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eyndr-stories · 2 years ago

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Untitled Goose Fic

In Summary:

It's a lovely night in Freddy Fazbear's Mega Pizza-Plex, and you are a horrible goose. That's it that's the fic lmao

Super short, just the one chapter, and packed full of silly shenanigans! You are a goose a la 'untitled goose game' and you decide to have some good silly goose fun for a night in the plex! You confuse and maybe even befriend baffled animatronics and knock a lot of things over and do a considerable amount of honking. That's all, its just a silly fun little fic! Enjoy!! <3

Things To Know:

Not a lot to warn for this one! Not even any swearing. You (the goose) are never really in danger. Well, you do break a window, but you are unharmed from the afair lol

Reader insert, you're a goose!

Just a touch under 6,000 words in total

No dialogue, as a goose you are unconcerned with the nonsense noises other creatures make

No afton or vanny, barely any plot to this at all. the only antagonist really is you haha

You really just run around in the plex for a night and cause a lot of ultimately harmless trouble. That's it!

Ao3 link here!

It’s a lovely night in Freddy Fazbear’s Mega Pizza-Plex, and you are a horrible goose.

It couldn’t be said how a whole entire goose found their way into one of the most secure buildings in the city, one fateful night. Genuinely, the day following had the employees scratching their noggins cluelessly as they poured over security footage trying to figure it out.

Regardless, there you were, a glorious grey feathered goose, standing proud on two little orange flipper feet by the main entrance, locked and heavy shutter doors behind you and neon-lit grand halls before you. It didn’t matter how you’d gotten in, because when a goose wants something, by golly there isn’t a force on this earth or beyond that can stop them.

And what you wanted was, of course, to cause as much mischief as physically possible in the next six hours before the building opened once more.

The trash cans were a perfect place to start. They were nearly twice as tall as you, and cutely decorated with fun colors. The empty cans were no match for you, toppling with minimal effort beneath your mighty will. Letting out a triumphant honk, and now with a taste for success and eager for more, you turned your long neck and swiveled your sights for the next target of your shenanigans.

Movement caught your eye beyond the empty ticket lines. You waddled over to the gates and peeked underneath one. A pair of robotic guards wheeled themselves in synchronization around a fountain, protecting the way past shuttered shops and up to the next floor. These bots, you noticed, were wearing fancy hats.

You would look so dashing wearing one of those hats…

Now with a new objective acquired, you squeezed under the gate and waddled around the perimeter of the two bot’s paths, your flipper feet slapping against the tile floor. You waited for an opening, then dashed across the floor towards the fountain. You flapped your majestic wings as you neared, and with a hop, you landed on the wide rim of the fountain.

You paused upon realizing just how shiny the water was. Ah, but this was a trick you’d fallen for before- it wasn’t the water that was shiny, it was the coins scattered below the surface. Those might be useful later, but for now, you already had a mission to complete.

The robots were wheeling their way back around, so you quickly hopped into the water and ducked to hide yourself from view, peeking just barely over the ledge. You waited for one of the bots to get close enough, and then let out a quiet honk.

The bot stopped and turned towards the noise, but you’d already ducked back down. You heard the quiet whir of a motor as the bot rolled closer to investigate. You waited patiently until the bot peeked over the rim of the fountain.

With a big splash and several flaps of your wings, you launched yourself up out of the water at the bot. You straightened your neck and snapped your beak shut over the bill of the hat as you crashed into the bot, sending you both toppling backwards.

The bot seemed to be water proof, but with the amount of water you’d splashed onto the floor, the bot’s wheels had a hard time keeping their traction, and the bot was unable to keep from slipping and tipping backwards, crashing onto their back. They fumbled with their funky hands, trying to grab you, but you were already using the robot’s head as a launching point to propel yourself away from the situation.

You landed smoothly a few feet away, leaving the flailing robot behind. The other bot was after you now though, having seen the commotion. With your prize gripped tight in your beak, you waddled for the stairs as fast as your little legs would carry you.

You hopped your way nearly halfway up the staircase before you realized you were no longer being pursued; it seemed the bots with their wheels could not navigate the steps. Success!

What was even better, you had a perfect view to watch as the second bot attempted to help right the downed bot. The second bot’s wheels slipped in the water puddle, and they fell atop the first bot, who flung their arms out in defeat. A third bot, this one wielding a mop, made their way towards the scene as you honked in delight.

It took some careful positioning with the help of the edge of a stair, but you managed to get the hat you’d stolen on your head. Curses! The hat was far too big for your little goose head. It obscured almost your entire vision and wobbled loosely as you turned your head. Ah, well. You discarded the hat and your interest in it, leaving both behind as you carried on up the steps, hoping for more correctly sized hats in the areas beyond.

Peeking over the top steps, you spied another robot rolling around up here. You weren’t interested in them; you’d already had your fun with the first bots. You ducked instead around the corner and down a long hall.

This area was thankfully devoid of pesky bots. The hall lead you to a wide and disappointing shutter door. You were approaching the door to give it a disdainful peck, but it slid open on its own as you neared. Ha! As it should; as a gorgeous goose, the world should rightfully bend to your every wish!

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much of interest in the room beyond. You were about to turn tail and head back the way you’d came, but you spied a colorful sort of hole in the far wall, right at your height, and sized just for you. As all things should be!

You waddled over to investigate. The tunnel curved downwards.

Where did this funny tunnel go??

Curious, you stepped into the tunnel. You took only a step before realizing just how slippery this tunnel was. Your flippered feet were no match for the trackless texture, and you were suddenly sliding down the tunnel.

With an undignified honk, you landed in what you quickly realized was a horrible mockery of a pond. Instead of water, you found yourself swimming in colorful orbs, which were just as slippery as the tunnel had been. You flapped your wings and struggled to get any sort of footing or stability. After quite a lot of struggling and desperate honks, you managed to kick your way to shore. The ground here was squishy and unstable beneath your flippers, like loose mud, but it was still much better than the cursed orbs.

With your feathers sufficiently ruffled, you hissed disdainfully at the pond of orbs, then turned to face this weird new place you’d found yourself in.

You were often baffled by some of the structures those silly humans would construct, but this place topped them all. The ceiling was almost like the sky, but you knew stars, and while these lights were similar, they didn’t quite make the cut. They did provide enough dim light to see that there were places here to climb, places to hide, places to perch. And all of it was just your size! Every opening and tunnel, while maybe a tad bit big, were definitely much more goose-size than human-size. these funny structures may be odd, but they were clearly just for you!

You were excited to explore, but before you could put your first flipper forward, you heard a noise behind you. It seemed your struggle with the cursed pond had attracted some unwanted attention.

You were already spreading your wings to intimidate this new foe before you even got a good look at them. When you did, confusion had you pausing to deliberate.

This creature coming out of the orb pond didn’t look like a human at first, but the longer you looked at them, the more human-like they seemed. They had the right number of limbs for a human, and they were roughly human-shaped, but the coloring was strange, and you couldn’t recall any humans you’d seen being quite this shiny.

Speaking of shiny, your eyes locked on something especially shiny; this not-human creature was wearing a hat, and while unfortunately it looked much too big for your head, at the end of this long hat was a beautiful shiny golden bell. Even better- there were several more smaller bells tied on pretty red ribbons to the not-human’s wrists.

You desperately wanted one of those bells, preferably the big one. And what a goose wants, they get.

The not-human was making some very human-like noises at you, but you had never been very concerned with the strange noises of humans. All you were concerned about right now was that big shiny bell, and how to get it.

You folded your wings and honked experimentally. You knew from experience that sometimes, if you appeared friendly, small humans would sometimes approach, bringing with them whatever tasty snacks or shiny objects they were holding. This creature was not small, and you were barely convinced they were human, but it was worth a shot.

Sure enough, the creature crouched down. Their head spun strangely at you, swinging that beautiful bell around. It rang prettily, steeling your resolve even further. You bobbed your head and took a step closer, eyes locked on your prize. The creature watched you curiously as you approached, unaware of your plots.

As soon as you were close enough, you extended your neck and snapped up the end of the creature’s hat. You pulled backwards, flapping your wings to assist, and yanked the hat free. The creature made a noise of surprise, but you were already fleeing the other way, hat and attached bell firmly in your grasp. You waddled into one of the plentiful hiding spaces nearby, carrying your lovely prize through winding tunnels.

You could hear the not-human outside, making all kinds of loud and upset noises, but you were unbothered. You found a corner beside another one of those slippery tunnels and dropped your prize. You pecked at the bell. It jingled merrily, and you honked in delight.

You were so enraptured by the resplendence of the bell, you didn’t notice that the not-human’s noises were getting louder until it was too late. They were clambering through the tunnels after you, somehow maneuvering their much larger frame through the space with minimal trouble. You tried to fan your wings threateningly, but you couldn’t unfold them to their full extent in the cramped space. The not-human grabbed for the hat and your beautiful bell. You hissed and tried to bite their hand, but it was as hard as stone. You were unable to deter the not-human as they snatched their hat back.

You honked angrily and stamped your little feet. This was an outrage! The not-human had just stolen your bell!!

The not-human fixed you with its gaze, then reached for you next, making more nonsense human noises at you. You did not want to be grabbed, so you quickly spun around, flapping your wings, and dove down the slippery tunnel. You felt the not-humans fingers on the backs of your wings, but they were unable to grab you before you slipped out of reach.

The tunnel spat you back out on the other side of the structure, putting it between you and the orb pond. You could hear the not-human already clambering after you, so you hurried off in search of a new hidey-hole.

You couldn’t spot anywhere to hide small enough that the not-human wouldn’t be able to follow. You did spy a very bright and shiny glowing square on the near wall, though. Instantly changing focus, you stopped to peck at the shiny square, hoping it was something you could grab. A consolidation prize perhaps, for loosing your beloved bell. You had to take a running start and jump for it, but you managed to peck at the square.

You were unable to grab the shiny thing. In fact, it stopped being shiny altogether. Also, it was suddenly a lot brighter, as if the full moon had just come out from behind the cover of clouds.

Now disinterested in the weird little square, you turned to resume your original task of hiding from the not-human. You turned back around, but the not-human was nowhere to be seen.

Even stranger, standing a few feet away was an entirely different not-human creature. This one had strange pointy hair all around their face, and they were an entirely different and still not typical-human color. You swiveled your head around, but you couldn’t spot the first not-human anywhere. Perhaps they’d only wanted their hat back and had given up on grabbing you?

This new creature was making all kinds of human-like noises at you. They sat down and leaned forwards, offering a hand out to you.

You were about to tell this not-human to keep their distance with a nip, but you noticed that they had small bells tied to their wrists too, just like the first not-human. They weren’t as big and beautiful as the bell you’d lost, but they were still very nice. You nodded your head closer, wondering if you could nab these.

The not-human saw this as an invitation, and reached closer to you. They pet your head, making happy noises at you as they did. You might have been annoyed, but that actually did feel quite nice, and the sound the tiny bells made was lovely. You allowed the not-human to smooth out your ruffled feathers for a moment.

The not-human’s other arm rested idly over the ground. You eyed the bells on that wrist, wondering how tightly they were tied on. You gave them an experimental nip. The bells jingled lightly. You let out a cheerful honk and jostled them again.

The not-human made another noise, then pulled their other hand away. They deftly undid the knot holding the bells on their wrist in place. They held either end of the pretty red ribbon in their hands, then carefully came towards you again. A moment later, the bells were tied snugly around your neck.

You wiggled your neck, and sure enough, the bells sang sweetly. And the ribbon looked so dashing too! Delighted, you honked happily and shook the bells again.

The not-human made a happy noise and clapped their hands. They made more noises, then held up one of their fingers before jumping up and running off.

Huh, they must have other business to attend to. Unconcerned by the creature’s affairs and pleased with the positive exchange, you turned and left to get back to your own business.

