#the amount of action in this REALLY worked my writing chops

[weaselandfriends]

Web Fiction, Recently Read

Hello! I'm still early into writing the Pokémon story I discussed in a previous post. I've been writing and rewriting certain parts to better grasp some of the characters, so while I do have some completed chapters, I still consider the story in the planning phase. At the same time, I've recently read a few webfics, and thought I'd share some thoughts here.

1. Floornight by Nostalgebraist

Floornight is short but dense, and in terms of its plot, themes, and focus shares many similarities with Almost Nowhere, a later work by the same author that I read and discussed in a previous post.

This work is the Problem Sleuth to Almost Nowhere's Homestuck. At least, reading the two works back-to-back, that was the impression I struggled to shake. I would often encounter an idea in Floornight that I remembered being expanded on in much more detail in Almost Nowhere, and as such it became difficult for me to appreciate Floornight in its own right.

It's a comparison that reminds me of a quote from Roberto Bolaño's 2666:

Without turning, the pharmacist answered that he liked books like The Metamorphosis, Bartleby, A Simple Heart, A Christmas Carol. And then he said that he was reading Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's. Leaving aside the fact that A Simple Heart and A Christmas Carol were stories, not books, there was something revelatory about the taste of this bookish young pharmacist, who ... clearly and inarguably preferred minor works to major ones. He chose The Metamorphosis over The Trial, he chose Bartleby over Moby Dick, he chose A Simple Heart over Bouvard and Pecouchet, and A Christmas Carol over A Tale of Two Cities or The Pickwick Papers. What a sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze a path into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against that something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench.

An unfair comparison? Certainly. Especially since longer works are not always commensurately ambitious, but instead simply bloated.

Almost Nowhere is ambitious, however, and pushes ideas touched on in Floornight to their limits, which makes reading Floornight afterward a less impressive experience than it otherwise might be. (Nostalgebraist's other work, The Northern Caves, is fundamentally dissimilar from both and thus not victim to the same comparisons.)

That's not to say I disliked Floornight. I was especially fond of the character Hermes Cept, who might be my favorite character in Nostalgebraist's canon. I love characters to whom the reader is introduced from the perspective of another character, giving the reader a certain first impression that is completely decimated when the character is given their own perspective later on. (A lot of Modern Cannibals hinges on this technique.) In Cept's case, what first appears to be an egotistical and incompetent celebrity scientist turns out to have significantly more depth and nuance than the first impression provides. Love it!

Nostalgebraist also shows off some serious writing chops during a certain battle scene near the story's climax. Another reader's longform review of Almost Nowhere comments that the story lets all its major events occur off screen, only to be known to the reader via the reactions of the characters, and to an extent Floornight is similar: Despite a Neon Genesis Evangelion-esque premise of soldiers fighting aliens, there are essentially zero scenes where soldiers fight aliens on screen. The climax changes that, though, and really makes me wonder why Nostalgebraist is so content to let things happen off screen, since he's so good at writing action when it happens.

I've now read all three of Nost's major published works, and there isn't a more exciting web fiction author today, at least that I know of. Can't wait to see where he goes next.

2. Worth the Candle by Alexander Wales

Floornight is a lean 70,000 words. Worth the Candle, an isekai LitRPG, is 1.6 million words.

I started reading this one years ago, but only made it to the second arc before giving up under the sheer immensity of it. The start was slow, and while it was improving steadily, I couldn't see myself wading through something of its size. Compared to Nostalgebraist, Wales' prose is more "serviceable" than exciting, so the value in reading is almost entirely from the plot, characters, and themes rather than the actual line-by-line reading experience. After finishing my own isekai story, Cleveland Quixotic, I decided to take a second stab at it.

Upon the reread, I was more amenable to a story that is simply a fun fantasy romp, and WtC has a strong sense of forward progression despite its length, which avoids the trap most long stories fall into of spinning their wheels without accomplishing anything.

As I got further into it, however, a strong metafictional element increasingly came into play. The conceit of the story is that the protagonist, a tabletop RPG fanatic in his previous life on Earth, has been put into a world eerily similar to the ones he created as a dungeon master. His actions seem to be guided or obstructed by a mysterious, unseen dungeon master with godlike powers, and the story often becomes more about trying to understand and play to the narrative that the dungeon master wants rather than simply brute forcing through challenges one after another.

At the same time, the protagonist's dead friend from Earth seems to have been transported to the world much earlier. Their narrative was Campbellian in nature, Hero's Journey incarnate, while the protagonist's is much more postmodern and subversive. This leads to some fascinating meditations on the develop of narrative over history; one of my favorite scenes is when a story-obsessed villain believes they can kill the protagonist despite his Chosen One status because it's a postmodern story and the protagonist dying unceremoniously wouldn't be out of place.

My absolute favorite part, however, is the climax. Without spoiling too much, it involves a long delve into a seemingly endless dungeon, where characters and abilities fall away one-by-one until what is left is only a bare, emotional finale. I love climaxes that involve some kind of literal and emotional ascent; I did something similar in Modern Cannibals and Cleveland Quixotic.

In general, it's difficult to finish something so long in such a satisfactory way, which only makes the ending more impressive. I was worried this story would Muv-Luv me. A year ago, I read the famous visual novel Muv-Luv, a sprawling work that begins as a comedy slice of life and ends as a futuristic science fiction war epic. My problem with Muv-Luv wasn't that it was bad; it even had many elements I adored. But its ending, while not terrible, was merely okay, and I ultimately felt like what I got wasn't worth the time investment I put into it. Worth the Candle's ending avoided that entirely, so I can wholeheartedly recommend it despite its length.

3. Cowboy Grak 5: Yet Another Fistful of Obols by Remy (gazemaize)

Lastly, this one is a fanfic of Worth the Candle, posted coincidentally one day after I finished reading. It's by Remy, the author of Chili and the Chocolate Factory: Fudge Revelation, one of the funniest stories I've ever read. With this fanfic of a webfic, Remy cements themselves as the comedy master of the webfic sphere. I can only hope they start posting stories with more regularity...

I can't say too much about this story without spoiling almost all of Worth the Candle, so I'll keep this brief. If you've already read WtC, then you should read this 100%.

Web fiction is exciting. People are able to write all kinds of insane stuff that would never survive the streamlined mainstream publishing industry of today. I hope to read some more unique webfics and see people continually push the boundaries of what can be done with a story. (Hopefully they're not all 1.6 million words though...)

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Celegorm took a deep breath and began to prepare himself for his first public event since Nargothrond. He still wasn’t so sure that he was welcome here, after all he’d caused as much trouble for the people of Himring by his actions as for the rest of the Noldor. He didn’t know that he’d ever be welcome anywhere again after the monster he’d just shown himself to be. But he was still a Fëanorion and the sons of Feanor would not succumb in the face of adversity. No matter what lines they may cross the one they never could was to bow their heads. If they lost their pride what was left? Only seven broken monsters with no position in any inheritance, no allies, no parents and no way of achieving the one thing that they had thrown it all away for.

So Celegorm straightened his shoulders and walked towards the little jars on the desk that had been left there for his use. He yanked his hair out of it’s tie with some difficulty, having left it in for most of the journey. He had been unable to face the sensation of the hair falling and barely brushing his shoulders, at least this way he could pretend it was simply tied up in some intricate braiding like Curvo used to try and get him to experiment with.

He opened the larger jar and lifted it to see if it would work for his purposes. Then he inhaled sharply in surprise. This was certainly not the standard goodwill gifts Maedhros had left in diplomats chambers. Firstly it wasn’t nearly extravagant enough, being made largely of oats, and probably would have been considered a slight of received by some normal delegation. But more crucially he’d recognised it immediately, the subtle scent of rosemary being much more vividly imprinted on his mind than he’d expected.

He rinsed his hair out and then began to work the ointment through his silver strands of hair. He allowed himself to close his eyes as he felt the familiar sensation of the wide toothed comb running over his scalp. Maedhros must have placed it there deliberately for him. He felt a little warmth at knowing that bridge at least may not be entirely burnt. Then he allowed the memories to wash over him.

His parents had been meant to teach him how to care for his hair but the methods they had given him weren’t working. He’d been trying to yank the comb through his hair, knocking something or other over in the process when Nelyo had heard him. He’d been writing some kind of a speech and they’d all been told not to disturb him so Tyelko had expected to be in trouble when he came down to see what was going on.

Instead Maedhros had taken him back to his chambers and sat him on the foot of his bed. He’d reappeared later, holding a several jars and sat beside him on the bed. ‘You have such lovely hair Tyelko, it just takes a bit more work for you than it might for others because it’s so thick. I get it, my hair took years to figure out, it was impossible to keep it tied back for any amount of time, I really thought about just chopping it off for a while. But it’s fine you just have to figure out what works for you.’

Maedhros had sat there with him for hours, trying out different ointments and oils and working the comb through his hair so carefully it didn’t hurt at all. By the end of it his hair was shining and silky. Maedhros had offered to get him some of the ointment that worked best to keep himself and he’d learnt how to take care of it, but despite this he kept coming to Nelyo to do it at least every week for many years. Maedhros never protested, always making time, and over the time it took they’d talk about whatever was going on in Tyelko’s life. Nelyo had always listened when he talked, dropped everything to deal with his problems no matter how inconsequential they were.

He knew then that the look of betrayal on his brother’s face was possibly the one thing that would completely break him. That Nelyo agreed with the others and saw him as a lost cause. That the one person who had always seen him as a better person than he truly was had finally reached the line where he could no longer find anything worth redemption.

[writinglittlebeasts]

⛓ A character is captive (literally or figuratively).

writing share askbox meme

you get... unfinished revil fanfiction lol . imprisonment is a pretty significant part of that story

The psychologist employed with STRATCOM calls Leon a time bomb, apparently reading more into such innocuous phrases as 'I haven't felt much like myself since the night I drove into a city full of dead people', and 'do you think I care about stress?' than Leon has cared to in quite a while. They don't particularly like it when he says 'the bioweapon is my friend and I want him released', either. 

"Didn't you say that it was deployed to kill any survivors?" they ask.

"He doesn't do that anymore," Leon answers.

X remains imprisoned; locked in a cell with thick iron bars in a high-security sector of the compound. They tell Leon that their scientists will be examining X thoroughly, and that if the tyrant raises so much as a finger he'll be euthanized with a chemical compound developed from the husks of other Umbrella test sites. The thin veneer of voluntary service chips away quickly after that. Leon isn't allowed unsupervised phone calls, or visits with X. He finds that most doors on the compound are locked, railroading him between the barracks, training facilities, and common areas. 

His frustration mounts, and basic training with other recruits often results in personal injury. Visits with his psychologist become more frequent, if not more helpful. He sleeps poorly, he pulls a muscle, he sleeps poorly, his tendon jumps, and it continues. So long as STRATCOM needs him close to keep Claire under control, no amount of protest from a shrink is going to convince the brass to cut him loose– and, crazy or not, Leon gets the job done. 

The top brass place Leon on a short list of operatives who don't play well with others, and then they give him to Jack Krauser. 

"I hear you've got an attitude," Krauser says, accepting the assignment by virtue of his presence. He's a big man, taller and broader than Leon, with severely chopped platinum hair and a sharp smile. That smile unnerves Leon more than his size ever could; uneven, with his brows drawn, giving the impression of cruelty. And how did he come to be here? Was he forced into this, as Leon was, and does he resent every second; every trainee? 

The officer who'd handed Leon off to Krauser is long gone. Leon says, "I think it's appropriate." 

"Well, it won't fly with me, rookie." Krauser maintains that smile. "I don't want drama, and I don't like attitude; I want men who will do the hard shit without bitching about it. Nobody wants a bitch on the team. Focus and determination are the only traits you have, Kennedy. Anything else and it'll eat you alive." 

The anger that's been percolating inside of Leon since his abduction– and maybe since Raccoon City –starts to boil and pop. His face feels hot. "Encouraging." 

"I'm not here to encourage. I'm here to mold you into something that STRATCOM can use." 

"And I'm not more useful uneaten?" Leon asks. 

Krauser laughs, maybe scoffs, and answers, "what does eating you look like, rookie? If it looks like obedience, there's a place between our teeth for you." 

And Leon really doesn’t know what to say to that. What could anyone possibly say to that? 

Krauser motions for Leon to follow him before he departs down the hall, back the way he’d come. 

“My team and I work closely with the Department of Special Operations. It’s not often we get a placement so green, so I don’t doubt you must be someone’s project–” Krauser turns a glare on him, the action so exaggerated that Leon feels he’s being condescended to “– but I won’t be putting up with any bullshit no matter whose son or cousin you are. You’re here to learn, and you’re here to pull your own weight. If you don’t strengthen the team, you’re gone. I don’t care whose feelings get hurt.”

