hurrs, throat-clicks, chirps, etc. I've never met any human who does them instinctively like I do except my half-sister (whom I didn’t meet until a couple years ago), and she was just as surprised to hear me do it as I was surprised to hear her do it.

- Affection: Face-rubbing, light head-bonking against someone’s shoulder/body/head, and love nips/bites are all perfectly acceptable ways to show platonic affection, to dragon brain. Human society disagrees. The instinct to do these things is so strong that I definitely do give into the first two with people I’m close with, and I have physically had to catch and restrain myself when I was about to unthinkingly bite/nip someone’s skin because I wasn’t paying enough attention.

- Movement: Moving on all fours just feels better than moving on two legs, even though it’s objectively physically uncomfortable because humans aren’t built for that. I also have the instinctive want to be a lot more flexible than I’m capable of being, in ways I’m not capable of being - curling all the way around something or someone to squeeze them tight in the coil of my body, turning my head a hundred eighty degrees because my neck Should Be Longer.

- Expression: Baring one’s teeth when frustrated, irritated, or angry is not a particularly human instinct. I realize it’s something a lot of primates do do, but. *gestures at society* Humans ain’t one of them, at least not anymore. Even in Krav Maga, which is a self-defense style that focuses on being vicious and “dirty fighting” to survive a real street fight, every single time I have a new partner (and most times I have a partner I’ve worked with before) and I get tired enough to get snarly, they respond with some variation of “god that’s scary”. See also: gesturing at things with my nose because it should be long enough to make that a much more dramatic gesture than it ends up being.

- Den/lair/small spaces: I never feel safer than when curled up in a tiny alcove just big enough to comfortably fit my body curled up into it. The only position I’ll prioritize over it is getting up onto a high space.

Past Life Work

Unlike every other bullet point on this list, most of these didn’t apply until I started actively seeking them out, because, you know. Past life memories are like that.

- Past life regressions: I’ve got a tag for these, but tl;dr I take anything I learn from a past life regression or similar meditation/visualization with a whole spoonful of salt, forget “a grain,” because I know for a fact my brain is very good at making stuff up with these types of exercises. Unfortunately, they’re the only way to get information on certain things, like appearance.

- Tarot: Got a tag for that too. I use tarot to ask questions and confirm or reject suspicions.

- Spontaneous memories: I don’t have many, but they’re clear as day when they do appear. I don’t count something as a “true” memory unless it includes senses I can’t reproduce through imagination - smell and touch, mainly. Mostly these are quick flashbulbs, nothing cinematic or anything like that.

- Noemata: Again, I don’t have much in the way of noemata, but what I do have is persistent and consistent. I know things about my wing shape and flight style despite not having really experienced that in detail during past life regressions. That particular set of noemata has been confirmed to fit with real-world physics and bat wing shapes (the closest wing type to mine that exists or has existed on Earth).

#think that about sums it up #otherkin #dragonkin #this got real long #long post #journaling #rani talks #feel free to reblog if you like

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maria-scribbles · 4 years

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glitter + crimson (let’s start a riot)//part one

“and that’s sailor, our resident mermaid, shell collector, surfer chick, and all-around ray of sunshine. she’s always down for a kegger at the boneyard so she can show off her dance moves; they’re not the best but she doesn’t let that stop her from getting down. her mom owns the surf shop on the beach, that’s how jj and i met her when we bought our first boards when we were ten. she’s been part of the crew ever since.” ~john b routledge

pogue sailor flynn just wants to have a great time with her friends this summer and try to ignore the fact that her flight-risk dad took off again to gamble his life (and her family's savings) away in atlantic city, leaving her with a mom who doesn't know how to cope. between surfing at the beach and cruising around on the hms pogue for hours, it's easy to keep her mind off her shitty home life. what isn't so easy though, is trying to deny her feelings for her best friend, jj.

summary: the pogues hit the beach for a day of sand, surf, and shells. sailor commandeers a hat, willingly participates in cardio, makes bank, and has a heart-to-heart with jj.

word count: 4k+

ship: jj maybank x oc (sailor flynn)

warnings: mentions of abuse/neglect/parental abandonment, swearing, fluff, a lot of flirting

a/n: hi there! i’ve had this little plot bunny in my head for a few weeks now and it wouldn’t leave me alone so here we are! this is the first piece of writing i’ve posted in a very long time so i apologize in advance if it’s terrible. i’m planning on this whole thing being at least eight to ten parts so get ready for the long haul! i actually split this into two parts cause my word count was insane and way too long for one post lmao. let me know what you guys think! title comes from “glitter & crimson” by all time low. also this is unbetaed, so i apologize for any mistakes.

another quick thing: i tried writing this with sailor as an unnamed or y/n reader but it just wasn’t the best. i adore fleshing out characters and i had so many good ideas for her backstory and personality that she kind of just wrote herself and i went with it. i hope you all enjoy reading about sailor as much as i enjoyed writing her!

~Masterlist~

part two | part three | part four | playlist

gif credit goes to @heapass

part one: catching waves

The beach has always been special to Sailor; the soothing crash of waves against the shore, the warmth of sand under her feet, the comforting feeling of salt drying on her skin. It’s where her mother taught her to surf, where her father taught her to dive, where her friends taught her that family didn’t always mean having shared blood. It’s her home, her place, her safe haven. Nothing is more perfect than a day at the beach with the pogues, her board, and a bucket for shells.

Today is shaping up to be one of those days. The weather’s balmy, the water’s clear, and most importantly, she hasn’t seen these many perfect shells in quite awhile. Sailor reaches out and grabs the delicate golden scotch bonnet from the ocean floor, inspecting it closely for any cracks or holes. When she finds none, she smiles and runs her fingers over its smooth surface, marveling at the way the sun’s rays filter through the water and make the entire shell shine brilliantly. Although she sells most of the shells she finds at her mom’s surf shop (or gifts them to her friends), this one’s going to be proudly displayed on the shelf in her room.

She scans the sand for her next target before pushing off from the floor and heading to the surface where Kiara floats on her board, legs dangling in the water as she watches the rest of their group surf.

“Kie, check this out! It’s a scotch bonnet!” She exclaims, placing the shell beside the half full bucket in front of her friend. Resting both arms on the board, she lets herself take a quick breather as the other girl gently picks up her treasure and turns it over in her hands.

“Holy shit, how do you always find the good ones?” She asks, gently putting it into the bucket with the others as Sailor shrugs, tucking a wet strand of red hair behind her ear.

“You guys always say I’m part mermaid, so...” Kiara rolls her eyes and splashes her friend, who just laughs. “Are you done now? We can’t let the guys have all the fun.”

“Almost, there’s a gorgeous whelk down there that I have to have. Be right back!”

She dives before the dark haired girl can reply, swimming down twenty feet to where she spotted the shell. When she was younger, she used to find the pressure on her ears a bit painful but now she hardly notices, instead focusing on the muffled sound of the waves above. Down here it’s just her and the water: peaceful, quiet, and oh so beautiful, infinitely stretching out in front of her. It used to scare her, the vastness of the deep ocean, the secrets lurking in its depths, the unknown. Now, it brings her comfort. Inspiration. Hope.

She plucks the shell from the sand and heads back the the surface, where three more boards have joined Kiara’s. She swims straight under Pope’s, knowing he’s the most ticklish of the group, and runs the tip of the whelk along the sole of his foot. His yell is so loud she can hear it clear as day under the water and she laughs bubbles as his board wobbles before he topples over with a splash. The other three are still laughing as she surfaces beside her fallen friend and feigns shock.

“What happened? Did he touch a fish again?”

“Oh ha fucking ha. So funny.” Pope deadpans but he’s smiling as Sailor holds his board steady so he can climb back on. “I’m surprised you actually touched my foot, Miss Feet Are Disgusting.”

“First off, smelly, dirty feet are gross. And second, I didn’t,” She replies, pulling herself onto JJ’s board without warning and laughing as he nearly falls off just as Pope had. She sticks her tongue out at him as he shoots her a mock glare and shifts closer to he for balance, their knees knocking together.

“This did, here.” She holds the shell out to Pope, who inspects it like Kiara had done earlier and nods in approval before passing it off to John B.

“It’s...nice, right? It’s a good one?” He asks as he hands it over to Kiara. She meets Sailor’s eyes and shakes her head, mouthing ‘boys’ while carefully placing the whelk in the bucket.

“Seriously, JB-”

“Whoa, wait! I don’t get to see it?” JJ pouts, crossing his arms over his chest and Sailor fixes him with a flat look.

“I seem to remember that you, like a damn child, dropped and broke the last one I let you hold.”

John B laughs so hard he nearly falls off his board while Pope and Kiara glance at each other and hide matching snickers behind their hands. JJ has the decency to look embarrassed as he pleads with her and she tells herself that the slight flush creeping up the back of his neck is just from too much time in the sun, nothing more.

“Hey, I said I was sorry for that and I meant it! I swear I’ll be more careful, please, Sail?”

Trying her best to ignore the little thrill she feels at the sound of her nickname coming from his mouth, she relents with a sigh, “Fine, on one condition.”

He looks at her expectantly as she holds up one finger and points at the black hat turned backwards on his head.

“Gimme that, I can feel my scalp burning as we speak.”

“Holy shit, you’re such a fucking ginger,” He laughs but pulls the cap off anyway, running a hand through his blond hair before fixing it on her head properly, the bill facing forward and giving her eyes a much needed break from the bright summer sun. She only hopes her face feels hot as he lays one hand on her knee and holds the other out to Kiara, palm up. “Fork it over, Kie.”

Kiara hands it to him with a roll of her eyes and then fixes Sailor with a pointed look that the redhead pretends not to see; instead, she watches JJ carefully turn the shell over in his hand before holding it aloft, like Rafiki held Simba in The Lion King.

“Listen up, class- especially you,” He says, the hand resting against her leg pointing at John B, who looks affronted at being called out, much to the amusement of the rest of the group, “This here is a lightning whelk and yes, JB, as a matter of fact, it’s a great one. No holes, minimal damage, and defined markings. Ten out of ten would recommend.”