You spied a very tall set of doors, through the crack in which you could see someplace new beyond. It took a bit of pecking and some nudging, but you had the door pushed open in no time. You slipped through and waddled on your way. There was still quite a lot of time left in the night, and plenty more mischief to be had.

~~~

As a goose, you know that you are a wonderful and powerful creature. There isn't much that stands in your way when you get your heart set on something. However, there are still trials and challenges every goose comes to face at some point or another. There are even, at times, enemies.

You’ve seen wild dogs before, but none quite as fearsome as this one. This creature had the head of a wolf, claws and tail to boot, but it stood with the form of a human, giving them extra height. The two of you spotted each other at the same moment, both frozen in each other’s gaze.

The air was tense, and you were nervous. You do not typically run from a fight, but this human-wolf was a bit much even for you. You turned tail and fled for your life. Luckily, the wolf did not think it wise to pursue, and you quickly left the creature behind.

The room you’d fled into lead you instead to a different creature, another part human, part something else sort of being. You were starting to sense a theme with this place. Is this strange place how humans come to be?? If you stayed here long enough, would you start to become more human-like too?

Putting your contemplative queries aside for now, you studied this new creature. They were, to your delight, adorned with feathers and a sharp yellow beak. You honked a polite hello.

The creature jumped, startled by the noise. They turned away from an empty trash can and looked at you. They made some surprised human noises at you, to your despair.

You tried honking again, not giving up on striking up a friendly conversation just yet. There was a pause, and then the bird-human gave you a friendly bock and some clucks.

Ah, they spoke a different language! Unfortunately, you hadn’t paid any attention in goose school, and barely had a hatchling’s grasp of chicken.

You managed an awkward but polite hello and attempted to tell the bird-human that you only spoke goose. Unfortunately, after a few more exchanged clucks and bocks, you gathered that they did not speak your language either.

The bird-human made a few sad noises and nudged the empty garbage can. Ah, they were lamenting their hunger to you. You recalled all the cans you’d toppled so far had been empty as well. Usually cans like these had human treats inside to snack on, but it seemed both you and the bird-human hadn’t had much luck tonight. You still delighted in toppling the cans, but understood the let down of a sub-par can on an empty stomach.

Maybe there was still some way you could help a feathered fowl friend out. You knew how bad feeling hungry made you feel, and you hated to think your new bird-human friend was feeling that way.

Your mind returned to the shiny water of the fountain by the building’s entrance. You knew a trick to turn the shiny coins in the water into food, but there were apparently wolves on the prowl. But… you’d rather not let your new friend face the wolf in search of food. And you knew about the wolf and their general location, so surely it was safer for you to go anyways.

You decided you would be brave in the name of friendship with this strange bird-human. You honked a quick goodbye, saying you’d be right back, though you weren’t sure if your friend understood. They watched you curiously as you left.

Luckily, you made it past the wolf-human without issue. Perhaps they’d moved on to a different area… you’d have to keep an eye out to be sure you didn’t run into them again. In the meantime, you returned to the fountain at the front of the building.

Those robots from before were back on their regular paths, and the puddle you’d made had been mopped up. Even so, you didn’t have too much trouble sneaking through to the fountain. You dove into the water and scooped up a beak full of shiny coins. You did have to make a hasty escape as the sound of your new bells drew the bot’s attention, but knowing they couldn’t pursue you up the stairs made your escape relatively easy.

On the way back, you found exactly what you were looking for. This building had several of these big glowing human-made machines. They turned these shiny human coins into tasty snacks, and all you had to do was put enough shiny coins into the machine and peck at the buttons. This didn’t work all of the time, and sometimes the machines wanted more coins than others, but you were hoping the coins you had were enough.

Luck was on your side tonight. The machine gifted you with a shiny little package in exchange for your coins. You resisted the urge to tear into the package right then and there, and instead gently grabbed the package and carried it back towards your bird-human friend.

You announced your presence with a muffled but triumphant honk as you nudged your way back into the room. Your friend was here waiting for you, and made a surprised noise at your return.

You waddled forwards and set the package in front of your friend. You honked, telling them the food was for them. You stood proud and pleased as they picked up the package and examined it. With the skillful fingers of a human, your friend opened and peeled away the shiny outside, revealing the tasty food within.

You couldn’t understand chicken, but you knew a happy sound when you heard it. Your friend ate the snack you’d gotten for them, but they broke off a piece and held it out for you.

They were sharing?? How sweet! This must be a thanks for your effort. You accepted and ate the offered piece. It was quite tasty, as most human foods were.

Your friend ate the rest of the food, including the shiny outside. They gently pat your head and made more happy noises at you. You replied with a humble honk.

With an alliance struck, you decided to keep exploring for a bit. Beyond another door, you found a strange sort of tunnel network with confusingly connected pathways. The walls were all colored strangely, and you couldn’t make much sense of it. You did manage to find a small off-chute that was much more your size. You had to duck a little, but you fit through the opening with ease. This tunnel was much smoother, and your flippered feet echoed as you waddled through, but luckily you didn’t have too much trouble navigating it.

At least, until the spider creature already living in this tunnel came chasing you down one of the off chutes.

The spider scurried around and clapped its noisy hands at you until you tumbled out of the tunnel. It didn’t pursue you outside of the tunnel, so you relaxed and got your bearings.

You were standing on a mesh pathway, hanging high above thankfully orb-less ponds and bushy plants and strange grass. A few of the ponds were unfortunately occupied by alligators… crocodiles? You couldn't tell the difference; they all looked really strange. They were acting strange too, each one popping out of the water to lurch towards the same spots. You couldn't see what they were trying to jump at, if anything.

It could be a trick, you'd seen fake predators before. Thoughtful humans liked to put them out sometimes in gardens, to keep other creatures away from your food. That’s what these gators must be, just fakes. Which meant there was likely a garden of some sort nearby. Score!

You spread your wings and flew down, landing in a pond. You realized the ponds were not actually entirely orb-free, but were still almost entirely water. Small orbs of all different colors littered the bottom of the pond. You dove down and gave one an experimental peck, but it was as hard as a rock. Not food, and not even especially shiny. You quickly lost interest in the orbs.

You climbed out of the pond and shook off the excess water. You were pleased to hear your little bells chime as you did. You started waddling around to investigate the area, searching for this alleged garden. You didn't make it very far before you encountered another creature, this one decidedly not fake.

The gator-human pointed a finger at you as they made confused noises, then swiveled their snout skywards. They looked back at you. Meanwhile you were definitely not panicking over the fact that one of the gators had turned out to be real after all. This was no time to loose your cool, though.

You didn't have the advantage of numbers, so your best bet to defeat this foe was to make yourself as big and intimidating as possible. You fanned out your feathers and stood as tall as you could, then let loose your most vicious hiss as you stared the gator-human down.

The gator-human only stared at you. Drat! This must be quite the foe, to not even flinch in the face of your ferocious display. If you were quick, maybe you could still flee.

Your wings were already out, so you took off, veering sharply to the left. The gator-human made more noises at you, but you quickly left them behind. You spied another door from the air, and put on an extra burst of speed, getting there with enough time to spare to get the door open in case the gator-human was in pursuit.

You left the gator infested ponds behind, and whatever secret gardens they might be hiding. Defeated, you waddled your way down the hall.

Honestly, you'd thought there would be way more mischief to be had here. Sure, you'd had quite a bit of fun at first, but if you kept running into predators like this, you might as well call the whole thing off. It was getting close to opening time by now anyways, and you didn't really want to be here when all the humans came back.

You found your way into a wider curved hall. As a goose, your innate sense of direction was of course incredible, so you knew you weren't far at all from the entrance. You jingled miserably down the hall, weaving around tall square stumps with shiny glass tops. There were strange objects on display atop each stump, but you didn’t feel very motivated to do anything about them.

At least you'd gotten these nice bells out of all of this. Their lovely sound had you holding your beak a little higher. As you did, you caught sight of movement to your right.

Beyond a wall of glass and a partially withdrawn curtain was a small room you could see the entirety of. The room was full of small grabbable objects, but what had initially drawn your attention was another partly human creature. This one was yet another predator- a bear. They hadn't noticed you yet, as they were preoccupied with one of those long noise making machines you'd seen humans use before. The humans would whack the machine repeatedly and it would make all kinds of noises, some more grating than others. You were fully prepared to turn tail and skedaddle, but before you could, you spotted something atop the bear's head.

No… it couldn't be.

Sitting on the top of the bear's head was the most stylish hat you'd ever seen. And it was just your size. It was much too small for the bear! Surely such a hat would look much better on your head.

That settled it. Regardless of the bear, you were not leaving here without that hat.

Exploring the perimeter of the room, you found a door that would let you inside, but it rudely refused to open for you. Studying the door, you realized you'd seen doors like this before. The door would only open if you put one of those little human devices on the glowing square next to the door. The device you knew was rectangular, thin, usually shiny, and floated in water. If there were a human nearby you might be able to nab one, but alas, there were no humans. You'd have to find one elsewhere.

You fixed your goosey gaze back on the hall. There were many objects to be grabbed here atop those square stumps, but none were the device you sought. You decided to explore a little more to see if you'd have better luck elsewhere. You'd get that hat, one way or another. Your heart was set on it now. You really needed the win, after all the trials of the night.

Your exploration lead you to another door you couldn't open. This one was different, it had no panel and required a different kind of human device. You could only handle so many rude doors at once. Maybe there was a different way inside? This door had a window, big enough for you to fit through, if only there weren't a pane of glass in the way.

Glass you knew could be broken, but you had to be careful, because glass could bite you if it was broken. You were more a much more brash goose than a careful one, but you were running out of time. You returned to the hall where you'd spotted your future hat and took a look at the square stumps once more.

You needed something heavy looking, maybe even sharp. Just your luck, you found an item on display that fit the bill exactly. It was dull and not very shiny, but it looked heavy, and the object curled into a point on one end. Some sort of hook? Whatever it was, it would suit your needs perfectly.

With a flap of your wings and a well placed flipper kick, you put your trash can tipping experience to use and toppled the stump. The glass top luckily didn't shatter, but it did pop right off as it hit the floor, and the object inside rolled across the carpet. You allowed for a victory honk before getting back to business. The hook was heavy, just as you'd suspected, but it was no match for your strong and incredible goose powers. You hefted it back over to the windowed door.

Your first attempt to fly at the door and launch the hook at the window was unsuccessful, as was your second. You were determined, though. You thought of that stylish hat, more stylish than any other hat you'd ever seen before, and how incredible you would look wearing it. Your third attempt went better- the point of your hook hit the glass window straight on, and the glass started to break, spider webs of fractures appearing within the frame.

With one last attempt, you finally shattered the window. Your hook clattered to the floor on the other side along with a shower of broken glass. You wasted no time climbing through the window. Thankfully, you managed to avoid getting bit by any glass.

You explored the small room, but your hope began to wane as you realized how boring this room was. You stood atop a desk and took in a few boring human machines and an uncomfortable looking chair. There were a few small objects on the desk, and some uninteresting boxes along the left wall. No rectangle devices. Curses! After all that, your efforts had been fruitless.

You did find on the desk something that looked a lot like the bear-human you'd seen. It was just a head though, some sort of subpar decoy perhaps? It was wearing a hat, but this hat was different than the stylish one you'd seen the real deal wearing. This decoy's hat didn't even come off when you tried to grab it. You pecked at the head in frustration, thinking about how you were out of ideas now on getting into that room. You might just have to leave here hat-less after all.

To your surprise, the decoy head made a weird little noise upon being pecked, then opened its maw. You were about to hiss when you saw what was inside- no way! It was a rectangle device!

You took the rectangle with ease from the decoy, clutching it tight in your beak as you quickly left the room the way you'd come in. you couldn't believe it, you'd found what you were looking for after all!

Back at the bear-human's room, you faced down the rude door once more. It took a few tries of tossing the rectangle up at the glowing square, but you eventually managed to hit it. The door slid open at long last, and you grabbed your rectangle and proudly waddled into the room.

The bear-human was surprised to see you. They made several confused noises and set down their noise making machine. You fearlessly waddled right up to them and demanded via muffled honks that they hand over that stylish hat at once.

The bear looked at the rectangle in your beak and slowly held out a hand, palm up, as if asking for the item. They made more confused human noises at you. You shook your head and honked again, your gaze locked on that hat. It was so close, so stylish, so glorious! You had to have it! You'd come too far to leave here without it. You didn't want to have to fight the bear-human, but if push came to shove, you'd do what you had to do to get that hat.

The bear-human made a few more noises at you, then pointed a finger up at their hat. You honked and flapped your wings excitedly. Had the bear-human understood you after all??

The bear-human plucked the hat from their head and held it out. They also held out their other hand again, palm up. Ah, a trade! Lucky for you, you didn't need the rectangle anymore. You gladly handed it over in exchange for the hat.

Slowly, carefully, the bear-human set the hat atop your head, the fingers of their other hand curling over the rectangle. You felt the weight of the sturdy little hat on your head, and you could see it in the reflection of the glass beyond the curtains.

You looked amazing.

You took a moment to bask in the glory of your stylish new hat, and all you'd done to get to this point. The bear-human made curious noises at you, but you weren't paying any attention to them at this point.

With a start you remembered you'd been on your way to leave, and surely you were nearly out of time now. You turned back to the bear-human and bobbed your head to them, honking a polite thanks before turning tail and quickly waddling back out the way you'd come in. The door opened for you without fuss and slid shut behind you as you left.

You returned to the front entrance, standing once more by the big shutter doors. As you were adorned with lovely bells and ribbons and an incredibly stylish hat, you felt this night had been a definite success. You reminisced on all the mischief and fun you'd had tonight. You thought as well about what kind of shenanigans you'd get up to tomorrow night, but first things first; you were very tired after the full night of misconduct, and you wanted nothing more than to return home to your cozy creek in the park for a well earned nap.

A few moments later, the shutters lifted on the front doors, and you strolled out with ease, much to the bewilderment of the humans making their way towards the open doors. You paid them no mind as you quickly waddled your way into the trees and back towards your creek.

As dawn broke over the city, you settled at long last into you nest of moss and leaves, partially hidden under the strong branches of an azalea bush and facing your quiet little creek. You shook your neck, your new bells singing delightfully. You laid down your exceptionally stylish head. You drifted off easily, and you dreamed of mischief.

~THE END~

#6000 words of straight up silliness lol i hope yall enjoy <3 #fnaf sb fic #fnaf sb #fnaf security breach #fnaf au untitled goose fic #untitled goose fic #silly fic #untitled goose game fic #fnaf reader insert #reader insert #security breach #fnaf y/n

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ciaossu-imagines · 2 years ago

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Hello, hello, my lovelies! Since I've gotten zero bites for asks for my other non-KHR/K fandoms, I'm going to host a little special event before my box reopens (after I finish writing fic and have posts done for all my fandoms) and I have another big event! So, this is how it's going to work!

I have exactly 42 fandoms, if I'm counting right. Below you'll find all 42 fandoms listed. Under those fandoms, you'll find a list of 42 AU's. I'll accept 1 request per fandom and one request per AU. For example, if someone requests KHR and mermaids, for example, I'll cross out both KHR and Mermaids and neither the fandom nor the AU can be requested for anymore. It's first come, first serve and I'll do my best to keep the lists up-to-date with requests. This event will close when all prompts and fandoms are taken. You can just request a fandom or you can request a specific character or group of characters from the fandom and you can request a reader insert character as well. YOU CANNOT REQUEST SCENARIO OR HEADCANONS OR HOW EXACTLY THE PROMPT WILL BE WRITTEN OR INTERPRETED, UNLESS STATED. That will be left up to the admin and what ideas I have, honestly. Any questions, feel free to inbox me! Without further ado!

FANDOMS

KHR

K PROJECT

NANBAKA

WELCOME TO DEMON SCHOOL, IRUMA-KUN!

BUNGOU STRAY DOGS

SERVAMP

SAIYUKI

MYSTIC MESSENGER

IKEREV

EYESHIELD 21

THE OUTSIDERS

RONIN WARRIORS

KEKKAISHI

GETBACKERS

BLUSH BLUSH

CLASS OF THE TITANS

DISNEY'S ULTIMATE SPIDER-MAN

DOGS: BULLETS & CARNAGE

BLACK CAT

HUNTER X HUNTER

KARNEVAL

THE ROYAL TUTOR

GANGSTA.

PSYCHO-PASS

THE MIGHTY DUCKS

THE COVENANT

DATE WARP

SEDUCE ME THE OTOME

POWER RANGERS MYSTIC FORCE

POWER RANGERS JUNGLE FURY

POWER RANGER NINJA STORM

BLEACH

NARUTO

HARRY POTTER

AO NO EXORCIST

OURAN HIGH SCHOOL HOST CLUB

DEADMAN WONDERLAND

DURARARA!!!

SKY HIGH

HOLES

YU YU HAKUSHO

GINTAMA

AU'S

ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE

COFFEE SHOP

ROYALTY

BOARDING SCHOOL

HOGWARTS

SOULMATE (YOUR CHOICE OR LEAVE IT TO ADMIN)

VAMPIRE

WEREWOLVES

AMNESIA

ANGELS & DEMONS

ANIMAL SHELTER

DETECTIVES/BUDDY COPS

SUPERNATURAL DETECTIVE

PARANORMAL

ARRANGED MARRIAGE

RETAIL WORKERS

PARAMEDICS/DOCTORS/NURSES

MODERN DAY

SENT TO THE PAST/SET IN ANOTHER DECADE (YOUR CHOICE OR LEAVE IT TO ADMIN)

ASSASSINS/NINJAS

SUPER SPIES

AVATAR THE LAST AIRBENDER

CHILDHOOD/ELEMENTARY SCHOOL (YOUR CHOICE)

HIGH SCHOOL

OLD AGE HOME/RETIREMENT COMMUNITY

PERCY JACKSON

BABYSITTER

BATTLE ROYALE/HUNGER GAMES

PRISON

PIRATE

CIRCUS/FREAKSHOW

DELIVERY PERSON

FAIRY TALES

PRETEND DATING

HAUNTED HOUSE

HAREM/REVERSE HAREM

MERMAID

MASTER/SLAVE

HOST CLUB

MAFIA

MAGICAL GIRL/BOY

DUNGEONS & DRAGONS

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gallavichthings · 4 years ago

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This week’s interviewee might be new to the fandom, but she’s not new to fanfiction! Also: have I just found our lucky charm? Hm...

Please send all the love to Heather aka @whaticameherefor, author of Hollywood, Lineup, and Dude, where’s my car?, among others.

GT: What can you tell us about yourself?

H: Hmm, well. I'm a mom to two crazy babies, doing the stay at home thing. But I freelance as a marketing consultant since that was the field I worked in before I had kids. I've been in and out of various fandoms ever since I was a kid, all with different levels of interest, but Gallavich has been the deepest I've ever gotten and I have no regrets about that lol. I'm originally from NJ, but I've bounced up and down the east coast (with a brief stint in London a few times since that's where I met my husband) and I don't think we're quite settled for good just yet.

GT: Do you remember when you started reading fics?

H: It's been years! Back when the internet was new there were these things called zines. Basically like graphics and fics and stuff in a email newsletter. It was I guess what is called bandom now, for as certain boyband, but it was mostly reader insert/Mary Sue kinda stuff which I guess is something all 11 year olds love lol. I read a lot of fic and wrote a little too but that was in the long long ago lol. When I was older I read a lot of Mighty Ducks (the movies), Harry Potter, LoTR, took a break and then rediscovered fic with Bughead/Riverdale, which was the fandom I was in just before Gallavich. TLDR: it's been a while!

GT: I know someone is organizing a Gallavich zine, actually! [@odietamo-gallavichzine]

And is Gallavich the first fandom you write for? What made you decide to write for them?

H: I have seen it! I’m debating participating but I’m super busy and don’t want to overcommit myself. I’m definitely looking forward to it though!

They’re actually the second couple I’ve written for. Like I said, Bughead brought me back to fandom and after reading fic for a while, I wrote a whole bunch of one shots for them. As for Gallavich, I once again read fics solidly for a long time (and watched the show/their scenes a ridiculous amount of times) before I felt comfortable with writing them. They have such distinct voices and characterization and parts of their story are so sensitive and important to so many people, I always want to honor that in whatever I write — whether it’s a silly meet cute or a longer fic or whatever it is. And I decided to write for them because I was craving a different kind of s6/7 fix it/ divergent fic than I was finding. I’ve talked about it before but I just find a lot of them too biased and vengeful and that didn’t feel true to their relationship. It was the longest thing I ever wrote, to this day it still is lol, which I find funny because some people are out here writing chapters the length of fics I write lol. But I wanted to get Ian back to Mickey of his own accord and Mickey out of prison legally so he could be free and they could stand a chance at a life together. And now I can’t stop thinking of story ideas for them!

GT: What pov do you normally use?

H: I think I actually use both of them pretty evenly. For “longer” stuff I have this annoying need to be in both of their heads lol. I can’t not know what they’re thinking! Even in most of my one shots, I tend to go back and forth; only a few of them stick to a single POV, published or not. Boring answer probably lol.

GT: No, not at all, it's all interesting! Do you find one of them easier to write than the other?

H: I wouldn’t say he’s easier, but I think because Ian is a lot harder for people to understand and get right, I think I have something to offer when it comes to his POV that I enjoy writing. Mickey’s fun to write because he’s really external and a character but Ian’s really internal and I love introspection so it’s fun to explore his head lol

GT: What's the best part of writing them?

H: Superficially, I love writing their banter. But I also really love writing about their love. They have such a deep, rich history between them and I love exploring that.

GT: And what's the most difficult thing?

H: Finding the balance between wanting them to just fucking talk and also staying true to the fact that they historically suck at communicating lol

GT: Lol so true

Walk us through your writing process. What do you do when you decide to write something? Where do you get your ideas?

H: I’d say 95% of my ideas are from music lol. Sometimes it’s the story of the song itself or just a lyric or even the vibe of it, just a lot of inspiration from music. When I get an idea, I write everything down in a document — relevant lyrics, dialogue, plot points, etc just so everything is out of my head and on paper, so I don’t forget 😂 If I’m not actively working on something, I go back and add to it when I get ideas until I can focus on it. Bigger fics I outline and break down into chapters, smaller stuff I’ll just word vomit everything out lol. I need music when I write. If it’s inspired by a particular song, I start with that one, and kinda let Spotify do it’s thing. I write and edit sections until they’re where I want them to be before I can move on, I don’t really do a “first draft” at least of a whole chapter. I also don’t really write chronologically. I’ll have the end and sometimes the more exciting bits or the part that inspired the whole fic already done before anything that comes before it, then I add transitions so it makes sense, sometimes whole new scenes will pop up, and then if I must…smut. It’s always last 😂 After I reread/edit/ add on to a one shot or a chapter 50 times it’s off to my beta! Simple!

GT: Simple, she says, as if she's just described something simple lol

What kind of fics do you write most often?

H: I guess a mix. I have some AUs and a few canon compliant fill ins and then the one divergent fic published. I do have a lot more AU/divergent/adjacent ideas in my folder than compliant though so I guess I'd lean that way lol. I don't do anything to the extreme I guess in terms of angst or fluff or smut, although I suppose that's subjective. I'd say my sweet spot is flangst -- fluffy angst. I have some "heavier" stuff planned and I'm working on a WIP that's a bit smuttier than I'd normally do as a challenge to myself. Jack of all trades, master of none or just well-rounded? You decide! lol

GT: Flangst! lol

Tell me a bit about the fics you're working on right now.

H: I’ve got two active WIPs right now — a vampire AU and a Little Mermaid AU that’s sooo close to being done. Other than that, I’m mostly a one shot kinda girl so I have a bunch I’m committed to getting out there. I’m almost done with a bodyguard AU I started for a friend last November and halfway done with a soulmate AU. Other than that, so many one shots outlined and started: s1 missing scene, s3 divergent/amnesia AU, s4 missing scene, s7 divergent getting back together fic, s10 divergent engagement fic, an enemies to lovers F1 driver AU, and a meet in prison AU. I have exactly one multi chapter I have on deck and it’s an accidental roommate fic, but there’s some more to it, kinda fun with some ups and downs. It’ll be tropey, cuz I love those kinds of fics and I write what I want to see in the world 😂

GT: We love a tropey fic. Speaking of, what are your favorite tropes when reading?

H: I love (best) friends to lovers, roommates, supernatural/fantasy, royalty, fake dating, forbidden love, celebrities, mutual pining!!!, h/c, enemies to lovers… probably easier to list ones I don’t like 😂

GT: Alright, go ahead then. What don't you like?

H: Haha I walked right into that one, didn’t I? So, the only one I’m really not into is pregnancy (yes, including mpreg) just because I hated being pregnant, so that’s the last thing I want to read about lol. There are other ones I’m not a huge fan of but anything in the hands of the right author, I’d take a chance on.

(Also, so embarrassed I forgot two of my favorite tropes in my list above — soulmate and ABO! Shame on me 😔)

GT: Hahah, fair enough!

What are some of your favorite fics and writers?