Leon’s brow furrows. “They didn’t tell you?” 

Krauser tosses his head, and again the movement is almost pantomimed. “Don’t. It won’t change my mind.”

Leon feels the first twinge of a smile crack his careful frown, and laughter is building high in his chest. “I don’t think your decision has anything to do with it, and it isn’t about your principles. I’m here because the DSO wants to keep an eye on me.” And now he does laugh. “I don’t think you could get rid of me if you tried.”

Krauser stops in his tracks and looks back at Leon like he’s seeing him for the first time. He sweeps his eyes from Leon’s head to his feet, still unsubtle, though his expression is inscrutable. Finally he says, “you’re quick to tell me you’re a troublemaker.”

“I’m not.” Leon’s joy is short-lived, gone in an instant. “Not really. But I know too much.” 

Krauser quirks an eyebrow. “Looks do deceive. I’ll give it to you, just this once, but know that as long as you’re one of my men you answer to me, whether you have the attention of the DSO or not.” 

“As long as you’re not going to eat me,” Leon allows. Krauser’s brow pops, but he says nothing further on the subject.

[rebelcourtesan]

NaNoWriMo Tips and Tricks

It's finally here. National Novel Writing Month is upon us. A challenger for writers to write 50k words within 30 days. This will be my sixth time participating and I've won each time using these tricks and tips below.

Write what you love. Write a romance, if you like romance. Write horror if you like horror. Action thriller, mystery, drama, etc. If you write what you enjoy, you'll have more motivation to keep writing and be inspired.

What helps my creativity is music, especially ambience or original soundtracks from videogames or films. Try to match what you're trying to write. Use the soundtrack from the Notebook for romance scenes, listen to the soundtrack from Resident Evil games or Dead Space for horror or tense scenes. Music and sound can really pull you into creating a scene. I tend to use Spotify as there is less distraction compared to Youtube, but use Youtube if you need to.

Do not look at other people's progress. Some people will blow through Nanowrimo in a week's time. While that's awesome for anyone to complete NaNoWriMo so quickly, it can discourage someone who struggles with writing. If you're someone that can easily be dishearten, I suggest not looking at other people's progress and focus on your own.

DO NOT EDIT WHILE YOU WRITE!!!! Seriously, editing will seriously mess with your word count and should be saved after you reach your goal or completed your novel. It's time consuming and will chop words off your total. Trust me, your first draft WILL NOT be the final version of your novel before publishing. It WILL go through several versions and edits before you can submit it for publishing. So save yourself the headache and wait until after completion to start editing yourself. However, for the challenge, it's okay to go back and add a scene, dialogue, or details in order to add more words to your count.

Use the NaNoWriMo website to help track your progress. It has a handy graph that will tell you how many words you have to write each time to reach 50k by November 30th. The amount goes up and down as you write more or less. It's a really good way to track your progress and give motivation.

Try to build yourself a cushion of words each day. Chances are with work, family, and real life, you won't be able to hit your daily word goal. So when you are able to hit it in one day, try to keep writing so you can take it easy some days when you're busy.

I suggest using writing programs that can be used on your phone and computer. During a break or lunch at work, commuting, waiting for class to start, or having to wait in a long line somewhere, you can take our your phone and write a few words while you wait. GoogleDocs is a free online writing tool that auto-saves your work and can be freely access anywhere with internet connection. You can also use Micorsoft Word since it has a Onedrive cloud where you can access your work.

[amalgamgooze]

A Look At Battle Poses in the MOTHER, Paper Mario, and Mario and Luigi series

I've run into a small problem with my game regarding the battle scene--specifically regarding the art for it. I haven't really done many "in combat" sketches, so I'm lacking familiarity of what sorts of poses characters have. In my mind, the battle takes place looking down from the side, similar to the Mario and Luigi series of games. We'll get to that later, though--I find that when looking at stuff like this, it's best to look at several sources, no matter what your target is.

I've decided that it's time to multitask and write a post at the same time as my research. So, here we go!

=======================

the MOTHER series

In all three MOTHER games, the battles take place facing the enemy, often without art for your own party. The enemies have no animation, but that doesn't detract from their quality--even a still image conveys a ton of personality, as seen below:

MOTHER combat (from Wikipedia)

Earthbound/MOTHER 2 combat (from Earthbound Fandom wiki)

MOTHER 3 combat (from The Cutting Room Floor wiki)

Throughout the MOTHER series, enemies in battles are posed in a way that just somehow "feels right". Often times, enemies aren't drawn in the middle of an attack--instead, they're drawn almost as if you're in a face-off with them. (One notable exception to this is the Cop from Earthbound--he's drawn mid-karate chop.)

Enemies flash briefly when they're acting, and most enemies in MOTHER 3 have different sprites based on which direction they're facing, but other than that, the battle graphics for the enemies in these games are pretty simplistic. (The background of the latter two games are a whole other beast to tackle, though...)

This sort of approach works best in a traditional turn-based RPG like MOTHER. Not much needs to be conveyed other than what you're fighting, and the enemy designs only make battles more intriguing.

=======================

the Paper Mario series

In this post, I'll just be looking at the first two games--Paper Mario, and Paper Mario: The Thousand-Year Door (specifically the GameCube version--the remake looks cool, but I'm trying to avoid much media on it until I get around to playing it!).

Paper Mario Combat (image from RPGFan)

Paper Mario: TTYD Combat (image from Super Mario Files blog)

(pssst! That last image comes from a really cool post that goes into depth on TTYD's audience mechanic--it's a fantastic read, especially for anyone interested in workshopping their own unique battle mechanics!)

These battles also have animation--characters shift around when idling, and have unique animations for each move they perform. That sort of animation is crucial to the "Action Command" mechanics of these games--where timed button presses during attacks can increase the amount of damage you deal or reduce damage taken. Without animations, it'd be pretty difficult--if not impossible--to determine the timing for those action commands.

Stance-wise, the games approach combat from the side--though the characters do face out toward the camera more than if they were looking at each other. For instance, we can see both eyes of all the characters in the above screenshots. If they were truly facing each other, we'd likely only see one eye--which would probably look awkward with the designs of enemies.

That suspension of disbelief is necessary for the game's artstyle to work as it does--at least in my opinion. After all, we don't really ever see a Goomba directly from the side in Mario often, at least in the non-3D titles. Even though the anatomy and movement don't quite make sense through an analytical lens, they still move in such a fashion that doesn't look bizarre. (I'd wager it'd look more bizarre if they were animated without keeping those in mind!)

I'm no animation expert, but I'd also guess that achieving that sort of still-canny effect with unrealistic movements comes from studying cartoonish animation--as opposed to wholly realistic.

=======================

the Mario and Luigi series

The camera angle and poses are incredibly similar to the Paper Mario examples from above--except the camera is slightly higher and looks down on the battle a little. This ends up revealing the floor that the battle takes place on top of.

Mario and Luigi: Bowser's Inside Story (from GameSpot)

Mario and Luigi: Dream Team (from GameStop)

The posing's a bit more interesting in these games. Whereas Paper Mario's characters tend to face the same general direction the entire time (because of the game's artstyle), Mario and Luigi's characters, especially our protagonists, change the direction they're facing a lot.

Here's a good example. I've annotated the spritesheets for Mario's hammer attack (from Dream Team)--note how Mario's stance shifts from when he pulls out the hammer to when he swings it.

This spritesheet is from Spriter's Resource--I highly recommend checking out the rest of the sheets for this game (and other games too) for how they ended up animating their characters.

Skimming through the rest of the spritesheets shows that the brothers tend to have side-view sprites when countering or preparing for an attack. On the other hand, their idle sprites are bouncy, fluid dances that shift between side-on and skewed stances.

Again, heavy utilization of basic animation concepts (like anticipation and follow-through) makes these sprites as pretty as they are. As for the stances themselves, my takeaway is that skewed stances are best for the spaces between action, and side-on stances seem to work well when in action.

=======================

conclusions

Yes, there's a million other games I could look at too. I've just chosen the three above series because they're the games I've played the most--and I'm also somewhat trying to imitate the styles of them.

Regardless, one big takeaway was that I need to stop stressing over realistic movement so much--especially since I'm aiming toward a more cartoonish artstyle. Also, forcing my characters to face the same direction throughout the battle just isn't going to work--it just doesn't make sense for a game with dynamic "action command"-heavy turn-based battles like the one I'm making.

Here's hoping that this study of games will help me the next time I sit down with my graphics tablet!

[thechaseofspades]

3, 13, 27

3: Describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic

I tend to challenge myself with different concepts and styles with each project so it's hard to sum it up universally. I will say that I do loose outlines, so I always have an idea of where the characters are gonna go in the story. I'll split my stories into scenes or scene concepts, and have those as placeholder chapters for the time being. Once I actually write those scenes, the ongoing word count pretty much dictates whether or not I cut it off and start a new chapter. "Lena's Groundhog Day", for example, averages about 4500 words per chapter, and "Quack to the Future" hangs out in the 3-5k range. Basically, if a scene filled up a decent amount of space, then I call it a chapter and move right along. I won't, however, chop a scene up or bloat it to fit a certain runtime, hence the range.

Usually the story will start as a basic idea ("what if X but ducks"; "let's do a sequel to that one fic"; "I want to write Gosalyn"). I'll usually come up with a first chapter just to set the stage and see where we're at, and then bounce the idea around in my head for a while. I'll think it over on walks, I'll listen to music and imagine the characters, stuff like that. By the time I'm ready to write, I've usually settled on an ending scene, and come up with a couple other beats I want to hit in between. For example, for "Lena's Groundhog Day", I knew I wanted the diner scene with Webby and the ending scene(s) at the amphitheater. The rest came up as I wrote it, for better or for worse but mostly for better in my opinion.

13: What's a common writing tip that you almost always follow?

You know I actually had an odd time coming up with an answer here because I don't really seek out writing advice as much as I probably ought to. I've found that generalized advice isn't helpful for me, and also anything that suggests a change in routine is difficult to implement. Anyway, I'll think of something give me a second…. … … Hey I'm back. I didn't think of anything. The best I can do for you is always save your work because you never know when a bolt of lightning will strike your device specifically and uh oh there goes your progress.

27: What is your most and least favorite part of writing?

My least favorite part of writing is when I'm not writing. I mean when I'm stuck staring at a blinking cursor, can't think of where to go from here. Or I know where to go but not how to get there. Or I've just not written in a while and go "dang I miss doing that". Oh, and I also hate the part right before I publish where I go through like 50 times for spelling or grammar or typos because I have a fear of commitment (only to find mistakes months later when I'm just reading casually).

There are scenes and scene concepts that live rent free in my head before I write them. I'm talking imagining the characters having a back and forth, envisioning the action descriptions I'm gonna use, the works. If I had a thoughts-to-text ability, I'd have a whole collection written I'll tell you what. But I write my stories in order, so a lot of times (especially for endings) I can't just jump in and write those parts down. But when I do, man it's just really cool to see the thing I'd imagined for so long finally pop up in the document. It's crazy. Like I thinked all those words and then bam they're on the screen for anybody to look at. Indescribable. What a world.

Thanks for the ask!

[jmrothwell]

Writer Asks! 11, 15, 30, 49

Thanks agains Ash!! <3 (Long answer is long, so I'll put a read more after the first one. On that note I'll link the question list here: questions for fic writers)

11. Are you partial to a certain character/pairing or are you more equal-opportunity? If you are partial to any character/pairing, why do you think that is?

I am very partial to Reggie (82 of my 99 fics are tagged with him, granted a lot of those are prompts but STILL. Plus I don't know if it's because other picked up on that too or not but like almost every time I open up prompts Reggie is almost always the top requested character)

I adore adorkable, rays of sunshine. Like I have 3 go to charcter types (two personality based ones, and then dark haired/light eyed characters) and like my wife picked up on Reggie being my fav before I even said anything to her, because he fits 2 out of the three.

It's at the point where if Reggie's Jam(or Now or Never) comes on in the car and the GPS interrupts the song, she just automatically restarts it knowing I'm going to anyway because HOW DARE.

He's a Star Wars fan with musical chops, he's a little airheaded bt he's got a heart of gold. And there is so much you COULD theorize and speculate about his character just because of what's been revealed and how he was played and I LOVE HIM SO MUCH!!

15. What’s your favorite AU that you’ve written?

AAAAAAH! OMG!! but I have so many!!

I love my Supernatural Romance AU's (Feats of Crimson, We Run Together(it may only have the one fic but that is the verse name), Closest to Heaven, and Devil Searching For Redemption)

So those are definitley my top 4 but I don't know if I can rank them beyond that! They're all so good for different reasons!!!

30. Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?

Sink Your Teeth was out of my comfort zone regarding the intimacy. I am bad at writing action and being intimate is a type of action I hadn't really attempted before. (In fact prior to Slices of Summer-Fireworks I hadn't written that much in the way of kissing scenes, I think I'd only written one other kiss before then and it practically amounted to 'and they kissed')

I had a similar issue with I Could be the Monster with the Alex POV section because that one had a lot of action (It originally was supposed to have more and be MUCH more detailed but I think it flows fairly well with how it ended up.)

In each of those cases I struggled and wrote and worried and ended up sharing/posting thinking this will surely be hated/flop because all I could see was all the ways I could improve, or how it was envisioned in my head. And every single time the almost exact opposite happened.

Which just keeps reminding me A: to stop doubting myself, B: it's ok to take risks with my writing(I won't improve otherwise), C: Allowed me to sort of mentally give myself to pursue MORE stories like that.

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

Right now I am actively working on a few things atm, The next chapters of While You're in the World, Can't Get You (Out of my Mind), and I'm almost always slowly pecking away at my rulie fake/convenience marriage fic. Here's a few lines from each of those!:

.

R: luke

R: I’m serious

R: if ur not up I’m leaving ur ass

L: you wouldn’t

L: but don’t worry 

L: I’ll be up

Luke was absolutely right, Reggie didn’t leave him behind when he wasn’t awake the next morning. However, the dark haired boy had no qualms against pummeling Luke with a pillow until he did wake up and got dressed. 

.

“That’s a bit of a story.” Luke’s voice sounded over his shoulder, where Julie’s eyes drifted to. Reggie hadn’t thought this part of their plan through. He’d so quickly become accustomed to Luke’s vibrancy he almost entirely forgot he was dead, and very much looked it. 

He braced himself as he watched the shock overtake Julie’s face, at this point he had almost been screaming. Reggie’d also forgotten how much Julie liked to unknowingly defy his expectations. 

“I’m dreaming,” She exhaled as she turned away from Luke and himself.

.

WTF!?

JULES IS THIS YOU?!

Julie squints down at her phone, as a tension pulls inside her chest. The thoughts that had been swarming around her head like a beehive clear away only slightly as she tries to piece together what Flynn is going on about. She clicks the link to the video that was sent and immediately her stomach drops to her feet.

It’s not a very long video nor is it very clear, shaky and obviously taken by someone at a bit of a distance. However, she recognizes the building in the shot, the very same chapel she and Reggie had been at earlier that day-yesterday? What time was it?

Julie doesn’t care about the time soon enough as the video zooms in and focuses on Reggie, his broad smile only briefly obscured by what must be the back of her head, her dark braids falling into cascading curls. Julie forgets how to breathe as her chest collapses in on itself. 

She remembers this exact moment and watches in a sort of distant horror, nausea building in the pit of her stomach, as Reggie laughs before linking arms with her. There is no denying she and Reggie very clearly, very soberly, very deliberately, walk arm in arm into the chapel.

.

[nalascat]

76 24 20 17 for the fic writer ask

17. What do you do when writing becomes difficult? (maybe a lack of inspiration or writers block)

Going along with a previous one I answered, I just skip around in the fic! I'll eventually be able to pass that block, but if I can get work done in a different area of the fic, that's still work done on it !!!

Or I just forget about the fic. Which is sad but explains the 200-ish wips in my drafts. Oops

20. Have you noticed any patterns in your fics? Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

I NOTICE THAT STUFF A LOT. especially certain expressions and word choice. I have a habit of using the same exact sort of actions and sayings while writing and it's scary when I throw it into a checker and see I've used the combo of words "runs a hand through his hair" like five times.

or like. It FEELS like I do. Actually checking it right now, it's not that bad, but if you put every single one of my fics in a blender, you'd see a scary amount of the same phrases, haha

Themes??? I used to be SUPER angsty when writing at first, but I've started to write a lot more fluff than I used to. I'm getting better at plots as well, but that's not the question oops

24. Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?

"Don't use said" I guess? I cannot remember the advice I've been given as much now, but I remember that one being hammered in, and I'm trying to break that, because some of these words I'm using instead of said seem to REPEAT a lot I should stop it.

76. Did you have any ideas that didn’t make the final cut of [Fanfic Name]? 

I'm gonna take this question as a "all fanfic" sorta thing. Usually, I'll just write whatever comes to mind and it'll end up in the final fanfic? Sometimes I'll forget to write scenes and they'll never make it in. I don't think I've really ever just chopped out a scene to get rid of it?

Ideas get thrown around a lot in my head and sometimes I'll edit certain parts or clean up others, I guess. Things usually just get tacked in, ahah.

[haroldgross]

New Post has been published on Harold Gross: The 5a.m. Critic

New Post has been published on https://literaryends.com/hgblog/invasion-series-2/

Invasion (series 2)

[3 stars]

My love/hate continues with this series as the writing hasn’t really improved much from the first round. That, more than anything, was rather disappointing. Motivations and actions are often ridiculous and at the beck and call of the plot intention rather than the characters. And the less said about dialogue for tweens that would be comfortable in Dawson’s Creek, the better. I will at least grant that the world was expanded and explained much more this season over last. However a considerable amount of moaning was thrown at the screen over the 10 episodes. Especially at the end when another cliff-hanger finale was provided.

For the record, I’m not against cliff-hangers. They can work and be fair. However, in this case it was mostly due to drawing out the tale so that they could end there rather than building issues on top of issues that lead to an exciting stopping point.

Shioli Kutsuna (Deadpool 2) continues to deliver a complicated and emotional performance. She, more than anyone is the spine of this series, despite the heavy focus on Golshifteh Farahani (Extraction 2) and her family. And the addition of Enver Gjokaj (3022) was a genuine plus to the cast.

But, generally, the story has too many characters spread, literally, around the globe and creator Simon Kinberg (X-Men: Dark Phoenix) just doesn’t have the chops to juggle the stories all at once. Episodes end up cycling through different storylines, making for two week gaps between some plots. And, honestly, the melodrama is thick throughout.

I really want to like this show more than I do. It has just enough to keep me wondering and coming back and hoping that it will improve. And it has… a little. But assuming it returns, I am going to be expecting some real pay off for what should be the conclusion of the story.

Where to watch

[adventures-of-the-creeping-bam]

NEVER SPLIT THE PARTY: THE ADVENTURES OF THE CREEPING BAM,  BOOK THREE: WARMER - CHAPTER 12

If you’re new to the story, please go check out Book 1 first …

Book 3 Chapter 1 is here …

MPORTANT:  Please note this story includes content that may be considered mature, such as moderate battle violence, some strong language and occasional mild sexual scenes.

If you want to support my writing, feel free to swing by my Patreon or Ko-fi.

CHAPTER TWELVE:  THELGAEWYNN

The corridor round me seems to have grown surprisingly still as the dust finally starts to clear in the air after that particularly big blast Gael chucked out there, and from what I can see some of the black-clad fighters seem to be a bit stunned as a result.  I’m getting used to it, though, or maybe they’ve got some way of fine-tuning whatever it is they’re doing to make sure none o’ their companions are troubled by it.  Either way, when I lower my hands from over my head and start to stand up again, plucking my battleaxe from where I dropped it when I crouched in anticipation, I don’t seem to be experiencing the same effects.  Sure ain’t like when we were done in the ruins the other night, when my head was fuzzy and my limbs were jelly.  I’m glad o’ that.

That being said, reckon they might’ve gone a little overboard with that one.  So I look back as they take in the damage, hearing rather than seeing a huge chunk of plasterboard and shattered wood drop into the gaping hole in the wall ahead, and fix ‘em with a stare.  “Go easy, for Thorin’s sake!”  I hiss their way.

Their blush is instant, and they grip their staff tight in both hands against their chest in an action I’m coming to recognise as their show of anxiety.  I feel bad about snapping, but work not to show it.  They need reining in some.  “Yes, um … sorry.”

I hear a crack from somewhere behind ‘em, but all I can make out is the glimpse of a bright flash somewhere from the stairs leading up to us now.  At the same moment something small and fast scurries round the corner, and I recognise Brung a split before he jumps right on one of the muddy-headed hoods while they’re still trying to get up.  The others, making their way after us.

Mindful that whatever pause we just earned will be short, I turn back and start moving forward again, adjusting my grip on the axe’s shaft as I roll my shoulders.  It’s timely, some of ‘em are already shaking off the effects, and as I move in a half-orc sees me coming, frowning as his eyes instantly start to darken, and he scrapes his longsword up with surprisingly steady hands as he starts to stumble my way.  His first few steps are unsteady, but he keeps moving forward all the same, using his momentum to approach fast, and then he gets his feet under control and it turns into a feral charge as he lets a snarl go and makes a swing.

His blood’s up and he’s still rattled from the hit, so I just sidestep so it chops wide into the wall beside me with a great splash of shattered plaster chips.  The wall’s now too weak for it to stick fast, not with his strong arms, so I jump while he’s still just off balance, not trying a big swing of my own in these tight confines but instead just stepping up close in front of him and jabbing his face hard with the axe-head.  His nose mashes instantly, a great, bloody wet crunch popping under the heavy impact of good dwarven steel, the only thing I got left o’ my da’s, and he staggers back as he goes blind from pain and stinging tears, swearing in a great guttural grunt.

Not wanting to give him time to regroup, I twist so I can prime a sharp underhand swing round behind me, wheeling my body as I go so I don’t have to worry about the pitiful small amount of space I got to work with.  When I snap back round the whole movement’s taken me a short beat, and he’s barely starting to blink through the tears now so he ain’t got time to react as I bring the axe hard up into his gut, whipping my hip round so I can really power through.  It could almost be a shame he clearly didn’t have time to put his armour on, instead coming out in simple britches and a cotton undershirt, all he’s got to rely on to block it are his own abdominal muscles …

So the axe just bites deep into his midsection and I drive it into him so hard I actually manage to lift him bodily off his feet.  The hit drives all the air right out of him, the only sound he can make is a weak, winded gasp, and his eyes bug wide out at me as he finally starts to focus, too late to actually do anything now.  When I finish my swing his toes peddle in the air for a moment before his weight makes my arms sag again and his legs barely manage to support him on the landing before his knees start to give out.  As he starts to drag me down I give the axe a hard yank to free it up … and it won’t come.

Shit.  I should’ve expected that.  Thel, you stupid bint, you put way too much force into that hit, it’s stuck fast in his backbone.  As he collapses forward he almost brings me down with him … and there’s someone coming from behind him already.  All I can do is let go of my axe, but that means I got nothing in my hands and I don’t think I got time to pull anything else before they’re on me.

I start back-peddling, but I got no chance of opening up sufficient space to give myself time as I start to pull the handaxe on my right free, this one’s coming too fast and they’re more with it than the half-orc was.  Human, a woman, I realise, although she’s smaller than the average, broad-shouldered and stocky enough to be a particularly tall dwarf, but her smooth cheeks and smaller hands and feet give her away.  She ain’t screaming like I would’ve expected with this kind of hard charge, too focused as her eyes are locked on me, and she’s bringing her shortsword to bear to run me through while she’s cocking her handaxe in the other.  About all I got is to maybe throw myself aside at the last second and hope she just charges right by, but I don’t feel over confident about that one …

Something bright blue smacks into her and she’s bowled clean off her feet as whatever hit her knocks her back hard, crackling globules of aquamarine light flaring as they dance away before fading.  I find myself stumbling back anyway as I start to wheel about, the axe almost slipping from my fingers as I finally yank it free, too late to actually have done anything with it anyway, but Gael’s already turning aside as the crystal in their staff starts to darken again.  As I watch they wind the other end up and smash aside a stab before it can take ‘em in the side, smacking their attacker across the side of the head as they spin the staff back round on the counter.

Not bothering to watch the body go down as I get my own nerves back under control, I turn back to my own business again, seeing the woman rolling over onto her side, groaning loudly while she grasps her heavily smoking armoured chest.  I don’t doubt that fucking hurt, I seen Gael use that spell before and it puts you down.  But there’s another one already coming, so I ain’t got time to muse on it, instead adjusting my grip on my axe while I fish for the other too.