He passes the shell to Kiara with a satisfied grin as everyone sits in stunned silence, just bobbing up and down with the waves until Pope finally says, “Damn. Better watch out, Sailor! We’ve got a new shell expert in town.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m not giving up the crown that easily.” As the others burst into laughter, she turns to JJ and pokes him in the side, asking, “Since when you know so much?”

The look he gives her is all mock offense, but his blue eyes are soft as he says, “I always listen when you talk, you know.”

His answer catches her so off-guard that she tries and fails to form a coherent reply as her face flushes before settling on giving him a sweet smile, which he returns with a playful tug on one of the tiny braids in her hair. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Kiara staring at them with a devious smirk on her face and she knows she’ll be hearing about this later.

“Enough shell talk- no offense, Sail,” John B says, steering his board toward the waves. “We’ve got surfing to do.”

Sailor waves her hand dismissively then reaches over and grabs the bucket from Kiara. “None taken, I’m just gonna drop these off at the shop real quick and I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll go with,” JJ says, popping up onto his knees and turning his board toward the shore. “After all,” He yells toward the rest of the pogues over his shoulder, “you guys need all the practice you can get!” He winks at Sailor and she laughs as she turns to face forward, pulling her legs onto the board and placing the bucket in her lap while the other three flip him off in perfect unison.

The two teenagers paddle toward the beach together and catch a small wave that shoots them straight to shore. JJ holds the board steady as she hops off and then touches his shoulder in thanks before they walk toward where Sailor’s own board is propped in the warm sand with their things. She puts the bucket down and kneels beside it, carefully digging through the haul to find the scotch bonnet.

“There you are, gorgeous.”

“I didn’t go anywhere, babe.”

She snorts at JJ’s quip but doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking up from wrapping the shell in a small towel and placing it in her backpack (she does blush though, and hopes he doesn’t notice.). As she stands to pull on her shorts, the redhead can’t help but glance at the lightning whelk, sitting pretty in the sand where she put it while looking for the bonnet. It really is beautiful, a ten out of ten as JJ put it, and damn it, she just can’t let it go to some touron who won’t appreciate it. So before she can change her mind, she kneels again to wrap it in another towel and gently nestles it alongside the other shell.

“Chop chop, time’s a wastin.’“ He says, grabbing the bucket with one hand and holding the other out to her; she rolls her eyes but takes it anyway and lets him pull her to her feet, muttering, “Jesus, you’re impatient.”

“It’s all part of the charm. Come on, race ya!” After a quick squeeze to her hand, he drops it and takes off running toward the shop without warning, leaving Sailor scrambling to catch up as she yells, “If you break those shells you’re buying them, Maybank!”

The duo weaves through the crowd of tourons and natives alike, ignoring the dirty looks thrown their way as they run by, kicking sand up in their wake. Fifty feet ahead stands The Sandbar Surf Shop in all its salt-weathered, sun-bleached glory, all but two of the rental boards gone from the stand out front. Alison sits on a stool with one of them on her lap as she waxes it, the boom box resting on the floor beside her blasting The Beach Boys as usual. She looks up in surprise as Sailor bounds onto the deck and slaps her hand against the shop’s door a few seconds before JJ does, both teenagers out of breath.

“Sweet victory!” The redhead shouts, sending a quick wave toward Alison, who returns it with an amused smile and watches the blond roll his eyes, holding the shell bucket close to his chest like a football.

“Victory my ass! I saw you jump over that cooler and that’s cheating.”

“Oh, I cheated? Who gave himself a head start? Oh yeah, you!”

Alison returns the now waxed board to the rack and wipes her hands on a spare rag. “Sounds like you both cheated, so no one wins.” She says with a shrug, chuckling to herself as they both stutter excuses and follow the older redheaded girl into the shop, empty sans for a young boy browsing the display of shells.

“I’ll get your mom.” She says to Sailor before heading through the beaded curtain to the back room and she’s grateful. She doesn’t think she has the strength to go back there anymore.

“I was carrying extra weight,” JJ says, placing the bucket onto the old surfboard-turned-counter and then leaning his back against it, “so I think the head start was justified.”

Sailor props her chin in her hand and drums her fingers along the board’s worn surface, her eyebrow raised. “And I think my jump was justified considering I had some ground to make up from that head start so...”

“Agree to disagree.” They say together, sharing a quick smile before he picks a pair of heart shaped glasses from the stand and puts them on, looking at her over the neon pink frames as he asks in a high-pitched British accent, “What do you think, darling? Too much?”

“No, I think they’re quite dashing!” She bursts out laughing as he strikes a vogue pose, then spins and dramatically leans back against the counter. “Rock that pink.”

“Hell yeah, fuck gender norms!” He says loudly, both middle fingers raised toward the roof.

“In this house, we stan non-toxic masculinity-” she starts, but she’s interrupted by a stern voice from behind the counter that says, “If you’re not going to buy those, put ‘em back, kid.”

Sailor’s mother sweeps into view and stares pointedly at JJ, who hastily stands up straight and returns the glasses to their place on the display as Alison silently heads back outside, shooting both teens a small, awkward smile.

“Sorry, Mrs. Flynn.”

Sailor wants to tell him there’s nothing to apologize for, that he did nothing wrong, but she knows he already knows that, so instead she just scoots a little closer and presses her hip against his. His hand moves to rest on her lower back in thanks and her whole body feels the sparks from his touch.

“I-I found some good ones today, Mom.” She says, pulling shells from the bucket one by one and lining them up on the counter. “A few coquinas, some scallops, a whelk or two...”

She trails off when Carmen doesn’t respond and looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers together anxiously as her mother inspects each shell. her face blank. JJ’s thumb starts to run tiny circles on her back and she concentrates on the feel of his ring, warm and soothing against her bare skin, instead of the fact that her mother hasn’t even glanced her way yet. She hasn’t looked her in the eye in almost three months.

The silence is thick in the air until Carmen finishes her evaluation and gives a small nod in her daughter’s direction. “Good job.” She says, heading to the register and pulling out some cash before counting out five twenties and holding them out to Sailor, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere over the teenager’s shoulder. She swallows thickly and takes the money with a near inaudible thank you, slipping it into her back pocket before grabbing the now empty bucket and nudging JJ toward the door with her hip.

As she’s about to cross the threshold she pauses with one hand on the door frame and turns back, asking, “Hey, Mom? Are...are you gonna come home tonight?”

Carmen’s brown eyes only meet her green ones for a split second before she looks away to fiddle with the register and Sailor can’t help feeling the dull stab of disappointment as she says, “Oh, um, I don’t think so. I’m pretty busy here with, uh, inventory, bookkeeping...”

(That stab used to be sharp as a knife, cutting her to the bone, but she’s almost gotten used to the pain.)

“Oh, right. Just...text me if you do, okay?” She takes one last look at her mother, bathed in the cool shadows of the shop that’s tearing her apart before turning and stepping back into the bright sunlight without another word, her throat tight. She’s not sure Carmen was even listening anymore.

“See ya later, brat.” Alison calls to her as she lets the screen door swing shut behind her with a slight bang. The older girl may not be related to her by blood but she’s most definitely Sailor’s honorary big sister, having babysat her for years in addition to working at the shop, so she waves to her with a small smile and a “bye, ho” before joining JJ on the beach.

The duo slowly starts walking along the water together, a stark contrast from their earlier mad dash and Sailor’s mind races with a million thoughts, most of them her hating herself for foolishly putting a scrap of faith in her mom once again.

“Whoa, you okay? That bucket’s not going anywhere, promise.” He says, pulling them to a stop with a gentle tug on her elbow and reaching down to take it from her clenched hand. She doesn’t even realize she was holding it that hard until she sees the little half moons pressed into her palm from her nails and she sighs, rubbing them away with her thumb.

Opening up has always been something Sailor struggles with, even with a friend group as close as the pogues. She’s the one who’s all sunshine and good vibes, the one everyone goes to for cheering up, the one that’s always...happy. She’s the friend who listens, the open ear, the trusted confidante. She knows all her friends struggles: John B’s fear of being abandoned that often keeps him up at night, Kiara’s terrible guilt over leaving her friends behind during her kook year, Pope’s feeling of drowning under his dad’s impossible expectations, JJ’s abusive household that has him convinced he’s not worthy of love. Every secret she holds close to her heart, guarding them with impenetrable walls that no one can break through.

The walls protecting her own secrets, though? They may be strong around the others but they crumble like sand when she’s alone with the boy standing beside her, his hand still holding her elbow as he starts drawing circles on her skin once again. Talking to JJ has always come easy to her, almost infuriatingly so, and she has no qualms about calling him her best friend. While the other pogues know she’s been having some problems at home with her flight-risk dad and indifferent mom, none of them know almost the full story like he does, just as none of them know exactly how horrible his father really is.

(She knows. She’s seen the aftermath far too often and has been there each time, cleaning cuts, soothing bruises, holding him in her arms and never wanting to let him go.)

“I just...don’t know what to do anymore.” She can feel him watching her as she talks and she avoids his gaze like her mother avoided hers, instead staring out at the ocean. In the distance, she sees one of their friends -Kiara, she thinks- drop in on a wave while the other two look on a little further away. “She won’t even look at me and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Hey, it’s not you, got it? God, you’re...perfect, Sail.” JJ says softly, so soft that the crashing surf nearly drowns the sound of his voice as the water washes over their bare feet. Sailor curses the fact that she blushes so easily because her whole face is on fire at his words, and she’s so distracted that she almost misses what he says next.

“Your mom’s always, uh, weird when your dad dips. It’ll be better when he comes back.”

Her heart clenches in her chest. If only it were that simple. She turns to face him and meets his eyes, blue as the ocean, open and honest, and sends him a smile that lacks its usual brightness. “I think you might be right, J. For once.”

His thumb stills on the crook of her elbow and she knows he knows she’s not telling him everything. She feels like she should say something, anything- apologize, explain herself, just tell him the damn truth- but before she can even open her mouth he says, “Listen, I get it.”