H: Oh boy, this is such a tough question because I could just sit here all day and rec stuff and I do that all the time already lol My absolute favorite fic is The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Ian Gallagher. I can't tell you how many times I've read it because I've lost track and if I could it would be an embarrassing number of times lol. I'd definitely say @goodkwuestion is one of my favorite writers. Lost in Translation is a fluffy fave and I am loving ORFNSP right now too. Promised Land is one of my favorite fics despite it being a perpetual WIP (we do not say abandoned we do NOT) and anomalously another favorite writer. Ian Gallagher And All of His Mistakes is another favorite fic. Everybody Talks is the perfect best friends to lovers AU. Anything by @damnnmilkovich especially CCC and AWIWP. eighty-four by kissteethstainred, Twenty-One series by jaxington, Erasure by @grumblesandmumbles, Is There Somewhere by andchaos and pretty much anything by them too, Love is A Ballfield by and_i_take_it, literally anything and everything by @palepinkgoat, Two of Your Earth Minutes and really everything by @the-rat-wins, It's Not The Waking It's The Rising by dodgerbear... I need to stop at some point I think lol. But I've done some lists before with fave fics here: https://gallavichficfinds.tumblr.com/post/613538604425379840/can-you-recommend-fics-for-people-who-are-new-to and authors here: https://whaticameherefor.tumblr.com/post/653717980123922432/do-you-have-any-favorite-fic-authors-for. I feel really lucky that there were so many beautiful fics waiting for me when I got into Gallavich. I love all the fandom classics and the older authors, but it's so exciting we have amazingly talented authors still here or coming back or discovering them now and contributing. I just love reading fic!

GT: Some wonderful gems in there! Including two of my all time favorites, Lost in Translation and Is there somewhere. ❤️

What about your own fics, which one are you the proudest of?

H: Right? I reread LIT whenever I need a quick angst palette cleanser (along with the alien Ian verse.)

I think I’m going to go with Sideways. It was my first multi chapter attempt and my first Gallavich fic. I usually stick to one shots but I just had to fix canon and the story just kinda kept growing. It was everything I wanted to see in a post s6 divergent fic so I’m really happy it resonates with other people too.

GT: I know we all like getting comments, but what kind of comments get you the most excited?

H: The ones that can lead to a conversation. The comments section of fics is where I’ve met so many lovely people, so anything that starts a dialogue about the fic or the show is really great to get.

GT: Do you leave comments as well?

H: I do! Big proponent of commenting. As I said, many friendships started in the comments section and oftentimes it it’s me leaving essays on other people’s stuff that leads to them lol. I also really like to encourage new authors or if something doesn’t seem to be getting the kudos it deserves, I try to give extra love. I love WIPs too, so I try to keep up and comment so authors stay motivated.

GT: That's so important!

H: I agree, and I always like to engage on Tumblr too if they’re here. Whether that’s DMs or asks or whatever. If everyone tries to keep the community alive, the fandom will stay strong!

GT: How did you start watching Shameless?

H: So, I actually saw prison endgame gifs on tumblr from some of my Bughead mutuals around when it first happened. It’s really funny how many people ship both couples. But anyway, I remember seeing the gifs of 9x06 and there were a few that paralleled the 7x10 reunion too and I was just gone on them from that moment. The way they were looking at each other simply ruined my life. I watched all their scenes (a lot) and went down the fanvid rabbit hole before I started reading some fics that were recommended to me. So, I went in fully shipping them already by the time I started watching the actual show. It was on a hiatus mid season so I was all caught up and watched the back half live. I was totally fine with entering a dead fandom, cuz it kinda was at the time, but then Noel’s announcement happened and suddenly the fandom was alive again lol

GT: I wholeheartedly agree!! The fandom died out a lot after season 5 (I wonder why), and I myself stopped watching the show, but I never stopped reblogging people's works and hosting events because to me fandom is not about the show itself, but the friends you've made. I'm so very thankful for all the friends I've made in this and other fandoms and I wanted to continue helping out.

I first saw them on gifs here on Tumblr as well, but that was season 3 lol. Several years ago.

Wow, talk about timing! Maybe you were our lucky charm lol.

What was your first impression of the fandom, being so new to it?

H: I’ll take that title! 😂 I mean, it was definitely kinda dead lol. I tried to follow all the authors I’d been reading but there wasn’t a lot going on. I was okay with it, because I was in love and there was almost a decade worth of fic to read, which is really what it’s all about for me. But yeah, total turnaround after the social media hack — that was an awesome day btw — and it’s completely different nowadays.

I distinctly remember the very few fics that were being updated at the time and active authors and it’s wild thinking about how many WIPs and authors are writing now.

GT: I lived through that cycle several times lol. The fandom got a lot smaller after season 5, then there was a brief revival after Mickey appeared on season 7, again after episode 9x06, and then finally again after they both got back for season 10. I expect it to get smaller again eventually, of course, as all fandoms do, now that the show is over, but I know there will always be people who are just starting watching it. And there's so much fan content now that it's impossible to keep up, which is far from a bad thing, of course.

Do you have a favorite episode of Shameless?

H: If I have to pick a favorite it would be 7x10 Ride or Die because it was just a perfect little episode. Well, not perfect but as a stand-alone episode it perfectly used their history and chemistry and potential and really proved that they loved each other no matter what happened (and would happen.)

GT: Oh, that's a different one! I don't think I've seen anyone pick this one before. What about a favorite scene?

H: Really?! It feels like it’s a fan favorite, can’t believe no one’s said it before! Well, I’ll go for a scene in a different episode so I’ll say the original dugouts date. It’s just so obvious how head over heels they are for each other. Young love 💜

GT: Hm, not that I remember. I mean, the docks scene, definitely, but the whole episode I don't think so. Or maybe my memory is just failing me.

What's your favorite scene from this episode?

H: Bleachers reunion! Like I said, the way they looked at each other after not seeing each other for over a year… the chemistry is just off the charts! And then Mickey says my favorite line: “You’re under my skin.” Goosebumps, every damn time.

GT: That line was fire!!

If you could go back and change one thing in canon, what would it be?

H: I mean… 3x666 for sure. I don’t think I need to elaborate on that answer lol

GT: Well, that one is definitely a popular answer. It was so terrible.

Fun fact, it was the first episode that I got to watch right after airing.

H: Omg how are you still here if that was the first impression you got!

GT: Lol right? I mean, I binged all the show up to that point in three days, finished on Sunday afternoon, then on Sunday night watched that one. It was a roller-coaster for sure.

What are you thoughts on the ending?

H: Honestly? I was just happy it was over lol I’m pretty vocal about my distaste for the writing the past few years, so I was ready for the end. I didn’t mind the open ending for Ian and Mickey because it was kinda the end of an era for them, living at the house. It was the start of a brand new chapter that was full of possibilities and they absolutely deserve a soft epilogue now. But for everyone else? Come on, give the characters some closure! Give them a direction! So many open ended storylines and aimless characters is not what you want after 11 seasons.

GT: I couldn't agree more.

How do you headcanon their future?

H: You know, I don’t really have anything solid or fancy I guess for them. I think they stay in their apartment for the rest of their lease, maybe another year cuz moving sucks. Then they find a little house closer to home. Maybe expand the business. Branch off with extra side hustles. In like, 5-10 years once they’re a little more settled and financially comfortable, they work on getting a kid, maybe a second one a few years later. A dog at some point too. But no matter what life throws at them, they stay best friends and lovers and soulmates and make everyone they meet jealous of their love 💜

GT: I love that

Alright, that was it from me. Is there anything you'd like to add?

H: I don’t think so… thanks! This was fun!

GT: Ok, so leave a message for your readers, please.

H: Thank you to everyone who’s ever read anything I’ve written. Thanks for commenting and sharing and putting a smile on my face with every single kudos. I hope you guys love what I’ve got coming up, I can’t wait to share them with you 💜

#gallavich #ian x mickey #shameless us #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #shameless #gallavich fanfiction #writer's spotlight #whatIcameherefor

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fanfic-scribbles · 5 years ago

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Supernatural Fic Masterlist

I have sorted this masterlist by main character/reader pairings, with a small section at the very bottom for stories that do not involve a reader insert. Any series/one shot sections are further segmented, and stories under “Poly/Other” will have the pairings noted in with the rest of the story info. Everything is alphabetical (although series with more than one part are listed chronologically). A slash [/] means romance while an ampersand [&] means friendship.

I used a cut so as not to clog anyone’s page should it pop up in the tags. I write 99% reader inserts and primarily have a lot of Castiel and Gabriel, with the odd Sam, Dean, Chuck, and a handful of friendship fics. I hope you find something you enjoy <3

Castiel/Reader

Series

“Revelations and Resolutions (Masterlist)” (Formerly Titled “October Challenge 2017") – Romance – Castiel/Reader – Slight angst/mostly fluff

Summary: Thirty-one days is enough time to tell someone you’ve fallen in love with them, right?

Wherein you decide to use the month of October to try to tell Castiel you’re in love with him, Sam, Dean and Gabriel try to help (?) from the sidelines, and Castiel is mostly just confused.

A Reader/Cas focused project that started out as a series of semi-connected prompts and turned into a story driven by said prompts.

“Already Yours (Masterlist)” (aka October Challenge 2018) – Romance – established Castiel/Reader – Also slight angst/mostly fluff

Sequel to “Revelations and Resolutions” mentioned above.

Summary: You and Castiel don’t have a traditional relationship, but you’ve been happily together for a year now. Which begs the question– how do a human and an angel celebrate their one-year anniversary? You’re still not sure, but one thing is certain: it’s time to over-think things.

One-Shots

“Amends” – Romance – Words: 1186

Summary: Castiel made a mistake and you’re more than happy to give him the silent treatment. Until he comes up with a way to make it up to you.

“Awfully Fond of You” – Romance – Words: 2039

Summary: Oh rubber duckie, you’re the one…capable of confusing an angel to frustration. Castiel just wants to know what rubber ducks are for. Cue shenanigans until you can set the angel straight.

“Cas Café” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 2970 Follow-up to “Cat’s Cradle” below

Summary: Cas is good at running himself into the ground. Your solution to fix that is better than either of you know.

“Cat’s Cradle” – Romance (pre-relationship); Fluff – Words: 1252

Summary: A Cas fluff drabble about stopping to smell the roses. Or stopping to pet a cat. And no, that’s not a euphemism.

“Closer Still” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 606

Summary: A drabble about wanting more. And kissing.

“Conditioning” – Romance – Words: 768

Summary: It’s fairly easy to train an angel to accept a quick kiss. That he learns how to give them is an unexpected bonus.

“Enclosed” – Romance – Words: 810

Summary: Cas keeps you calm when you need it most.

“Gray” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 410

Summary: You’re bored in a graveyard on a very ‘meh’ day. Cas comes by and makes it a little better.

“Headache” – Romance – Words: 1097

Summary: You have a headache and Castiel learns to help you heal– the human way.

“How the Mighty Fall” – Romance – Words: 3139

Summary: Castiel doesn’t realize until it’s too late that he’s fallen in love and given himself to you. He finds that he does not mind this at all.

“Mistletoe” – Romance – Words: 2298

Summary: Castiel wants to get caught under the mistletoe with you. More than once. A lot more than once.

“No Longer Pining” – Romance; Fluff; Christmas fic – Words: 802

Summary: A bad encounter with a Djinn leads some truths to light.

“Secret Admirer(s)” – Romance – Words: 1902

Summary: Castiel decides to try and use Valentine’s Day to help him express how he feels for you. Dean, Sam, and Jack help. It goes…well?

“Sharing is Caring” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 1160

Summary: You and Castiel share a bed…and a little more.

“Substitution” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 1005

Summary: You thought you could stop fantasizing if reality got in the way of what you wanted. Thankfully, Castiel is both patient and opportunistic.

“Through the Bramble” – Romance – Words: 2352

Summary: You’ll do what it takes to get your angel back. Even if it means living through a fairytale.

“Waking Up” – Romance; Hurt/Comfort; Fluff – Words: 798

Summary: You’re feeling upset. Cas doesn’t want you to be alone.

“Warning Signs” – Romance(-ish) – Words: 1500

Summary: Castiel doesn’t admit to fear and neither do you. Until you meet each other.

“Watch Your Back (And I Will Too)” – Romance – Words: 1469

Summary: You and Cas watch out for each other, on more than just the battlefield.

“Win-Win” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 2639

Summary: You and Cas need to learn how to be a couple, so you decide to turn it into a game.

“Wishlist” – Romance; Fluff; Christmas fic – Words: 978

Summary: You are way in for the holiday season…maybe a bit too enthusiastically for the Winchesters’ liking. Cas comes to visit and ends up helping in more than one way.

Chuck/Reader

“Call Me By Name” – Romance; Fluff; Christmas fic – Words: 894

Summary: You want attention but Chuck’s busy writing. He won’t respond to his new name, so you decide to pull out some classics.

“Dust” – Romance; Comfort – Words: 409

Summary: You’re having a rough time, and Chuck is comforting.

“Ladybug” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 1050

Summary: You come home, weighed down by a long day. Chuck knows how to make you light again.

“O Christmas Tree” – Romance; Fluff; Christmas fic – Words: 2432

Summary: Christmas can be an emotional season. In the case of you and Chuck, that ends up being a good thing.

“Sincerely Yours” – Romance – Words: 6265

Summary: The apocalypse is over and you try to go home to Chuck to heal, only to find that he’s gone too. You take comfort in writing letters to your dead lover, even though he’ll never read them. Or so you think.

Gabriel/Reader

“13 Kisses (And One To Grow On)” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 4242

Summary: While browsing mindlessly one day, you stumble across a list of the most underrated places to be kissed. Gabriel decides to test them out. For science.

“A Healing Touch” – Romance; Fluff – Female Reader – Words: 1349

Summary: Gabriel doesn’t need a nurse and, in fact, makes an excellent one. You’re just too stubborn to appreciate it.

“A Little Pickle” – Romance; Dialogue – Words: 386

Summary: Gabriel needs to look before he leaps. He’ll be hearing about this one for a while.

“Acrophobia” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 563

Summary: You don’t like heights and Gabriel has wings. You make it work.

“And When You Sleep, Dream of Me” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 1534

Summary: Sleeping isn’t new to Gabriel. However these nightmares are. He doesn’t like to make a habit of asking for help, though, so he decides to go on in the time-honored tradition of human coping mechanisms and just pretend it isn’t happening. However your solution may be better. For the both of you.

“Bright Side” – Friendship; Hurt/Comfort; Fluff – Words: 2423

Summary: Gabriel is feeling a bit down. You notice and try to help.

“Cursed Communication” – Romance; Humor; Fluff – Words:1622

Summary: You’re going to assassinate an archangel for his assertion over your anatomical authority.

“Decked” – Romance; Christmas Fic – Words: 842

Summary: The holidays hold complicated feelings, especially for an archangel. You soothe him however you can.

“(Don’t) Play It Again” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 2512

Summary: Everyone has that one song that they just can’t stand for whatever reason, regardless of how good, bad, or innocuous it actually is. For you, hearing that song is like getting a bucket of ice water dumped on your head.

Gabriel, of course, takes this as a challenge.

“Expressions of Affection” – Romance – Words: 1966

Summary: You have a resting bitch face and are used to it chasing people off. Gabriel deals with it in his own way.

“Home Away From Home” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 1784

Summary: You’re not sure who is stealing your clothes but you would like it to stop. Please and thank you.

“Incommunicado” – Romance – Words: 2573

Summary: Some of the best things in life are often left unsaid, and the others just need to find the right medium of communication. Gabriel can’t find his words, you can’t find the right ones, but, somehow, you both stumble towards understanding anyways.

“Lead Me to the River” – Romance – Words: 1159

Summary: Gabriel stops by during a hunt and a ghost forces your feelings to light.

“One Lump Or Two” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 1888

Summary: You find out Gabriel is your soulmate. You have…issues with this.

“Soft” – Friendship or Romance (ambiguous); Fluff – Words: 596

Summary: Gabriel takes care of you. Just don’t tell anyone.

“Starting Over” – Romance – Words: 2509

Summary: Gabriel’s plan for revenge develops a new sense of urgency when you get caught up in it.

“Tie a Yellow Ribbon For Me” – Romance – Words: 2459

Summary: Roses are red, Violets are blue, Even death can’t keep him From finding his way back to you.

“Waking Up In Vegas” – Romance – Words: 4174

Summary: You’re off with Gabriel on what’s supposed to be a little vacation, but it takes a turn for the worst when you’re forced to face your own desires and insecurities in order to make it back to him.

“Where You’ve Been” – Romance – Words: 2611

Summary: Lucifer killed Gabriel and you find yourself going through the motions. Until the motions become that much easier to ride. You never thought you’d want to strangle your guardian angel but Gabriel is talented like that.

Misc Poly Romances & Other Characters

Balthazar/Reader “Imprints” – Romance; Fluff; Christmas fic – Words: 999

Summary: You and Balthazar make a pit stop on a long drive to have some fun in the snow. Well, you do. Balthazar needs some convincing. Luckily, he has you.

Dean & Reader

“In Our [Supernatural] Time” – Friendship; Humor – Words: 585

Summary: Dean is a great hunting partner to have but sometimes his timing leaves much to be desired. Luckily you’re full of great ideas on how to pass the time.

Dean/Reader

“Have Your Cake and Eat It Too” – Romance – Words: 1615

Summary: Dean and you visit a cake shop while on a hunt and pose as a couple, as usual. Only, at least one of you is tired of pretending.

“Hold Fast” – Romance – Words: 843

Summary: You thought you’d take your feelings for Dean Winchester to the grave. Well…‘almost’ counts; right?

“Something To Gain” – Romance; Christmas fic – Words: 1451

Summary: Dean and you share a drink on a cold December night and discover that playing it safe is not playing at all.

Dean/Castiel/Reader “Chill” – Romance; Fluff – Words: 975

Summary: Reader is starting to feel the burn of the hunting life. Luckily Dean and Cas are always on their side.

“Pick Me Up” – Romance(-ish) – Words: 1579

Summary: You set out to give Castiel an experience and he and Dean end up turning that back on you. Terrible, awful pick-up lines– who knew they worked so well?

(An excerpt/link to the PWP part 2 can be found here)

Dean/Gabriel/Reader “We All Fall Down” – Romance – Words: 3695

Summary: Once is an accident. Twice is a mistake. More than that is…worrisome. But you brush it off as harmless. Dean and Gabriel are excellent, occasional bed partners and nothing more. Nothing. More.

Or so you like to tell yourself.

Sam/Reader

“Between the Lines” – Romance; Hurt/Comfort – Words: 1254

Summary: Sam’s been down lately and you can guess why, so you try to cheer him up without directly pointing out a subject he seems loathe to talk about. Freaking Winchesters.

“Minted” – Romance; Fluff; Christmas fic – Words: 688

Summary: Sam doesn’t get the appeal of candy canes until you explain it. ‘Explain’ being a fairly loose term, in this case. Luckily, kissing is a language of love, and you both have quite a bit to say.

Sam/Gabriel/Reader

“Whole” – Romance – Words: 1390

Summary: Gabriel’s trying to help Jack out with his powers. It doesn’t go as intended. Or so he says.

Team Free Will & Reader “Taking Care” – Friendship – Dean & Sam & Reader – Words: 2452

Summary: Dean and Sam think they know best, but so do you. No matter how dumb you all are about it, though, you’re lucky to have each other.

“The World In Solemn Stillness Lay” – Friendship; Fluff; Christmas fic – Dean, Sam, Castiel, Jack, Gabriel, & Reader – Words: 975

Summary: You’re upset that you won’t make it to Christmas, but at least you saved your friends. Your friends, however, aren’t letting you go without a fight.

“To Want” – Friendship; Hurt/Comfort – Dean, Sam, Castiel, Gabriel, & Reader (& Chuck) – Words: 1573

Summary: The apocalypse has ended and you feel like a fifth wheel. You figure it’s time to move on.

Non-Reader-Inserts

“The Light. The Way.” – Romance – Gabriel/Sam Winchester – Words: 548

Summary: Sometimes, Gabriel forgets how to breathe. Sam helps, whether he knows it or not.

#spn reader insert #spn fanfic #reader insert #castiel x reader #gabriel x reader

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scarlettwitcher · 5 years ago

Text

Baby Girl Chapter Five

Summary: Y/n tried to avoid her past with a certain Statesmen but when they’re partnered back up for a mission that could cost millions their lives, Y/n must make the right choice. (This is the Kingsman: The Golden Circle movie basically in writing with reader insert. I recommend watching the movie, it’s amazing! It’s on Amazon Prime Video.)

Characters: Agent Whiskey x Agent Gin(Female Reader), Tequila, Ginger Ale, Eggsy, Merlin, Champ, Harry, mentions of Poppy, Charlie, and Clara

Word Count: 3,356

Warnings: angst, a lot of it actually, canon typical violence, cursing, guns, uh

Author’s Note: This one’s going to be a hell of a ride babes. If you haven’t seen the movie, you will leave a little angry after this one. I’m sorry! We are getting close to the end of this series though! Buckle your seatbelts, its going to be INTENSE! Hope you guys like this chapter. Thank you for reading and as always, feedback is always welcome/needed. (Also I should warn, I know i’m posting pretty often but it’s because of the free time so if i disappear for a little, don’t freak, I’m just busy. Love y’all!)

Previously..

“And with all disrespect… I'm not going anywhere without him.” Eggsy sat down next to Harry as he motioned towards him. Both Champ and Whiskey looked at Eggsy with different thoughts running around their heads. One thing you respected was Eggsy’s undying loyalty. You knew this was a hard trait to come by and with the way he was protective of you already on missions, you trusted him. “Brains,” He motioned to Harry before motioning to himself. “Skills,” He looked at you and winked as he motioned towards you. “Bad-assery.” You snorted as his comment brought a smile to your lips, giving you a bit of relief from the entire situation. Eggsy looked at Whiskey and took a second to think of what he wanted to say. “Skipping rope?”

Whiskey clenched his jaw as he stared Eggsy down, before moving his gaze to Champ who went into a deep laugh. You couldn’t contain your smile and you covered your mouth with your hand, hoping Whiskey didn’t hear your muted giggles. Whiskey glared at you as he spoke, his deep baritone voice sending shivers your way. You knew you were going to pay for laughing. “It's a lasso.’

“Whatever. Come on.” Eggsy stood, looking to Harry to follow him as Whiskey watched them both as Champ continued to laugh before dismissing the both of you.

“Go on. Vamoose.”

“Yes, sir.”

Now..

The flight to Italy was long but you got there in time as the sun glazed over all the gorgeous mountains covered in snow. You watched in awe at the scenery. You had never seen snow to this extent and you found the view gorgeous. Whiskey watched you amused as you were excited over the mountains like a little kid.

“Agents, Antidote confirmed at the target's location. Good luck.” Ginger’s voice came into your comm and you said your quiet thanks. You walked next to the boys into the lift before Whiskey stopped to look at Harry.

“Hold up. We need you down here, Galahad. To secure the control room.” You watched as Harry stopped, looking at Whiskey with suspicion before Eggsy quickly chipped in.

“Probably a good idea, Harry. Call you from the top, yeah?” You waved at Harry softly as the doors closed on the three of you and slowly did its descent to the top where the antidote was.

“Within a few minutes, Harry’s voice filled the silence in the lift. “At the controls. In position.

“Keep this cable car here till we get back.”

“Roger that, Eggsy.” You finally arrived at the top but you couldn’t shake the bad feeling you had in your gut. You felt off and before you left to the warehouse where the antidote was and you pulled Whiskey aside.

“Baby, hold on.”

“What’s wrong, baby girl?” Whiskey scanned your face in concern, trying to find what was bothering you.

“I just have a bad feeling about this. I feel like something’s going to happen.” Whiskey let out a breath as he pulled you into him, holding you tightly. He kissed your head gently as he tried to reassure you.

“Sweetheart, everything’s going to be okay. I promise. After all of this is done, I’m going to take you somewhere mighty nice. The best for my girl.” You felt some relief at his words as he held you. You reached up, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling you down to kiss him with all of your love. Whiskey responded immediately to the kiss, getting carried away in your taste. Eggsy cleared his throat as you reluctantly pulled away.

“Clara's definitely here. We're getting warmer.”

You nodded, following Eggsy’s lead throughout the facility. “The pink looks very nice on you.” You looked at Whiskey and noticed he was checking you out. Even in thick winter clothes, Whiskey craved you. You giggled, shaking your head as you motioned for Whiskey to pay attention. He chuckled as Eggsy’s tracker beeped louder, stopping in front of a random point in the wall.

“Looks like we've got a door.” Ginger and Merlin quickly got to work, the door opening after a few seconds.

Whiskey motioned towards Eggsy and then the door. ‘We'll cover.” Eggsy nodded as he walked in. You could hear his voice in the background as he talked to a guard. You looked around keeping watch when you felt an arm wrap around your small form and you smirked, looking at Whiskey.

“Baby, we’re on a mission.” Whiskey bent down and captured your lips with his and you whimpered. You melted under his touch but you pushed him away. You tried to glare at him but it was hard with his cheeky smile.

“Oh come on, doll. It’s been so long since I’ve touched you.” You giggled quietly as you kept space between the two of you.

“You are insatiable.”

“You motherfucker!”

“Bye, Charlie.” You heard Eggsy as he ran up the stairs towards the both of you. Looking in, you saw another man running after Eggsy and yelling out profanities.

“Sound the alarm! You fucking cockroach!” As soon as Eggsy ran out the room, you both followed suit, running towards the lift. Ginger closed the door on the man that was chasing you and you heard his pounding echoing throughout the corridor.

“Galahad, we're coming. All clear at the bottom? Galahad, come in!” Whiskey’s voice boomed as he tried to get in contact with Harry but he wasn’t responding.

The three of you made it inside of the lift but the doors were still open. “Harry, come on, we're in. Let's go.” You watched Eggsy frantically as he tried to talk to Harry. Whiskey held you close to him, the three of you sitting ducks in the motionless lift. “Butterfly? No, Harry. You've got to shut the doors, please. Come on. We've gotta go now. Please! Shut the fucking door, Harry!” You looked up at Whiskey with wide eyes. His jaw was clenched and his grip on you tightened. “Harry, are you there?” The doors started to close and the lift moved down, following its descent to the station at the bottom. “Well done, Harry. Good. Thanks, man.” You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding as the lift moved. Whiskey looked you over, checking on you and you nodded your quiet reassurance that you were okay.

“You all good down there, Harry?”

“All clear.” Before you could all call the mission successful, the man from before appeared on a screen on the lift.

“Hello, Eggsy. Enjoy the ride, bruv." You felt the lift start to turn and you quickly moved to grab onto Whiskey since you couldn’t reach the handles at the top. The lift span faster and faster and you felt the wind knocked out of you as you were propelled against the glass wall. Whiskey tried to reach for you but he was stuck by force in his spot. You cried out in pain as the spinning became painful. You felt your consciousness slowly slipping from you. Before you knew it, you were overwhelmed and you succumbed to the darkness.

“Gin?! Shit!” Whiskey groaned as he was getting close to passing out. He managed to pull his whip out from his back, lighting it up. The electric whip burned through the glass, leaving a sizable hole. Everything that happened next was like a surge of adrenaline. Whiskey’s whip fell out of the hole, cutting the lines that were holding the lift up. As the lift fell through the air, the three of you floated about freely. Eggsy and Whiskey started screaming for their lives as you slowly started to come back to consciousness. Whiskey held you close to him, his screaming jolting you awake the rest of the way. You realized you were all falling through the air and you started screaming with the boys, fearing for your life.