As I slip it loose I don’t bother waiting for this one to come, I just start my own advance, but don’t charge, preferring to watch what they plan on doing.  A human boy, looks awful young actually, younger than I seen amongst this lot so far, looks like he’s lucky enough they managed to get hold of a suit o’ leather armour that actually fits him, he’s still short and skinny.  But he ain’t moving with any awkwardness, looks pretty focused as he comes actually, handling his sword with surprising certainty.  He ain’t gonna show me any mercy, looks like …

But I can’t cut him down, I know that the moment I step aside as he closes the distance so I can dodge his thrust.  He’s already recovering as he plants his feet, not rushing past me like some, he’s on the ball, and as I skip aside he barely misses me with a backhand flick of his blade that has him frowning in some consternation as he realises he didn’t connect this time either.  He don’t give me time to breathe here either, rushing me again, and I don’t bother trying to dodge this time, just bringing my shoulder up instead and putting all my weight into a bull rush.  He ain’t quite quick enough to realise what I’m doing as I barge him aside, and too close to wall so he just slams right into it, bouncing off with a surpried yelp as I spin round to respond.

I twist my left-hand axe at the last as I swing, so I catch him across the side of his face with the flat of the beard rather than the edge.  I don’t pull the strike any, though, and his jaw crunches loud under the impact as the bone breaks badly, making him spit blood and bits of teeth as he spins on the spot.  For a moment he manages to keep his feet, wheeling in a drunken stagger now, but his eyes are already rolling up to show the white, and his legs buckle a moment later, spilling him backwards into a clumsy sprawl.

I got room to the next door now, and I make for it even as another one comes for me.  This one’s another half-orc, not even bothering with trying anything fancy, having forsaken the blades the others are packing in favour of a spiky mace, and he swings while making a clumsy leap at me.  The result is he’s just flailing it at me and hoping for the best while he’s still moving, and the momentum’s enough he’s flying headfirst as it comes whistling at my face.

If I was less on-guard right now he might’ve killed me right here, but instead I just duck and it whistles over my head, smashing into the wall with a great dusty crack as the spiky head breaks clean through the plasterboard.  His momentum carries him forward and he squawks with indignant realisation as it occurs to him that he’s sprawling face-first while also wide open to attack.  I catch the base of his skull on the backswing with my left-hand axe and don’t even bother to watch the body crumple, I just shuck it free and keep moving.

As I shove my way through the door I step right into a choking haze, suddenly I can’t see anything and can barely breathe.  I’m a moment realising that’s a mistake, I already clocked I ain’t alone, there’s shapes in here, some I can sort of work out are beds but others are moving, and coughing, I notice.  One seems like it might be somebody trying to dig another out from under a big pile o’ collapsed wood and plaster, but another’s already worked out they ain’t alone either, and then they’re coming at me and I can just make out a muted flash of bare steel.  That’s enough to put me on alert and I tighten up as they come at me.

Unable to make out any details in the roiling cloud of dust, I just concentrate on the sword this vague shadow’s hacking at whatever they can see in front of ‘em, and I respond in kind, knocking the blade aside before stepping in to swing with my other axe.  I don’t pull this hit any more’n the last, jamming the full beard up into the centre o’ that darker mass in the grey, and they must not see it coming cuz they practically walk right it.  I feel the blade strike home and the body jerks, and that nagging voice in the back o’ my head takes too long to remind me that I don’t know who I just killed.  Which is a problem, ‘course it is …

Not bothering to step forward, instead I just drag the body on the end of my arm forward and try to blink through the haze at whatever I can make out of a face, hoping whatever strength they got left in their failing legs is enough to keep ‘em from just falling on top o’ me.  Ain’t the half-elf, I lucked out there, instead it’s just some nondescript human male spitting blood as he collapses to his knees, so I just give the shaft a little yank upwards to tug the blade loose and yank the axe free.  Finally I step aside and the body just topples past me as I step towards the only two other individuals I can be sure are in here.

Waving my axes in front of me to try and clear the air just makes it worse, this whole room’s a mess.  As I move forward another cracking sound spills down at my side and a massive chunk of wall falls away, dropping on top of the wreckage already settled in here.  As this throws up a fresh cloud to make things worse the buried individual cries out, so even as I lose track of both of ‘em in the blinding wash of fresh dust I can still keep track of roughly where they are.  Throwing my arm over my face I try breathing into the crook of my elbow for a few moments while screwing my eyes tight shut so I won’t be blinded, but it stings all the same and I cough out a frustrated little curse.  What the fuck was I thinking coming in here?

More coughing close by wrenches my attention and I have to blink over my arm, and for a moment or two all I can see is more swirling haze, tears filling my eyes now as the dust stings ‘em worse.  Leaving my arm where it is I blink a few more times, hoping the tears might wash my eyes clean after all, then I can start to make out basic shapes in the blur again and I got a fix again.

“Just …”  A gruff voice breaks into a particularly aggravated coughing fit.  “Fucking leave me, you …”  More hacking.  “Fucking idiot …”

“No, I …”  The shape ahead of me seems to stiffen now, and I’m a moment realising they rumbled me getting close.  “Shit!”

As the one under the rubble starts coughing and spluttering again the other one drags something up from the floor next to them and charges me through the broiling miasma … I realise it’s a sword a split before the blade comes whipping right at my face.  Round the same time I realise I actually recognise this sword, then I’m ducking aside to avoid getting my head struck right off …

Something strikes my back and I’m already stumbling aside from a perceived attack when I realise it’s just the frame of a bunkbed.  Then the blurred silhouette hacks through the space I was just in and strikes the support instead, cleaving deep into the wood and fouling their blade, and in the seconds it takes ‘em to yank it free again I’m starting to recover my composure.  I plant my feet, hawk up a mouthful from my throat and spit it aside as I lunge.

Tog catches the movement surprisingly quickly, but he’s only just the got sword free and he’s on the backfoot in this fight.  The parry he manages to turn my own stroke aside is clumsy, if there’d been more art to it he could’ve unbalanced me, instead I’m already swinging my other axe up from under and all he can do to avoid getting tagged is jump back.  I press my advantage now and charge into his centre of mass, able to aim myself well enough since we’re so close together my shoulder hits home pretty perfect.

If the bed hadn’t been behind him I might put him down, but instead he tumbles backwards over the mattress and then the whole thing’s in-between us.  Shit … yeah, I didn’t really think this out.  But my blood’s up so I just jump right up onto the lower bunk after him and keep moving forward, and while he’s already scrambling back to try and clear some distance I just stay hot on his heels now.

He's close, I got him now and he’s on the run.  My blood’s up now, I’m so focused I can almost see him now through the dust, and as I jump down on the other side I charge, already winding up for another chop.

Not even bothering to try getting up again, Tog just scrabbles backwards with his heels, swinging his sword in big lairy haymakers that I imagine are intended to ward me off.  For a few moments it works, I’m wary enough to realise that if that blade catches me as I try to lunge in that’s gonna ruin my whole day, but finally I throw in a block and my timing’s true, battering the blade aside with a great ringing buzz.  I can’t see him well enough to make out his face but I know that hurt, his fingers’ll be screaming from that jolt, and I can make out enough to give me a target as I start to follow through with my other axe.  Aiming to cleave that smug little face clean in two even if I won’t get the chance to enjoy his expression when it happens.

“STOP!!!”  The shout is … there’s something about it, there’s more to it than just urgency that stays my hand at the very last split, when the beard of my axe must be a single hair’s breadth from his forehead.  It’s strange … it’s almost like my whole arm … hell, my whole body has just been locked into a banded prison of thick dwarven steel.  I couldn’t move if I tried … and fuck knows I am trying right now.

The thing is, as I’m rooted to the spot, unable to move a single inch, it gives me a moment to think, and I’m quick catching up to the fact I can actually see my opponent now, proper make out his features, really recognising him now.  Tog actually really does look younger than I would’ve thought he was before, it’s not just the fact that he’s a half-elf so he’s youthful, but the look on his face gives him away too easily.  He’s scared right now, a rabbit in torchlight caught in a night hunt, crossed eyes locked on the blade frozen barely short of the centre of his face.  The fear checks me too, I reckon … but actually being able to see it gives me that additional pause I need as I look through the corner of my eye …

Gael’s stood close by, staff in both hands with the crystal blazing bright white in its tip, and now I finally get that the air is suddenly very clear, barely more than the odd stray mote of dust lazily wafting through the air now.  Like they’re exuding some kind of aura that’s clearing the air, or maybe they just made it all disperse while I was distracted.  They look … different, mind, there’s something smeared right across their mouth, for a moment I think they’ve been splashed with blood, or maybe been chewing on someone, but it don’t look right, it’s more like a powder, although it’s sure red enough to mistake.  Then, as I watch, they turn their head aside but keep their eyes locked on me as they spit something out, and I realise that powder ain’t just on their face, they must’ve crammed a handful of whatever it is into their mouth to chew on.  Another component for their magic, then.

“Thel, please, just stop it.  You’ve caught him.  Don’t kill him.”  They’re imploring with their tone, even while their stare remains intense, unblinking even though their eyes must surely be stinging bad as mine have been.  “You remember?  Why we’re here?”

Fuck … damn it, the skinny kid’s got a point.  I’d growl if I could but I can’t, somehow my vocal chords seems to be froze up much as the rest o’ me.  All I can move is my eyes, so I just roll ‘em instead, and hope that’s good enough to interpret.

“Oh … shit.  Of course …”  Gael adjusts their grip on their staff as they shift their stance, moving a little closer, then pauses.  “I forgot you can’t … look, just please don’t do anything stupid, okay?  I don’t want to freeze you again, but I will.  All right?”

There’s nothing I can do but stare right back, but I hope that can convey enough of my frustration to cut through.  I see ‘em frown some, and there’s a subtle flush starting in their cheeks again that means they must sense my frustration … then they mutter something under their breath and it’s another of those strange sensory things where it’s felt-not-heard, and my muscles are suddenly released again.  I start to collapse, as much because I was frozen in a somewhat overextended position, and I can barely catch myself in time to keep my blade axe from cutting down as I instead fight to swing it aside again.

Tog winces even so as the blade just brushes the bridge of his nose before I can withdraw it, and I know he’s desperate to try and scramble out from under, anything to get away, but I’m already dropping onto all-fours on top of him as my limbs give out.  The axes in my hands clatter loudly as I land, and he’s skinny enough I can easily straddle him, my weight clearly substantial enough to lock him in place.  He’s a little winded by the impact on his midsection, but mostly just rattled as I sit forward fast so I can lean close to his face.  “Hello again.”

“Um … I …”  He falters, his eyes locked on mine now, then I catch the scrape of steel as he shifts slightly, remembering the sword still gripped at his side, and I tense, ready to push up so I can swat it aside, although I’m not sure if I can actually keep from killing him after.  My blood’s still hot right now.

Except Gael’s already there, I don’t hear their footfalls but their staff suddenly snaps down and batters the sword hard down again, sending the whole thing twisting out of his fingers with a great rattling buzz, and Tog winces again as he snatches his hand away.  “Argh … fuckin’ bitch!  What are you –”

“Shut … the fuck … up.”  I push myself up on my knees now so I can lean forward a little more, bringing my face as close to his face as possible, ‘til I’m pretty much nose-to-nose with him.  “Another sound escapes you ain’t asked for I’m gonna break your arm.  Just cuz I can’t cut you don’t mean I can’t hurt you.”

He goes very still again after that, looking up at me even as I start to sit back again, finally planting myself on top of his belly now as I draw my knees up so I can plant my feet, and after a moment’s consideration I give both my axes a good hard shake.  They’re not so gory as they could be, but they’re still messy, I don’t fancy slipping either one back into their loops just yet, not in this state.  So instead I finally just give the left-hand one a little toss down on my side so it thunks fast into the wood of that floor by my side, making sure it’s out of reach of Tog’s own hand, then cast about for something to wipe the other one with.

“Gael?”  I hear coughing from outside the room, and as I chance a look up again I see that, in fact, the dust was just forced out of the room and into the corridor instead.  After a few moments I hear someone call their name again, then descending into another coughing fit, before a hand emerges from the billow of dust beyond the door and starts shaking about like it’s probing.  “For the love of … are you there?”

“Oh!  Shit … sorry!”  Gael almost drops their staff now as they start juggling it, then steps forward and takes hold of the hand before it can flap about more.  “In here.”  They pull and Shay is towed into the room, still coughing as they emerge, looking a sorry sight indeed, actually.

I remember seeing her when she first came down from her room in the hotel earlier, dressed up in her full armour and looking pretty fucking lethal if I’m honest.  Certainly is was quite the impressive, stirring sight, I already thought she’s attractive but in this getup she’s genuinely hot … but since this all kicked off she’s clearly been through it some.  She doesn’t look to have taken any damage, but she’s definitely fucked somebody else up, liberally splashed as she is with blood, although most of it seems to be concentrated around his arms.  Unfortunately the dust seems to be clinging to that with some stubbornness now, and as a result it’s giving her a somewhat piebald look.