She can feel the hand on her arm start to slip away and she grabs it between both of hers, her voice tight as she says, “No, you listen. Today’s been...so perfect and I don’t wanna bring everyone down with my problems.”

“You know they won’t mind.”

(She does, but that’s beside the point.)

“I know they won’t, but I do.”

It’s her turn to run her thumb in circles on the back of his hand now as she continues, “I’ll tell you everything later, okay?”

“You don’t have to-” He starts but she smiles, genuine and bright this time, and cuts him off.

“I want to, J. And I will, promise.” Like a child, she holds her pinky out expectantly. He quickly glances down at her hand and then meets her eyes again before finally returning her smile, showing off that dimple that makes her heart skip a beat, and hooking his finger around hers.

“Come on, we’ve got waves to catch and friends to show up.” He says and just like that they’re back to normal. Sailor’s hyper aware of the fact that her pinky is still linked with JJ’s, but he doesn’t pull away as they start walking back to their things again and she can’t help but hold on a little tighter. She doesn’t think he notices until he walks a little closer, his shoulder brushing hers; out of the corner of her eye, she sees him smile and feels herself mirroring him without a thought, her cheeks turning as red as her hair.

Talking with him may be the easiest thing to do for her, but flirting comes in a close second. It’s natural: the teasing, the casual touches, and especially the clothes stealing (a good fifth of her sweatshirts probably actually belong to him). He’s the biggest flirt she knows, with that bad boy swagger and killer smile that make all the giggling touron girls fall over themselves to get to him. She tells herself it’s fine, that she’s so not jealous, when he dances with them at keggers on the beach, whispering things in their ears that make them blush, taking their hands and leading them away to dark corners or the spare room at the Chateau. After all, there’s the one golden rule of their group: no pogue on pogue macking, so friends is all they’ll ever be, all they can be.

She tells herself she’s fine with it, really. Being his friend is better than being nothing at all, and she wouldn’t trade his friendship for the world. Deep down though, she’d give anything to kiss him again -the first time was when she was eleven and JJ had just turned twelve, awkward yet sweet, the day she first saw the full extent of his dad’s abuse- but she holds herself back, unwilling to ruin the relationship that means so much to her. And sometimes, like now, she thinks (hopes) that he’s holding back, too.

Their pinkies linger together when they come to a stop at their things, both holding on just a bit longer than what’s considered friendly before their hands drop away. Sailor feels his eyes on her as she pulls off her shorts, money still in the back pocket, and stuffs them in her bag.

(So she just might’ve taken them off a little bit -okay, a lot- slower because he was watching, sue her.)

“I hope you know this is mine, now.” She points to his hat before freeing her board from the sand and waiting for him to do the same, hand on her hip.

“It looks better on you, anyway. Here,” He says, taking a step closer and reaching up with one hand to turn the cap backwards. “Don’t want you to lose it.” His finger brushes along her jaw when he drops his arm and she feels her breath catch as she replies, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

JJ smiles at that, then nods toward the waves. “Race ya? I’ll play fair this time.”

“Nah, but I’m glad you can admit that you cheated!” She says, pausing for a second to laugh at the way his jaw drops before she takes off running and leaves him hurrying to catch up. “I’m proud of you!”

“I changed my mind, I want my hat back now, Flynn!” He yells after her and she just laughs harder as they splash into the ocean.

tagging some of my fave writers ❤: @pogue-writings @o-b-x @jjbabyouterbanks @heywards @obxsummer @jjmaybanky

let me know what you think!

#outer banks #jj maybank #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x oc #jj maybank fic #jj fanfic #jj x oc #obx fic #my fics #outer banks fanfiction #jj x reader #jj maybank x reader #obx imagine

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renaerys · 4 years

Text

PPG One-Shot: Six Degrees Chiller (Brick/Blossom)

A new cute one-shot in honor of @carriedreamerx birthday! In the same high school AU as part 1, part 2, and part 3, but can totally stand-alone. Also posted on my AO3. Tune in for some laughs and some Reds cuteness!

Summary: Brick goes deodorant shopping. It doesn't end well. (Or does it??)

xxx

Brick squinted at the nine-foot shelf packed with a full color wheel of deodorants and antiperspirants. The sheer surfeit of brands and scents was as daunting to behold as it was absolutely batshit insane—how many ways did people need to not smell like a dirty gym sock?

He picked a random stick and scowled at the label as if it had offended him and all his future progeny. Who the fuck would want to smell like mango lassi?

The squeak of a shopping cart rolling down the aisle sent Brick into a febrile panic for a hot second, and he shoved the saccharine deodorant stick back onto the shelf. A geriatric woman with a hunched back, a bright head scarf, and eyes so folded over with wrinkles it was a miracle she could see anything at all wheeled her cart slowly past Brick, who froze where he stood. She smiled politely at him, and he nodded out of sheer self-preservation instinct. The moment she passed him, he yanked the bill of his red cap lower over his eyes.

“Get a grip,” he grumbled. He was an eighteen-year-old guy buying deodorant, not stool softener. He was totally casual and had absolutely no reason to be so fucking paranoid. Nobody who might recognize him was coming to Cooper’s Market at 8 a.m. on a Sunday.

Brick wiped his clammy palms on his jeans and searched the shelves for what he’d come for so he could hurry up and leave. There it was, fifth shelf in a sea of sleek black and edgy, neon letters: Axe Ice Chill.

“Okay, do you consider yourself more of a music lover, sports star, gaming guru, or style icon?” Boomer had asked as he sat cross-legged on the sofa with his laptop open to the Axe “Find Your Magic” test a few months ago.

“Sports star,” Butch had said on his left, and poked the screen that wasn’t a touch-screen.

“That’s you, moron,” Brick had said, totally above this stupid test. “Pick style icon.”

Boomer grinned. “Oh yeah, your hoodies are so stylin’.” He clicked the next question. “Signature scent? Huh, maybe warm and aromatic?”

“Sounds like one of those Yankee holiday candles,” Butch had said.

Unfortunately, he had a point.

“Well, you're not exactly woody and earthy, and you’re definitely not fruity and sweet—”

“Just go to the next one.” Brick clicked on “fresh and cool” and waited for the screen to load. “Smellin’ good!” the loading page flashed at him. Jesus fucking Christ.

When the quiz presented a true or false statement, Butch moved like he had a bug up his ass and slammed the touchpad before Brick or Boomer could do anything about it.

Boomer tried not to laugh. “Dude, come on.”

“Please, he’s a punk-ass dweeb who’d never make the first move in a fight, let alone on a girl—” Butch had taunted.

Brick punched him in the throat with his Super speed and smiled at the sound of his asshat brother gagging. “Choke and die, motherfucker.”

Butch wheezed as he laughed through the pain, and Brick and Boomer breezed through the more generic age and appearance questions: under 18, long hair (“Mane Man!�� the quiz gushed, and Brick almost melted Boomer’s laptop right there), and natural look. After an artificially anticipatory loading screen, a picture of a dude with a clown nose crowd surfing in a sepia Instagram filter appeared on the screen with the generic “Be your best self!” encouragement in blocky letters superimposed upon it, and finally the expert, personalized recommendation for Brick’s body spray needs.

“Because you’re hotter when you’re chill.” Brick had cringed when he read that idiotic tagline the first time, and he cringed reading it again now in the deserted personal hygiene aisle where he prayed no one would find him buying this cry-for-help vanity spritz.

However.

He sprayed a bit of mist in the air and reveled in that cool, icy scent that wasn’t a scent so much as a feeling. Six degrees chiller in a bottle. The first time he’d tried it (under great duress), he’d griped and bitched and slammed his bedroom door to get away from his howling brothers. Settled on his bed with a frown, he had to admit it did cool him off. It was almost pleasant. The smell wasn’t overwhelming like that tiger piss Butch bathed in on the daily. But it wasn’t out of this world compared to the generic shit he’d been using before.

It wasn’t until Blossom sneezed on their way out of AP Lit that her ice breath—and understanding—hit him with the force of a cold snap to the balls.

“Sorry, did I get you?” she’d said, abashed as she covered her mouth with one hand and fished out a bottle of Purell from her messenger bag with the other. Her ice splatter fast melted on his shoulder as his too-warm body absorbed the cold with a bizarre, but extremely pleasant, shiver down his spine.

Son of a bitch, but he had a kink.

Which, of course, spiraled way the hell out of control when he found himself here months later with a recycled shopping bag he’d brought so he could carry the three bottles of Axe Ice Chill he planned to purchase home, because Brick planned ahead and liked to keep his bathroom well-stocked.

Which also, of course, was why at that very moment, fate decided to punch him in the dick.

“Bubbles, you have, like, fourteen bottles of shampoo at home! You don’t need another one,” Buttercup groused at 8 in the goddamned morning on a Sunday.

“Those are all different products, not just shampoo. Honestly, Buttercup.” Bubbles zipped into the aisle with Buttercup on her tail just at the moment Brick had his second panic attack in the span of five minutes and completely lost his shit.

He launched the bottle of Axe Ice Chill so hard into the ceiling that it lodged in there tighter than a prairie-dogging turd.

“Brick?” Blossom’s hand on his shoulder nearly sent him yeeting after his abused body spray, if the sheer mortification didn’t rob him of further motor function and exactly one hundred percent of his brain cells.

Like her sisters, she wore a jacket over her pajama pants. They must have just popped over for some last-minute breakfast staples and a side of peer humiliation. But even in those criminally hideous Ugg boots and five boxes of pancake mix in her shopping basket at 8 on a fucking Sunday morning, her smile glowed.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he returned lamely, because that was all she was getting from him until his neurological functions rebooted.

“Hi, Brick,” Buttercup said, suspicious like usual and searching for some excuse to bust his balls for a laugh. “What’re you doing here?”

The Super sisters had cornered him in front of the Teen Spirit, which came in an absolutely frightful eighteen scents because there was nothing pubescent teenagers needed more than eighteen reassurances that their social survival depended on smelling like a potpourri candy bar.