The line still attached to the lift saved you from falling down the large cliff but the impact had you hitting the walls with a huge force. You cried out in pain, feeling your body becoming severely exhausted. The line swung the lift onto the mountain, knocking down the tower that was holding the wires up. “You've gotta be fucking kidding!” Your screams filled the air as you tried to catch your balance from all of the movement. You could barely stand and you stayed on the floor. The impact had both Eggsy and Whiskey flying to the other side of the lift. Whiskey fell against you and you groaned in pain. Whiskey wrapped his arms around you protectively before leaving you on the floor and standing back up with Eggsy. That’s when they noticed it. The large building they were barrelling straight towards. Eggsy looked around frantically before looking at Whiskey. He grabbed him and pushed him up against the hole he had made earlier, pulling his parachute. The parachute launched out of the hole, effectively slowing down what was left of your lift. Whiskey started to scream from the pressure of slowing the lift down and as the pressure got harder and harder, he groaned in pain, Eggsy soon joining him. The lift slowed down, stopping right at the walkway of the building. Both of the men were panting as you laid motionless on the floor. As soon as they knew they weren’t moving, Whiskey ran to you, checking your vitals as best as he could. He sighed in relief as he saw you were still breathing.

“Fuck baby girl. You’re okay. You’re okay.” You groaned at the movements and Whiskey pulled you into his arms, walking out of the lift as Eggsy spoke to Harry. The three of you made your way to the small, secluded cabin. Eggsy got to building the fire quick as Whiskey laid you near it so you could rest. He watched you sleep, afraid of what could’ve happened inside of the lift. Whiskey took a deep breath as he sat next to Eggsy who was analyzing the antidote he had in his hand.

“So weird to think this tiny thing could save the world.” Whiskey clenched his jaw, staring the vial down as it offended him. You could’ve gotten seriously hurt just because of your mission to get the antidote and it angered him.

Whiskey held his hand out towards Eggsy. “Let me have a look.” Before Eggsy could hand it to him, there was a knock at the door and Eggsy stood, opening it, revealing Harry at the door.

“Harry.”

“Am I late? You found the antidote.” Whiskey watched the two men and noticed the guards behind them.

“Get down!” The cabin was shot at as everyone took cover. Whiskey lunged towards Eggsy, protecting him from other shots. Eggsy dropped the antidote, the vial cracking and spreading the golden liquid across the floor. Whiskey’s eyes frantically looked over to you, hoping you’d be okay soon. Harry’s eyes followed Whiskeys and he saw you on the floor.

“You fucking dickhead!”

“Fuck you! I just saved your life!”

“Yeah, and cost millions of people theirs!” Whiskey growled out as he looked over the window, watching as the guards were reloading their guns, taking cover.

“All right, they're going for cover and reloading. I'll fix their wagons. Cover me, boys!” As Whiskey ran out of the small cabin, Eggsy moved towards the door, taking shots at the guards, taking a few down. All of the shooting stirred you awake and you whimpered as you came to. You listened to Harry and Eggsy, both unaware of your conscious state.

“Wait. Eggsy, I think he could be working for the other side.” Harry pushed Eggs back out of the way. You frowned as you listened to Harry’s confession, feeling a deep pit build in your stomach as you took in his words.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You're having a brain fart! Look! Does that look like he's working with them?” Both of them looked out the door as they watched Whiskey shoot a few guards, punching others with the butt of his guns. “Harry, are you seeing butterflies again?”

“I know what I'm seeing.”

“As do I.” You clicked the safety off of your gun as you pointed it at Harry. Your hands were shaking just a bit. You were pointing your gun at your, who you thought to be, friend’s head. Eggsy looked at you wide-eyed as he held his hands up in surrender.

“Gin, hold on. We can tal-”

“Whiskey ain’t on their side. He’s on ours. He wouldn’t betray me. He wouldn’t betray us or the agency.” Harry and Eggsy shared a look as neither raised their guns at you. You noticed this and you felt your hands shake harder. You didn't know why you wanted to be upset that they weren't trying to detain you but it made things harder for you. You felt your resolve crumble just a bit, wondering if you were imagining things because of your injuries.

“Gin, listen to me. We know Whiskey is good. Harry isn’t thinking straight.” You focused on Eggsy, keeping your gun trained on Harry. “Gin, focus on me, okay love? We’re not the enemies and we know that Agent Whiskey isn’t the enemy either, right Harry?” Eggsy turned to growl at Harry. Harry stared you down and he saw the conflict behind your stare. You really didn’t want to hurt him but the corner you were backed into was bad. Harry narrowed his eyes at you before nodding once. He knew of your kind nature and he knew you wouldn't hurt him unless you had to. He gave you a soft reassuring smile as he watched you.

You wanted to trust them but after what you heard, you knew you needed to keep a close eye on them. You slowly lowered your gun, but you didn’t put the safety back on, in case of whatever could happen. Eggsy, let out a breath of relief as you backed off. Soon, Whiskey came running back in, successfully getting all the guards. “Thank fucking Christ I didn't need any backup! I'm out of ammo! Troop carrier coming in. What've you go- Baby!” Whiskey noticed you and ran towards you, holding you tightly. You held him back, moving to kiss him, needing to taste him, to feel him. He cupped your cheek as he looked over your features. "I was so worried darlin."

"I'm okay." Before Whiskey could say more, Eggsy interrupted you.

"Fuck! Shit! There's a fuck ton of 'em!" You swallowed thickly as Whiskey reluctantly pulled away to go through Harry's bag.

"What is this? Looks like you packed for a fucking slumber party, not a mission!" Whiskey glared at Harry as your eyes jumped from Whiskey to Harry before looking out the window seeing the guards start to prepare outside of the house.

"And they've got fucking Gatling guns!"

"You have 10 seconds to surrender before we open fire!" Harry was watching Whiskey with suspicion as Whiskey yelled at him.

"Guys, hurry up!"

"Ten."

"Hey!" Whiskey yelled at Harry who wouldn't move his gaze off of him and your grip on your gun tightened.

"Nine."

"Butterfly guy!" Whiskey snapped his fingers at Harry, trying to get his attention.

"Eight."

"You don't look like Ginger fixed you right."

"Seven."

"I said I'm empty!"

"Six."

Whiskey stood up and walked towards Harry, reaching out for his gun. Harry pulled his gun up defensively and Whiskey flinched back as your eyes widened. "Give me yours."

"Five."

"Harry, give him the fucking gun!"

"Four."

Everything happened so fast. One second Whiskey had made his move to grab Harry's gun. The next, he was laying on the floor with a bullet through his head. Your screams and Eggsy's pierced the cabin walls and everyone's ears as you stared at Whiskey's limp body. You felt the tears drop down your cheek. You raised your gun against Harry to shoot him but before you could, the cabin was rained down by gunfire and you threw yourself on the floor for cover.

"Harry, get down! I mean, honestly, Harry, what the fuck is wrong with you?" You cried over Whiskey as you tried to reach for his hat but your hands were shaking violently. You pulled out Ginger's alpha gel, placing it delicately over Whiskey. You inserted the serums and watched as they went to work to save your lover.

"He broke the vial on purpose!"

"You're a fucking idiot! You're out of control, Harry!"

"If we made it out of here, he was gonna kill us both!"

"For fuck's sake, it looks like he wouldn't have fucking had to! But now, it'll be Agent Gin who will gun us down and piss on our graves!"

"Oh, ye of little faith." With all the commotion, gunfire, and yelling, Harry was able to find his cologne, turning the bottle on, and tossing it out of the window igniting a goo bomb that killed all the agents, freezing them in a blue casing. Eggsy peaked over the window before lowering his gun.

"This does not mean you're off the fucking hook!"

"We need to go dark. We don't know who else at Statesman could be working against us."

"Shit! This is all my fault. You weren't ready for the field and I pushed for it!"

"He showed his hand. You think he'd let us live? You should be thanking me for saving our arses!"

"Saving our arses? Try saying that to fucking Whiskey!" Eggsy looked over, seeing Whiskey's body alone. He looked back up and he saw you with your gun pressed against Harry's temple. Your face was covered in tears, your hands shaking a mile a minute.

"I trusted you Harry and you shot him in the fuckin head!" You cried out, your emotions taking over you. He took a deep breath, moving to reach out for you, to get you to lower your gun. You pushed the gun harder against him and he stopped moving. "How could you?" Your voice cracking made Harry question himself for a few seconds. He knew what Whiskey meant to you. He knew he had hurt you beyond relief but he trusted his instincts more than anything.

"Gin, I've always trusted my instincts. They've never let me astray. You need to believe me when I say he had other intentions. I know you care for him but trust me in this."

You whimpered silently, your sniffs filling the silence between your words. "You shot him in his goddamn fuckin head. How dare you ask me to trust ya?" The angrier you got, the thicker your southern accent became.

"Gin, understand that I'm doing what I believe is best. What's best is getting that antidote out to save everyone, including Tequila. You can either help us or shoot me now and risk the mission. Is that what you intend to do?" You clenched your jaw, willing your tears away as you looked at Whiskey. Eggsy was on edge but he could see how much you were hurting. Anyone with a brain could. You looked back to Harry, clenching your teeth so hard, you thought they would crack.

"You better fucking hope Ginger can fix him up or else I will blow your fucking head off." You reluctantly pulled your gun away from Harry, moving to get your lover's things, throwing Whiskey’s favorite hat on your head. Harry shared a quiet look with Eggsy while Eggsy glared at him. Eggsy exited the cabin, trying to connect to Merlin.

"Merlin, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Eggsy."

"Whiskey's down. He's been shot."

"What happened?"

Eggsy looked at you and knew there was no point in lying and he sighed, rubbing his head. "Harry shot him. Gin has applied the alpha gel. We'll bring him in. But first, I've gotta find a way to get back up to that lab and retrieve more antidote." Just as Eggsy finished his sentence, he watched as the facility went up in flames, exploding in the distance. He sighed in annoyance. "Merlin, change of plans. Wu Ting Feng, Singapore."

"Who?"

"Exactly. It's the only lead we've got."

“So I suggest you find out who he is. Come on.” Eggsy watched Harry walk off as he shook his head. He was upset at Harry’s actions, more so, at hurting you. He looked back over at the cabin and watched as you had moved Whiskey’s head onto your lap. You hoped Whiskey would be okay after everything. Eggsy slowly walked over and grabbed the rest of yours and Whiskey’s things. He heard you sniff and stopped. He wanted to comfort you but he didn’t know what to say. He leaned down next to you, putting a light hand on your shoulder. Your body shook as another wave of tears surged through you.

“Let me help you love.” You reluctantly agreed to Eggsy’s help. He grabbed Whiskey as best as he could, throwing him over his shoulder. You stood up, grabbing his whip, and in heavy silence, you followed him back to the jet. The ride back was tense. You had every right to go and put a bullet into Harry’s head but he was right. You had to work together to get the antidote before more people died. You wondered why Harry didn’t suspect you. You were with Whiskey, you were ever as much a suspect as he was. You didn’t want to think how it would be if you were the one shot and Whiskey found you instead.

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blessedbucky · 5 years ago

Text

money power glory

pairing: skinny!steve x plus size!reader

summary: it’s 1921 and prohibition is in full swing. there’s an overwhelming demand for alcohol and steve, one of new york’s most notorious mobsters, wants to cash in. you and your product present the perfect opportunity

warnings: steve’s a mobster and reader is a bootlegger so obvious mentions of illegal activities, alcohol, oral (female receiving), squirting, daddy kink (if you squint really hard)

a/n: please be kind to me this is my first ever reader insert. anyway @gagmebucky said give me mobster!steve and my brain went HOLD MY FUCKING BEER. it’s mostly just me being a history buff and spiraling out of control with plot and having little smut. tagging @strawberrylovessebby and @angel-fire and @genderfluiddiscogay because they asked and i'm a weak bitch for them

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

The very first time that Steve meets you, you’re on the back of a massive stallion. The enormous beast is barreling toward Steve and you don’t seem to be making any attempt at reigning the horse in to either make it slow down or move in another direction that’s not straight at him. Steve assumes this is a ploy your father’s come up with to intimidate him and Steve hasn’t gotten to where he is by tucking his tail between his legs and backing down in the face of danger and death. So, while his men curse and scramble around to the other side of the car that’s out of the way of your warpath, Steve straightens, squares his chin, and stands his ground.

Steve Rogers is one stubborn son of a bitch and if he’s going to be working with your family the way he wants to, it’s best you all know that now up front.

Your horse is probably about a foot away from Steve when you finally command it to stop. You’re dramatic and it one last show to intimidate Steve, you make the horse reel back on its hindlegs, kicking up dirt and neighing so loud it echoes. The animal’s hot breath fans out across Steve’s face for a moment before you tug at the reins, make a noise, and the horse dutifully turns to the side allowing Steve a better look at you.

Down here, hidden away in the slopes and hills of the Appalachian Mountains, you’re the opposite of the women that try to flock to the sides of Steve and his men. You’ve kept your hair long, going against the modern fashion. There’s a bandana around your head, keeping your hair out of your face. There’s sweat on your brow and smudges of dirt on your plump cheeks. Even dressed in your dirtied work overalls, he can see you’re all curves—wide hips, thick thighs, soft stomach, plush ass, and he could wax poetry about your oh-so-generous chest.

Steve’s bullheaded, but he’s not stupid. Atop your horse, staring down at him with a raised brow, he’ll admit that you’re the most gorgeous woman he’s ever met. And…he has to unfortunately also admit to himself that you’re off-limits. He really can’t drop the ball on a potentially lucrative business deal by fucking a partner’s daughter.

Steve thinks you’ve both sized each other up enough, so he breaks the silence with a polite, “Ma’am.”

“It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Mister Rogers,” you reply with your southern drawl. Your voice is also sickly sweet. “I hope the trip wasn’t too hard on all y’all.” I hope the trip wasn’t too hard on a skinny little thing like you, you don’t say but Steve hears all the same.

Steve shoots you the same grin he wears when he’s smashing men’s skulls in. You’re a fighter. As much a hellion as that horse you’re riding. Guess Bucky’s been right all these years, saying Steve gets his rocks off on danger.

“Girl,” your father’s voice booms. He’s in a matching pair of overalls, a pitchfork over his shoulder, storming toward you and Steve. “Lord, you’ve got your momma rolling in her grave, treating guests this way,” your father scolds and you duck your head like a proper, chastised southern belle. Your father can’t see the mischievous twinkle in your eye, though. “The hell’d you get that horse out for? You want to break your neck? He ain’t trained enough. Go put that horse back in the barn, wash up, get started on supper, and then you’ll meet this fella you asked to come down here.”

“Yes, daddy.” Steve’s eyes glaze over at hearing the word daddy leave those sinfully beautiful lips of yours. He’s thinking with his dick too much to completely process your father’s words and their meaning. His eyes are still locked on you as you dismount the horse. You flash Steve a smile, dangerously sharp, and he thinks he might be in love.

When you’ve disappeared into a nearby barn, your father claps Steve on the shoulder. “Aw, hell, I’m sorry, Rogers. I swear that girl’s got manners. She’s probably tired. We’ve been workin’ all day to get this corn picked. Way she was making it sound, you got here faster than she thought you would.” He gives Steve a slap on the back now. “Well, go on inside and make yourself comfortable. She’ll talk details with yah over supper.”

Steve blinks, confused. “Sir?”

Your father gives Steve a shit-eating grin. “Ain’t you heard, Rogers? You’ll be talking to my girl. She’s the one that handles the business. All I do is go up in them there woods, sit around with my buddies, drinking while we wait for the moonshine to cook. She sets up all the deals, handles the bookkeeping—” your father pauses and innocently asks, “Didn’t she say all this in them letters she’s been writing?”

No. No, you did not and your father knows that. It looks like troublemaking runs in your blood.

You’re waiting for Steve on the porch—face washed clean, dirt scrubbed away from your hands, bandana stripped from your hair that’s now pulled back with a white ribbon, and wearing in a simple yet pretty cornflower blue dress. You hold the door open, stepping to the side, still smiling at Steve in that predatory way. “Why don’t you come on in the kitchen and we’ll talk business while I’m cooking?”

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A year ago, in 1920, Steve had watched the high and mighty people clamor out onto the streets of New York to pour out and smash their bottles of liquor on the ground. It’d marked the official start to Prohibition and all Steve could think about during the whole spectacle was potential.

Of course, it wasn’t Steve and his crew alone who tried to cash in on the overwhelming demand for booze that was declared illegal. People are always going to get their hands on what they want. There have been tales of men who pass out miniature stills that allow people to make their own gin right there in their homes. Bathtub gin, he hears it’s called. You scoff and turn your nose up at the mention of it and call it exactly what it is—rotgut. You and your father are craftsmen in the art of alcohol. You give people what they want. Quality.

Slowly but surely, you’ve been working to spread your family’s name around. You explain to Steve that your father has been making moonshine since you were a child to make extra cash on the side. When your mother unexpectedly passed, he decided you were old enough to learn how to do it yourself. But like any small-town girl, you want more.

“And once Prohibition hit, cousin, business was a-booming,” you cheekily remark.

Steve wants to come to the rescue. He wants to make you a partner. You’ve got a high-class product that people will scramble to get their hands on. It’s not that watered-down shit he’s had to swallow down at speakeasies. He’ll pay to bring your business to New York. That, you argue, is not as easy as he makes it out to be, and shit goes downhill from there.

You and Steve spend hours arguing. Steve thinks you’re just wanting to be difficult for the sake of being difficult, but you bring up a lot of fair points. Stacking up problems that Steve assures can be tackled with enough money. There’s a reason you and all the other bootleggers are stranded where you are—you need good, dry corn. The hard waters of Kentucky, rich with limestone and other minerals, make the process of making moonshine easier. What about the copper stills you need? Plain steel just won’t do for you.

It’s getting late in the night. You and Steve are both red-faced and as spitting mad as you were at the start. Your father had left you two alone hours ago, shaking his head and snickering, knowing you can handle your own. “Jesus Christ,” you snarl suddenly after staring out the window at the nighttime skies. You stomp over to grab his upper arm. “Keep running your mouth, I don’t care, but you’re gonna have to do it while I’m working.”

By working, you mean speeding through the dark and winding roads of Appalachia in your pride and joy, a Ford car, with a crate of mason jars between you two. Before it gets hot, you explain that local coppers have been trying and failing for years to catch your father in the act. Steve knows the cops don’t think a little thing who looks and talks as sweet as you could possibly be the brains behind the operation. The cops show up on your tail and you cackle before you put on the speed. Steve forgets all about his anger, watching you drive like a maniac under the moonlight, wind whipping your hair around your face. With his backroom deals, greasing the hands of cops with money, he’d forgotten the thrill of this. The chase.

You swerve off the road, parking your car on a little remote trail the cops obviously have no idea about. You both watch as the cops speed away, chasing nothing but a ghost. Well, with how expertly you’ve been driving, they’ve been chasing ghosts all night long. After you both come down from the adrenaline high, you say, “I don’t think this’ll work, Steve. I want it to, but…it ain’t a good move. It’ll be more trouble than it’s all worth.” And you sound genuinely upset about that.

Steve’s not ready to let a woman like you slip out of his fingers just yet. “Why don’t you come up to New York with me?”

You scoff. It’s a bitter sound. “I’m not some blushing virgin that you can get one over on. I know good and damn well what a kept woman is and that ain’t the life for me. I won’t lay around in your bed and spread my legs for you while you take over what I’ve worked hard at building my whole life.”

Steve slides a little closer to you and pushes some hair behind your ear. The late hour makes him brave…or stupid, if he’s been reading your signals wrong. “Sweetheart, I’d love nothing more than to have you in my bed.” You turn your head toward him and he can feel your burning glare more than he can see it in the moonlight. “But that’s not what I meant. I didn’t lie when I said I wanted you as a partner. I want you to come to New York and see what I have and what I can do.”

“I know this may be hard for a city boy like you to believe, but not everything is better in the city.”

“I can show you a few things we do better in the city,” Steve suggests lowly.

Slowly, you turn your head and your nose brushes past his. He can feel the warmth of your breath on his lips. “You usually this friendly with your partners?”

“My best friends, Bucky and Sam, they’ve both fucked me a few times over the years. You’ll learn this fast, honey, but I may have a thing for pretty people that can put me in my place.” He wants to pretend he didn’t hear the hitch in your breath. He leans back and gives you some space. Oh, well. He’s not going to lie about who he is. “You can tell me to fuck off.”

“I think we need to talk about your business practices there, Rogers. I was buried between Minnie Dean’s legs and you don’t see me giving her the recipe to daddy’s moonshine.” Steve breaks out into a fit of quiet laughter. You try to be serious, but you instantly cave and giggle along with him. It really is a beautiful sound.

“You win,” you breathe out after the two of you have gotten control of yourselves. “I’ll go with you. I can bring some corn. You can get a copper still. We’ll see what we can do with the water up there.” You reach out, playfully tap his cheek once, but your hand lingers on his skin. “Get out of the car, Brooklyn. Let’s see what you got.”

Steve lures you out of the car and into the cool autumn night. You two don’t stray very far. Steve leads you around to the front of the car and presses you down against the hood. He tugs at that pretty little ribbon in your hair and you sigh so beautifully when he runs his hand through your locks. Your hair fans out across the steel, glinting in the moonlight.

Pretty words won’t work on you, but you look like a fucking angel. Then, finally, he’s leaning down and kissing you. It doesn’t surprise him your kisses are biting, stinging, a warning that you’re as dangerous as him. Here you are, looking like an angel, but you’re so obviously a serpent underneath the surface. Father Donahue would have some words about a woman like you. Lucifer, a fallen angel, the vile snake come to lead a lamb astray. Steve hasn’t been an innocent lamb in a long time, though.

His mouth drops down to nip at the delicate skin of your neck and you tilt your head back, baring your throat. “Minnie Dean ever return the favor?”

“That asshole brother she’s got came too close for comfort and spooked her off.” You chuckle dryly. “If what you really wanna know if anyone’s ever had their mouth on me down there, answer’s no. I’d hate to suffocate someone with my thighs and have ‘em die on me before I get mine.”

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, isn’t that a fucking crime? On one hand, yeah, he’s going to be puffing up with pride after tonight because he’s the first person to ever get a taste of that sweetness between your thighs. On the other hand, he wants to kill the people who haven’t treated you like the treasure you are. “Even if you could do something like that, I think I’d still die the happiest man in the world.”

Then, Steve sinks down to his knees in front of you. He carefully settles his hands on your calves and you hiss at the touch of his icy fingers on your flesh. It’s a common complaint. He’ll let your skin warm him up. He slides his hands up your legs, teasingly slow, and begins pushing the fabric of your dress up and out of the way the higher he goes. Steve greedily takes it all in, watching and touching all this smooth, soft skin that’s slowly revealed to him.

Being a good, helpful girl, you take the bunched fabric of your dress from Steve, clutching it tightly in one hand. Your other hand fists in Steve’s hair when he tugs your panties down your legs. He pats one of your thighs and guides you to drape it over his shoulder, giving him more room to play, and he sucks a bruise onto your skin. He takes a deep breath, catching the heady scent of your sex, and he groans.

Steve spreads the lips of your pussy, getting his first taste of you when he places a soft kiss to your clit and his lips tingle. It’s a tease, but it has you sucking in a sharp breath and it’s got him reaching down to press the heel of his hand against his hard cock. He drops his head down a little lower, grinning at the little squeak you give when his nose bumps at your clit. It’s too dark to see, a shame. Teasingly, he presses his thumb against your hole and you squirm restlessly. He replaces his thumb with the flat of his tongue and he moans because you’re so sweet. Sweet and tangy.

Steve slides his tongue up, through your folds, moving right back to that bundle of nerves. It breaks your silence and you moan lowly, sound echoing in the darkness. It only spurs Steve on and he proceeds to devour you. Feasts upon your pussy, cherishing and savoring it almost the same way he used to do with those rare pieces of fruit Bucky would steal when he and Steve were poor, starving kids. His eyes roam up the wide expanse of your body, watching the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your back arches off the car the closer you get to the edge.

Never let it be said that Steve Rogers isn’t a man of his word. You wanted to see what he’s got and he’ll fucking show you what he can do with his mouth. He eases your trembling thigh back down so you’re on steady ground, braces a forearm against your midsection, nurses at your clit, and slides two fingers inside your soaking pussy. He crooks them, searching until he presses against that ridged area.

“Steve!” You slap a hand down on the hood of your car. Your other hand is about to tear a chunk of his scalp out with the grip you’ve got on his hair. “Sweet fucking Lord.” His lips curl deviously. “Steve—oh, God bless—it’s so good. Steve, I—oh, Jesus fucking Christ!”

Steve starts rubbing furiously at that spot inside you, firm and steady pressure. He matches the pace with his tongue, circling and lapping at your clit. You scream when you reach your peak, entire body convulsing, and Steve quickly lowers his head. He moans like a whore when your come squirts into his waiting mouth. He can’t catch it all, though, and the rest soaks your thighs, the front of Steve’s shirt, and your panties. And, fuck, he’s already a mess, anyway. So, he shoves a hand down the front of his pants, takes himself in hand, and furiously strokes until he’s coming himself, coating his hand in thick, sticky white.

Steve makes sure to keep his hands on you, even as he stumbles to his feet. You’re still shaking all over, trying to catch your breath, furiously blinking the stars out of your eyes—or so his ego hopes. “I hope you know how to drive,” you whisper hoarsely. “Because you’re the only way we’re getting home now.”

“And that’s how we do it in the city,” Steve teases.

“Shut the fuck up and help me back in the car.”

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

You’re perched on the edge of Steve’s desk. He watches as you take small, careful sips of the moonshine. After a few minutes of rolling the product around on your tongue, you sigh dramatically and turn to look out the window at the looming Brooklyn Bridge with a pinched expression. “It still ain’t Kentucky water,” you grumble. He waits until you reluctantly add, “But it’ll do.”

A smirk plays at Steve’s lips. “Want me to remind you of how I celebrate a new partner?”

#what even are tags #my writing #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fanfiction #plus size reader #steve rogers x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel reader insert

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ships-n-giggles · 5 years ago

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Futile Souls: Good Omens Platonic Crowley/Reader

Summary: He saves you. And you chase him through several lifetimes trying to thank him. Platonic, no romance, written because Crowley loves kids