Looking back down at the boy now, I see his own attention seems to have been drawn by the new arrival, but he’s clearly also been trying to take advantage of my own distraction as he’s reaching for something underneath him, in the small of his back.  Tossing the axe to my other hand, I shoot my right hand fast under him and grab hold of his fist as he starts to withdraw it, squeezing good and hard and more than a little pleased to feel how his fingers start to compress a little too much under my grip.  He yelps again, flinching as he tries to pull away from me, but I got him tight and I’m still weighing him down, he’s got no leverage right now, so all he can do is comply as I drag his hand up.  I give his hand one last little crush, harder than ever this time when I see the knife he clearly intended to draw on me, and this time I hear the bones in it crack.

Needless to say he can’t hold on any longer after that, so when I finally let go he immediately drops the blade, which just clatters at his side.  Grasping it with his other hand, he lies back, whimpering in miserable pain, while I fish the knife up off the floor and give it a look over.

“You … ah, fuck, you bitch, I can’t believe you … you broke my fuckin’ hand you little cunt!”

Sitting forward much faster this time, I bring the knife up too and wave it in his face, finally pressing the flat of it against his cheek.  “I don’t like that word, don’t reckon there’s any lass likes that word, you unpleasant lanky piece o’ shit.  So I suggest you shut your mouth like I already suggested before I decide to just start cutting on you anyways an’ let you choke to death like the rest o’ your mates just cuz I don’t like you any.  How about that?”

“I … I thought you …”  He shuts up the moment I press the blade a little firmer, even though I’m making every effort to stick with the flat of the blade.  As a knife it’s nothing special, but it’s definitely sharp enough to do the trick.

“Maybe, but you an’ me been dancing round each other for a good week now an’ I’m getting a little tired of it.  I might actually enjoy getting chewed out for killing you early if it means I can watch you shuffle off this mortal coil.”  I cock my head, watching him for a long moment and very much making my point while I do it.  “We done?”

He don’t speak, don’t even make a sound, just watches me like I’m a fucking demon, and I can’t help smiling at that.  So I just sit back again, tossing the knife over my shoulder to clatter away somewhere in the corner without taking my eyes from his.

“Excellent.  Glad we could finally get that sorted out.  Best not try anything else, mind.”  After a moment I reach to the side and drag one of the blankets loose from the nearest bed, taking up a handful and using it to start wiping my axe clean.  Keeping my eyes locked on him the whole time.

“This him?”  I hear Shay before she arrives, stepping close now but stopping a few feet short as she seems to tilt in the corner of my eye, likely shifting her weight a little as she regards my prisoner.

“In the flesh.”  I slip the axe into its loop on the belt at last, before groping about for a moment before I’m able to retrieve the other, pulling it free from the board without breaking my stare from Tog.  “A little beat up but no leaks.  As requested.”

I hear the floorboards creak subtly under her as she leans closer, taking a look at him now.  “Huh … he is not what I imagined.”

“They seldom are, I found.”

“You all right?”  she asks after a moment’s pause, taking me somewhat by surprise.  I can’t help breaking eye contact with the boy now so I can look up at her.

“How d’you mean?”

“You’re …”  She frowns, reaching up now with a clear intention of brushing her bangs from her face, but she stops short just in time to keep from smearing what’s still all over her gloved hand into her hair.  This only seems to deepen her frown.  “I’m sorry, but … I mean, you’re in quite a state.”

Looking down again, I inspect myself, for what I realise is actually the first time since we started.  I’m pretty liberally caked in dust now myself, it seems, clinging to the blood the same as it is on her, but in my case there’s a good deal more of it.  “Hmmm … oh no, I’m fine.  None o’ this is mine, any more’n I imagine any o’ that’s yours.  They fought hard, but I fought harder.”  I look back down at the half-elf, still clutching his hand, watching me with the same rattled wariness.  “Most weren’t up to snuff anyway.  Once I started moving outside I was through the door almost before there was any real alarm gone up for the rest inside.”

“I see.”  Shay says it almost like a sigh, and when I look back this time she looks weary deep in her bones, and I wonder if maybe she’s starting to feel it again, the fatigue.  I know she’s been putting a brave face on since we set out this morning, I saw how hard she found that climb.  Reckon the fight itself probably didn’t touch her when she was in it, not once her blood was up, but adrenaline can only get you so far.  She’ll be crashing now.

But there’s more to it than that.  There’s been something in her since we met, if I’m honest, under everything else.  A touch of melancholy, I think.  Something happened to her, maybe quite recent, even before she almost got killed the other day, something that’s still weighing on her.  Something heavy.  Every now and then something’ll happen, like seeing something particular dark just triggers it, and she goes all quiet.  Withdrawn, haunted even.  I seen it before in others, I recognise trauma when I see it.

“Shay.”  Gael’s voice seems to stir her quick enough, at least.  The young half-orc blinks, her frown evaporating slightly, but I think it’s more just the tone of the voice than anything more specific.  “Shay, you might want to see this.”

Gael’s crouching next to the man who’s still trapped under the rubble, clearly having given up trying to drag himself out now he’s seen that he’s surrounded.  As Shay turns to regard ‘em both, I sit back, leaning some so I can take a better look myself, but I’m careful to shift my weight as little as possible now while I’m distracted.  If the wizard thinks this might be noteworthy …

Hmmm … once I can see past the dust caking part of his face, I get what she might mean as he blinks, spitting a little as he tries to clear his mouth.  He’s clearly older than most o’ the folk we been fighting, both in here and before, in the other groups.  He’s human, I can see, somewhat rugged and worn, so the years really show … into his forties now at least, maybe older still, and hard-lived years too from the look of it.  His face is clean save for a scruff of salt-and-pepper stubble, his jaw thick and square, brow heavy.  He’s got the look of a hard, serious man, but something in his eyes, teary as they are from the dust … there’s a clear intelligence in ‘em.

He seems more dressed up than the rest too, like he came from outside instead o’ just throwing the gear on in the rush.  He has leather armour on, but it’s pretty rich, and there’s a fine cloak strapped around his shoulder, kid leather gloves on his hands.  As I watch Gael looks about, seeming to spot something, the way they frown as they lean forward enough to pluck something up from the floor … with a subtle scrape of metal on wood I realise it’s a sword even before they’ve raised it, holding it out to Shay now.  A longsword, styled like the rest of the gear they’ve been using, well-made, simple but of a surprising high quality, but more than that the steel’s unusually dark.  Guild-made, then.

When Shay takes the sword from ‘em, she’s clearly thinking the same thing as she lifts it, turning it a few times in her hand as she checks it over.  “Hmmm …”  She shifts her stance a little, then turns and jabs the sword hard down into the floor so it wedges in place well out of the man’s reach now.  Then she takes a step forward and drops into a crouch on his other side from Gael.  “Who are you?”

Blinking again, the man looks up at her, and there’s none of the fear I seen in Tog, or would expect in any of the others.  He works his mouth a little, and I expect him to spit, but instead he simply growls and mutters:  “Piss off.”

“He wouldn’t leave ‘im.”  I say after a moment, around the same time the cogs in my head start turning proper again.  “Tog, I mean.  He was dead set on getting him out.”

“I seen him before.”  Darwyn takes us all by surprise, we didn’t see her come in, but she’s stepping over now too, and she doesn’t have to crouch like the rest of ‘em to get a proper good look.  The look on her face is complicated, I wonder if there’s more going on with her right now than I can see, but she’s clearly focused right now.  “A while back, he was younger, but … yeah, it’s him.  When I was just coming up, we had to deal with a bunch o’ punks from down the docks, tried to pull a fast one over on us.  Half the crew ended up getting the air cut out of ‘em before we chucked ‘em in the harbour.  This was one o’ the ones got let off with a warning, to tell the tale.  Didn’t get his name at the time, but … seemed like he might be a bigger deal if he learned his lesson.”

The man looks her over for a moment, then just lets out a frustrated sigh, looking up at Shay.  He cocks a brow, as if waiting for her to speak again.

“Who are you?”

For a long beat he just looks back.  “Don’t make me repeat myself.”  He says it in such a matter-of-fact manner it doesn’t feel like bravado at all.

Cocking their head for a moment, Gael just leans forward and reaches out, and he flinches away from their touch when they poke his face, just by his brow.  Where the blood’s running down, from his scalp.  The blood … wait.

“He’s still alive.”  Gael says it in a low tone, almost as if they’re not really thinking about what they’re saying, it’s just idle musing as they look at the little smears of blood on their fingertips as they work at it with their thumb.  “He’s bleeding, and he’s trapped … but he’s still alive.”

For a long, drawn out moment nobody speaks, or moves.  ‘Least not in here – I see movement just outside the door, slowly becoming aware that the dust must finally be fading because of it, but mainly cuz I can actually see Krakka standing just outside the doorway now, looking in but not joining us.  As he sees me looking he frowns, taking the scene in, but still doesn’t step forward.  Like he senses the gravity of the moment.

Finally Shay shoots her hands out, grabbing his left wrist hard and fast before he has a chance to yank it back.  He tries to jerk it away now, but when she holds on he stops,  giving up at last, and it’s clear he’s one cool customer, he knows he won’t get anywhere fighting her like this so he just won’t bother.  So when she starts unstrapping the bracer on his wrist he just lets out a sigh and lowers his face, looking at the floor now.  Waiting for the inevitable.

When she’s finally got it free she chucks it away without ceremony, and I find myself shifting a little more, starting to lift my weight ever so slightly as I start to crane so I can get the best view I can.  I already suspect what this is, but I wanna see all the same.  So when she yanks the sleeve of his shirt up from his wrist I don’t bother fighting the urge anymore, I just step right up as I start to move over, wanting as good a look as I can get now.

His wrist is clean.  There’s not so much as a freckle under the thick hairs growing on the back of that forearm, and certainly no tattoo.  “Son of a bitch.”  I hear myself breathe it before I quite realise I’ve even spoken.

“There’s no mark.”  Gael mutters, sounding as surprised as I feel.

“But that’s …”  Darwyn look around the rest of us, then past me, and that’s enough for me to remember my charge again, so I’m already turning back to find Tog’s seen enough sense to just stay where he is on the floor when she manages to stutter:  “That’s … it’s … but all the others … I mean every other one out there is dead now.  Even the ones shouldn’t have died from those wounds …”

“Except him.”  Shay muses.  When I turn back to her again, reassured Tog’s not going to try anything after all while I ain’t looking, she’s already straightening up again herself.  “Because he’s not just one of the flunkies, like the rest.”

For a moment none of us speak, just looking down at the man as he lets a low, frustrated sigh go before finally turning his head so he can look up at Shay again, having to crane somewhat now.  He doesn’t look fearful at being caught out, he just seems resigned.

In the end I’m the one who says what the rest must already be thinking.  “So this is Vik.”

“Yeah.”  Shay’s actually starting to smile now as she turns to me again.  “It fucking is.”

“Well that’s a neat turn-up for the books.”  I start grinning myself, although reckon mine’s got more of an edge.  “Best part is it means we don’t need this little twerp anymore.”

Reckon I see the start of a frown form on Shay’s face as she catches up to my meaning, but by then I’m already moving.  I don’t bother going back, I just wind up with the axe still in my hand as I turn, using the twist to help me whip it as I toss it spinning at Tog’s face while he’s still propping himself up.  He don’t have time to react, barely even gets a chance for his eyes to widen before the axe splits his skull with a nice, satisfying thwack, and he’s dead before his limp body hits the boards again.

Letting out a long, relieved sigh, I give my neck a little roll to work out the kinks and look down at my hands, then have a crack at dusting ‘em off.  I’m a few moments noticing the dead silence in the room, but when I look up I make the connection at last.

Everybody’s looking at me in open, dumbfounded shock.  Gael’s even got both hands over their mouth, eyes wide as I ever seem ‘em, looking particularly pale now.

Shifting my stance, I can’t help frowning over at them all, and offer up a shrug.  “What?”

TO BE CONTINUED ...

[theolddarkmachine]

I’ll Take The Blame, You Take My Conscience- Ch. 6

“You love him.”

It wasn’t a question. Panic burned the back of Shiro’s throat as his eyes widened at the statement. He had known his feelings for Keith for some time now, but he knew better than to act on it, aware that he was nothing more than a friend in his best friend’s eyes. It was better for everyone if he just kept it to himself. At least, that’s what he had thought. Then he’d started noticing small things, like how sometimes Keith would let his hands linger on his skin for a fraction longer than he needed to, or how he could feel his gaze tracing the long line of his body when he thought Shiro wouldn’t notice. He’d been planning on telling Keith how he felt at the party. It was amazing how quickly things could change.