“Shopping, obviously,” Bubbles said. “Ooh, Brick, you have straight hair. What do you think?” She held up two bottles of brightly colored free-range, organic hair shit.

“I think I was just leaving,” he managed.

“Empty-handed?” Buttercup peered at him like he might transform into a literal dick with ears if she only managed not to blink for long enough. He could smell the threat of a joke on her.

“They didn’t have the brand I wanted.”

“Oh, that sucks,” Bubbles said, genuinely stricken.

“Girls, let’s get going. I really want those pancakes,” Blossom said.

“We better grab more syrup. Buttercup finished it all,” Bubbles said, already moving away. She dropped both hair products in Blossom’s basket, not bothering to choose between them.

“Oh please, everybody knows you and the Professor are the syrup fiends in this house.” Buttercup floated after her and waved to Brick. “Hey, tell that shithead to answer my texts. He owes me $20.”

“Uh-huh,” Brick said, fully intending not to mention anything about this conversation to Butch at all.

“Sorry about your favorite brand being sold out,” Blossom said.

It’s fine, he would have said had she not caught his cheek in her hand and pressed a frosty kiss to the corner of his lips before he could do anything about it. Frozen fernlings crept over his cheek and chin, down his neck, and slowly absorbed through his now flushed skin, and he shivered. Without even thinking about it, he reached for her, but she was already walking away to catch up with her sisters.

When she got to the end of the aisle, she shot him a cheeky grin over her shoulder and had the nerve to wink at him. “Stay cool, Brick.”

Red in the face and high on her, Brick just stood there like an idiot gawking at his kind of unofficial girlfriend and the singular dominating object of his fantasies, be they sexual or otherwise. What was dignity when she smiled at him like that? What was a paltry imitation in a bottle when she kissed him like that?

The paltry imitation fell from its hole in the ceiling and exploded on the tiled floor at Brick’s feet with a winter ferocity that, in that moment at least, rivaled Blossom’s in the heat of battle.

When Brick got home later that morning and Boomer asked him why he smelled like a snowman’s asshole, Brick burned the clothes on his back and spent the next half hour in the shower thinking about how he was going to convince Blossom to make the first move and finally make them official.

xxx

Y’all better appreciate the research that went into this fic. That Axe quiz is real and I took it pretending to be Brick, and it literally does spit out a photo of a dude wearing a clown nose in a club. If that’s not a sign from the Daddy that I’ve chosen the righteous path, then idk what is. Sacrifices to my Chrome search history were made for this fic in the name of celebrating Carrie, ergo, worth it.

#Blossick #PPG Reds #Blossom #Brick #Powerpuff Girls #PPG Fanfic #Powerpuff Girls Fanfiction #february fic prompts #ppg shook

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anika-ann · 4 years

Text

Let’s Do Something Different Tonight (Or Not)

Type: One-shot, Reader Insert Word count: 1840

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Characters: Matt Murdock, Reader, few others mentioned

Summary: It’s been two years since the day you married Matt and tonight, you’re going out to celebrate, like normal couples do. --Yeah, about that...

Warnings: blood and injury, mention of alcohol, attempt at humour (bordering on crack-ish)

A/N: A post Valentine’s day fic for everyone who has deals with loveable idiots. It’s hard to with them sometimes. Often, it’s even harder without them. Enjoy!

Matt was almost on time. You had your reservation for eight and it was five after eight when he finally showed up at his – and for a while now, also yours – apartment, so you would be able to make it to the restaurant only a little late.

Key word? ‘Would’. That would be if he hadn’t used the rooftop access instead of the front door and hadn’t been clutching his side when he stumbled in with his hair being a perfect mess with a smear of blood in it.

You stood in the middle of the living room, staring at him as he walked down the stairs with an apologizing expression.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said out, hissing as he stepped down the last stair with not so much grace. You just kept staring, this time incredulously. “I got mugged,” he explained, his lips turning into a reversed U. Also, blood was now soaking though his suit under his fingers.

You shook your head to snap yourself from your trance, reaching for the hem of your dress only to pull it over your head. When you tossed them over one of the armchairs and turned to Matt to give him the attention he deserved and needed, he looked utterly taken aback.

“What are you doing?” he asked, perfectly baffled.

“I’m not playing doctor with you in this dress. It’s new. I don’t want blood on it.”

It was expensive. You had chosen it carefully – just like the rest of your new clothes ever since you had gotten together with Matt –, paying extra attention to the material, anxious about the fabric feeling good under Matt’s fingers. Shopping had kinda become a nightmare since you had to pick clothes which not only looked good, but mainly felt good; however, with the way Matt appreciated it, it was totally worth it.

“The material sounded really soft. You looked beautiful in it.”

You scratched your forehead, abashed, as you walked to the bathroom to get the first aid kit, returning to Matt who seated himself on the couch, stripping his jacket to reveal a huge bloodstain on his shirt.

“Jesus, Matt.”

The man in question honest to god pouted. “You’ll wear that dress again, right?”

“Of course I will,” you reassured him tiredly as he took off the shirt as well. “That was the whole point of stripping it – keep it clean of bloodstains so I can wear it again…. for our like, thirtieth anniversary when you won’t be coming home bleeding anymore.”

“I had to let them cut me. I didn’t even call the police to make it home faster. I was trying-“

“I’m sorry, you what?” you asked incredulously, unable to believe what you were hearing.

“I was trying?” he repeated hesitantly, well-aware that it wasn’t the part that caught your… ear, so to speak.

“No, no, did you just say you let them cut you, didn’t call the police, so you could be home faster? Are you insane?”

“I didn’t want you to wait. We rarely get out for a dinner or something else. I didn’t want to disappoint you. Though I did come after the guys to chase down my wallet because that would mean a whole new set of time-demanding problems. But don’t worry, I crashed the lights before I went down on them,” he added hastily as if it would made the whole situation better.

You wordlessly let the gloves smack against your skin louder than necessary. Matt winced.

“Matt Murdock, I love you, I love what you’re willing to do for me and the world, but I swear to God, sometimes you’re just being utterly, utterly stupid. Priorities, Matt. Now show me.”

It turned out that Matt hadn’t let them cut him once, but twice. And by ‘cut’ he meant what could almost be called a stab wound. You silently worked your way through it, reminding yourself to buy Claire another fruit basket. A year supply of chocolate. Spa weekend, maybe. She had not only taught you the basics of the first aid to reckless loveable idiots, but also had shared her tips and tricks that she had discovered during the years of working on ER, making your life easier.

Matt was wisely silent while you were stitched him up – whether it was because he was controlling himself not to let out a single sound of distress or because he didn’t want to piss you off by saying something to make you snap, you didn’t know.

“Do you really think I prefer you getting home earlier so we wouldn’t miss our reservation coming with the price of you being injured to actually showing up healthy?” you asked as you finished your work of art.

His pout grew bigger, providing you the answer.

“Christ, Matt.”

“Well, I couldn’t exactly fight them off, at least not completely. Identity and stuff,” Matt defended his actions. You couldn’t shake off the feeling of something being a little strange about him. Like… stranger than usual. The way he talked…

“Well, you still didn’t need to get cut or— or at least you could have deflect it partly, this is awfully deep. Was. All done now.” Truth to your words, you stripped the gloves, rolling them up and placing them on the coffee table. You looked at his face, running your hand through his sweaty hair. He leaned into it slightly, like always. “Oh Matt… what do I do with a man like you?”

“Kiss the pain better?” he offered shyly, the corners of his lips twitching. You rolled your eyes at this ridiculous man.

“Ha! You’re hilarious!” His expression changed, transferring into- “Oh crap, not the puppy eyes. Come on, Matt, don’t-”

You sighed, leaning in, kissing him lightly on the lips. You were never able to resist the huge imploring eyes of his.

“I hate you,” you murmured as you withdrew – or wanted to, his lips following yours instead, sinking into them, caressing gently, testing your will when nibbling on your lower lip.

Oh, he always knew what to do to keep your fingers tingling, to have your heart fluttering – the feeling might have faded a little with the years, but it was still here. You opened your mouth for him, a clear invitation for his tongue. He didn’t hesitate.

“And I love you,” he breathed into your mouth, his hand rising.

“Don’t touch the bra-“ you warned him, curling your fingers around his wrist to stop him. You withdrew so it didn’t temp him. The bra wasn’t nearly as expensive as the dress, but it wasn’t cheap either.

“But it’s laced and they always feel so, so nice-“ he whimpered and you blinked. Okay, that was new. Seriously, where had his brain (possibly lower brain)-mouth filter left to?

“Maybe, but it’s also skin-toned. Not blood-toned. You smear it with blood and I’m not wearing it again.”

“But you said we were playing doctor,” he noted, looking honestly confused. You had really said that? And what the hell was it with him…?

You gaped at him when the realization finally hit you.

“Oh my god. Are you drunk?”

Matt was silent for a short moment; the kind of an answer that spoke volumes. Matt Murdock was drunk.

“…the client insisted on two glasses of scotch…,” Matt admitted with hesitation and you sensed some sort of a ‘but’ coming. “And then said the third time was a charm.”

Three glasses of scotch?!

“So you’re not only late for our anniversary dinner, you’ve not only gotten yourself half-stabbed, but you’re also drunk. Wow. I want a divorce,” you stated resolutely, only joking of course. Still, you couldn’t believe him. It should have been your night out. Together as a couple. To celebrate the two years you had been together as husband and wife. And he… wow. You probably should be mad, anyone else would be, but… you were kinda used to dealing with Matt’s bullshit (to be fair, Matt also had to deal with yours) and it was usually more scary and life-threatening. This was actually kinda funny. The drunk part anyway. “You think Foggy will charge me a fortune if I hire him?”

Matt frowned. “You don’t mean that. And if you did, do you honestly think he would represent you?”

You raised your eyebrow, waiting for him to realize what he had just said. Of course Foggy would represent you. You were plotting against Matt together oh so often… he would take your side. Matt probably came to same conclusion, because he grimaced.