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Author’s Note: This is my first time writing (and publishing!) reader-insert fanfiction, and I got inspiration from a chapter of Little Pet Shop of Horrors, a Good Omen’s AU regarding Crowley sneaking kids onto the Ark (if the author would message me so I can credit, I would appreciate it!) and other reincarnation stories. These are all based on meetings he has with Aziraphale throughout history, and taking into context the problems that went on during this. This is not a condemnation of certain cultures, religions or peoples, but rather an observation of how it could have affected kids.

If anyone thinks the level of effort Crowley goes to in protecting kids is not accurate with the book or show, that that’s up to you. This is a personal view of what I think Crowley would do in situations where innocent kids will get hurt or killed. I also used the closest thing I could think of to the original names of Jesus and others, though I’m certain I may have inaccuracies. If there are any experts who can point them out for me, I’d appreciate knowing my mixups, though I don’t think I’ll be editing. (ie, no beta read, we die like men)

Also please note that I’m not doing romantic shipping because I personally view Crowley and Aziraphale as agender, asexual beings in reference to what Neil Gaiman has come out to say about them, being a demon and an angel and all. If you like romantic shipping, please write your own or support other readers!

I don’t own Good Omens, because if I did there would be real dinosaurs and I would be living in a castle by the sea, so don’t sue please.

The first time, it was raining very hard.

Your father remarked that such a mighty rain in the desert was surely a promise from above that there would be more fertile lands. More water for barely, wheat, to bake bread and brew beer. You wish you knew what your mother would have thought of it all. But she had been dead seven years, and your father had already married a third time. And your stepmother did not bother to tell you anything. More often than not, she pretended you were not there.

“It’s raining too much.” Your friends remarked, the third day in. “We should ask if we can get on that big boat out beyond the village.”

The local madman, your father called him.

A ship of great proportions, but with no sail or rudder. It seemed less a boat and more of a glorified tub to float in the ocean….except the sea was miles and miles away and would not hasten to him, surely. But there had been remarkable things. A week ago, he let out a great shout for all of the beasts and creatures of the world to come unto him. And they had. Two by two, pair by pair. You saw animals you had no name for. Great big cats with stripes that barely licked their chops in your direction, even as you ducked behind your father, but rather padded along patiently towards the ship. Animals bigger than a house, with a tail at both ends! Even mice were scampering to join the ferry.

The rain drowns the crops, and starts billowing over into your house. Your stepmother, irritated, pregnant, and tired of the soggy state of things, chases you out while your father snores in their bed.

“Hurry! Look!” The children shout at you to join them on top of a big rock. The water is flowing more heavily now, and covers your feet and make your sandals heavy. “It’s the ocean!”

Sure enough, it is the ocean. The adults scoff that it was just the nearby river, but strange fish splash out from it. It looks too big to be a river. And too muddy.

The stranger comes.

“Come.” He hushes you all, a group of twelve children, who are curious at his red hair and yellow eyes. You give a last glance at your house. Your stepmother will not mind if you are gone long. And father will not notice. And this stranger is not like the other adults who are impatient and sometimes lash out when a child is too noisy. He hangs back from view, and watches things as they happen. “Hurry up. There’s not much time left.”

The water around the ark is up to your waist, though it only comes to the stranger’s knees as you wade to the base of the boat. Shem has pulled up the gangplank. He shouts angrily at the people of the village, for shunning their God. For sin. For the corruption of their existence.

The stranger casts one frustrated look of desperation to the skies, grabs a plank and pops it open. You’re all in awe and surprise. The planks are made of tough oak, and the stranger didn’t even use a hammer.

“Get in, you lot. Quick, quick, before we’re noticed.”

But you are all very afraid now. The rain comes down harder, the wind whipping it as you all hold your clothes together tightly, cowering in the coming storm. You jump at the sound of crackling thunder, and look up as lightning bursts in the sky.

You know that much more than the ocean has come to greet you.

So you lead the way, and climb aboard.

The other children, hesitantly at first, follow. And finally the stranger climbs in, putting the plank back where it was and banging the nails back in the other way with his own fist.

All thirteen of you huddle together in the dark hull, and begin to hear things. First it was just heavy rushes of water, splashing the ship. Then it gives a great lurch, and you can feel it floating. There is noise and commotion outside, hearing men slosh around and yelling instructions to slow the flow. Then you hear them urging the others to climb the rooftops of their homes. Then the screaming.

The stranger lets the children cling to him as the storm rages outside. You are right under his arm, hugging his waist and trembling. You all were the children who were awake. But there were many other children in the village. And some had not even been born.

You think you hear your father crying out to the heavens before it is swallowed up by a wave of water and let out a gasp. Without hesitation, the stranger moves one of his hands to your head, soothing you. Your father rarely touched you save to express his frustration or to move you aside.

You wonder if this was a man sent by God.

Peeking up, the stranger’s gaze is intently on a shadow in the hull of the ship, what would lead to the animal pens above. It is tense, fearful, waiting. Hoping. Wishing that you all are not caught.

A long time ago, a black snake slipped into your house and scared your first stepmother to bits, and was chased out by your father. It occurs to you that his eyes are precisely that same kind.

The storm rages, and you are all lulled to sleep.

“Here. Look outside.”

All of you have been wafting in and out of sleep, anxious waiting in the dark, and eating whatever the stranger procures when he briefly departs into the darkness to find some food. It is very little, a couple of raw vegetables or a loaf of bread to share, washed down with fresh water. And you have no idea how long you all have been afloat. Sometimes the rocking of the ship makes you sick. Sometimes it just makes you tired.

When the stranger beckons you all to the plank you had crawled in from, you realize the ship is very, very still.

He pops it open, and there is an amazing sight outside.

A bridge in the sky, with every beautiful color you have ever known and some you have only heard about. A bright white bird with a laurel in its toes soars across the sky, and the sun is shining. There is a lot of water still. And a lot of mud. But it is receding.

“That’s a promise.” The stranger says. “That this won’t happen again.”

But clearly he does not trust this sign from God.

The stranger is careful. He waits until the animals disperse and waits even longer for Shem and his family to set forth with their wives, children and livestock, to claim what is left. When there is nothing but fresh new silence, he leads you all along. “The sun won’t set on you here.” He says as he takes you to the edge of a new sea. His long arm points to a mountain far, far away. “Keep walking. When you reach that mountain, you’ll find a new home. Don’t tell them where you came from. Don’t let them know how you got here.” He looks down and you gaze up at him. “And for hell’s sake don’t let this be the end of you.”

You want to ask him to come along, but the other children have begun to walk, and….after a long wait, you hurry to catch up.

The twelve of you never forget his face. But you had no name to recall him by. So the others begin to forget him for real.

Canaan is fertile, fine land. Shem and his family must have roamed elsewhere. But there are good people here, surprised to find so many lost children wandering around. The high priest of Canaan divines that this was the work of God that you came here, and one by one, you are interred into new homes. You do not form real familial relations with your foster family at first. But a shy cousin is taken with you, and in time, you make your own.

You used to remember the stranger with the other lost children. But soon they stop talking about it. And when you ask, they frown, and tell you they were born here.

Your last breath is drawn upon the birth of your second child. When you see the black cloak your heart leaps with joy…the stranger has come back.

But you feel very cold to realize this is another stranger.

“Yes.” He agrees. “Very much a stranger.”

Your mother in law is wailing alongside the baby, but your body is cold and lifeless. There is grief in the air, but the question has been hanging on for some time now. “Who is he?” You ask. “What is his name?”

“You are dead. You will never see him again.”

“I could.” You said in a small voice. “I might. The sun is reborn every day. The moon waxes and wanes. I could come back too.”

“Would you? Would you relive this life? To know his name?”

“…I didn’t even say thank you. I wouldn’t have lived this long if he hadn’t.”

There is a long silence, and you see the world shrouded in darkness…pinpricked with dying lights that flash brightly before fading away. “Exactly this way. Every time.” Death agrees. “You will be born in time to see him. You will marry and have two children. And you will live only thirty two years before you start all over again.” The promise sounds like a dark omen, as if you should be afraid of such an arrangement. “Until you can express your gratitude, that will be your cycle.”

“That is enough for me.” You whisper, and feel your face and name become less familiar. “Until I can say thank you.”

You do not close your eyes. You don’t have the form to do so anymore.

_______

The next time, it is in Palestine. Galilee.

Your father and stepmother are worrying again, over the state of Roman affairs. It should have mattered less to them, being Jews, but their king in Rome had a lot to say about Jews being Jewish. Even as she soothes your future sibling, resting in her tummy, your stepmother says a lot of prayers, urging God to avert the Roman gaze away from you when you go out to play.

Most Roman legionaries don’t care about the multitude of children that run amok in the streets, and you and your friends play with hoops, ball games, and sometimes draw in the dirt or with charcoal on the walls. Sometimes they chuckle and remark on their own children in Rome, being minded by their mothers, sisters, and wives. You wonder why they don’t stay in Rome with their families like they should, but when you think on it, staring at them, they bark in Latin and make you run.

Your friend is a neighbor, who sings brightly. She is singing a hymn about Abraham in the yard, weaving alone, when you hear her stop and her mother screams. Your father tries to keep you from looking, but you climb to your bed in the loft and peer out.

A legionnaire is wiping the blood off his gladius, and your friend is dead, stabbed in the throat and bleeding heavily into the street. Her mother is wailing and screaming in horror, bent over her body and her tears flowing into the street. The legionnaire scolds her for letting her daughter be so crass in public and gives her a hard kick.

Your father grabs a cudgel from the wall. Your stepmother sees and grows pale, shutting the door behind him and fastening it shut.

Many other fathers do the same, and the riot that breaks out is so loud that you have to cover your ears and hide in the pantry with the door locked. You scream when the walls crumble in the kitchen, and your stepmother praying for mercy when a someone cuts her off. The door is forced open and you’re dragged out.

You choke at the sight of a street, wrecked from the fighting, with more Jews lying in pieces and Romans gathering up the inhabitants and shoving them along. They’re taking you to the coliseum.

Some Jews who worship openly, or even privately, get dragged in there and never come out. Your father used to say it was because the Romans wanted to look strong, and thus they put charges on people who had no power and punished them for their innocence. It occurs to you that among the beat up rioters, weeping mothers, and confused elderly, you are the only child in the group. You’re all forced into a dark, dry holding cell, packed together like jars of dried fish. An old woman sees you and hurries to sit you on her lap to prevent you from being crushed by the crowd.

And you’re all forced to wait.

You’re asleep when you’re forced awake by the sound of snarling. Something big. Something hungry.

The cell is half empty when you awaken. The old woman is shivering with fright. You are too. Then, a whisper passes through, and the woman urges you to move to a shadowed corner of the cell. “Come, come quickly.” The urge you, and as you are pushed forth, you see a small opening where a few bricks are removed. It’s too big for the rest, but you squeeze through with a few helpful pushes from the others, and land in the hot sand outside.

A man shaded under black linen with vibrant red hair and yellow eyes is waiting on the other side.

“Go. Run.” He urges, grabbing you by the wrist. Pulled along, the two of you race out of sight, even as cheers erupt from the coliseum. He pushes you up a ladder and over rooftops, and finally through a small door in the walls of the city. He squints into the distance, and sees a group moving forward. “C’mon, it’s not too late.” He points. “That there is a group following a man named Yeshua. That man will keep you safe from harm.” He squares you by the shoulders, bending over to look at you deep in the eye. “Do not let this place be your end. Now run.”

Something inside you tells you that you ought to wait, to say something else. But he gives you a good shove and you start running. By the time you catch up enough to look back, there is no more sight of your rescuer. He has vanished into a dot on the horizon, with the walls of Galilee behind him.

You push forward to find this man the others reverently call the son of God.

At first you hide behind the crowds when he stops by an oasis to drink. He speaks very gently to everyone, yet loud enough for the others in the back to hear as he speaks. You find yourself listening very intently, until he sees you hiding in the crowd and smiles softly.

He looks after you until a husband and wife come forward, admitting they had lost their baby and wished to take you in as their own. They have heard Yeshua’s message. They live by it. You cannot remember a family that loved you more, except perhaps the parents you have lost. You are married in another city to a friend of theirs. He is solemn and quiet, but he has soft hands and a sweet smile he keeps just for you.

After you are married, you grieve to find Yeshua has been murdered.

But when you and your husband make the pilgrimage to his tomb to pay your respects, your eyes are awash in tears to see him standing before you at the inn, smiling softly, with puncture wounds on his wrists. “My child.” He says gently, and you embrace. He has not forgotten you after all this time.

When you return home to give birth to your firstborn, they tell you he has returned to Heaven. He was here long enough to at least say goodbye. When you become pregnant a second time, you feel as though you are watching your life trickle away like grains of sand in an hourglass.

Yellow eyes. Red hair.

You don’t know his name but you want to find him.

You ask all over the town, hobbling even as the weight of your child bears down on you. But the last that was ever seen, even in Galilee, was of that man watching when they put Yeshua to the cross. Still you search, until your husband bodily carries you to an inn in the next town over. You heave and choke on your breath in a spare room at the hostel.

Regret tinges your last moments.

_____

Again you are born. This time as a slave in Rome.

Your mother cooks for Domitus Britannicus Hesperodus. A wealthy Senator with the ear of the Emperor, married twice. Your mother could not say no to him when he forced her to lay with him, and in time you were born. He didn’t seem to care that you were his flesh and blood, and neither did his children who ordered you around, mimicking their patriarch.

You think it extraordinary how slaves can get in trouble so often. As a child you often hung close to your mother, helping her bake bread and grill fish by the hot stove. But you hear stories of slaves who break furniture and pottery, dawdle on their errands, or speak impertinently to the master. You hear this from the children, who warn you that if you act out of line they will run right to your master and tell him to whip you soundly. Maybe you would even lose a hand. There is already one servant missing a hand when he deigned to steal your master’s bread, who clumsily hauls wood for the fireplaces and stokes the hearth.

When you are asked to serve the table, you realize it is the masters who decide if a slave is impertinent, clumsy, spiteful or lazy.

You don’t remember doing anything wrong. You serve the dishes, pour the wine, and remember what your mother says about keeping your eyes to the ground and staying quiet. The master has several friends over, senators dining lazily and debating philosophy. When your gaze is drawn up to a dove cooing in the window, you miss the first call for wine. The second call is a shattering cup that nearly hits you.

“Lazy!” Your master rears up like a lion about to pounce. You’re terrified as he grabs you by the arm. “Are you deaf? Now the cup is broken!” He piles on the blame and pulls back his hand. And in your panic you bite down on his arm.

You hear him yowl as you run away, dropping the wine jar and spilling it all over the floor as you make haste for the garden. You near trample his youngest son, who bawls when he drops his toy into the pond. You squash the flowers in the yard before leaping up to grab the edge of the wall, scrambling to get over and feeling the breeze of a whip at your heel as you climb up and over…making a run into the night. Late night revelers whoop as you run, and a few prostitutes cheer and make inappropriate gestures as you dart through them, running as your pursuers pour from the house and start to make chase.

Domitus has gotten astride his chariot, yelling at the street-goers to get out of his way as he rumbles down the street, catching up.

“Oi! You!”

You scream as you are grabbed and pulled into a narrow alley, vanishing from sight. A hand claps over your mouth and shushes you. “Hush, shshshsh,” The stranger quiets you like a hissing snake, putting a finger to his mouth. “Keep your mouth shut and you might get away.”

His hair is short, curled, and as bright red as burnished copper. You cannot see his eyes for the dark spectacles on his face, but he has dark, dyed toga, and a golden laurel around his head. He looks around and gestures you to follow. “This way, be quick about it.” The idea of your master in his chariot with a cracking whip demolishes any idea of mistrust and you cling to his toga as you follow him along.

You hasten to a different district, where there are more Germans, Greeks, and Britons mulling about than Romans. He speaks in an unfamiliar language to a group of men in wool cloaks, who eye you very curiously. You hide behind the stranger, but he eventually pulls you aside.

“Right. Stay calm now.” He says quietly. “My friends over here are going to a different place called Gaul. You ever been there?” You shake your head. “Speak any Gaulish at all?” Again, you shake your head, and he tuts. “Pity. But you’ll get the hang of it. Ol’ Tiberius here speaks Latin, he’ll teach you.” He jerks his head at a very big fellow with a strange pewter knot that looks like a snake on his cloak. “Now, I want you to go with them and get as far away from here as you can. Your old master’s gotten himself all worked up, and it’s not worth your life if he catches you, believe me.”

You must have looked afraid because he strokes your head and pulls something from his pocket. A gold coin so old it has since lost all of its features. “Here. If you’re worried about them, you can hop off anytime you like and buy yourself a trade. Keep that close and don’t lose it.” He drops it in your hand and closes it shut.

“But you’ve got a lot more life to live than anyone else here, so keep going.”

It’s enough encouragement to nod your head and to climb into a wagon with the Gauls. But as it begins to rattle off, you realize something and stand up, shouting over the edge.

“Wait!” You yell. “What’s your name?!”

But the stranger only waves and turns back into the crowd, swallowed up by a sea of strangers.

You find your new husband in Gaul by the time you arrive. He’s big and burly and laughs out loud, but cradles you like a little bird and awes over your smaller feet and hands. You learn Gaulish, and learn to enjoy the quiet of the moors and the flowers of the new land. You like the village you come to make your home, and cry when your firstborn child enters this world.

Your second child dies, and you sob to see its corpse exit you as you leave this world.

_______

You had an idyllic childhood the next time. Right until you turned thirteen.

With every pound on the door, you wince, unable to eat the meal your nurse has put before you. The household knights look impressive with their armor, tunics and swords, but they shiver as the Red Knight demands your submission outside the castle.

The Red Knight had learned of you after the death of his fifth bride…another fine young lady of another castle. He rode up to your home, demanded your father show himself, and when he did he challenged him to a duel for your hand and killed him before he could accept or object. With his many squires, fellow renegades and cutthroats making camp around the castle, bullying the locals, you had sensibly shut the gates and barred all entry. There was enough food to last a short siege, what you hoped would be a short one anyway as you wrote a letter to the Kingdom of Essex and the Knights of the Table Round. The letter was put on a hawk to be delivered, and shot down before it could reach the castle.

With no more hawks, and food growing short, the Red Knight laughed that he would starve you out sooner or later.

You pick at your pottage and fish and feel very cold at the idea of marrying him. He had eyes for every young maiden in the area, and no sooner did he wed them did he condemn them to sad, lonely deaths in their bedrooms….chained to the wall some said.

“No one can stand against the Red Knight and live.” One of your knights shuddered at the thought. “He will have us, one way or another.” And with no way of requesting a champion it seemed that would be the end of you.

The Black Knight strolled into the village by surprise, and outdid several of the Red Knight’s squires when they tried to beat him out of his armor. You feared he was just another thug until he made a request at the gate, the Red Knight begrudgingly with him.

“Hello!” He shouts, until you appear at the parapet. “Are you the lady of Willshire Castle?”

“I am.” You call back.

“Right.” He gives a short bow. “I am the Black Knight of Wessex, come to represent you in a duel of arms against the Red Knight of Barborough.”

“This time my lady-“ The Red Knight interrupts. “-you will give your solemn vow. To whomever achieves victory over the other, you will dedicate your hand in marriage. Do you swear before God to do this?”

The Black Knight’s expression is impossible to see, but he looks at the Red Knight with what you can guess is a look of exasperation as he throws up his hands in annoyance at the suggestion. “Er. Yeah. Marriage.” He agrees half-heartedly.

You have nothing to lose. Your household knights and servants will be slaughtered wholesale if you do not accept. And no one else has stood up the Red Knight before. “I vow before God and this community.” You swear. “That to the victor of this duel I will dedicate my hand in holy matrimony.”

The Black Knight wriggles in place uncomfortably. And you’re confused. Wasn’t that what he was here for?

The Red Knight draws his sword and bows dramatically. “I shall dedicate his death to you my love!” He swears viciously, making your blood run cold. “And when I win we will be wed at once! You! Squire!” He barks at one of his cronies. “Go and fetch a priest if we’ve still got one, this won’t take long!”

And to the shock and awe of all…it really doesn’t.

The mystery knight struggles to remove his sword from the Red Knight’s back, his opponent’s face still frozen in shock at the rapid end to the duel. By some form of magic, or curse, it was as if the Red Knight’s sword had turned to butter, slipping from his hands, and leaving the Black Knight free to give him a quick thrust to the chest. Finally the Black Knight wrenches the sword from the armor, groaning at the mess. “Urgh.” He fishes out a black handkerchief and wipes it off, sheathing it.

You suppose a promise is a promise, and order the gates to be opened.

Escorted by the household knights, who eye him with suspicion, you are suddenly very self conscious. Your father had plans for you to marry at a better age. Thirteen he said, was far too young to wed. You were still too delicate for marriage, to immature. Was this knight no better than the last?

The squire rushes back with a priest, who yells in shock at the sight of the infamous knight now dead, the prize delivering itself to his enemy. “Y-you! You’re some kind of demon!”

“You’ve got that right.” The Black Knight declared, hopping astride his horse and bringing it around. “I am the Black Knight of Wessex. Lord of the Darklands that will never be claimed!” His horse swung its mane, and he moved to dodge it. “And to meet with me is to meet…your Death!”

You’re scared as he offers you his hand. A promise is a promise. Your word before God and all others.

But you feel safe as you are pulled onto the horse, the knight nearly missing the priest as he speeds away from the castle, racing down the road. You hold on as the horse jounces the both of you until it slows, and you stop for the night.

“Here.” He helps you down, and starts a fire, sitting on a log to take a drink from a wineskin. “Take a rest, we’ll camp for the night before we ride to Wessex.” He passes you the wine, and moreover, shares a hunk of ham, cheese and bread from his saddlebag. You expect him to take what he has won as the Red Knight would, but instead he grumbles over the tent and the fire and struggles out of his armor to rest.

His hair is the devil’s own red, and his eyes are like a viper, yellow and serpentine. But he does not do anything to you without asking, and even then it is only to offer you something to eat, something to drink, and a warm blanket to rest in.

“Don’t you want to marry me?” You asked on the ride to Wessex. It’s very foggy, and the sun is barely making headway through the clouds.

“What am I going to do married?” He asks, a little irritable. He does not seem to like riding by horse, especially in plate armor. “Besides, you’re just a little girl. Don’t have time to babysit little girls, I’ve got fear to ferment and trouble to start elsewhere.”

When you ask why he bothered to help, he claimed there was a fly buzzing in his armor and he couldn’t hear you. He gives you no reason as to why he would bother until a castle comes into view farther away and he helps you off. “See that castle?” He points. “That’s the eastern hold of King Arthur. Rules these parts.” He lifts up his visor to squint. “There’s a knight of the Table Round that lives there, friend of mine. Ask for Sir Aziraphale and he’ll give you a hand.”

“Why?”

“He’s a knight of King Arthur, that’s what he does.” He says, as if it were obvious.

“Who should I say sent me?” You ask.

It looks like he doesn’t want to answer. “You already know. The Black Knight.”

“But what is your name?”

He turns his horse around, and you think you are going to be parting with an answer.

“Crowley.”

And that is how you learn his name, muttered under his breath and with a visor muffling his words before he takes off into the fog, disappearing quickly.

You end up having to wait for Sir Aziraphale, and accept the hospitality of another knight. That knight watches over you from the time you are thirteen to the time you are thirty two….only later he does so as your husband. He leaves to fight the war against King Arthur’s bastard son and never returns.

Your firstborn sobs at your bedside as your second child, both now fatherless, is brought into this world. You want to comfort him but can’t find the strength or the words. And when your breath fails you, you grieve to have left your children orphans in this world.

___

Time marches on. When the plague claims your home, you are forced to leave it after the doctors set it ablaze to prevent the spread of disease. You were supposed to be a part of the conflagration, but you are slippery and snuck out the back window when they thought they had locked you in.

London is an enormous cesspool of rich and poor, with more rats than citizens, and enough hidey-holes and spaces to make do in if you were crafty enough. You’re one of an army of pickpockets, and often you flatter passersby asking for directions sweetly while your hands craftily nick them of their belongings. You privately dream of an apprenticeship somewhere, with a sound roof and a master who was even tempered and would overlook an urchin such as yourself. But you don’t have that kind of wealth. None of the working class really do.

So you fill your pockets with coppers and stolen bread and the occasional raisin pie if you employ the aid of a few friends to badger the baker.

You attempted to pick the wrong pocket one afternoon and got caught.

“Let go!” You cried, wrist snatched by a tall gentlemen with dark hose, a velvet doublet and long red curls. He gives a frown down his long nose and dark spectacles and pulls you along. “Well don’t go pretending you didn’t earn it. You’re a pickpocket, own up to it.” He chides, leading you along. You protest noisily, but his grip does not threaten to snap your arm, but is rather firm and insistent, like when your father caught you sneaking apples from the orchard and urged you to come with him to apologize to the neighbor.