“Let him go, Shiro. He’ll need a tool, not a lover. And your love will only make him weak.”

AKA the one where Keith is the leader of a Yakuza clan, Shiro is his ever loyal tool, and they’re caught in a gang war.

Amazing commission by prllnce!

MASTER LIST

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When I started this updated, I thought I would need to combine two chapters to make it long enough. Then it ended up being the longest chapter so far without the help. Typical. Also, I’m doing a 12 Days of Christmas prompt fill! I’m gifting fics to my readers, and all you need to do is send in a prompt! Check out the rules HERE! (Basically, I’ll do pretty much anything minus non-con, underage and the extreme fetishes. Does NOT need to be holiday themed!) Due date is 10/31. There are only five slots left, so get yours today! 

Please also note that I am going to be taking a wee writing break next week. Next update will most likely come 10/19-10/20 time.

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

Blood was rushing in Keith’s ears and the acrid taste of adrenaline and bile mingled at the top of his throat and coated the back of his tongue as a constant reminder of the worry that had coursed through him. The van he and his waka gashira had piled into hit a pot hole, throwing his shoulder into Pidge’s and cutting her words off as the impact rattled her teeth. Metallic rust filled her mouth as her teeth sunk into her tongue. A small squeak of pain escaped her as she rubbed a hand over her mouth.

“Sorry guys!” Hunk called over his shoulder, eyes never leaving the road as they sped over the Shuto Expressway towards the Yokohama port.

Everything had passed in a blur after Pidge had made her way into his room with news that she’d found Shiro. Almost as soon as the words fell from her mouth, he was out of the room, hand curled around her small bicep as he dragged her through the halls towards Hunk and Lance’s room, shooting rapid fire questions at her the entire way. After informing them of the new development, Keith’s words clipped at the edges and only giving as much as was necessary, they’d grabbed their weapons and piled into one of the clan’s vans that was used specifically for transporting smuggled weapons and the occasional body. Silence had filled the van for the first few minutes of the drive as the only sound any of them made was the mottled, heavy rasps of their breathing.

Or maybe they’d spoken, but Keith had already retreated so far in on himself, clutching to the buoy of hope from those three words that he missed any conversation completely.

I found him.

He’d guarded the words, holding them closely against his chest as he looked over the images Pidge had printed of Zarkon and Sendak pulling Shiro between them as they slipped into the large industrial doors of an empty warehouse. As she’d finally started to speak, Keith barely registered the coordinates she was listing off that she’d managed to pull from the camera that had supplied the grainy greyscale image. He felt his eyes dragging down the sharp line of Shiro’s cheekbone as if he could pull some sort of evidence that he was still alive from the black and white photo. Without color, he couldn’t be sure of the exact hue of the bruise that was pixelated over the high bone, but it was dark enough to register as inky black in the photo. His wine stained gaze traveled further still over the photo, locking onto the fabric that was tied around Shiro’s right arm, covering the stump that ended prematurely about mid-bicep. An even darker blemish dirtied the light cloth with what he knew to be his blood. Keith’s fingers trembled as he caressed the photo, breathing poison laced curses to himself.

“Keith?” Lance’s voice was a near shout that broke him of his reverie. Pulling his hand away from the image as if it had burned him, the oyabun turned his attention to the sharp shooter, a gruff growl rolling around his mouth in acknowledgement.

“We’re 15 minutes out,” the brunette said, crystalline eyes boring into Keith from where he sat in the passenger seat. “Is there a plan?”

A plan. He knew he should have one, but all his mind could focus on was the black ink bruise on Shiro’s cheek and the bloodied stump that had once been his arm. Shiro was within their grasp, and his skin was itching with the need to have him back safely in their hands. Keith hadn’t thought much further than that. He didn’t need a thought out plan, he just needed to get to where Shiro was. Once there, he would do whatever it took to save him. Wasn’t that plan enough?

“The plan is to get Shiro out alive, and kill everyone we need to to do it,” he finally said, his voice burning with malice as he looked out the window. Sunlight was glinting off the water of the Tokyo Bay and he let it momentarily blind him. A thick quiet fell over the four Raion as they ruminated on his words. A tentative hand settled on his bicep.

“I think we need more of a plan than that,” Pidge’s voice was soft as she looked up at him from the seat to his left. “We need you to be a leader right now.” She paused as she chose her next words.

“Shiro is going to need you to be a leader.”

A small bubble of hysteria welled up in his chest at the words that had once been Shiro’s. Pushing it down deep within himself, Keith brought a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Breathing deeply, he settled the angry pitching in his stomach.

“You’ll stay with the van, Pidge.” His voice was brusque with authority as he laid out his orders, dropping his hand back to his side and fixing his mauve eyes on her. “Since you won’t be in our ears this time around, it will be up to you to send out a signal if things start to go to shit outside the warehouse. Three honks, got it?”

It wasn’t ideal, but they would need to make due with what they had. There hadn’t been time to set up their usual communications when they’d left, or rather, he didn’t let there be time. We can regret that later, he thought to himself as he eyed Pidge, waiting for her confirmation. Her head bobbed in acknowledgement before she turned away from him to look out the window. He tried to ignore the way her shoulders were tensed under the green fabric of her shirt.

We can regret that later.

“Hunk, Lance,” he nearly barked. Lance turned back to face him as Hunk hummed an affirmation.

“You’ll both come with me. Usual rules stand, use blades until you can’t, or until someone else fires first.” Lance’s face faltered slightly as he nodded. “We don’t know how many will be there, and we don’t want to give our position away too early. If they have too much time they could--”

They could kill Shiro.

The words hung like gallows between them as Keith struggled to get them out of his throat. It was just a fact, one that would have been true for any Raion that was captured by their rivals. How many times had he spoken of the chance of death for one of his clansmen in the past? For all they knew, he was already dead, the photos capturing the transport of a corpse. The air grew thick with the implication as the words didn’t come, instead creating a burning lump in his throat.

“They could get him out of there and we’d lose him again,” Hunk’s voice hid the lie well beneath its confident tone. Lance’s electric gaze flashed towards the weapon specialist before he nodded.

“Got it?” Keith asked, voice weak as he swallowed the stone that had been sitting on his vocal chords.

“Got it,” they said in unison, their voices wrapping around each other the way only Hunk and Lance’s did. A small pang of jealousy shuddered through his chest.

“Good. There’s your plan.” His words were flat and lifeless as he ignored the look his two waka gashira shared before Lance turned back to look out at the road ahead of them. Keith shifted his attention to the window beside him, eyes fixed on the fire that danced over the Tokyo Bay as it drew ever closer.

***

Pidge sat in the deserted silence of the van that now seemed far too large without the other three Raion with her. Her job was simple: Wait in the van and be prepared to get them the hell out of there when they came back with Shiro.

“I will bring him back,” Keith had said sharply, his voice barely disguising the feeling of desperation that she shared. They needed to find Shiro here, she knew it and he knew it, but they left the words unsaid. If Shiro wasn’t there, they most likely wouldn’t find him. If they did, he wouldn’t be alive. This was their only chance of getting the saiko-komon back from the Akuma. Pidge sent a silent prayer to the heavens that they would find him., and find him alive. 

Not just for Shiro’s sake, but for Keith’s.

A handgun sat in her lap, the weight of it keeping her grounded as she let her gaze wander over the warehouse and the pier that it sat on.

“Stay safe,” Hunk had said as he’d handed it to her. Lance stood over his shoulder, a small sad smile on his face as he nodded in agreement.

“I’m not the one you have to worry about,” had been her response as her honey gaze flickered toward Keith, who had already pulled his daggers from his thigh sheath as he glared at the large sheet metal doors that stood between them and the bowels of the building.

“We’ll make sure he’s okay,” Lance had said before they left her alone in the van and disappeared into the storehouse.

It had probably been no more than 10 minutes since they left, but those minutes seemed to stretch into an eternity as she waited in the quiet. The hair on her arms stood against a constant chill that was running marathons over her spine. Something had felt wrong, but she hadn’t been able to put her finger on it. But she could feel it. It was the kind of feeling that preceded a storm or any other natural disaster.

As her eyes scanned the area, a pair of shadows appeared in the distance. Though they only stood far off, she could feel their twin gazes burning through the windshield as they appraised the van that was sitting outside of the seemingly empty warehouse. Her heart stuttered as she fixed them with her own questioning gaze, the pair too distant for her to make anything out aside from the direction of their stares.

The cold steel of the gun weighed heavily against her thigh as Pidge watched them, slowly counting her breathes in a vain attempt at slowing her heart rate. Her fingers thrummed nervously against the cracked leather of the steering wheel that lay against her palms, slightly slick with her sweat.

“Calm down, Pidge.” She ignored the way her voice trembled as she continued to keep her amber gaze fixed on the pair as they eyed her in return. “For all you know, they’re just some dock workers.”

The lie was bitter on her tongue as she said it. If there was anything she knew, it was that the only people that would be in the vicinity of the warehouse would be Akuma. They weren’t sloppy enough to leave bystanders around them, especially when they were in Raion territory and had their saiko-komon hidden somewhere inside. While they sometimes grew complacent sitting atop the throne of death that they’d built in order to become the number one clan in the Yamaguchi-gumi, they hardly ever let themselves be sloppy.

Unless it was intentional.

Air was dragged from her lungs in a loud gasp as the realization hit her. Tearing her eyes away from the figures that had started to walk towards the van, she stretched herself around the driver’s seat and reached for the pile of papers that lay alone in the seat behind her. Ignoring the sharp sting of the paper’s edge slicing across the skin of her fingers, she flipped through the pages until she found the photo again. Shiro’s head had fallen forward, limp with his chin tucked into his chest with the weight that his neck couldn’t support. Holding onto his left arm, with the back of his head towards the camera was the Akuma oyabun. If the sword that obediently sat on his side didn’t give it away, his hulking frame would have. That wasn’t what had made her blood run cold though.

Her golden eyes moved towards the last man in the photo. With his large hands clutching what was left of the arm they’d sent to the temple, Sendak stood with his body angled inwards towards Shiro, and thus towards the camera. His head was turned just enough that upon first, and even second, look it appeared that he was looking down at the man that hung limply between the two of them. As Pidge leaned closer, she felt her lungs start to burn with the breath she’d begun to hold as her gaze locked onto that of Sendak’s captured one. It was barely perceptible given the angle and the graininess from the cheap technology, but his glare burnt upwards as it locked onto the gaze of the lense.

Drawing them out had been their intention all along.

Glass sprayed across her face, shards of the driver side window cutting across her cheek as one of the Akuma she’d been keeping an eye on broke the window in with a crowbar. Strong fingers closed around her throat, choking her of oxygen as it pulled her towards the now gaping hole.  The gun in her lap slid from her thigh and caught between the door and the seat.

“What’s a cute little thing like you doing here?” A deep voice hissed against her ear, the heat of the yakuza’s breath raising goosebumps over her skin. Warm liquid began to stain her shirt where the jagged teeth of the window were cutting into her arm and chest as he pulled her further out the opening. Pidge’s breath rasped as she tried to retort, the heavy hand effectively catching the words in her throat.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was here for a friend.” The second voice sounded bored and she could just barely see him leaning against the van with his arms crossed as he eyed the scene. Black spots of unconsciousness and a sinister smile filled her vision as she reached a hand toward the gun that sat precariously perched just beneath her fingertips. She felt the smooth metal brush against her skin.

It was so close.

“We were told to kill all the Raion, but I think we could find some use for you,” her captor smarmed before he cut his dark glance towards his companion. The slight nod of his head was nearly blocked by the large black stain eating away at her sight. Blood was roaring in her ears and a gasp rattled in her lungs. She extended her arm ever so slightly further, the cool metal touching just past the tips of her fingers now.

“I’m sure we could get a great price for her. She does look very young, and you know the young ones always sell well.” It felt as if a knife was twisted in her chest, just above her heart as the words sunk in. Though they were dripping with disinterest, they unlocked a primal fear that gripped her limbs. Images started to melt into the darkness that had nearly taken over her eyesight. Her brother’s smiling face as he laughed at something she’d said. Her father’s hazel eyes that twinkled as he ruffled her hair.

Their blood smeared across the wall of their living room.

Dread was what pushed her hand that final inch between the crevice where the gun had fallen, her fingers blindly finding the grip. The Akuma’s words were a distant thrum as she pulled the pistol up, pointed it towards the direction of the window and pulled the trigger.