“Yeah, he probably would. Well, would want to and then Marci would bully him so she could take your side instead of him.”

“I barely know Marci,” you noted, confused.

“Yeah, but she’s up to a challenge and she always claimed me and Foggy will get married one day and was actually jealous of me. She would take any opportunity to take our duo down in one strike.”

“I thought Foggy was friends with her.”

“They are somewhere between friends and frenemies. I guess that happens when you end the whole friends with benefits thing.”

Huh. Marci was still bitter about that? Who would think Mrs. No Strings Attached had feelings? To be fair, Foggy was insanely likeable, so you could really blame her-

…why were you thinking about Marci?

“After all this time… you still manage to distract me perfectly,” you complained, actually ashamed. Damn you, Murdock. And Murdock.

Matt tilted his head slightly, challenging. “I know a whole lot more ways of distracting you. If I wash my hands, can I touch the bra? I mean, we’re already too late for the dinner, aren’t we?”

You watched him incredulously for a minute; his messy hair which was the result of him rushing home, his absolutely not kissable lips inconspicuously pursed, his hopeful eyes with a spark of mischievousness somehow seeing you even after losing sight. Your gaze flickered to the fine suit he had prepared for the dinner. It was too late to go to the restaurant, wasn’t it?

When you looked back at him, you could tell he knew he had won, because a tiny smile appeared on his face, a careful elevation of the corners of his lips.

You sighed. You were so weak. “Go wash your bloody hands, you overgrown child. We’re going to bed.”

“Love you,” he chipped happily and kissed your cheek, rushing to the bathroom. You rolled your eyes at him fondly.

“I’m on top, you’re injured!” you shouted after him, closing the box with medical supplies and walking to the fridge to get Matt a glass of juice. He needed liquids and sugar dammit.

“Whatever you say, honey!”

You blinked, taken aback. ‘Honey?’ Matt had never called you that – mostly he stuck to your name or a nickname, occasionally calling you ‘love’ if he was being particularly tender. Endearments weren’t his thing.

Oh boy, he really was so royally drunk, wasn’t he?

You smiled for yourself at the idea. This should be fun.

◦○◦○◦○◦○◦○◦○◦○◦○◦○◦○◦○◦○◦○◦○◦

Thank you for reading!

If you enjoy Matt fics, I’ll be posting a few more RI, but mostly I’ve written for Matt x OFC.

If interested, check out my M.M. masterlist ;)

#marvel #mcu #marvel fanfiction #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #daredevil #daredevil x reader #matt murdock imagine #daredevil imagine #matt murdock fanfic #daredevil fanfic #daredevil fanfiction #reader insert #imagine #marvel imagine

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consumedkings-archive · 3 years

Text

ancient names, pt. xiii

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xiii: that unwanted animal

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~7.7k

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop. It’s CLOSE y’all, CLOSE, but not yet.

Warnings: some steaminess--nothing VERY explicit, but it begins, a little--and might be considered "dubious" if you squint your eyes (but it isn't). Gore, character death, just general Pain and Suffering occurs pretty much nonstop. Par for the course at this point.

Notes: Okay so truth time, I actually wrote this entire chapter like a fucking maniac in a single day--the day after I put out chapter 12, in fact--and so I had like, a bit of a crisis where I thought it might actually be garbage because that's insane. So I sat on it for a few days and had three pairs of eyeballs on it and HERE IT IS. I hope you all enjoy.

Thank you to @baeogorath & @lilwritingraven for putting your eyeballs on this and making sure I wasn't writing, like, a crack fic come chapter 13 (it WAS debatable for a moment)!!! And of course thank you to @starcrier, my lover my life my shawty my wife; thank you for enabling me always to write the most self-indulgent things and then polish them up to be actually GOOD.

And thank YOU, of course; every kudos/comment is like the highlight of my day every single time so tysm!

“She was going to try and kill me.”

It was a problem, John thought—Elliot’s pure and unabridged fury in that moment almost got her killed. She would have gone down swinging, to be sure, but she would have gone down, eventually. A problem, sure, but one that had been mitigated. He’d handled it. Just like he’d handled everything else.

He said, “But she didn’t. Besides, are you really afraid of what she would have done? She’s barely half your size.”

“It’s not about what she’s capable of, little brother,” Jacob bit out, “it’s about the fact that she’s your responsibility to control and you seem wholly incapable—”

“—a process , Jacob, you can’t just slap a saddle on a pony and expect it to ride—”

“—wouldn’t have happened if I was in charge of her—”

“What’s important now,” Joseph interrupted, pausing a moment to wait and make sure neither John nor Jacob was going to talk over him, “is that Deputy Hudson is missing.”

Yes, that was the biggest problem now—sans the mere existence of the Family. As they sat in the chapel, Joseph pacing to the front absently as he mulled over the day’s events and Jacob refusing to sit but rather looming in the corner of John’s vision, he thought there was a chance that they’d say it was a waste of time to find her.

“I think,” Joseph continued, “we could allocate a small number of men—”

“Stop.” Jacob’s voice was hard. “We’re not wasting resources to find Hudson. We should be using resources to find Burke, because if he made it out he’ll have the government coming down on us any minute. Hudson is nothing.”

For a second, his two older brothers stared at each other; Jacob, steely and sharp, and Joseph, eerie in his stillness. They stayed silent for the entire duration, which was probably only a few seconds but in fact felt like an eternity , before Joseph spoke.

“We will allocate a small number of men,” he said, carefully and purposefully articulating each consonant in every word of the sentence which had shifted from a could to a will, “to scout the area. We need information on where the cult is moving. If we happen to find Hudson in the meantime, then we’ll have done the deputy a favor.”

There was another long pause. Then: “ Fine.”

John came to a stand. It was decided, which meant that he wasn’t about to look a gift-horse in the mouth, despite how uncomfortable it made him to have Jacob and Joseph in their weird little stand-off right in front of him. It was impossible, always, to tell which one was going to come out the winner, even though the end result always seemed to swing in Joseph’s favor—and that was just the way it tended to be, with them. Jacob was always the most resilient of them, but he had never been able to outlast Joseph.

“Jacob, you’ll pick the men to go,” Joseph continued amicably, and then as though to give his brother a tiny slip of victory he added, “as I trust your judgment.”

Jacob didn’t seem very pleased. “Fine,” he said again, turning and heading for the door. “But I’m not taking John’s wild animal.”

“Of course.”

That won’t bode well, John thought absently, but there wasn’t a lot of time to dwell on it. He hadn’t promised Elliot Eden’s Gate would look for Joey, so already he figured this would be considered above-and-beyond. And when they inevitably found Joey—because there was no way they wouldn’t—Elliot would remember that Eden’s Gate did this for her. That he did this for her.

“John,” Joseph began quietly, when Jacob had closed the door behind him and gone outside, “I’m trusting you.”

John turned his gaze to his brother. The words felt... Different. Off. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said, “What do you mean?”

Joseph was pensive as he watched the murky dusk light filter through the cross at the head of the church. “It can be easy to lose your way,” he replied, no hint of hostility or frustration in the timbre of his voice. “To get distracted. Lured off the path. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

John’s throat felt tight. “It won’t.”

“Are you positive?” Joseph finally tilted his head, casting a glance at John over his shoulder, a look that didn’t quite lock their gazes but that John felt seen all the same. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he answered, “I’m—of course I’m sure. You’re my family. I’d—”

You don’t owe him your blood and guts all the time.

“I’d do anything for you,” he finished, Elliot’s voice ringing in his head despite his better attempts to stuff down somewhere else. “You, and Jacob, and Faith.”

The older man nodded after a moment, apparently satisfied with this answer. “Then I don’t have anything to worry about.” He took in a small breath, as though to compose himself, and then turned around to face John completely, one hand gripping his shoulder with a firm squeeze. “You’ll tell me if you run into trouble?”

He regarded his brother with a beat of silence. Then I don’t have anything to worry about, Joseph had said. What had he been worried about? John? Or Elliot? And if it was the latter—what for? What for? His that voice demanded again. He was going to let her die. He was going to let Jacob shoot straight through her. What for?

John said, “Of course.”

Joseph nodded again, releasing John from his grip. He departed back to the head of the chapel, flipping open the worn, white leather book, reading quietly.

A lingering uncertainty kept his feet rooted to their spot. He wanted to ask what it was he and Elliot had been talking about the day before, when she’d come sprinting around the corner with Joseph lingering behind, eyes fixed on them. But each time he opened his mouth, jealousy wound its way thick and wretched up his throat and clamped his jaw shut.

Do you want to know? it said. Do you want to know what he was doing?

Joseph glanced up, his gaze inquisitive. “That’ll be all, John.”

“Right,” John said, and finally his body complied, carrying him down the aisle and to the doors that led out of the church.

No, he thought. I don’t.

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The cruelest thing, she thought, was that the world seemed to carry on just fine—as though nothing had happened, as though her body was not plagued with panic in that very moment and had been every moment since realizing that Joey was missing. The sun still made its descent behind the distance mountains a leisurely one, giving the Autumn evening a brisk, energized feeling, but though it was her favorite season and the exact kind of weather she liked, there was nothing that felt good.

Boomer had come back from when she’d let him out and searched the bunkhouse up and down for Joey. When he couldn’t find her, he paced and whined; his gaze turned to Elliot, inquisitive, and then he’d begin his search all over again, until she couldn’t take it anymore and she took him out of the bunkhouse.

She didn’t know what was worse—staring at the empty bunkhouse or watching Boomer search for Joey over and over again.

Elliot had been sitting outside of the bunkhouse—well, sitting and then standing and then pacing and then smoking and then sitting again —by the time John had come out of the chapel and told her they’d be sending out a search party to check on the whereabouts of the Family—and to see if they had Joey or not.

“Just the one?” Elliot asked.

“The one,” John confirmed. She sucked in a sharp breath. A headache was resting just behind her eyes, stuffed-up from the ever-present verge of tears she sat on, a feverish heat humming around idly in her skeleton.