He takes you to a huge theater which stops your shouting if only to look up in amazement. It’s the Globe Theater, of all places. A place you would never be allowed and which you only dreamed of entering to see the plays and maybe even catch the good Queen Bess when she came to pay respects to the great playwright-

“Oi William!”

The gentlemen looses his grip and moves it quickly to your shoulder. The theater is empty, but there is a clear rehearsal on stage, people in flowy robes bickering over the lines while a painted backdrop of a misty forest is being lowered into place. “Sir Crowley-“ He looks a bit harried, and shockingly normal for a man people claimed had God’s inspiration for his great work. “-come to see the rehearsal? We’re still not near ready yet-“

“Oh I understand that.” Sir Crowley responds. “But I just remembered you were looking for a proper person to play the role of Pan, and I think I found them.”

Your jaw drops.

Shakespeare looks you over with insightful gaze and checks your look. “Hmm…whimsically impish even. Do you speak very well?”

“That’s just practice is all.” Sir Crowley insists. “Besides you really don’t have much time before the play is due do you?”

“No I suppose not. Giles!” He shouts, summoning a tired looking assistant. “Get this child washed up and into costume. We’ll go over the lines at once!”

“B-b-but I’ve never b-been on stage before!” You stammer, and Sir Crowley laughs. “Don’t fret. Just say the lines and play your bit. The more you act the more the audience likes it. This is one of the funny ones.”

It occurs to you that you should say thank you. But instead you are whisked off, and Sir Crowley is only ever mentioned in conversation thereafter.

You love the stage. When you dance on as the goat footed Pan and gleefully cause mischief, the audience laughs out loud and cheers when you give your final bow. You love the stage later when you’re old enough to play the dramas. And you love the actor you shared the stage with many, many times, before he carries you off to his family home to make you his wife.

The two of you still watch the plays that come, even after William’s star fades. Your child enjoys it. But when you find out you’re pregnant again, you have a terrible dream.

“I didn’t say thank you.” You sob into your beloved’s arms, feeling full of regret and sorrows. “I should have thanked him.”

In nine months, it will be his turn to cry into your arms. But you will not be alive to hold him.

_________

You were engaged for four months before your betrothed met the guillotine.

You were young, but you were an aristocrat. Engagements at eleven were very normal, and it had been the case for your mother. They assumed that a choice marriage to a duke would fix the issue of safety as their lives were threatened, angry letters from the townsfolk threatening their lives if they did not surrender their wealth and grain to the Republic of France.

Your husband-to-be was thirty and swaggered out to fight them. He instead was betrayed by his men, arrested and executed.

Your parents avoided the spectacle of the guillotine. The duke had been an embodiment of the hated aristocracy and was a symbol to be crushed, over and over with many other dukes and even the king.

But sitting in the Bastille, dressed in white and trying to pray in silence, your prayers were constantly interrupted by the swing of the blade. You would not die today, nor tomorrow. But soon. Your guard promised you that whenever he brought food and water.

In the fortress you heard the sobs and cries of others, older, and younger than you. They said the Dauphin of France was caged here with his siblings, his own mother separated from him. Perhaps a baby boy was too little to execute via guillotine, but you were tall enough and had a pretty, snowy neck, as the executioner told you.

A new guard arrived without food. And strange glasses.

“Put this on. Quick.” He tossed you a parcel. Pulling it apart, it was a peasant dress and bonnet, and he turned from you to permit you some privacy and to peer out through the bars of the door. From under his hat, you see a flash of red hair. “Hurry it up, we haven’t got long.”

You’re nervous, but you change clothes, and fumble with the bonnet. When he notices, he fixes it, tying it securely under your chin and tucking the sparse hairs in. “Alright. This way.”

He slinks through the halls of the fortress like a snake, holding you back when the soldiers march past. Finally, he arrives at a dead end. You fear this is all a trap when he pulls a lever hidden in the candelabra on the wall and reveals a secret door. The passage is full of children in peasant clothes, but with soft hands that suggest they were just like you.

“Hurry. In you go.”

There are thirteen of you when he closes the wall. A small boy whimpers and you pull him to you to comfort him, removing his hat to pet his golden curls. His blue eyes remind you of a portrait in Versailles….the Dauphin?

You all gasp when the guard arrives with another, but the voice that comes from his companion is as British as his own. Unlike the first, this one is decidedly more nervous and softer, adjusting his hat constantly to cover his silvery hair. “The dummies will fool them I’m sure of it.” The second one says quickly, shushing and ushering you all down the dark stairs. “As realistic as I could make them.”

“Sure you won’t get in trouble?” Your hero replies wryly, and there must be a private joke.

“Shush. Not in front of the children.”

The secret stairway exits to the canal, and you wobble as you exit onto a boat. The foppish guard smiles at his charges and sails off in one. But your guard is very solemn as he instructs you all to sit down and be quiet. The sound of the execution above is distant, but you can tell when it happens because a roar erupts every time the blade falls down.

“Don’t listen to it.” He tells you, catching your gaze. “Understand? Don’t try to remember it.” He paddles the oars, keeping an eye out for guards. “You will be shocked how easy it is not to remember.”

You know his name. But it escapes you nonetheless, as if it were someone else’s memory. It occurs to you that you should say something when a loud shout comes from above and the sound of gunfire rains down.

It either a miracle that none of you are shot, or the fact that the boat was forcefully overturned to catch the bullets and dump you all into the Seine. By the time you flop to shore with the others, shivering and wet, the guards are befuddled and without weapons, and your two rescuers are gone.

You have to lie to the husband you meet when you flee to the Pyrenees, even though he begs to know your heritage…and you teach him how to bake cake and watch as he grows more jolly and plump every year. But you have bad dreams more often than not. The joyous welcome of your first child and your own bakery does not stop them. Your husband wakes you with a gentle hand and cradles you to calm you down.

But when you die on the birthing bed, you know deep inside you have failed again.

______

When your life starts again, you are sure you are going to die at only seven years old.

Influenza was hell for the poor. Your father worked for fourteen hours a day at the linen factory, and your mother washed laundry and kept mind of you and the skinny apartment you all shared in the smoggy district of London. Most times you ate sausages that never really tasted like pork or beef, and the sooty boys that sweep chimneys say that sometimes they have to mix in rats or cats when there isn’t enough to fill a sausage. You aren’t sure if that’s what makes you sick.

But you cough weakly as your mother carries you on her back, going from doctor to doctor, asking for help. With not enough to even cover the medicine, all of them close the door in her face. She is brought to tears as she hurries, carrying you along. You wish your father was here. But he was chained to that factory, stuck doing terrible labors all day and likely did not know you were sick yet.

It is very dark when your mother gives up at last, sobbing and holding onto you as she sits on a stoop in front of an empty house. The three of you barely had enough pence to pay rent and buy food. The paltry few coins your mother had for a doctor would not cover the costs. It wouldn’t even cover a funeral.

“Up. Come on.”

You think the person in front of you is death itself, all dark, mysterious and impatiently beckoning you. When you realize he is talking to your mother, and that she is answering, you have a hazy wondering if it wasn’t your time yet. She’s speaking too fast for you to understand, with your head all awhirl with the fever, and he answer simply enough and opens a door to a carriage.

Its very dark inside and you fall asleep.

You feel better by the time you wake up, in a softer bed, with a warm stove lit and the smell of brewed tea leaves. A gentle looking nurse is reading at the foot of your bed and brightens to see you wake up. “There you are dearie. Come now, let’s take your medicine and have a bite to eat, there’s a pet.”

You go through the motions, swallowing down the bitter syrup, but eating a soup far better than your mother can afford, with fresh, soft bread and washing it down with warm milk. Your memory catches up and your hurry to ask what happened.

“Master Crowley instructed us to keep an eye on you.” The nurse simpers. “He’s been talking with some friends and fixed up a nice living arrangement for you, isn’t that lovely?”

When you feel better, you are allowed to ask for him. But when they ask for Crowley to come, he delivers some excuse and apologizes through a letter instead.

“But…” You whimper to the nurse who delivers the message. “I have to. I have to say thank you.”

“Oh there, there-“ She hushes, gathering you in her arms. She is so soft and pillowy, you sink right into the embrace. “-don’t fret. You’ll see him again one day, you just wait and see.”

You do just that. You wait. You ask as often as you can. You study at the hospital and become a nurse and you wait. When the nurse tries for the last time to find him, she learns he has disappeared quite entirely, and you break down into tears.

The years are softened with a change in the environment. You fall in love. And better yet, your husband can love you back. You save him when he is stricken with a putrefied leg wound, and he saves you when your regrets haunt you in your sleep. There is a full bottle of valerian in your dresser to smother your dreams, but they are so intense that it only muffles them like a pillow trying to drown them out.

This was the briefest yet. Your dreams cry out, and your little boy toddles from his room to comfort you when you cry. Why? Why can’t you just tell him?

The depression hits later in life, though your husband bravely tries to keep your spirits up. “I hope you live happy.” You tell him on the birthing bed for your second son. “No regrets.”

“No regrets.” He promises. Of course he doesn’t know.

You do.

_______

When your turn comes again, you think yourself as far less child and more of an adult. At fifteen you were a lot more educated than your younger siblings, though your stepmother protested that you were too young to get involved in the war effort. But you are determinedly single-minded, and in time you are recruited as a spy for the British Government. You supposed that with the state of the war, they were willing to take all sorts of risks.

You looked innocent enough. A young lady, going to classes and attending school was a pretense to go to libraries and smuggle out valuable books. You worked in tandem with the fellow spies, decoding what you can of German wanted lists. Many of them were listed to be destroyed, per the Fuhrer’s intent to eradicate all literature that spat in the face of his dictatorship, but many more were to be stolen for their value. Your proudest moment was when you swapped the Book of Saint Columba from the British Archive…switching it for a well-made fake.

That moment nearly killed you.

The bible was mingled in your book bag, and you made a beeline for your designated safehouse. A group of spies pretending to be your family were waiting, and the book would be hidden until the war ended for its own safety.

When you saw a pair of men stalking you from a corner, you sought to lose then in the broken rubble of the streets. You did not see the second pair, who cornered you with a gun. “Hands up.” One said sharply, his German accent thick and cold. You swallow hard and obey. “Walk.”

You are marched through dark streets, sometimes encouraged along when you realize you are returning to the safehouse. You try to disguise your terror as everyone there is lined up against the wall of the backyard, hands on their heads. “These people, they are familiar to you?”

You shake your head a little too quickly, and a bullet is put through your fake brother. He crumples to the ground, and the gun is moved onto the next. “No? Are you sure?” They shoot your fake mother, and she gasps, clinging to life and bleeding against the wall. But another round of shots and she too falls dead. “Come, come my dear, all you have to do is tell us where the books are.”

One by one you shake your head. Soon there are no more spies against the wall and the gun is up against your chin. You can feel it’s still hot, burning a mark right above your throat. “Last chance kilenes madchen-“ The gunman asks patiently. “-I don’t have to shoot you. I can do far worse things.”

Close your eyes and think of England. It was a joke that had been passed along by your friends when you were little and had to do things you didn’t want to. Taking cod liver oil to prevent the measles, eating your carrots even though you hated carrots, or enduring the dull lectures of history from your dreary teacher. Your mother used to say it when you complained of some unappealing task.

Close your eyes and think of England.

You do just that, and await a gunshot to the brain or being dragged off and defiled as all the nightmare stories from Germany say they do. You close your eyes and think of your real family, your real home.

You are very patient until you realize nothing has happened.

When you open your eyes, a dapper man in black sunglasses is standing around a bunch of unconscious Nazis, wiping off his hands. “You really, really, really ought to be less conspicuous next time.” He scolded. “If word got out that silly bible got into Nazi hands, I can think of someone who might smite you for losing it.”

You panic briefly, scrambling for your bag. But you sigh in relief. The Book of Columba is still there.

“Alright. Bomb’s gonna drop in about five minutes, it’ll take care of this mess.” He gestures you to follow. “Come along, I’ve got another place you can drop that off.”

The shelter he takes her to is full of English children, much younger than you. You’re a little offended when he calls you “little girl” and laughs when you defend you were fifteen, as if that changed anything. But when the bombs started falling, making the ground shake, he gives a reassuring half-hug to a few of the kids before leading you all outside after it subsides.

The safehouse is a bookstore. Hide a tree in a forest indeed.

“Oh! Oh you’ve saved it!” The book clerk is clearly thrilled when you uncover the sacred bible, running his hands over the protective cover. “Bless you dear, you’ve done a real miracle tonight.”

“She’s done? I suppose taking out half a dozen Nazi spies is just a doddle!” The dapper stranger snaps.

“Crowley I didn’t mean that kind of miracle-“ The bookkeeper hushes him. “-come inside quick. I’ll alert the authorities.”

You all sit inside the shop while he accesses a machine hidden behind a shelf, tapping out a message in Morse code. Crowley sits in a chair, lounging and drinking heavily from a bottle of wine and scowls when you look at him too long. It’s time to say it.

But when you try to, he stands up and hushes you. “None of that. It’s been a long night.” He polishes off the bottle and saunters out. “Take care of this one for me, will you angel?”

The door closes and you start crying. There is no time for the clerk to ask what’s wrong before you run out to try and catch him. Circling the block, shouting his name. Knowing you still might have a chance.

There is no answer.

The war eventually ends, and your service to British Intelligence turns into a simple desk job. Sometimes you pass by that old bookshop, remembering that night, remembering how close you were to saying thank you. You have a medal of commendation, congratulating you, and they even let you keep the identical copy of Columba’s book. You meet a man much like you, except his regrets were made on the battlefield, with friends he’d failed to bring back home with him, and people he thought hadn’t needed to die at all. And in a grief that can be explained, it helps you along with the grief that has no name, buried deep within you.

When you are pregnant a second time, you take the copy of the bible to the bookshop. You scribble a note on the cover, but leave no name. The person it is left for after all, may have another name the next time. But urgency tells you that next time might be the last. You’re seven months pregnant, and the clock is ticking down.

You don’t let the bookkeeper see you as you leave it in the mailbox, wrapped in brown paper. Tell him to wait next time. You leave within the book. Tell him I haven’t said thank you yet.

When you feel your water break, you say goodbye to your confused husband and son. You don’t fight it as your second child forces his way into this world. You accept the void and close your eyes…impatient for what you already know is to come.

One more time.

____

At the eve of New Years for 1970, you try to get in trouble.

You’re only thirteen. Your mother dismisses it as rebelliousness and grounds you to your room. But when you find yourself wandering around town after dark, she gets concerned when you can’t give a reason why you’re looking for trouble. You describe it as a deep urge, a built in response. You know something will happen if you’re in danger. You just don’t know what it is.

She puts you through therapy, and the psychiatrist is very understanding.

“More supernatural than cognitive.” She says, writing it down after you’ve talked of your recent lapse. You had run away from home and were doing runs around Soho, scarcely avoiding traffic. “Something that can’t be explained.” She puts her hand on yours and smiles. “But we need to try and slow it down. Make it safe. Your mother loves you and doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

She doesn’t mention your father since you’re not sure he has an opinion about you at all. He’s been gone since before you were born, but you can’t help but view him as a mere facilitation of your existence. He has no real importance. He’s only there to make sure you go through the motions by existing.

Your psychiatrist offers some sleep aids to try and urge an early bedtime rather than running off into the night. Most times it works. But when you turn sixteen, you spit it into the toilet instead and sneak out.

And you can feel something different in the air. It’s almost electric. The lights in Soho are somehow brighter, the cars are faster, and the streets are more empty than usual. Something is trying to happen.

So you encourage it, and try stepping out into the busy street.

Every part of you sings with relief when someone pulls you back.

“Idiot.”

The arm is secure on your shoulders, making sure you’re secure as the car that almost hit you honks angrily and speeds off. But the rest of the world seems to be waiting on its heels for what is to happen next. You have to make sure it’s still what you’re waiting for.

Red hair. Dark glasses.

“Thank you.”

___________

Crowley didn’t freeze time. But it stopped anyway.

At his feet, the girl. She wasn’t run over, but as soon as she said those two words, it was as if she had her strings cut from an invisible puppeteer, and now laid as cold and dead as she would have been if he had not reached out.

“Our arrangement has been concluded.”

It is far more frightening than the Archangels or Satan. It is Death, in his black, withered cloak, a wizened skull staring back at the demon while the world ceased to move.

“What arrangement?” Crowley is barely able to say through a dry mouth. This is worse than the worse omen, and moreover it was completely unexpected. Aziraphale had shown him that peculiar book today…he had seen the message. He didn’t understand.

“Not you. The child.” Death’s back shudders and eight shadows stand behind them. Crowley has to squint to see them, but they all look very familiar. A teen spy. A pickpocket from London, a Jew from Galilee. All of them.

Leading up to the scared, wide eyed child from the Flood.

“They said they would return to this life until they could express their gratitude. Their cycle would not end until they had done so.” Death’s voice sounds very pleased, as if having seen a good crop come to fruition. “They would have thirty-two years to live, and a chance to say it when you inevitably stepped in to aid them. If they failed, they would die upon the birth of their second child and start over.”

“Why? Why would you agree to this?” Crowley sweats heavily. For over 5000 years, a single soul was put through the wringer of existence, forced to relive the same dangers. “Since when do you play games with little girl’s souls like this?”

“I am patient.” Death replies. “I come for all souls eventually. And she knew she would see you again. Deep down.”

One of the shadows looks up and seems to recognize him. A tiny wave from a small hand, before Death stretches his wings and the shades evaporate.

“This is wrong.” Crowley states. “She’s a child. She shouldn’t die this way.”

“This is her choice. And now it is over.”

Your shade stands before Death and whispers something.

“Make it quick.” Death replies. “I am patient. But not for long.”

You are little more than vapor, with no real form. Sometimes it shifts into what you once were, but it’s hazy and only retains the shapes most familiar to you. Crowley before you looks grief-stricken. You can sympathize why. He has just met Death, but found himself beset with regret that it was not himself that was being taken away.

“No tears.” You whisper. “I knew I would meet you again someday.”

“Not like this.” Crowley croaks back. “Not when you’re just a girl.”

“I’m old too you know.” You remind him. “I lived a lot.”

“Those don’t count. You don’t even remember.”

“I remember you helped me.” You tell him. “And if I only got to thank you once for all the times you helped me, then I can let go of this world for the next one.”

“Where will you go?”

There’s a pause, and Death’s wings shift with impatience.

“Where we can meet again.”

______

The accident almost gets Crowley in trouble, time restarting with a dead girl at his feet. He escapes, barely, and Aziraphale holds a private memorial in his bookshop with the fake bible and candles. Crowley doesn’t want to drink or do much of anything. So he relies on the angel for the silent assurance. This was the last time.

Her mother would mourn and grieve terribly. But she would not have to put another mother through that kind of grief again.

“It does say something about humanity.” Aziraphale notes, rereading the passage you had written in another life. “They have longer memories than we give them credit for. Even Death can’t stop that.”

It’s not much of a comfort.

Crowley takes the Bentley and drives. And drives. He stops when the road does, at the end of the country where it meets the sea. “It could’ve ended right then and there.” He remembers when the sea came for the children, when Noah closed the Ark. Tearing open the hull just to save a handful of innocent kids. “But I got involved.”

Tiny hands holding onto him like a lifeline, and nothing he could do but pat their head.

He looks up at the stars he has made. Some had passed on, faded away. Their light would shine on Earth for thousands of years, but they had long since gone.

A different light glimmered, a bright yellow. Still so small, but defiantly glimmering in the sky.

Crowley holds his hand up.

“Alpha Centauri.” He removes his glasses. His eyes peer beyond the ozone, beyond the vacuum of space where a star has forgone Heaven and Hell and begun turning serenely. Unbelievable. She even got the color of his eyes right. “Fine.” He smiles, a half chuckle. “One of these days. See you there.”

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #crowley/reader #crowley x reader #good omens crowley #good omens aziraphale #good omens reader insert #good omens imagine #fanfiction

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paperrretro · 4 years ago

Text

steal.

Pairing: Luis Mendoza x Reader

Word Count: 1,430 words

Warnings: Mild swearing

Request: Hi! I dunno if you’re still taking requests but could you possibly do some Dwayne Robertson x Reader or Luis Mendoza x Reader fics?

[A/N: luis x reader let’s goooo :) this is the last request that was submitted before i closed requests btw !]

The sun leaves dapples of light across the forest floor.

You cross a short bridge, twigs crunching beneath your feet, water bottle swinging freely in your hand. Birds chirp through the ocean of sky above you. A brook babbles somewhere in the near distance. With the cool, still air, and a fresh summer temperature only found within the depths of spruce and aspen, one would think this the perfect afternoon for tranquil reflection.

Fortunately, you’re with the Ducks instead.

“Y’know, my cousin told me that an axe murderer lived here in the seventies,” Les says, looking down into the pit of dense underbrush and rotting logs off the edge of the trail. You follow his gaze. “Pretty spooky, right?”

“Maybe he’s still here,” Ken says.

“Maybe … it’s – me!” You grab Les’s shoulders, cackling when he jumps. “Gotcha, you wuss.”

Ken snickers as Les brushes himself off and glares at you. “Very funny,” the latter mutters.

You just grin.

Given the similar walking speed shared by the three of you (turtle speed, according to Russ), you’d drifted together for the hike and – although you’ve never really hung out with Ken before – gotten along swimmingly. Les has no shortage of quips and conversation starters, while Ken has a good eye for spotting rabbits and toads. You’ve kept your role as the affectionately insufferable member.

“You scare too easy, Les.”

He rolls his eyes, good-natured once again as you elbow him gently. “Oh, it’s always my fault. Good to know.”

The brook finally comes into view. You pause to admire the tiny waterfall with your friends, stooping down to run your fingers through the cold water. Ken catches a frog and passes it around.

Right when you’re about to hop across and continue on, an arm wraps around your shoulder.

“So, what’s going on?” Luis says next to your ear, and it’s your turn to startle.

“Geez, Luis, a little warning next time!”

Turning to meet the boy’s gaze, you find one of mischief, paired with a daring grin. Luis makes no attempt to remove his arm as you scold him, and you make no attempt to immediately slip away.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he says.

Les hums in concern. “You know, [Y/n], you scare too easy.”

His tone is mocking, and you probably deserve it. Still, you have the pride to feel offended. “Ha, ha.”

“You scare easy?” Luis queries, expression one of utter amusement. “Cute.”

Cute.

Now, you are painfully aware that Luis Mendoza uses the word “cute” as frequently as he used to crash into rink boards, but having the term applied to you almost makes your knees weak. So you scoff and duck away to cross the stream.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you reply, “but I’m the villain around here, not the victim.”

He raises an eyebrow, jumping across as well and slinging his arm right back around you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

“Okay,” you say. “Guard your tent tonight.”

Then you turn your attention back to Les and Ken, striking up a conversation with them as you let Luis ruminate on your words. It’s just for kicks, honestly. You’re not going to do anything to his and Dwayne’s tent later. You’d feel bad for Dwayne.

No, you have something better planned.

The spots of light on the ground fade as a herd of clouds pass beneath the sun, and it makes you even more aware of how warm Luis is through his sweater. It’s quite cozy, being tucked against him like this.

You sacrifice it all when you reach up and swipe his baseball cap.

“What the –?!” Luis yells as you sprint off.

As predicted, you hear his footsteps against the dirt path as the boy runs after you. Les and Ken holler a protest at both of you – you hear Coach mixed in somewhere – but you’re too swept up in the delight of being chased to care much about getting in trouble later.

“Let’s hope you run as fast as you skate, Mendoza!”

Presented with a fork in the trail, you veer right, jumping over an overgrown tree root. Your feet pound as fast as your heart. A laugh flies from your throat as you clutch Luis’s hat tighter.

He shouts your name, sounding close behind. You don’t dare look back for fear of tripping. Where to – there! A path! You make another sharp turn and duck underneath the low branches.

Then you’re running straight again, following the thin strip of dirt and trampled grass as you listen for Luis. Only when you reach the edge of a drop-off do you finally come to a stop.

A few seconds later, Luis catches up.

“Damn, [Y/n],” he pants, hands braced on his knees. “Why are you faster off the ice?”

Glowing with pride, you nod at the surrounding forest. “Chalk it up to experience,” you reply. You hand his hat back. “Here you go. I’m not an actual villain.”

He takes it. Then, to your surprise, he places it on your head. “All yours. You earned it.” Luis winks at you.

“O-Oh. Okay, thanks.”

You fit the cap more snugly over your head. A breeze rustles the treetops high above you as the pair of you gain your bearings.

“Guess we should head back, huh?”

“Guess so.”

—

Luis sucks in a breath through his teeth, squinting up at the graying sky. “Coach is gonna kill us.”

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking, but it’s definitely longer than you should’ve. A rare burst of guilt wracks your bones. At least you got back onto an actual trail.

With a nervous chuckle, you sit down on a nearby log. “Crap,” you say. “Sorry, Luis. I wasn’t watching where we were going.”

“Hey, I wasn’t either,” he says. Joining you on the log, he rests his elbows on his knees and nudges you. “So it’s kinda my fault too. At least we’re together.”

“Maybe that was my plan all along.”

“Oh? If you wanted to be alone with me, all you had to do was ask.”

You lean back on your hands as he smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Thunder rolls in the distance. The two of you swear at the same time.