All sound slipped away as the shot rang out, replaced instead by a high pitched scream that filled her ears from the proximity of the gunshot. Air rushed into Pidge’s lungs as the hand was wrenched from her throat, finally allowing her to breathe. Pushing herself further into the van and onto the passenger seat, away from the broken window, she gasped greedily at the air as her lungs screamed at her with each shaking breath she took. The black spots started to shrink and the sunlight filled her vision as she saw the man that had choked her holding his hands over his ears as he bent at the waist in pain. His partner had pushed away from the van and was fiddling at his side for his own pistol, eyes wide with surprise.

With a shaking hand and unsteady wheezes, Pidge aimed the nozzle of the pistol at the fumbling man, only taking a moment to say a silent prayer for the family these men had taken from her before she pulled the trigger again. Glass rained down in a shimmering cascade of sunlit crystal as the bullet tore through the window and into the man’s chest.

The shrill keen in her ears persisted as she watched his mouth open and close, forming soundless words as he gaped at her, crimson blossoming like a deadly rose over his shirt before he crumpled to the ground. A twisted grimace obscured her attacker’s face when he noticed his partner on the ground, blood staining the pavement beneath him. One hand went to the gun on his hip as the other clutched the door, ignoring the glass that cut into his palm, red trails spilling over the edge as he glared at her. With one final breath, her lungs finally wrapping around the air she took in comfortably, Pidge held his dark gaze as she pointed the gun at him and fired. The impact at such a short range sent him flying back through a red mist punctuated by jagged pieces of skull.

A beat passed as she breathed evenly in an attempt to quiet the deafening shriek that was muddling the rest of her senses. Then she dropped the gun, only slightly aware of the way it bounced against the carpeted floor of the van. Turning her hands towards her, the palms slick with sweat and their small shape quaking, she inspected them.

It was the first time she’d ever killed anyone.

Pidge’s head began to spin as she stared at her own skin, half expecting her hands to warp and twist with the blood that was now on her hands. The high pitched squeal subsided slightly, the sound of the outside world returning, though it sounded as if it were being strained through cotton balls. A boat in the next pier blared its horn, and a bird landed on the van’s roof, all sounding distant but all producing sound nonetheless.

“Now isn’t the time to panic,” she admonished herself, letting her hands fall into her lap and ignoring the way they still shook against her thighs. Taking another breath so large, her small chest strained against the fabric of her button up, she turned her attention to the warehouse. They’d undoubtedly heard her gunfire. If the Akuma were unaware that they’d yet arrived, they would know now thanks to her panic.

Eyeing the building, she began to count the seconds. No one had run out yet after hearing the sound, which could very well mean they’d already entered into battles of their own. She refused to think about any other reason they may not have returned to check on things outside.

I should sound the signal, she thought to herself as her amber gaze flickered from the industrial doors to the steering wheel that lay between her and them. But we’re so close.

Turning her attention to the clock on the dash, she counted the tick marks. She would give them 10 minutes before she honked the horn that would call Keith and his other waka gashira back out to the van.

“Please find him, Keith.” Her voice was a whisper as she looked back at the building.

Letting her gaze fall from the metal sheeted walls of the warehouse, Pidge leant over to grab the gun from the floor. Carefully setting it back on her lap, she waited, her eyes flickering every couple of seconds back towards the clock.

Nine minutes.

***

Hunk’s tentative footsteps bounced off the metal walls of the hall as he drove further into the warehouse. When they’d pushed into the building, they’d expected to be greeted with a large open space, but were instead met with a long corridor that branched out into two separate paths. Tension had rolled off of Keith in nauseating waves when he’d seen it as he had tried to calculate the amount of time it would take for the three of them to investigate both routes. Hunk saw the way his eyes deadened as he realized that staying together would only increase Shiro’s chances of being killed.

“I’ll take the left,” he’d heard himself say before he’d even known he was going to say anything at all. It had been the obvious choice for him to be the one to go alone. They couldn’t afford to let Keith be overcome by the enemy, and Lance was the next in line after Shiro. So it had only made sense when he offered to go on alone further into the eerie calm of the warehouse. That hadn’t stopped Lance from shooting him an ultramarine glare filled with betrayal and concern.

Shaking his head clear of the way the look had cut into his chest, Hunk pushed forward, eyes sweeping over the hallway that seemed to never end. Something about the walls that didn’t seem to have any doors called up an image of a rat in a maze in his mind, and it made his skin crawl. There was a wrongness about this whole thing, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Why had the Akuma chosen a port right within their territory, not even a full hour away from their temple? He’d been on enough jobs to know that their rivals only stepped so far into their territory to take people for their trafficking schemes. They’d never keep a captive there. At least not unless it was a part of a bigger plan.

Foreboding froze his veins as he made his way deeper into the bowels of the endless hall as his muddled thoughts spilled over each other, clashing against each other like wild animals fighting for a piece of meat.

Tapping his thumb gently against the leather bound handle of his bowie knife that was clutched in his right fist, Hunk began to count the number of steps he took, measuring time and distance with the muffled scuffs of his soft boot soles over the warehouse ground.

Then he heard it.

Carried over the walls, the metallic enclosure amplifying the the distant murmur, was the distinct sound of hissing voices. One was filled gravel while its companion flowed like an undisrupted stream, both pouring over each other with the same musical cadence of a river over rocks.

“-- damn scum can’t keep their noses out of our business,” the hard edged voice growled as Hunk pressed himself against the cool wall. Soft rasps of fabric against metal tickled his back as he slowly dragged himself towards the curve of the hall and the voices.

“Didn’t work out in their favor though, did it. You see the number Sendak did on that one we got?” His heart stilled with the frost that chilled the words of the answering voice as they grew louder, their footsteps mingling with their conversation. Hunk’s nails bit into the flesh of his palm as he tightened his grip on the knife as he picked apart their words in his mind. A short snort from the gravel voice made him growl.

“Won’t be doing much now, will he,” he said with a sadistic chuckle. Waiting just at the turn of the hall, Hunk bit back the sour taste of anger as he listened, calculating their distance from where he stood by the sound of their voices. Their steps grew louder as they drew closer. The sharp tang of rust filled his mouth as Hunk bit his lip as he waited.

“You think they’ll fuck up the Mafia deal?” The lighter voice asked after a moment’s pause. Slowly, Hunk brought his left hand to the holster on his hip, smoothly unbuttoning the strap that kept the gun in place and pulled it from its carrier as he listened intently. Another hard peal of laughter from the man’s companion.

“How could they? Even if we don’t kill them when they come for their friend, they’d have to figure out that we’re shipping them out of the Port of Nagoya,” the sound of a hand clapping against a shoulder punctuated the air. “Showing up that far in our territory would be a suicide mission.”

Long shadows stretched past the corner Hunk hid behind, pausing at the juncture as if to suspend the moment in a solitary point of anticipation. A bead of sweat rolled lazily down Hunk’s temple, pulling a line of moisture over his tanned skin. Time stood still for a hair longer as he steadied himself before he tipped the temporal scales and threw himself around the corner. The grip of his gun struck against the back of one of the Akuma’s head as he smacked his palm against it to bring it down to meet his knee.

“Hey!” The lilting voice of the other Yakuza was cut off as Hunk thrust his elbow upward, catching him below the jaw. A sick crack of teeth smacking together erupted from his mouth as his companion crumpled to the ground in a heap as he pressed his hands to his face. Twisting around in a deadly dance, Hunk spun around the man that was still standing, catching his blue gaze long enough to tighten his jaw. They were the color of the open sky on a spring day. He was behind the man by the time he drew the comparison to another set of cerulean eyes that he knew all too well. Before he could dwell on the similarity, he brought the bowie knife up to his throat and dragged a clean line across his throat. A soft, liquid gurgle bubbled out of his throat before he landed on his knees, pausing for just a second before falling face first to the ground.

Snotty moans pulled Hunk’s attention down to the gravel voiced man on the ground who was reaching a hand to a weapon tucked into the back of his jeans. The distant crack of a gun firing gave them both pause. Air caught in Hunk’s throat as his head whipped towards the sound as if he could see straight through to its cause. Two more shots followed before quiet settled over the hall. The man started to shuffle again in a vain attempt to use the disruption to his advantage.

Hunk’s brown gaze fell back onto the Akuma, a distance dulling the shine that had been there only a moment before. He wasn’t sure how far into the warehouse he was, and how far he was from the rest of the Raion, but if they were the ones to fire those first shots, things had gone wrong. Fear gripped him and drove his arm as he aimed his pistol at the man on the ground.

“Hey man, don’t--” the man started to speak only to be cut off by two shots that caught him in the middle of his chest. Blood welled from the two holes as his head fell back, the life fading from his eyes before it’d even hit the ground. The garnet pool accumulating from both bodies spilled across the concrete and rolled idly towards Hunk, staining the soles of his boots as he stared down at the Akuma. Their gazes stared dully upwards at him, frozen forever in unending shock.

“The Port of Nagoya,” he said under his breath as he knelt down, gently running a hand over the dead men’s eyes to pull their eyelids shut. His mind raced between the gunshots that still echoed in his ears and the information he’d learned. The Akuma were planning another deal there, and from the sounds of it, it involved the American Mafia. If they made it out of the warehouse, he would need to make sure Keith and the rest of the waka gashira knew.

The Port of Nagoya.

Hunk repeated the location like a mantra, letting the cadence of the port’s name calm the worry that was rolling through his limbs. Standing slowly from his position, he tightened his grips on the blood stained bowie knife and pistol as he pressed forward.

***

Tiny sparks of electricity were tickling Lance’s palms as he followed behind Keith, his sense of duty sparring with his affection deep within his chest, leaving him bloodied and raw. He hadn’t even gotten a say in letting Hunk head off on his own, Keith stepping in with a curt nod and pulling him the opposite direction before he could try and make him change his mind. Now he stood in an empty hall, with his brooding oyabun, surrounded by painfully loud silence and unable to watch Hunk-- or any of the rest of his team’s-- backs. Lance hated being in confined spaces like the twisting metal hallway that never seemed to end.

And to make matters worse, he had to fight with a damn knife.

“He’ll be fine, you know.” Keith’s voice was so low, he wondered if he’d imagined it before the leader threw a look over his shoulder, amethyst eyes fixing on him in a fleeting glance.

“I get it,” he continued, voice thin with a vulnerable softness as he turned back to face forward, his steps carrying him further into the building. “But he’s always been able to take care of himself.”  Lance did his best to ignore the small voice in the back of his mind that bitterly pointed out that Shiro had also always been able to take care of himself, until he couldn’t. The eeriness of the seemingly empty building was working his nerves, he told himself as he continued to watch Keith’s back as they pressed onward.

His grip on his tantō felt wrong, and it felt too light as he tried to adjust the way he held it. Without a gun he felt completely useless. Growing up, Keith had always been the one that was better at hand-to-hand combat and knives. The jealousy had eaten away at him until he found out he could shoot ten targets in ten seconds from 100 feet away, and that was without a scope. Walking through the hall, the walls seemingly closing in around them as the silence playing tricks with his mind, Lance felt like that kid again that just couldn’t catch up to his future leader.

“Do you think we’re close?” He asked in an attempt to brush away the quiet that was trying to tempt him into dwelling on Hunk’s position. The answer he received came in the form of a hiss and a hand that stood up in the universal sign for “stop.” He bristled at the gesture. Ears straining to hear whatever discreet noice that had alerted Keith, he nearly ran into his back, stopping himself just short of his tensed shoulders.

“Did you hear something?” Lance’s voice was stiff after several seconds passed without any sounds. Keith lifted a single finger up to his lips as he turned his head just enough for him to see the gesture before he started to pad slowly forward. It wasn’t until he saw the black outlines of shadows against the wall ahead of them that he picked up the barely there whisper of rubber soles against the stone ground. His fingers curled tighter over the hilt of his blade as he tried to recall what little knife training he had, his heart thumping a hummingbird’s beat against his sternum. Keith continued to push forward, his steps quickening as he rushed to meet the Akuma ahead of them.

Then the all too familiar pop of gunfire rang over their heads. The sound rolled over his skin, dragging away his insecurities and leaving a completely different animal in its place. No matter the circumstance of that first shot, it meant his guns were now fair play. Though a bloom of fear burned in his chest as his mind raced to try and pinpoint where exactly they had come from, his blood raced as he dropped his tantō to the ground. Excitement and frustration blazed together, lighting his eyes as he pulled the uzis from the tan holsters that hung just under his arms. He barely registered Keith’s movement as he whipped his own handgun from its holster as he readied himself.

The steps were louder now, the sound multiplying as they sped up, and three Akuma rounded the corner just seconds later. Lance’s first shot caught the one closest in the knee, knocking him down for the second shot that caught him between the eyes. The next shot wasn’t his own as a bullet rushed past his face, the air splitting around it and blowing against his face as it landed somewhere behind him.