“Fucking unbelievable,” she said at last. “I’m going to go find her myself.”

She took a few steps around John, but before she got very far she felt his hand catch at her elbow. He said, “Now, just wait a second, deputy, and listen—”

“No, you listen here John Seed,” Elliot bit out, her head snapping around to look at him, meeting his gaze. “I’ll fucking die before I leave finding Joey in the hands of your little cockroaches. Especially a tiny handful of them that probably won’t try very hard—”

“If we tell them to, they will—”

“—and I especially ,” she ground out over his interjection, “wouldn’t trust a search party issued by Joseph Seed farther than I can throw them. So I’m going to go out and look for Joey on my own, and if you want to try and stop me, then—”

She stopped herself. Then? A voice inside of her prompted, inquisitively. John stared at her, waiting for whatever blow was going to come next, tension radiating through his very posture.

“Then you’re exactly who I thought you were,” she managed out at last, pulling her arm out of his grip, “and fuck you.”

“And you’re just going to go traipsing through the woods, in the dark, unarmed, looking for her?” John snipped. “I’m sure that’ll be super helpful to Hudson.”

“I’m not going unarmed,” Elliot replied briskly, “because you’re going to give me a gun.”

“Pardon?” John’s eyebrows arched up, and she didn’t want to lose her nerve but the sheer indignation in his voice almost had her second-guessing her less-than-concrete assertion. “You just about tried to sink your teeth into Jacob for something that was completely unfounded, and you want me to arm you?”

“If you have to worry about me killing Jacob without a gun, then whether I have one or not doesn’t make a difference.”

“That is absolutely not how that works.”

“John,” Elliot said, steeling her voice in a last-ditch effort, “you promised.”

He took in a sharp breath, glancing around the main yard of the compound for a moment, like maybe he didn’t want to look at her right then and there—the man who couldn’t stop looking at her, trying to make her squirm. The irony of it wasn’t lost on her, but she tried to push that down for another time, another place.

“Fine,” John said at last, “but I’m coming with you, and we’re only firing on the Family, not on Jacob.”

A little flood of relief rushed through her system. She swallowed and nodded. “Deal,” she replied. She hesitated for a moment—her body had leaned, as though after their little moment in the bar her body now tilted to kiss him on instinct—before clearing her throat and averting her eyes. “I’ll meet you at the gate, then.”

He eyed her warily. “Okay. Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.”

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John was right. It was unhelpful.

The turning of the season meant that the sun drifted low behind the mountains much earlier. Though Elliot knew it couldn’t have been much later than six, it was nearly dark by the time they got out into the thick of the woods; the birds had stopped their singing, and the woods had fallen asleep, leaving them painfully, dreadfully alone .

John had reluctantly put a shotgun in her hands on their way out and said, “Keep that trigger finger under control,” before heading out with her. She didn’t want to say it out loud, but it felt good—the weight of the gun in her hands felt good , familiar and hefty and she knew the second she fired it she’d feel that slick, red-hot rush of adrenaline.

And she didn’t say that to John, because she didn’t need him trying to confiscate it.

Boomer paved the way ahead of them, darting and ducking through the underbrush with his nose to the ground. He was a smart boy; the second she’d held Joey’s water bottle up for him and said, “Find”, he’d set off with a newfound purpose, always looking for a job to do or a task to accomplish.

Her breath puffed out in a milky-white cloud. While silence reigned, the cogs of her mind churned, leaping frantically from one thing to the next. Jacob, goading her into trying to kill him; Joey, telling her she didn’t have to go it alone all the time; John, hands on her face as he kissed her like he was desperate for her. The last twenty-four hours were beginning to blur together until it became some kind of fucked-up Picasso painting, one where she couldn’t tell one moment from the next—the only thing keeping her headache and the last dredges of her pneumonia under control being the tylenol she popped the second the suggested time period had passed.

“—you doing?”

Elliot’s eyes flickered and she turned her gaze to John. “What?”

“Yesterday,” he reiterated, “when you asked me to take you to Fall’s End. What were you doing?”

She turned her gaze forward again, spotting Boomer worming his way through the brush. “What do you mean?”

“You were panicking,” John elaborated, his tone implying that there wasn’t any humor left in him. “And it looked like Joseph was—”

“I wasn’t doing anything ,” Elliot interrupted. “Your brother tried his psycho bullshit on me and I exited the conversation. That’s it.”

John was quiet again, just for a moment, before he started, “Elliot—”

“I’m going to need you to shut up,” she bit out.

“Don’t you get tired of doing this?” he demanded. “What are you running from all the time, anyway?”

“You,” she snapped, “and your stupid family, always trying to dig into me—”

“Me,” John repeated flatly, “or all of your problems?”

Indignation, and anger , red-hot and unruly, spiked straight to her brain. Yes yes yes, her mind chanted, fight us, push us, give us something to sink our teeth into.

But then Boomer was barking, and then he was growling, the thick, hearty kind of snarl that came from deep in the cavity of his chest. Elliot shut her mouth with a determined click of her teeth and set off to follow the sound of his barking.

“Elliot—” John started, but she lifted her hand to signal for silence, and he blissfully shut up. As she dug through the woods lining the compound to follow Boomer’s alerting, dread started to coil in her stomach; there were no voices to match his signaling. Nobody yelling, nobody talking to him. The idea that he’d found something, but that the something was incapable of speaking, made her stomach lurch and twist.

She found him just at the edge of the woods, hackles raised fully along his spine. At first, she couldn’t see what he was barking at—in the dark, she only saw the looming shape of a boulder and the ground scattered with pine-needles around it—and then she saw it.

Blood.

The ground was damp with it, a large dark circle, and on top of it crushed lily blossoms littered the ground. The sickening smell of hot copper mixing with the sickly-sweetness of the blossoms shot nausea straight up into her throat. Funeral flowers, she thought through the haze of sickness washing over her. Restored innocence, after death.

And then, in the center of the blossoms, a head.

Not Joey’s head, she realized after a second of brutal panic shot through her. Someone else. Blonde hair, matted with blood, the skull slumping to the side like it was uneven in the back, white lily blossoms stuffed into her mouth, two perfectly preserved blooms flowering out of her eye sockets. It was Ase.

Do you see?

“Boomer,” she managed out unsteadily, reaching for him as she stifled the urge to gag. He darted over to her, nosing her hand with a cold, wet nose and whining softly just as John had caught up.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, lifting his arm to cover his nose, flashlight landing first on the crimson-stained ground and blossoms and then straight up to the boulder nearby. On it, scrawled in what she thought could only be blood, were the words WRATH, DO YOU STILL WANT TO BLOOM IN ME?

“What the fuck,” Elliot said, feeling her body hunch and try to puke up the bile rolling around in her stomach. “ Who —”

John’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “I have an idea. But that’s—”

Elliot turned away from the gruesome sight, and at last she couldn’t hold it back anymore; the image of the decapitated head, stuffed with flowers, was burned into her memory so that even when she closed her eyes, she saw it. Her hand hit the trunk of a tree for support in keeping herself up as she vomited, the wretched sound of it only inspiring further sickness in her.

Ase’s fingers laced with hers, eyes glassy, blood and gore spilled across her face. “Do you see?”

“Fuck,” John said, disgust welling in his voice. “We have to get back, El.”

“He’s going to kill her,” she managed out between heaving breaths, the sour taste of bile still in her mouth. “Fuck, he’s going to kill her, John, I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have ever—”

“Let’s go.” John reached out, hand planted between her shoulder blades. “We’ll get back and tell the others. Now we know who has her.”

She nodded weakly, pulling herself up straight and swallowing back the urge to be sick again. Worse than the blood, worse than the flowers, worse than the writing—Kian, or whichever one of them had done this, had just left her. Her head, left here, alone. It wrenched her heart, somewhere deep inside of her, because in her last moments of life, Ase had reached for her.

And now she was here. Left behind. Forgotten. Serving one last purpose, even after death.

Elliot couldn’t have recalled even half of the walk back to the compound if someone asked her. Not that anything happened—John didn’t push for conversation, but seemed more preoccupied with whatever was going on in his own mind, his brows furrowed and his eyes fixed ahead of them.

By the time they got back, darkness had completely fallen; a blanket of stars stretched out above them, only a little drowned out by the lights of the compound, and a more bitter chill had settled around them. Sometime on the trip back, Elliot had gripped John’s hand, afraid that if she didn’t he’d carry on without her when she would inevitably be unable to continue.

I’m so sorry, Joey. I’m so sorry.

She stood numbly while John said something to Joseph. Though her eyes drifted aimlessly around the compound, she felt Joseph’s eyes—lingering on her, and then John, and then their hands, loosely clasped. Elliot was sure that he was delighted by this; but though his eyes kept drifting back, he said nothing about it.

The two men spoke in low, urgent tones, and though she could have listened if she wanted, there was so little will left in her to exert the effort; it would just be a replay of the gruesome scene they’d found, anyway.

“They’re at least an hour out,” Joseph said, his voice cutting through the thrumming wobble of bass ricocheting around in her head. “They weren’t able to find them, but if they left that and it was fresh, they have to be somewhere close by. We’ll have to regroup when Jacob gets back.”

“We have to go now.” A strange kind of sensory experience washed over her as she spoke—she had become an audience member to her own body, the shotgun sitting limp and useless in her hand, the other slipping out of John’s grip. “They’re going to kill her if we don’t get her back now.”

“I’m afraid that just isn’t an option,” Joseph replied. The cloying patience in his voice made her stomach churn. “I’ve sent other members out to gather supplies, and I just can’t spare the manpower. You’d be going on your own.”

“Fine,” Elliot replied, pulling her hand out of John’s and heading toward the bunkhouse, Boomer trailing at her heels. “What’s fucking new.”

“Elliot—”

She might have tried to hear what it was Joseph and John said to each other, but she was too busy walking herself into the bunkhouse that had become her temporary base of operations. The shotgun deposited onto the bed and Boomer sitting patiently by the door, whining softly on occasion, she shuffled around in her bag before she found the carton of cigarettes. As she pulled one out, hands trembling, she tried again, and again, and again to flick the lighter on, each time a more colossal failure than the last.