“Maybe we should shout for them.”

Well, you think, getting back to the group is probably worth scaring off the wildlife and any other hikers out here at this point. You’re getting hungry and Coach promised campfire potatoes tonight. Luis tilts his head at you and you nod.

For what seems like forever, but is likely just a few minutes, you take turns yelling. Coach Bombay, Charlie, Les, whoever. No dice.

It starts to get a bit chilly. Luis offers to share the pocket of his hoodie; you sit closer to hold hands for warmth. The thunder rumbles closer.

When you hear a familiar duck call in the distance, you and Luis shoot up from your seats. Coach Bombay appears around the corner soon enough, whistle hanging from his neck and looking very unhappy.

“We’ve been looking for you guys for an hour,” he reprimands, hands on his hips. Several of your friends come up behind him, looking at you and Luis while you rub the back of your neck. “What were you thinking, running off like that? I told you to stay on the trail!”

“Sorry, Coach,” Luis says.

Well, if that doesn’t make you feel guilty again … “I was the one who started it,” you say. “Sorry. I’ll take any penalties you give me.”

Coach looks at you, visibly surprised, but then shakes his head. He turns and gestures for you to follow him. “Just come back to the campsite, guys. I’ve had enough stress for today and really need something stronger than bottled water.”

Whew. Dodged it. “You mind sharing, Coach?”

He lifts a finger. “Watch it. I can still leave you out here in the wilderness.”

You zip your lips shut, tamping down a laugh.

Les falls into step with you and leans in to whisper as you all trek back towards the campsite.

“Looks like you got something out of that run.”

You hum. “What d’you mean?”

“Sorry, I figured the whole holding hands thing was a new development to your relationship –”

Looking down, you realize that Les is right, your fingers still laced with those belonging to a certain fellow speedster. A glance upwards tells you that Luis knows this as well, if the unapologetic, self-satisfied smile on his face is anything to go by.

“Don’t jinx it,” you whisper back.

It starts to rain.

#luis mendoza #luis mendoza x reader #luis mendoza imagine #mighty ducks #the mighty ducks #fanfic #reader insert #fluff #90s #90s imagine #mighty ducks imagines #averman and reader are best buds that share a braincell #averman has it 90% of the time :(

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writingsofspn · 6 years ago

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Glad - Steve McGarrett x Fem!Reader

Requested by the beautiful @thestrawberryblondehobbitbatch - sorry this took so long, I actually wrote a while ago but lost it! Thank you for being so patient;)

Basically the beginning of the pilot episode, however you have been inserted into it - now Steve is negotiating with Victor Hesse for yours, and his father’s life

——————————

Being out in the field was Steve’s favourite thing. The intensity, the action, the pace. Everything made his senses tingle and his body feel alive when he was fighting for his country. He was out on an op now, chasing down someone he’d been looking for, for a very long time.

It was the evening, and he sat at the base on his small bed; laughing and joking with the other SEALs. They were talking about their lives, and what they would be going home to in a couple weeks.

“So, McGarrett? What’ve you got waiting for you when you go home? A pretty little lady?” The guy next to him asks, nudging his shoulder with his.

“Yeah, I got a pretty little lady waiting for me at home. A pretty little lady that’s just come home from her tour in Afghanistan for 10 weeks. She actually came home early to receive a medal of honour from the Hawaiian government because she saved the lives of a whole town whilst she was out there. She’s doin’ well.” Steve laughed. He always loved talking about you because it always left other guys completely stunned.

“Wow McGarrett? How’d you bag that one?” Another guy asked, raising his eyebrows.

“We met when we were 16. Sophomore year of high school. We trained at the academy together but took different paths, she’s a soldier and I’m a SEAL. But we still see each other as often as we can.” He finished.

“Wow McGarrett. That brought a tear to my eye.” One guy joked, laughing.

“Shut up.” Steve joked, throwing his pillow at him. The guy caught it and smiled.

“I’m joking. You’re a lucky dude McGarrett.” He threw the pillow back at Steve.

“Yeah. I know I am.” He smiled.

————————

The truck rumbled along the rough road. Steve was in back with someone he’d been chasing down for a while; Victor Hesse’s brother, Anton. He was keeping an eye so as to make sure he didn’t try anything funny. A voice over the telecom came faintly in the background. Anton scrutinised Steve, looking him up and down with a fowl look on his face. Steve was used to this sort of thing, and tried not to let it get to him. He kept you on his mind, trying to take it off being watched by the slimy guy that sat in front of him.

“You know what’s funny? You don’t look Hawaiian.” Anton smiled, tilting his head up. Steve shifted in his seat and sighed.

“Okay. You’re gonna tell us everything.” Steve said back, squinting his eyes.

“But you were born there, weren’t you?” He started again. Steve knew he was trying to get to him, and he felt himself getting hot under the collar. This guy knew he was born in Hawaii. If he knew that, what else did he know?

“Every terrorist cell you and Victor helped arm. Every supplier you worked with, all your trafficking associates. Everyone you’ve ever sold weapons to.” Steve retorted, trying to keep the situation cool and calm. He wanted to kick the seven bales out of this guy but he knew he couldn’t - it was unprofessional. But, this guy was really getting to him.

“Chasing my brother and I around the world for five years? Like a little doggie lookin’ for a bone. You don’t think we do our homework? On you?” He smiled, keeping his eyes on Steve in a way that made his blood chill.

Steve’s phone began to ring. He quickly took it from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

“You should get that. You don’t speak to your father nearly enough. Or your girlfriend for that matter.”

Steve’s head shot up in surprise. The hairs on his arms stood up and a feeling grew in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t like. He answered the phone quickly.

“Dad. You alright?” He asked, attempting to keep calm. His father was quiet on the other side for a few seconds.

“Hey champ -” Steve’s face furrowed in confusion. Champ? He’d never heard his father call him that in his life. “Who are these people Steve?” His father sounded worried and Steve’s stomach dropped as he continued to watch the Anton smile at him. The phone crackled and another voice came onto the line.

“Now I know where you get it from. You’ve got a tough old man here. Steve, we both have somethin’ to lose here, so listen to me very carefully. I’m offering you a trade, your father for my brother. All things considered I think it’s pretty generous.” Victor finished. Steve grabbed a pen and paper and wrote down for someone to send a message to the Honolulu police department saying that his father was in trouble. He shifted in his seat again, worry overcoming him.

“Look. You’re smart enough to know that’s never going to happen.” He said back, trying to keep the message that everything would be okay in his head. Steve had been chasing these guys for years, and he couldn’t let the opportunity to see them locked up slip away now.

“I appreciate the compliment. Are you...smart enough…” Victor hesitated, looking over at the guy trying to track Steve’s location from his phone signal; who told him to keep Steve on the phone for longer.

“C’mon Victor. You know how this works, we don’t negotiate with terrorists.” Steve cut in, attempting to one-up Victor.

“Make an acception. Maybe I can make the deal sweeter Mr. Garrett. Did I forgot to mention that we have your cute little girlfriend with us too? Say hello to your boyfriend Y/N.” Victor held the phone away from him slightly and turned to you, holding it up to your ear. Steve felt his blood run cold when he heard Victor say that sentence. These guys didn’t mess around, and you and his father could be in serious danger. Everything was a game changer when it came to you. For Steve, he would break all the laws in the book to keep you safe; and Victor knew that. He clenched his jaw and gripped the phone tight. He could hear your voice on the other side.

“I’m gonna kick your a-” He heard you begin before the phone was brought back to Victor’s ear.

“I’m not gonna negotiate like this.” Steve started.

“Oh. Are we negotiating?” Victor cut in, a smug look crossing over his face.

“You kill them. You kill her...and you get nothing.” Steve pressed his lips into a thin line, his hand balling into a fist on his knee.

“Hey, gimme the phone. Please. I can get him to help you. He’ll listen to me, he’s my son.” Steve’s father said, looking at Victor. You were bound to the chair next him and you raised an eyebrow, unsure as to what he could possibly say that would make Steve cooperate. You knew Steve had already messaged HPD, because you’d have done the exact same thing in his shoes. You pictured him, looking all upset and tense. You desperately needed to get these restraints off so you could kick these guys’ asses and get out of here to let him know everything was going to be okay. Victor’s plan seemed to be going ahead, so quite a few of the men that had been there at the start had left. It was only Victor, and two other guys. You were pretty sure you could take them; aside from Victor, they didn’t appear to be armed.

Victor held the phone to Steve’s father reluctantly, looking over at the other guys so they could be ready if he tried to pull something funny.

“Listen to me champ-” Steve’s father began.

“Dad. I’m going to get you two out of there, don’t you worry.” Steve cut in before his father could say anymore, trying to let him know he would be okay.

“I’m sorry that I lied to you.”

“Wha- Lied to me? Lied about what? Dad, what are you talkin’ about?” Steve said in a panic, confused at the sudden confession given the situation.

“You’ve got a beautiful life, here with Y/N. Cherish that. Don’t you ever forget to keep each other safe and tell her that you love her every day - because that’s something I should have done. I love you son. I didn’t say it enough. Whatever these people want Steve; don’t give it to em’. Don’t you give it to th…” He was cut off with a loud smack across the head, sending him to floor. You jumped and you expect Steve did as well.

“Dad? Dad?” You heard Steve’s frantic voice over the phone and your heart ached. You pulled again at your restraints and felt something come loose.

Victor lifted the phone to his ear again in an angry rage.

“No more games! I’m taking my brother. Now.” Victor shouted, his face red with spite.

“I swear to god I’ll hunt you down and I’ll kill you if you lay one finger on my family.” Steve shouted back, anger seeping through his body like a river. His whole body felt hot, yet cold at the same time. His palms were clammy and his eyes felt dry. He pictured you and his father, tied up and defenceless and it made his blood boil.

Suddenly, Victor’s brother who sat before him decided to speak up.

“Hey? Boom.” He said and smiled. Steve looked at him in confusion before he felt the truck slow down and a mighty explosion sounded outside. He ducked his head and looked through the windshield. The truck in front was completely obliterated. Men behind them stopped their trucks and filed out; guns at the ready. Gunshots ricocheted through his truck and everywhere else. Other SEALs were attempting to take down the helicopter that floated in front of them. Another truck was upturned and orange flames burst from its rear end as it tumbled away. Steve leapt into action and grabbed his gun, shooting at the other helicopter that had now arrived. He kept an arm across Anton as he shot. He looked up and grabbed the prisoner by the collar.

“Come here.” He said forcefully, dragging him up through the hole in the top of the truck. They ran across the top and jumped down onto the grass, sliding across. Steve grabbed Victor’s brother again and took him behind another wrecked truck; only to come face to face with one of Victor’s men. Steve yelled for everyone around to duck as the man shot his gun, killing a nearby soldier in the process. Anton slid down the hill, grabbing a gun from another soldier’s body and pointing it at Steve. He didn’t even register anything as he saw the barrel of the gun being pointed at him, Steve shot two bullets straight into his chest. Anton fell back and Steve inhaled sharply, his whole body feeling heavy. If this guy died, Victor would kill you and his father straight away.

“C’mon Anton. C’mon.” Steve felt his heart rate and his pulse, attempting to stop the bleeding but it was no use - Anton was dead. “No! No! No!” Steve shouted, hitting the body with his fist. He looked up at the sky, his breathing laboured. His phone rang in his pocket and Steve felt sick. He held the phone for a minute before taking a deep breath and answering it.

“What happened?” Victor’s voice boomed on the other line.

“Victor listen-” Steve began, and your heart sank when you heard his tone of voice come through the phone. You were sure Victor’s brother was dead, and that meant something bad for you and Steve’s father. You were working on loosening your restraints, which you were certain were close to being completely untied. You had to wait until the right moment though, you couldn’t fight them just yet - they were too alert.

“Put Anton on phone.” Victor demanded. When Steve met Victor with silence, you watched as Victor began to shake with rage.

“He’s dead. Isn’t he?!”

“Victor listen-”

“Then so’s your father.” He said, lifting his gun to Steve’s father’s head and pulling the trigger. The gun shot went through you like a million shards of glass, and you vaguely heard Steve shout on the other line. You broke free from the restraints and ran for the glass doors behind Victor. He pulled you back by your hair, and you screamed in pain. You twisted his arm and kicked the gun from his hand. You pushed him as hard as you could away from you and ran for the doors, pushing the sliding door aside and running through into the garden. You heard gun shots behind you and you thought you were too far away to be hit - but a bullet lodged itself into your thigh, you shouted in pain and stumbled a bit. However, you had to keep running so you jumped the fences and came out onto the main road. You ran through and saw a police car skidding to a halt when it saw you; covered in blood, running into its path.

“Help! Help! Please. My...He was shot. You gotta help him. 65 Pine Lake on O’Ahu, please go.” You doubled over in pain and fell to the ground.

An officer got out of the car as the other changed to the driver seat and sped away to the house.

“Hi. I’m officer Kalakaua. What’s your name?”

“It’s Y/N.” You breathed in deeply, trying to recover from the pain that coursed through your body from the bullet in your leg.

“Hey Y/N. Let’s sit down okay? You’ve been hit. Tell me about what’s happened?”

“It’s my boyfriend’s dad. He was shot. Please, I think he was dead. I...I didn’t have time to look. I didn’t even...even stop. I need to talk to Steve, please.” You attempted to get up, but officer Kalakaua gently pulled you back down.

“No Y/N. You need to stay here until we get you some medical attention. I’m sure you’ll see your boyfriend soon. Don’t worry.” She put an arm around your shoulders as you slumped against her, completely exhausted.

—————————-

Steve was on his way back from the airport, to your house. He needed to see you. He’d been informed that you’d escaped and he couldn’t express the relief he felt when he found out. The gunshot sounded so loud, he was sure Victor had fired two and that he’d have to come home to absolutely no family at all.

He pulled up at the house, and quickly went to the front door. You opened it before he even got to knock and leapt straight into his arms. You cried for the first time since it all happened, and so did Steve. You walked backwards so you were both inside and he kicked the door behind you. You both stood in the hallway, holding each other and sobbing. You stopped first and stroked the back of his head; running your fingers through his hair.

“I’m…I’m so glad you’re okay Y/N. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. When I heard that gunshot, I couldn’t do anything. I felt paralysed. Either you or my father were dead and I felt like...like the world had just dropped on top of me. Oh my god, I’m so glad you’re okay.” He said into your hair, sniffing hard.

“I’m fine Steve. I’m fine.” You held him tighter. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t...couldn’t do anything. I didn’t save him, and I could have if I’d just tried harder - god I’m so, so sorry baby.” You said, your voice wobbling as you tried to hold it together for Steve. He pulled away and put a hand to your face.

“Hey. There is nothing you could’ve done, okay? If you’d have stayed, I wouldn’t have you standing here right now. I’d be preparing for yours and my father’s funeral.” He faltered slightly at the mention of that last part, his jaw moving tightly. You put a hand there, and felt him relax.

“You’ll get through this Steve. You will. I promise.” You pulled him in for a tight hug. He was flush against you and you gripped his waist tightly. He held onto your shoulders, his head resting there as he squeezed you. He’d get through this if he had you. That’s all that mattered.

—————————

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fandomoniumflurry · 6 years ago

Photo

Since I haven’t been around for a while, Gish, life, health, and all kinds of things, I decided to host a challenge. I haven’t written anything in a long time so I want to read some fics to try and get back in the mood.

This is an original character challenge, no reader inserts allowed. Get creative, let those talented juices flow. This is of course a SPN challenge so the OC has to be in the supernatural universe whether AU, RPF, ABO, canon or whatever. Fluff, smut, angst, flangst, flut, whatever genre you want. As long as you put appropriate warnings and tags and such.

Your OC’s can be any kind of character, whether it be based off of you or just some person that is stuck in your head. Whoever they are, they need a name and a personality maybe even a description. LGBTQIA or cis, family or lover, hell, it can be the family dog, as long as its original. Make me love the character as much as you loved writing for them.

Pairing is fine or no pairing at all. But There is a limit to the canon characters I will read so the list of characters to write with are as follows:

Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Jo Harvelle, Charlie Bradbury, Rowena, Michael, Bobby Singer, Arthur Ketch and their actors.

So your OCs can react with any of those mostly. You can mention others those just pairings or family ties or anything have to be centered around just these. There is no word limit and there is no minimum. As a matter of fact if you just want to make a moodboard or aesthetic or edit that works too. Just as long as there is an OC involved.

I’m gonna give you the rest of the month to get this done. Sign up will not be closed, so you can start writing whenever you want. As long as you sign up and submit by the 31st of August. I will make a Masterlist the first of September with all the submissions. If you need more time, I’m flexible.

If you have any questions, concerns, comments, or complaints, just message me! Or if you just wanna chat, you can message me then too.

Now let’s get to some prompts below the cut!

These prompts are going to be tv shows I grew up on. You can use them as shows or use the phrase or just put whatever twist you want on it. It’s for you to decide what to do with the prompt! Just message me what prompt you want and that’s it. The rest is up to you. You can not use an episode of SPN that has already used the prompt, like Scoobynatural. Put your own story to it.

1. Sister, Sister 2. Fresh Prince 3. Saved by the Bell 4. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 5. Bill Nye the Science Guy 6. Bob the Builder -@keepcalmimthecupcake 7. Blue’s Clues - @peridottea91 8. Gargoyles 9. Mighty Ducks 10. Cowboys of Moo Mesa 11. Boy Meets World 12. Hanging with Mr. Cooper 13. Perfect Strangers - @wingedcatninja @allonsy-yesiwill 14. Step by Step 15. Scooby Doo - @princessmisery666

When you submit, tag me and put #MikeysSPNOCchallenge in the first five tags!

Now for my taggers! I’m tagging all my SPN taglist peeps. You don’t have to participate but it would be nice if you could Like, share, comment, follow and all that jazz, please and thank you!

@keepcalmimthecupcake @becs-bunker @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @ambermei @janai-mcgarrett @lukecastellamz @hunterswearingplaid @elsatxx @fangirl-moment-x @a-fan-fighting-for-equality @50shadesofsubtext @winchester-lover999 @kriswritesthethings @oliolioxiclean

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purplerosewrites · 6 years ago

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An Underswap mini fic thing with reader insert: Rainy Day with BlueSky

You listened to the light pitter patter of the rain as it bounced off a near by window. You had a hot coco in hand as you mindlessly scrolled through the internet. Nuzzling in a blanket draped over your shoulders you scooted just a little closer to the heater. It had been raining for more than a week now, and as lovely as it was, you were growing tired of being cooped up in your small apartment with nothing new to do. It rained so hard at times a few streets were flooded, so all the local weather stations recommended staying indoors. Today it seemed the precipitation was finally letting up. Not long after making your third cup of hot coco, you received a text from a contact you had dubbed “BlueSky”.

“Water you doing today?”

“Really”

“Just being board out of my mind”

“Why do you ask”

It was then that you heard a knocking coming from the front door. A part of you was not inclined to leave your warm cozy space, but this development did intrigue you. You opened the door, still wrapped in your blanket. You were greeted to the cheerfully smiling skeleton clad in blue and gray. With his signature bandana of course. “MY FRIEND! CARE TO JOIN ME ON AN ADVENTURE?” “What sort of adventure?” You inquired. Things always became. . . interesting is the best word to describe it. Things always became interesting when ever he was around. Every time you had met, he always managed to surprise you in one way or another. And as you had suspected, this time would be no different. “WHAT SORT, I DON’T KNOW. THAT’S WHY WE MUST SEARCH IT OUT!” “You just want to explore.” The stout skeleton chuckled. “WELL, IT WOULDN’T BE AN ADVENTURE IF I HAD A SPECIFIC DESTINATION IN MIND, MY FRIEND!” “Sorry bud, but you’re going it solo today. It’s raining, and I don’t want to part from my heater any longer.” “AWW. WHAT IF WE RAN!” “Running?” That came out more as an unamused statement then you had meant it too. “WHY YES! IF WE KEEP MOVING, YOU’LL STAY WARM!” “Dude, it’s raining out there. Way too dangerous. I’d fall on my face or into a street with cars.” “THEN I’LL CATCH YOU! THERE’S NO NEED TO FRET ABOUT DANGER WHEN I’M AROUND! I’VE BEEN TRAINING TO PROTECT OTHERS FOR MOST OF MY LIFE! WON’T YOU COME WITH ME?” “. . .” You fell silent for a moment as you took a sip of your delightful hot coco. “What about Alphys?” “I INVITED HER, AND OTHERS, BUT THEY ALL REFUSED MY OFFER.” Sighing you placed the mug on a near by table. “I swear, if I get sick, you’re nursing me back to health. And trust me, I’m a b*tch to deal with when I’m sick.” “HEH, AND DON’T I KNOW IT. THANK YOU MY FRIEND!” “Yeah, yeah. Just give me a moment to get out of my comfy clothes.” Sans or “Blue” as you normally called him, plopped himself next to the heater. After swiftly changing you both headed out side. A-and Sans dashed away!? “Blue!? Where are you going!?” He stopped to look over his shoulder while still jogging in place. “PART OF MAKING SURE YOU DON’T GET SICK IS KEEPING YOU WARM! WE ALREADY DISCUSSED THIS UP STARES! DON’T YOU REMEMBER!?” “Yeah, well, I can’t run as fast as you! Not all of us have trained to be knights!” He jogged at a slow pace for his standards so you could just barely not keep up. He found amusement in your failed attempts to catch up to him. That was till you slipped and almost crashed into a lamp pole. To you one moment you felt yourself lose your footing, the next you were in the skeleton’s arms, being held steady. “I told you I’d fall.” “AND I TOLD YOU I’D CATCH YOU.” He wore that smirk you loved and hated. It was the one that was shown when he won at any competition. The one that couldn’t help but appear when a jape he’d been planning for weeks fell into place. The awful smirk that always shown when he couldn’t contain his pride any longer. “Oh, I’ll wipe that smug look off your face!” Pushing him a side you dashed as quickly as you could around the corner. You then ducked between some old buildings and hid behind a wall. You knew that you couldn’t out run him, you had attempted that more times then you could count, but perhaps you could pull the wool over the eyes of the great prankster himself. “DID YOU REALLY THINK THAT WOULD WORK?” Or he would be standing right beside you. “Seriously, how do you do that!? Sometimes I swear you can just, teleport or something!” Your companion couldn’t help but chuckle. He winked while holding a pointer finger in front of his mouth. “OH NO MY FRIEND. I ONLY USE THAT IN EMERGENCIES.” “. . . Was that a joke?” “WELL, IF IT IS, I HOPE YOU NEVER FIND OUT! I’D HATE FOR THE IMPLICATIONS OF YOU BEING IN TERRIBLE DANGER TO COME TRUE.” Finally, you took in your surroundings. It appeared it was raining harder again. The place you were at was flooded. Not by much, but it was high enough for sand bags to have been placed in front of doors. The water was also swiftly rising, almost reaching your ankles already. “MIGHT I SUGGEST WE GET GOING?” “Yeah, definitely.” Your first thought was to get to higher land. You climbed over a fence and you managed to get onto the metal fire escape that stood behind it. You then raced up it till you reached the roof. “NOW WHAT?” “I. . . didn’t think that far ahead, uh. Oh.” You locked eyes on to the next roof over. “. . . OKAY.” Without hesitation he leaped across the gap. He twirled around to face you. “WELL. . .” “Uh. . .” “WHY AREN’T YOU COMING?” “This is so dangerous!” “. . . I SUPPOSE SO, BUT WE ONLY HAVE ONE LIFE TO LIVE. SO, EITHER WE CAN FIGHT FORWARD AND LIVE IT TO THE FULLEST, EVEN IF IT HURTS, OR. . . WELL, I’M NOT SURE WHAT.” “. . . F*ck it!” You took several steps back before bounding across the roof and taking a mighty leap. You felt gravity already pulling you back down, and your vision blurred. Suddenly you hit hard stone, but not of the ground like you were expecting. Sans clutched one of your hands in both of his own. Half of his body leaned over the edge of the roof. “T-thanks!” “HUH? NO NEED FOR THAT! WHAT ELSE ARE FRIEND FOR?” He pulled you up with ease and didn’t let go till he was sure you were secured on the roof. “ARE YOU BRUISED ANY- HEY!” Before he had the chance to finish his sentence you were already jumping towards the next roof, this time landing on it. “Aren’t you coming!?” “OH, IT’S ON!” Sans swiftly began to make chase after you. You both leaped from roof to roof, relishing the wind that was now picking up, and the rain that was now pouring down with such force you could swear someone was hurling mini water balloons at you from above. Not wanting to be out done by your competitor once more you decided your next target should be something other than a roof. As he was launching himself towards the next roof, you instead threw yourself onto a bus that just started to leave its station. You landed on it with a loud thud. You immediately regret your decision after feeling a sharp, prickling pain pulsing from your legs and arms, which you had used to land. You crawled away from the edge, and made sure you were in the middle, lessening your risk of falling off. You rolled onto your back and draped your arms over your eyes. You decided that this was enough excitement for you for one day. “Hey Blue. . . Uh, Blue?” You sat up and looked around. It was dark, that was all you could make out. A storm was certainly directly over the town. Wind was crashing around, almost knocking you off the bus. Well. . . This was certainly a fine mess you had gotten yourself into. “HEY!” “Blue!?” “OVER-*HUFF* OVER HERE!” You slowly inched toward his voice. You saw him trying his damnedest to keep up with the vehicle, but the weather conditions were holding him back. Using one hand you held onto the edge, and with the other you reached out towards him. He summoned two bones, out from the ground, under his feet, hurling him forward. Of course, in this moment the bus took a sharp turn, but you managed to catch his hand anyway, almost falling off in the process. You immediately dragged him up. “W-well, that was fun.” Sans simply stared at you. “Something wrong?” “. . . THANK YOU FOR TODAY.” “No problem. In fact, I should be thanking you!” “MWEH HE HE. MUCH OBLIGED! SO, ANY PARTICULAR REASON WE’RE LEAVING TOWN?” “That’s where this is going?” “YEP!” “We need to get off this thing!” You had to squint when looking around, but you realized you were at the outskirts of town, just leaving it in fact. You could see those grassy, rolling hills that surrounded the town come into view. “After we get to the hills, on the count of three, we jump, yeah?” “YES!” Those moments leading up to that jump were exhilarating, and horrifying at the same time. After taking a deep breath, you spoke. “One.” “TWO!” “Three!” With your hands clasped together, you took that leap into the dark. Sans pulled you into his arms, and held you close. You crashed onto the ground before rolling and rolling till you finally slowed down. “ARE YOU OKAY? ARE YOU INJURED IN ANY WAY?” “Dizzy. . . Very dizzy, and sore. What about you?” “I’M A-OKAY! NOW, LET’S GET GOING!” Before you could react, Sans lifted you into his arms and he dashed across the ground at an impressive speed. “Hey, I think there are some trees over there.” “GOOD EYE!” Once you reached there, Sans placed you down. “Say, why don’t we rest here for a moment?” “HMM. . . WHY NOT.” Sans sat beside you. Though you weren’t that far from town, the weather was certainly calmer. The rain lighter, and the wind quieter. . . Before either of you realized it, you both had fallen asleep.

#underswap #us!sans #reader insert #mini fic #purplerosewrites

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enchantingtigerbarbarian-blog · 7 years ago

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Chapter 4 - BANNON

BANNON

Steve Bannon was the first Trump senior staffer in the White House after Trump was sworn in. On the inauguration march, he had grabbed the newly appointed deputy chief of staff, Katie Walsh, Reince Priebus’s deputy at the RNC, and together they had peeled off to inspect the now vacant West Wing. The carpet had been shampooed, but little else had changed. It was a warren of tiny offices in need of paint, not rigorously cleaned on a regular basis, the décor something like an admissions office at a public university. Bannon claimed the nondescript office across from the much grander chief of staff’s suite, and he immediately requisitioned the white boards on which he intended to chart the first hundred days of the Trump administration. And right away he began moving furniture out. The point was to leave no room for anyone to sit. There were to be no meetings, at least no meetings where people could get comfortable. Limit discussion. Limit debate. This was war. This was a war room.

Many who had worked with Bannon on the campaign and through the transition shortly noticed a certain change. Having achieved one goal, he was clearly on to another. An intense man, he was suddenly at an even higher level of focus and determination.

“What’s up with Steve?” Kushner began to ask. And then, “Is something wrong with Steve?” And then finally, “I don’t understand. We were so close.”

Within the first week, Bannon seemed to have put away the camaraderie of Trump Tower—including a willingness to talk at length at any hour—and become far more remote, if not unreachable. He was “focused on my shit.” He was just getting things done. But many felt that getting things done was was more about him hatching plots against them. And certainly, among his basic character notes, Steve Bannon was a plotter. Strike before being struck. Anticipate the moves of others—counter them before they can make their moves. To him this was seeing things ahead, focusing on a set of goals. The first goal was the election of Donald Trump, the second the staffing of the Trump government. Now it was capturing the soul of the Trump White House, and he understood what others did not yet: this would be a mortal competition.

* * *

In the early days of the transition, Bannon had encouraged the Trump team to read David Halberstam’s The Best and the Brightest. (One of the few people who seem actually to have taken him up on this reading assignment was Jared Kushner.) “A very moving experience reading this book. It makes the world clear, amazing characters and all true,” Bannon enthused.

This was a personal bit of branding—Bannon made sure to exhibit the book to many of the liberal reporters he was courting. But he was also trying to make a point, an important one considering the slapdash nature of the transition team’s staffing protocols: be careful who you hire.

Halberstam’s book, published in 1972, is a Tolstoyan effort to understand how great figures of the academic, intellectual, and military world who had served during the Kennedy and Johnson years had so grievously misapprehended the nature of the Vietnam War and mishandled its prosecution. The Best and the Brightest was a cautionary tale about the 1960s establishment—the precursor of the establishment that Trump and Bannon were now so aggressively challenging.

But the book also served as a reverential guide to the establishment. For the 1970s generation of future policy experts, would-be world leaders, and Ivy League journalists aiming for big-time careers—though it was Bannon’s generation, he was far outside this self-selected elite circle—The Best and the Brightest was a handbook about the characteristics of American power and the routes to it. Not just the right schools and right backgrounds, although that, too, but the attitudes, conceits, affect, and language that would be most conducive to finding your way into the American power structure. Many saw the book as a set of prescriptions about how to get ahead, rather than, as intended, what not to do when you are ahead. The Best and the Brightest described the people who should be in power. A college-age Barack Obama was smitten with the book, as was Rhodes Scholar Bill Clinton.

Halberstam’s book defined the look and feel of White House power. His language, resonant and imposing and, often, boffo pompous, had set the tone for the next half century of official presidential journalism. Even scandalous or unsuccessful tenants of the White House were treated as unique figures who had risen to the greatest heights after mastering a Darwinian political process. Bob Woodward, who helped bring Nixon down—and who himself became a figure of unchallengeable presidential mythmaking—wrote a long shelf of books in which even the most misguided presidential actions seemed part of an epochal march of ultimate responsibility and life-and-death decision making. Only the most hardhearted reader would not entertain a daydream in which he or she was not part of this awesome pageant.

Steve Bannon was such a daydreamer.

* * *

But if Halberstam defined the presidential mien, Trump defied it—and defiled it. Not a single attribute would place him credibly in the revered circle of American presidential character and power. Which was, in a curious reversal of the book’s premise, just what created Steve Bannon’s opportunity.

The less likely a presidential candidate is, the more unlikely, and, often, inexperienced, his aides are—that is, an unlikely candidate can attract only unlikely aides, as the likely ones go to the more likely candidates. When an unlikely candidate wins—and as outsiders become ever more the quadrennial flavor of the month, the more likely an unlikely candidate is to get elected—ever more peculiar people fill the White House. Of course, a point about the Halberstam book and about the Trump campaign was that the most obvious players make grievous mistakes, too. Hence, in the Trump narrative, unlikely players far outside the establishment hold the true genius.

Still, few have been more unlikely than Steve Bannon.

At sixty-three, Bannon took his first formal job in politics when he joined the Trump campaign. Chief Strategist—his title in the new administration—was his first job not just in the federal government but in the public sector. (“Strategist!” scoffed Roger Stone, who, before Bannon, had been one of Trump’s chief strategists.) Other than Trump himself, Bannon was certainly the oldest inexperienced person ever to work in the White House.

It was a flaky career that got him here.

Catholic school in Richmond, Virginia. Then a local college, Virginia Tech. Then seven years in the Navy, a lieutenant on ship duty and then in the Pentagon. While on active duty, he got a master’s degree at Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service, but then he washed out of his naval career. Then an MBA from Harvard Business School. Then four years as an investment banker at Goldman Sachs—his final two years focusing on the media industry in Los Angeles—but not rising above a midlevel position.

In 1990, at the age of thirty-seven, Bannon entered peripatetic entre-preneurhood under the auspices of Bannon & Co., a financial advisory firm to the entertainment industry. This was something of a hustler’s shell company, hanging out a shingle in an industry with a small center of success and concentric rings radiating out of rising, aspiring, falling, and failing strivers. Bannon & Co., skirting falling and failing, made it to aspiring by raising small amounts of money for independent film projects—none a hit.

Bannon was rather a movie figure himself. A type. Alcohol. Bad marriages. Cash-strapped in a business where the measure of success is excesses of riches. Ever scheming. Ever disappointed.

For a man with a strong sense of his own destiny, he tended to be hardly noticed. Jon Corzine, the former Goldman chief and future United States senator and governor of New Jersey, climbing the Goldman ranks when Bannon was at the firm, was unaware of Bannon. When Bannon was appointed head of the Trump campaign and became an overnight press sensation—or question mark—his credentials suddenly included a convoluted story about how Bannon & Co. had acquired a stake in the megahit show Seinfeld and hence its twenty-year run of residual profits. But none of the Seinfeld principals, creators, or producers seem ever to have heard of him.

Mike Murphy, the Republican media consultant who ran Jeb Bush’s PAC and became a leading anti-Trump movement figure, has the vaguest recollection of Bannon’s seeking PR services from Murphy’s firm for a film Bannon was producing a decade or so ago. “I’m told he was in the meeting, but I honestly can’t get a picture of him.”

The New Yorker magazine, dwelling on the Bannon enigma—one that basically translated to: How is it that the media has been almost wholly unaware of someone who is suddenly among the most powerful people in government?—tried to trace his steps in Hollywood and largely failed to find him. The Washington Post traced his many addresses to no clear conclusion, except a suggestion of possible misdemeanor voter fraud.

In the midnineties, he inserted himself in a significant role into Biosphere 2, a project copiously funded by Edward Bass, one of the Bass family oil heirs, about sustaining life in space, and dubbed by Time one of the hundred worst ideas of the century—a rich man’s folly. Bannon, having to find his opportunities in distress situations, stepped into the project amid its collapse only to provoke further breakdown and litigation, including harassment and vandalism charges.

After the Biosphere 2 disaster, he participated in raising financing for a virtual currency scheme (MMORPGs, or MMOs) called Internet Gaming Entertainment (IGE). This was a successor company to Digital Entertainment Network (DEN), a dot-com burnout, whose principals included the former child star Brock Pierce (The Mighty Ducks) who went on to be the founder of IGE, but was then pushed out. Bannon was put in as CEO, and the company was subsumed by endless litigation.

Distress is an opportunistic business play. But some distress is better than others. The kinds of situations available to Bannon involved managing conflict, nastiness, and relative hopelessness—in essence managing and taking a small profit on dwindling cash. It’s a living at the margins of people who are making a much better living. Bannon kept trying to make a killing but never found the killing sweet spot.

Distress is also a contrarian’s game. And the contrarian’s impulse—equal parts personal dissatisfaction, general resentment, and gambler’s instinct—started to ever more strongly fuel Bannon. Part of the background for his contrarian impulse lay in an Irish Catholic union family, Catholic schools, and three unhappy marriages and bad divorces (journalists would make much of the recriminations in his second wife’s divorce filings).

Not so long ago, Bannon might have been a recognizably modern figure, something of a romantic antihero, an ex-military and up-from-the-working-class guy, striving, through multiple marriages and various careers, to make it, but never finding much comfort in the establishment world, wanting to be part of it and wanting to blow it up at the same time—a character for Richard Ford, or John Updike, or Harry Crews. An American man’s story. But now such stories have crossed a political line. The American man story is a right-wing story. Bannon found his models in political infighters like Lee Atwater, Roger Ailes, Karl Rove. All were larger-than-life American characters doing battle with conformity and modernity, relishing ways to violate liberal sensibilities.

The other point is that Bannon, however smart and even charismatic, however much he extolled the virtue of being a “stand-up guy,” was not necessarily a nice guy. Several decades as a grasping entrepreneur without a satisfying success story doesn’t smooth the hustle in hustler. One competitor in the conservative media business, while acknowledging his intelligence and the ambitiousness of his ideas, also noted, “He’s mean, dishonest, and incapable of caring about other people. His eyes dart around like he’s always looking for a weapon with which to bludgeon or gouge you.”

Conservative media fit not only his angry, contrarian, and Roman Catholic side, but it had low barriers to entry—liberal media, by contrast, with its corporate hierarchies, was much harder to break into. What’s more, conservative media is a highly lucrative target market category, with books (often dominating the bestseller lists), videos, and other products available through direct sales avenues that can circumvent more expensive distribution channels.

In the early 2000s, Bannon became a purveyor of conservative books products and media. His partner in this enterprise was David Bossie, the far-right pamphleteer and congressional committee investigator into the Clintons’ Whitewater affair, who would join him as deputy campaign manager on the Trump campaign. Bannon met Breitbart News founder Andrew Breitbart at a screening of one of the Bannon-Bossie documentaries In the Face of Evil (billed as “Ronald Reagan’s crusade to destroy the most tyrannical and depraved political systems the world has ever known”), which in turn led to a relationship with the man who offered Bannon the ultimate opportunity: Robert Mercer.

* * *

In this regard, Bannon was not so much an entrepreneur of vision or even business discipline, he was more simply following the money—or trying to separate a fool from his money. He could not have done better than Bob and Rebekah Mercer. Bannon focused his entrepreneurial talents on becoming courtier, Svengali, and political investment adviser to father and daughter.

Theirs was a consciously quixotic mission. They would devote vast sums—albeit still just a small part of Bob Mercer’s many billions—to trying to build a radical free-market, small-government, home-schooling, antiliberal, gold-standard, pro-death-penalty, anti-Muslim, pro-Christian, monetarist, anti-civil-rights political movement in the United States.

Bob Mercer is an ultimate quant, an engineer who designs investment algorithms and became a co-CEO of one of the most successful hedge funds, Renaissance Technologies. With his daughter, Rebekah, Mercer set up what is in effect a private Tea Party movement, self-funding whatever Tea Party or alt-right project took their fancy. Bob Mercer is almost nonverbal, looking at you with a dead stare and either not talking or offering only minimal response. He had a Steinway baby grand on his yacht; after inviting friends and colleagues on the boat, he would spend the time playing the piano, wholly disengaged from his guests. And yet his political beliefs, to the extent they could be discerned, were generally Bush-like, and his political discussions, to the extent that you could get him to be responsive, were about issues involving ground game and data gathering. It was Rebekah Mercer—who had bonded with Bannon, and whose politics were grim, unyielding, and doctrinaire—who defined the family. “She’s . . . like whoa, ideologically there is no conversation with her,” said one senior Trump White House staffer.

With the death of Andrew Breitbart in 2012, Bannon, in essence holding the proxy of the Mercers’ investment in the site, took over the Breitbart business. He leveraged his gaming experience into using Gamergate—a precursor alt-right movement that coalesced around an antipathy toward, and harassment of, women working in the online gaming industry—to build vast amounts of traffic through the virality of political memes. (After hours one night in the White House, Bannon would argue that he knew exactly how to build a Breitbart for the left. And he would have the key advantage because “people on the left want to win Pulitzers, whereas I want to be Pulitzer!”)

Working out of—and living in—the town house Breitbart rented on Capitol Hill, Bannon became one of the growing number of notable Tea Party figures in Washington, the Mercers’ consigliere. But a seeming measure of his marginality was that his big project was the career of Jeff Sessions—“Beauregard,” Sessions’s middle name, in Bannon’s affectionate moniker and evocation of the Confederate general—among the least mainstream and most peculiar people in the Senate, whom Bannon tried to promote to run for president in 2012.

Donald Trump was a step up—and early in the 2016 race, Trump became the Breitbart totem. (Many of Trump’s positions in the campaign were taken from the Breitbart articles he had printed out for him.) Indeed, Bannon began to suggest to people that he, like Ailes had been at Fox, was the true force behind his chosen candidate.

Bannon didn’t much question Donald Trump’s bona fides, or behavior, or electability, because, in part, Trump was just his latest rich man. The rich man is a fixed fact, which you have to accept and deal with in an entrepreneurial world—at least a lower-level entrepreneurial world. And, of course, if Trump had had firmer bona fides, better behavior, and clear electability, Bannon would not have had his chance.

However much a marginal, invisible, small-time hustler Bannon had been—something of an Elmore Leonard character—he was suddenly transformed inside Trump Tower, an office he entered on August 15, and for practical purposes, did not exit, save for a few hours a night (and not every night) in his temporary midtown Manhattan accommodations, until January 17, when the transition team moved to Washington. There was no competition in Trump Tower for being the brains of the operation. Of the dominant figures in the transition, neither Kushner, Priebus, nor Conway, and certainly not the president-elect, had the ability to express any kind of coherent perception or narrative. By default, everybody had to look to the voluble, aphoristic, shambolic, witty, off-the-cuff figure who was both ever present on the premises and who had, in an unlikely attribute, read a book or two.

And indeed who, during the campaign, turned out to be able to harness the Trump operation, not to mention its philosophic disarray, to a single political view: that the path to victory was an economic and cultural message to the white working class in Florida, Ohio, Michigan, and Pennsylvania.

* * *

Bannon collected enemies. Few fueled his savagery and rancor toward the standard-issue Republican world as much as Rupert Murdoch—not least because Murdoch had Donald Trump’s ear. It was one of the key elements of Bannon’s understanding of Trump: the last person Trump spoke to ended up with enormous influence. Trump would brag that Murdoch was always calling him; Murdoch, for his part, would complain that he couldn’t get Trump off the phone.

“He doesn’t know anything about American politics, and has no feel for the American people,” said Bannon to Trump, always eager to point out that Murdoch wasn’t an American. But Trump couldn’t get enough of him. With his love of “winners”—and he saw Murdoch as the ultimate winner—Trump was suddenly bad-mouthing his friend Ailes as a “loser.”

And yet in one regard Murdoch’s message was useful to Bannon. Having known every president since Harry Truman—as Murdoch took frequent opportunities to point out—and, he conjectured, as many heads of state as anyone living, Murdoch believed he understood better than younger men, even seventy-year-old Trump, that political power was fleeting. (This was in fact the same message he had imparted to Barack Obama.) A president really had only, max, six months to make an impact on the public and set his agenda, and he’d be lucky to get six months. After that it was just putting out fires and battling the opposition.

This was the message whose urgency Bannon himself had been trying to impress on an often distracted Trump. Indeed, in his first weeks in the White House, an inattentive Trump was already trying to curtail his schedule of meetings, limit his hours in the office, and keep his normal golf habits.

Bannon’s strategic view of government was shock and awe. Dominate rather than negotiate. Having daydreamed his way into ultimate bureaucratic power, he did not want to see himself as a bureaucrat. He was of a higher purpose and moral order. He was an avenger. He was also, he believed, a straight shooter. There was a moral order in aligning language and action—if you said you were going to do something, you do it.

In his head, Bannon carried a set of decisive actions that would not just mark the new administration’s opening days, but make it clear that nothing ever again would be the same. At the age of sixty-three, he was in a hurry.

* * *

Bannon had delved deeply into the nature of executive orders—EOs. You can’t rule by decree in the United States, except you really can. The irony here was that it was the Obama administration, with a recalcitrant Republican Congress, that had pushed the EO envelope. Now, in something of a zero-sum game, Trump’s EOs would undo Obama’s EOs.

During the transition, Bannon and Stephen Miller, a former Sessions aide who had earlier joined the Trump campaign and then become Bannon’s effective assistant and researcher, assembled a list of more than two hundred EOs to issue in the first hundred days.

But the first step in the new Trump administration had to be immigration, in Bannon’s certain view. Foreigners were the ne plus ultra mania of Trumpism. An issue often dismissed as living on the one-track-mind fringe—Jeff Sessions was one of its cranky exponents—it was Trump’s firm belief that a lot of people had had it up to here with foreigners. Before Trump, Bannon had bonded with Sessions on the issue. The Trump campaign became a sudden opportunity to see if nativism really had legs. And then when they won, Bannon understood there could be no hesitation about declaring their ethnocentric heart and soul.

To boot, it was an issue that made liberals bat-shit mad.

Laxly enforced immigration laws reached to the center of the new liberal philosophy and, for Bannon, exposed its hypocrisy. In the liberal worldview, diversity was an absolute good, whereas Bannon believed any reasonable person who was not wholly blinded by the liberal light could see that waves of immigrants came with a load of problems—just look at Europe. And these were problems borne not by cosseted liberals but by the more exposed citizens at the other end of the economic scale.

It was out of some instinctive or idiot-savant-like political understanding that Trump had made this issue his own, frequently observing, Wasn’t anybody an American anymore? In some of his earliest political outings, even before Obama’s election in 2008, Trump talked with bewilderment and resentment about strict quotas on European immigration and the deluge from “Asia and other places.” (This deluge, as liberals would be quick to fact-check, was, even as it had grown, still quite a modest stream.) His obsessive focus on Obama’s birth certificate was in part about the scourge of non-European foreignness—a certain race-baiting. Who were these people? Why were they here?

The campaign sometimes shared a striking graphic. It showed a map of the country reflecting dominant immigration trends in each state from fifty years ago—here was a multitude of countries, many European. Today, the equivalent map showed that every state in the United States was now dominated by Mexican immigration. This was the daily reality of the American workingman, in Bannon’s view, the ever growing presence of an alternative, discount workforce.

Bannon’s entire political career, such as it was, had been in political media. It was also in Internet media—that is, media ruled by immediate response. The Breitbart formula was to so appall the liberals that the base was doubly satisfied, generating clicks in a ricochet of disgust and delight. You defined yourself by your enemy’s reaction. Conflict was the media bait—hence, now, the political chum. The new politics was not the art of the compromise but the art of conflict.

The real goal was to expose the hypocrisy of the liberal view. Somehow, despite laws, rules, and customs, liberal globalists had pushed a myth of more or less open immigration. It was a double liberal hypocrisy, because, sotto voce, the Obama administration had been quite aggressive in deporting illegal aliens—except don’t tell the liberals that.

“People want their countries back,” said Bannon. “A simple thing.”

* * *

Bannon meant his EO to strip away the liberal conceits on an already illiberal process. Rather than seeking to accomplish his goals with the least amount of upset—keeping liberal fig leaves in place—he sought the most.

Why would you? was the logical question of anyone who saw the higher function of government as avoiding conflict.

This included most people in office. The new appointees in place at the affected agencies and departments, among them Homeland Security and State—General John Kelly, then the director of Homeland Security, would carry a grudge about the disarray caused by the immigration EO—wanted nothing more than a moment to get their footing before they might even consider dramatic and contentious new policies. Old appointees—Obama appointees who still occupied most executive branch jobs—found it unfathomable that the new administration would go out of its way to take procedures that largely already existed and to restate them in incendiary, red-flag, and ad hominem terms, such that liberals would have to oppose them.

Bannon’s mission was to puncture the global-liberal-emperor-wears-no-clothes bubble, nowhere, in his view, as ludicrously demonstrated as the refusal to see the colossally difficult and costly effects of uncontrolled immigration. He wanted to force liberals to acknowledge that even liberal governments, even the Obama government, were engaged in the real politics of slowing immigration—ever hampered by the liberal refusal to acknowledge this effort.

The EO would be drafted to remorselessly express the administration’s (or Bannon’s) pitiless view. The problem was, Bannon really didn’t know how to do this—change rules and laws. This limitation, Bannon understood, might easily be used to thwart them. Process was their enemy. But just doing it—the hell with how—and doing it immediately, could be a powerful countermeasure.

Just doing things became a Bannon principle, the sweeping antidote to bureaucratic and establishment ennui and resistance. It was the chaos of just doing things that actually got things done. Except, even if you assumed that not knowing how to do things didn’t much matter if you just did them, it was still not clear who was going to do what you wanted to do. Or, a corollary, because nobody in the Trump administration really knew how to do anything, it was therefore not clear what anyone did.

Sean Spicer, whose job was literally to explain what people did and why, often simply could not—because nobody really had a job, because nobody could do a job.

Priebus, as chief of staff, had to organize meetings, schedules, and the hiring of staff; he also had to oversee the individual functions of the executive office departments. But Bannon, Kushner, Conway, and the president’s daughter actually had no specific responsibilities—they could make it up as they went along. They did what they wanted. They would seize the day if they could—even if they really didn’t know how to do what they wanted to do.

Bannon, for instance, even driven by his imperative just to get things done, did not use a computer. How did he do anything? Katie Walsh wondered. But that was the difference between big visions and small. Process was bunk. Expertise was the last refuge of liberals, ever defeated by the big picture. The will to get big things done was how big things got done. “Don’t sweat the small stuff” was a pretty good gist of Donald Trump’s—and Steve Bannon’s—worldview. “Chaos was Steve’s strategy,” said Walsh.

Bannon got Stephen Miller to write the immigration EO. Miller, a fifty-five-year-old trapped in a thirty-two-year-old’s body, was a former Jeff Sessions staffer brought on to the Trump campaign for his political experience. Except, other than being a dedicated far-right conservative, it was unclear what particular abilities accompanied Miller’s political views. He was supposed to be a speechwriter, but if so, he seemed restricted to bullet points and unable to construct sentences. He was supposed to be a policy adviser but knew little about policy. He was supposed to be the house intellectual but was purposely unread. He was supposed to be a communications specialist, but he antagonized almost everyone. Bannon, during the transition, sent him to the Internet to learn about and to try to draft the EO.

By the time he arrived in the White House, Bannon had his back-of-the-envelope executive order on immigration and his travel ban, a sweeping, Trumpian exclusion of most Muslims from the United States, only begrudgingly whittled down, in part at Priebus’s urging, to what would shortly be perceived as merely draconian.

In the mania to seize the day, with an almost total lack of knowing how, the nutty inaugural crowd numbers and the wacky CIA speech were followed, without almost anybody in the federal government having seen it or even being aware of it, by an executive order overhauling U.S. immigration policy. Bypassing lawyers, regulators, and the agencies and personnel responsible for enforcing it, President Trump—with Bannon’s low, intense voice behind him, offering a rush of complex information—signed what was put in front of him.

On Friday, January 27, the travel ban was signed and took immediate effect. The result was an emotional outpouring of horror and indignation from liberal media, terror in immigrant communities, tumultuous protests at major airports, confusion throughout the government, and, in the White House, an inundation of lectures, warnings, and opprobrium from friends and family. What have you done? Do you know what you’re doing? You have to undo this! You’re finished before you even start! Who is in charge there?

But Steve Bannon was satisfied. He could not have hoped to draw a more vivid line between the two Americas—Trump’s and liberals’—and between his White House and the White House inhabited by those not yet ready to burn the place down.

Why did we do this on a Friday when it would hit the airports hardest and bring out the most protesters? almost the entire White House staff demanded to know.

“Errr . . . that’s why,” said Bannon. “So the snowflakes would show up at the airports and riot.” That was the way to crush the liberals: make them crazy and drag them to the left.

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