I never doubted you’d be able to get me out.

Her lip wobbled against her better judgment. Discarding the cigarettes onto the bed as well after a number of failed attempts, she walked into the bathroom and rinsed her mouth, and then her face, sitting like that for a minute—bent over the sink, wet hands pressed to her face, anxiety and adrenaline battling for control over her mind.

When Elliot lifted her head, the face that stared back at her in the mirror felt like a stranger. It was her , undeniably; the logical part of her brain recognized each dip and curve of her face, the blue eyes and the panic-flushed cheeks. But the part of her brain that ruled more dominant—the one driven by emotion—thought, who is that? That’s not us. Not us, no. Too cold, too mean. Not us.

The door outside the bathroom clicked open and then shut. Boomer growled, low, but then John said something to him that she couldn’t make out and he seemed to be appeased. Funny, that he could do that now. She dried her face and hands off and stepped out of the bathroom.

“I’m going,” she said, “and I really don’t want to argue with you—”

“Then don’t,” John replied. “Don’t argue with me. You’re in no state to go and get her, El.”

“I—” Her voice faltered, and she tried to summon up the agony and the anger in her, but it was nowhere to be found. Squashed, dulled, emptied out of her. That was all she felt, now. Empty. “I can’t leave her. She’s—she’ll be waiting for me, I can’t.” She stepped around him when Boomer whined at the door again, opening it for the Heeler and letting him dart out.

“You won’t be any use,” he said from behind her. “Kian will crush you with one hand and her with the other.”

Elliot didn’t answer. Instead, she tossed the hand-towel off to the side and passed a hand over her face, closing her eyes.

John was right, and she didn’t want to say, so she wouldn’t say anything at all.

“Elliot.” His voice was soft, and closer now, and she saw his hand come up in her peripheral; he guided her to turn around and face him. “You know I’m right.”

Before his fingers could reach for her jaw, she caught his wrist.

“Don’t,” she said, steeling her voice, “okay? Don’t. I’ll wait until your stupid search party gets back, but—”

“Then you can be in charge,” John finished. His wrist twisted in her grip until he had her hand in his, bringing it up to the junction between his neck and shoulder where she could feel the steady rhythm of his pulse, and this close she could smell that fucking cologne, and the woods, and he was so close—when had he gotten so close?—and she knew what he was doing. “An hour, hour and a half tops. Kian probably wants to hold onto her and make a big show of it.” He paused, and then added, “I told you I’d help you find her, didn’t I?”

Her throat felt tight. “So help me,” she managed out.

“I’m trying,” he murmured, and their noses brushed, and she thought don’t fucking do it, don’t do it. “You have to let me.”

Elliot felt her brows pull together, knitting in frustration and anxiety, and she said, “I can’t,” her voice breaking just a little on those two words. “I can’t, I don’t—know how—”

He gripped her, like an animal he was getting ready to spear, just before his mouth met hers; it was not a gentle kiss, this time, no tentative breaths lingering between them in uncertainty. It was a punishing kind of kiss, the sort that stung when his teeth dragged against her lower lip and her nails dug into the warm skin of his shoulder.

Oh, something in her said, when John crowded up against her, warm and firm, one hand finding her hip and the other boxing her in against the door. Oh, is this what we needed? Is this what we wanted?

The bite of it grounded her, dragged her back to the sting of reality, back from wherever she had been sitting and watching her life unfold like a horrific play.

“John,” she said, his name coming out of her breathless and a little wrecked, but nothing followed. She didn’t know what she was trying to say. Please, her mouth wanted to say, but her mind said we can’t, we shouldn’t, we won’t. Scarier still was the knowledge that where she had been splitting, the part of her that had been driven through and cracked open, John had pulled her back together, even for just a little bit. Even for just a moment.

“You just have to tell me.” John’s voice was a dark, rich rumble, the sound of it shooting straight through her and pooling an unfamiliar but not unwelcome heat just at the base of her spine. Anticipation prickled along the back of her neck; his fingers at her hip slid just under the hem of her sweater, tracing the scars she knew were there. “Just tell me what you need, El, I’ll give it to you.”

“I—” She felt her gaze flicker, her breath hitching at the feeling of his fingers. He was grounding her back to reality, but he was picking her apart, too—just a different part of her, the part of her that he wanted. An even exchange. She exhaled sharply, and the noise caught somewhere in her throat and came out a whimper , fluid and filled with a strange, broken kind of want that flooded her with embarrassment.

But if John noticed her humiliation, it didn’t matter—he made a low, hungry noise against her mouth, his hand skimming along to her back to pull her closer to him. “Anything,” he said. “I’ll give you anything, you just have to tell me what you need and I will.”

The dark, lurid promise of it flickered through her brain. John—handsome, wicked John—dragging his mouth along her neck; John, hands deftly undoing her jeans and moaning against her skin; John, anything you want, Elliot, just ask, sliding down to his knees between her legs to give her the real grounding she wanted—

As though he knew exactly what she was thinking, John’s mouth drifted from hers; she felt the prickle of his beard against her neck, the tiny, tiny sting of his teeth against her pulsepoint, and she moaned, the sound as involuntary as it was jarring.

John’s own noise mimicked her own. She felt his hand drop from the door to her hip, gripping—like he wanted more, wanted her , but it felt like he was pacing himself. His voice, dark and low and oh so good rumbled against the skin of her neck when he said, “So pretty—you sound so pretty, El—”

Too much, her alarm system was screaming, it’s too much, too much, what do we do? Turn it off, pull the sprinklers, out out out.

But she couldn’t. Her hand slid from his shoulder down to his chest, curling into the fabric there, her body twisting traitorously to get closer to his as something wretched inside of her said, We could just forget, for a little, wouldn’t that be nice? And it would—it would be nice, she knew, to forget about all the gore, to forget about the panic, to let slip a few threads of control and indulge in something wicked and terrifying, like the way John said, “ Fuck, I want you,” so covetously it made her chest ache.

“Can’t think,” she managed out, squirming in his grip as panic wound its way through her, mixing in a toxic cocktail with what she knew was arousal sitting in her stomach. “I can’t think, n-need air, John—”

Her hand left his shoulder and fumbled at the doorknob. John pulled back, just a little, and then stilled her shaking hand over the doorknob. His gaze was dark, the black blown wide with want, but he turned the knob on the door anyway and dropped his hand from her back as it swung open.

The cold, chilly air of the evening brutalized her senses. She took two steps away from the brunette behind her, swallowing thickly until she could actually feel her heartbeat again—fast, but tangible. Her eyes fluttered shut, but treacherously her brain went sprinting—sprinting to John pressed up against her, the gentle, dull ache where his teeth had dug into her lip, the tingle where his fingers had brushed her skin.

It was a few seconds before John said, “You should try and get some rest before they get back,” as he stepped around her. She opened her eyes to look at him; he seemed perfectly composed, as though nothing had just happened, if not for the way his eyes settled heavy on her, if not for the way that she knew he sounded when he wanted her.

She didn’t know what to say. Desperate for something, anything to keep her mind busy and away from the task at hand, she wanted to say, kiss me again, please, but now it felt more traitorous than ever. Once in the heat of the moment was one thing, but to ask for it?

So she said, “Okay.”

John’s eyes swept over her, slow and leisurely. “If you need me,” he continued, “come find me.”

Blood rushed to her face. Fuck fuck fuck, so fucking bad, this is so fucking bad. She opened her mouth to say, I won’t, but before she could muster the words out of her mouth John turned and walked away, heading to the church and leaving her alone.

Alone with that strange, hungry animal inside of her.

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John could not stop thinking about her.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she tasted when she said his name against his mouth, or the way she squirmed and whimpered the second his fingers brushed bare skin. Fuck, he wanted to know what her scars were from—wanted to run his mouth along each one until he could dip lower, drag his teeth against the soft skin and make her say his name in a different way.

So close, he thought idly, the sounds she made replaying themselves in his head. I was so close, I almost had her, she was almost mine.

It would be bad to push—he needed to exercise patience. Her friend was missing, after all. The next time he got so close, he wanted her to ask for it; he wanted her to say please, John, the way that had become so easy for her to say as of late, but more. He wanted her to twist her fingers in his hair and beg him to put his mouth on her. And he would, if she did. He’d do anything she asked, if she just made that noise again.

I want I want I want, something in him chanted, hungry, demanding. I want her, she’s mine, all mine, nobody else’s.

An hour passed. He stepped out of the church and made his way across the yard, feeling more composed than before; he would be fine to wait, he thought. It would make it all the sweeter when she came around.

John knocked on the door to the bunkhouse and waited a few seconds before stepping inside. Elliot stirred on one of the beds, sitting up a little; her face was warm from sleep and whatever panic had been rushing through her before seemed mostly abated.

“Are they back?” she asked, kicking her legs out from under the blanket.

“Not yet,” John replied, pausing. “How are you feeling?”

Elliot eyed him with a sort of wanting wariness; as though she wasn’t going to allow herself to fall victim again, even though she wanted to. It was more than she’d given him, anyway. “Fine,” she answered briskly.

“Just fine?” John prompted.

“Just fine.”

Another silence stretched between them. John said, “Elliot, I meant it when I said—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Elliot interrupted. “There’s—it’s—”

“It’s?” John waited, again, while she worked the words around in her head.

“I don’t—know,” she managed out at last. “It’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he said idly, taking a few steps over to her. “If you don’t want it to be.”

“You said it yourself,” Elliot pointed out, “you would do anything for them. Right?”

He paused, watching her. “Yes.”

“Even,” Elliot continued, “try and—with me—”

John blinked. “Pardon?”

“Try and fuck me,” the blonde bit out, “so that I’ll—so that I won’t try and put them away. So I won’t try and kill Joseph. So I’ll—”

She cut herself off, then, stopping. John thought, She really doesn’t stop, does she? That brain of hers just won’t stop turning. Because, perhaps, those moments that she had seen John straining for Joseph’s effort like she said—those moments that had been spent with Joseph saying things like, I think you’re doing great with the deputy, or I don’t have anything to worry about, then, made his fingers itch. Something in him was hurtling, careening to make Elliot his in every way. Before anyone else.

“Elliot,” he said curtly, boxing those thoughts away to keep his composure, “please do not condescend to me about the draconian machinations you think are behind the fact that I want to fuck you.”

She sucked in a sharp little breath, like she was doing her best to control her temper about what he’d just said. He saw her fingers curling absently into the sheet, and then loosening and curling again. Her lashes fluttered, and she parted her lips to say something, but nothing came out; when she turned her face away from him, he could see the beginnings of a bruise blooming where his teeth had met her skin.

John narrowed his eyes. “If you can tell me that—”

But he was interrupted by the sound of shouting outside, the rattle of a truck’s engine coming to a slow and then shutting off. Elliot’s gaze flickered from his to the door and she reached for her boots. “Is that them?”

Fuck, John thought. Deal with the matter at hand, and then finish this. Patience was a virtue, as Joseph would say. “I’ll check.”

He turned, opening the door to see Jacob pulling the truck around. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes since he had walked into the bunkhouse. Elliot would want to get out and find Joey as soon as possible, and then —

Joseph was already outside, and when John stepped out into the yard, his brother said, “John—” and his voice plunged over the proverbial cliff; when their eyes met, Joseph’s feet carried him forward, an eerie and unsettling urgency to his tone.

John hesitated in his movements as anxiety settled in the pit of his stomach. The last thing that he wanted was to see the thing that made Joseph say his name that way , whatever it was—whatever monster had crawled out from under the bed.

But it was too late. Against his better judgment, and against his personal wishes, his eyes strayed innately, searching searching searching for the source of duress so that he could eliminate it, until finally he found it, planted right in the middle of the compound: Joey Hudson.

Joey Hudson sat up cross-legged, her jaw broken in her skin and hung slack like a horror monster, her dark eyes glazed over and empty. From her mouth spilled the most brilliant bouquet of wildflowers John thought he had ever seen—but it was nothing, nothing compared to the voluminous collection of flowers that filled up the cavernous hole of her chest.

It was bursting with blossoms and verdant ferns. Fresh. Not a single bloom wilted. Recent. She was so packed-full of them that he thought, surely, they’d had to have broken her ribs out of her and tossed them to make room. The harsh lights lining the compound bathed her in a most unforgiving, cruel fluorescent glow, so that there was no mistaking any detail; each flower picked and placed with insane, meticulous care. He felt his stomach churn.

Jacob’s truck had pulled in just behind it. It was his voice shouting at the men to stay, his commanding presence that tried to root John back to the earth as his brain mindlessly fizzed static around the corpse laid out in front of him, his feet carrying him forward despite his better judgement, despite the alarm bells screaming for him to go back. All thoughts of his conversation with Elliot were wiped clean from his brain, bashed in and crumbled to dust under the sight before him.

“What’s wrong?”

Elliot’s voice jarred him out of the strangely-dulcet reverie the gruesome, discordant corpse had put him into, like a spell suddenly broken. He thought, very quickly, Elliot is going to be devastated, and then, I have to stop her, she can’t see this.

When John turned to look at her, his hands instinctively went up, in a foolish act of trying to block it from her view. It was no use; her eyes fixed on it immediately, having come out before he could notice, in plain view of Hudson’s decorated body.

“No no no no—”

Her voice wobbled and filled with dread. John reached for her. He thought, if I can hold her; he thought, if she would just let me hold her; but Elliot had never before, and he didn’t know why he had thought she would now. She shoved his arms away from her, the anguished noise that came out of her ripping right through his sternum.

The blonde took one, two, three steps before she stumbled, and John’s arms went for her, circling around her waist to keep her from the ground and keep her from Joey, and she howled, grief and rage welling out of her in a sound that John wished he had never, ever had to hear.

“Stop looking, El,” he said helplessly, the feeling of her body crumpling over the circle of his arms nearly pulling him down with her; her feet found purchase on the ground, and she pulled at his grip, sobbing an incoherent train of no’s over and over until she was wrenching her whole body like a wild animal to get loose. Doing the only thing that she knew how to do, anymore: hit, and hurt, and try to get free.

She moaned, viciously, “Don’t fucking touch me ,” and he grabbed her wrists to still her, to stop her from hitting him. Over and over, she said, “This is your fucking fault—this is your fault, I’ll fucking kill you, I’ll kill you, John Seed—”

“Elliot,” John said over her howling, “I have you.”

Elliot cried, and cried and cried, until all she had the energy left to do was cry, rattling deep in the cavity of her chest where the rest of the sickness still lingered; she cried and John gripped her wrists and pulled her forward until her face was against his chest and he said, “I have you, I have you,” again, because that was all he could say to her; there was nothing else that he could give her.

Her fingers curled and uncurled weakly into fists. He was only vaguely aware, over the sounds of her grief and misery, of Joseph telling Jacob to get help to move the body; he registered the voices somewhere in the back of his mind, but all he could really think about was the way Elliot slumped against him, digging her nails into her palms over and over again as she cried until he slid his hands to hers to keep her fingers laid flat.

John pushed the hair from her face. Her cheeks were flushed red from her grief, her bottom lashes—normally so blonde and fine—a dark, mousy color from the tears. His hands took her face and he said, “Look at me,” and he pressed their foreheads together. “Just you and me. Don’t—look over there, stay here, with me.”

“I can’t.” Her voice broke. She sobbed; the sound of it rattled somewhere deep inside John’s skull, locked itself in his jaw, to haunt him, forever. “I can’t, I can’t —I hate you—”

He said, helplessly again, “I know, El.”

Her breaths rattled, laborious and exhausted, from somewhere deep inside of her where Grief had made its permanent home. She lifted her head and sucked in another breath, a sharper one, but as soon as she saw Jacob moving towards Hudson’s body, she lurched forward.

“Don’t.” The words came out of her like something wretched, something vicious. Jacob, blissfully, stopped; the lines of his expression were hard, and unforgiving, but he seemed to be waiting rather than doing it out of spite. For once. “Don’t you fucking touch her, don’t—”

“We have to move her body,” John said; just like that, the words crushed her, brutalized her under agony’s weight. The words her body seemed to have cut her right to the quick, and if he hadn’t been holding her, he thought she might have collapsed on the ground.

“My Joey,” she moaned. Agonized, an animal trapped and wailing to be let go . “What did they do to her? What did they do to you? John—”

A near-midnight breeze carried the voices of the Eden’s Gate members just ahead, and Joey Hudson’s corpse stirred, petals fluttering and dark hair drifting in the breeze. For a second in time, she had been resurrected—just one second—where the horror of her murder melded into something more monstrous than before.

And Elliot, saying his name in a way that said help me. All of her vitriol, and all of her poison, and all of the times she’d said I’ll rip your fucking eyes out or I’ll kill you, and now she was here—gripping him, holding him tight, like he was the last thing in the entire world that was going to keep her anchored to the earth. Each dreadful noise of heartache that came out of her tolled like a bell inside of him, vibrating its discordant song over and over again.

I need you, help me.

John wrapped her up in his arms more securely. “Let Jacob move her somewhere quiet, Elliot.”

The sorrow hiccuped in her chest. She tried to say something, but the words came out broken, merely fragments of the sentence she’d been wanting, and she stopped her squirming; when John was able to turn her away from the gruesome sight, Jacob began moving again, speaking in a low, urgent tone to another member of Eden’s Gate.

It felt like he was in a dream as he walked her into the church. The time between Hudson’s corpse and the doors seemed both to stretch on forever and pass in a blink; once inside the dark, quiet chapel, the door closed behind them, John found himself releasing a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He guided Elliot to a nearby pew, sitting her down; as he settled between her knees, palms flat on the tops of her thighs, Elliot sucked in a deep, shuddering breath.

“John,” she said, and he waited for her to finish her sentence but she didn’t; each time she opened her mouth, all that came out of it was a wet, agonized sob, the kind that dragged the grit right out of her chest, shuddering and hoarse. She tried again: “ John ,” and he took her hands and held them in his.

“I know,” he said. And then that nasty, wicked little monster inside of him; finally, finally, finally, it chanted, Elliot crumpling at the waist to bury her face, wet with tears, against their clasped hands. Finally finally finally. Mine, all mine, mine and nobody else’s.

It should have made him feel guilty. He should have felt bad about it. John knew it; he knew what kinds of emotions were expected out of people in times like this, what people looked for, but he didn’t. He didn’t feel guilty at all.

“El,” he murmured against her hair, “you have to breathe.”

“I can’t,” she sobbed, “I can’t.”

Poor, desolate little hellcat, he thought, knelt between her legs as she cried. Poor, agonized hellcat.

“You can,” John said. “For me.”

She did. One long, arduous breath in, and then another, and another, until her breathing was normal and she was emptied out. Only the hollow grief remained; her gaze lackluster, empty, searching idly for somewhere safe and soft to land.

“I have to find him,” she whispered, her voice rasping raw in her throat.

“We will.” He watched her, and though her eyes never landed on him, her hand still clutched his, nails digging into his skin like she thought she was going to float away. Like she was afraid he’d leave. She finally looked at him.

“Swear,” Elliot said. “Swear we’ll find him, and kill him—rip him apart—”

Just like that, the grief was reformed; he saw it happen, the way she gripped it, mangled it in her hands, even when it bloodied her with its edges. Twisted it into something useful. Anything to fit it, slot it right into her like one more missing piece in her puzzle. There was no room for sadness in there: only anger. Only wrath.

What do we do with grief?

“I swear,” John insisted. She was so full of it; vengeance, burning straight through her, so easily flipped on. And all his.

“I mean it, John.”

“I told you,” he said. “Anything you want.”

#john seed x deputy #john seed x oc #far cry 5 #far cry #my writing #fic: ancient names #ch: elliot honeysett #ch: john seed #i have nothing to say for myself except im sorry

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