Another trio curled around the corner as Keith promptly shot the tallest of the group, the lead from his gun knocking him back as it hit his shoulder. Dodging the metal rain that was descending upon them, the two Raion moved around each other, one water and one smoke as they returned the gunfire. For each rival clansman that fell, another rounded the corner to take his place. It was the kind of set up that meant they were close. Lance felt the heavy determination emanating off Keith in waves as he came to the same realization.

“Keith!” He yelled over the metallic crashing around them.

Another shot and another spray of blood.

“What?” The oyabun yelled back, eyes not leaving the crowd ahead of them as he hit another in the stomach. Lance’s aim caught another in the hand, disrupting the shot he’d been lining up for the man beside him.

“Go on ahead, I’ll take care of these guys!” He felt the hesitation as Keith weighed his options. “I’ve got this, buddy. Shiro needs you.”

The words were steadier than he felt as he tried to reassure his leader. His purple gaze fell on him as he looked away from the Akuma ahead them for the first time. The steel in them had softened and turned pliant with an appreciation that Lance hoped would go unsaid. There would be a time to be thankful, and that time wouldn’t be until they completed their mission. With a small nod of his head as if to offer one final affirmation for Keith to go on without him, he aimed back for the crowd that had thinned out to just five. As he sprayed them with a slew of bullets, Keith ran towards them, hugging the wall until the exact moment Lance pulled his finger off the trigger.

The diversion had caused enough confusion that the oyabun was able to push past them, disappearing around the corner before they’d even had time to register what was happening. He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline, but Lance could have sworn he saw everything in slow motion as the Akuma puzzled over the disappearance of one of their enemies. One turned to follow, only to be pushed to the ground with the force of the bullet that caught him in the spine.

“Oh no, friends,” Lance said as he widened his stance and brought both of his guns upwards to point toward the four that were left. “I’m not done with you yet.”

***

A sense of knowing was digging deep into Keith’s bones as he walked alone towards where Shiro had to be. He was so close, he could feel it deep within his gut in the form of a gnawing sensation that picked at his insides like a buzzard. Loud shouts and the sound of gunshots ricocheted around him from where Lance had hung back to allow Keith a chance to explore further. Keith suspected it was more so the sharpshooter could run to check on Hunk once he’d cleared the Akuma from the hall. He’d seen the worry that had sharpened the steel in his blue eyes, and no matter how he’d tried to hide it behind a dulled mask of loyalty, it was there staring back at him like a beast waiting to be unleashed.

If Keith looked long enough, the beast twisted into something all too familiar to him.

Another crack bounced around him as he adjusted his grip on his handgun before rounding a sharp corner. A spasm rolled through his chest as his eyes landed on a a pair of imposing doors that interrupted the unending wall of dull metal. Choking back a gasp, he stumbled over himself as he made his way to them, shoulder igniting with pain as he shoved it against the heavy metal and pushed the door open.

The room was dark, lit only by stray rays of sunlight that streamed through a single window that sat in the middle of the wall opposite of him. Golden beams cast an ethereal glow over the otherwise mundane and empty room, the reach of its warming light stopping short of the figure that lay in a heap of limbs and bloodied clothing in the shadows to the far right of the room. Chunks of ice broke off in his veins as he stepped further into the deserted space, drawn towards the unmoving body as if pulled by an invisible string.

His gaze flickered over Shiro, taking inventory of each wound that stood stark against his skin and tracing the line of his side in search of any sign of the rise and fall of breathing. A tremor reverberated through his legs as he finally stood in front of him, knocking them from beneath him as he fell before Shiro’s frame, dropping his gun to the floor with a sharp, metallic clatter. The saiko-komon’s eyelids fluttered and though his breath was shallow, it was there as it tickled over the skin of Keith’s wrist as he ghosted a hand down his cheek. Blood had long stained the white of his bangs to a deep rust, the thick crust of coagulation matting it together. The bruise from the image was a mottled black and purple with sickly green feathering its edges.

Keith’s heart squeezed as his eyes dragged down towards the stump that was trapped between Shiro’s side and the cold ground, the weight of the loss settling onto his shoulders and turning his stomach. Heat climbed up his chest as it gagged him, the sound of his dry heaves filling the room.

“Sendak does great work, doesn’t he?”

The voice twisted with a calm malice as it spoke, sending a thrill of vehemence through Keith as a feral snarl tore from his lips. Grabbing his handgun from the ground, he flipped his position around, still crouching protectively in front of Shiro as he pointed the muzzle at the intruder.

“You’ve got yourself a strong one.” Zarkon sauntered forward from the shadowed corner he had been waiting in, the tip of his sword scraping along the ground as he moved closer. His teeth gleamed with the sunlight as he smiled at Keith, looking down at him over his nose. Keith’s finger twitched over the trigger. “Even after Sendak sawed his arm off, he still wouldn’t tell us anything about you, little lion.”

The harsh rasp of metal against concrete subsided as Zarkon stopped his advance, stopping in the middle of the room, obsidian eyes boring through Keith.

“Maybe I’ll keep him for myself.”

Keith pulled the trigger, the loud explosion of the gun firing filling the air. Onyx held amethyst as Zarkon’s glare stayed trained on the Raion as the bullet flew past him and buried itself in the wall behind him with the deafening clang of iron against steel. In a flash of metal and sunlight, he lunged forward, sword raised above his head. Keith pushed off the ground, using the energy of his coiled muscled to throw himself forward. Meeting Zarkon in the space between them, he thrust his shoulder into the older man’s stomach and wrapped his arms around his middle as they crashed to the ground. As soon as he felt the impact of the Akuma’s back, Keith scrambled upward, grasping a handful of his black shirt within his left fist as he threw the right towards his face. The sound of bone crunched satisfyingly beneath the force of the gun that was still clutched in his hand.

Zarkon grunted with the impact, quickly retaliating by thrusting the butt of his sword’s hilt into Keith’s temple, knocking away his senses and throwing him off his chest and onto the ground. The room spun around him as Keith pushed himself up again, not allowing himself to linger. Sardonic laughter darted around him, the sound wet with the blood that was spilling over Zarkon’s lips from his shattered nose.

“I touched a nerve,” he spat, blood splashing over the grey ground as he sat up. A single strand of inky black hair fell from the slicked back plane atop his head and curved over his eyes. They were practically glowing as he stared at the younger leader, their intensity like that of a wolf setting its sight on its prey. Sunlight glinted against the tip of the sword as he pointed at Keith. “I’ll enjoy killing you, Kogane.”

A sharp smile pulled the corners of Keith’s mouth up, baring his teeth.

“Likewise.”

Leveling the gun, he fired another shot, growling as Zarkon swiftly dodged the bullet by rolling forward and quickly getting to his feet, advancing towards Keith. He fired again before the metal slipped from his fingers as Zarkon pushed against him, the flat of his sword pressing against the Raion’s chest as he was pushed into the wall. The impact stole the air from his lungs as the back of his head smacked the metal with an angry crack. His bruisde ribs screamed against the pressure as he pressed into him. Stars ate away his vision as he blindly grabbed for the sword that was crushing against his chest. Hot breath brushed the bridge of his nose as Zarkon pushed closer. The blade bit into Keith’s left palm, blood spilling between his fingers as he grasped it. His right found the hilt, the sudden change in momentum catching Zarkon by surprise as he wrenched it from his grasp.

It clattered noisily as it skittered over the ground. Taking advantage of the moment, Keith brought his hands up behind the Akuma’s neck and pulled him down as he thrust his knee upwards into his chest. Stumbling backwards with a small gasp, Zarkon’s eyes were wild with an inhuman fury. Fixing him with matching acrimony, Keith’s fist caught the older leader’s jaw before he spun, throwing the force of it into a kick square to the Akuma’s chest. The power behind it sent him stumbling backwards, only stopping once his back landed heavily against the wall behind him.

Three sharp honks tore through the symphony of gasping breaths as Zarkon and Keith glared at each other from opposite ends of the room. A liquid warmth was spilling down his temple, painting his light skin a haunting crimson as his mauve gaze burned holes into the elder oyabun’s flesh. Time stretched between them as Keith’s fingers twitched over his push daggers, his handgun lying abandoned on the ground about six feet from where he stood. It felt as if a spell had fallen over the room as silence settled over the space. He could kill Zarkon now and be done with it. The end of this bloody war between their clans was within his grasp, all he had to do was reach out and grab it. His fingers trembled at the sheath again as he dragged in a calming breath.

Now was his chance.

Then one word shattered the trance over the room into a million jagged pieces.

“Keith.”

It was a whispered exhalation, a barely there utterance that dealt more damage than any of the blows Zarkon had landed. With just one murmur, Shiro had pulled Keith back down from his bloodthirsty rage. Lightning quick, the oyabun’s fingers closed over the three daggers on his thigh, each handle slotting neatly between them. The first he threw buried itself deep within the flesh of Zarkon’s thigh, eliciting nothing more than a pained grunt from the man. Keith let loose the second dagger almost as soon as the first had made its mark, this one tearing through the top of his shoulder and pinning the fabric of his shirt to the wall behind him. With one final flick of his wrist, the third dagger twisted through the air and landed in the wall just to the right of the Akuma leader’s face, cutting a jagged line into his cheek and ear as it passed. A seamless veil of garnet rolled down Zarkon’s cheek.

Turning on his heel, Keith faced where Shiro lay against the ground, his eyes still shut and his eyebrows drawn together as he grimaced. Another breath carried his name over the full ridge of his saiko-komon’s lips.

“Do you not intend to kill me, lion?” Zarkon’s voice was filled with black humor as he watched Keith shove his hands under Shiro’s armpits so he could pull him up into a seated position. Ignoring the taunt and the fire it ignited in his chest, Keith knelt next to his best friend’s unconscious body and pulled his left arm over his shoulders so he could use the strength of his legs to push them both up. Grasping the arm with his left hand, ignoring the sting from the deep cut in his palm, and wrapping his right arm around his waist, he supported his weight as he slowly made his way to the door.

“You’re a coward,” the Akuma roared as Keith got to the doorway, reveling in the way the Raion oyabun paused. “Just like your father.”

Turning just enough to fix Zarkon with a glare brimming with disaster and ruin, Keith’s face twisted into a look of unadulterated fury. A beat passed filled with nothing but their labored breathing as wars waged in the silence between them. Keith was the first to speak.

“I’ll be back for those,” he spat before he turned back towards the exit, Shiro leaning heavily into his side, his head pressing into the crook of his neck and his labored breaths tickling his skin.

It wasn’t just a threat, but a promise. Acid twisted in his stomach as he dragged them both through the twisting hall towards the van that would finally take them home.

He would make good on his word. They weren’t finished yet.

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

[rendevousz]

the favourite

avengers x fem!teen!reader

summary: you are the baby avenger and everyone is platonically whipped for you.

genre: fluff, crack

warnings: none, maybe just my inability to write good endings

word count: 3497

note: um second oneshot hope this one's good gaaah

"hey, doll. whatcha' reading?" you glanced up to see bucky, who then plopped down next to you on the couch in the common room. "it's called 'shadow and bone'. it's a novel that's turning into a netflix series in like a month," you smiled at the super soldier, lifting up your book a little to show him the cover. his eyebrows raised at the information, lips tugging into a knowing smirk.

"yes, bucky, i'll watch the series with you." you rolled your eyes playfully at him. ever since he officially became an avenger and moved into the tower with the rest of you, you've been helping him 'get with the times' —as sam likes to call it— just as you did steve a few years prior.

steve had told his best friend that you were the best at stuff like this. after all, you were the youngest avenger. and you had a lot of free time on your hands; having no school since you were pretty much the only one besides vision who could compete with tony's or bruce's intelligence.

so really, school wasn't mandatory for you according to tony. at least, after you had asked him if you could just not attend and he cracked ten seconds after you pulled the puppy dog eyes.

you also had significantly less trainings than the rest of the team. this one wasn't because you were an expert on the field or something —well, you were, but so were the rest of the team but they still had almost daily trainings while you had half the amount they did— this was because you had cap wrapped around your tiny little finger.

and as for the team, they couldn't even be mad about it because if they were in the captain's position, they would probably be the same. everyone just loved you too much.

"do you mind if i turned on the tv?" bucky asked, afraid that you wouldn't want background noise while you were reading but obviously you didn't mind so you shook your head as you continued to read. not long after, you closed your book with a bookmark between the pages you stopped at before shoving in into bucky's hands and running up into your room to quickly grab your blanket.

he watched you run out of the common room in confusion before chuckling when he saw you run back in looking tiny with a huge, fluffy blanket in your arms. you went back to your spot on the couch next to him, spreading the blanket over both your laps, bucky smiling fondly as he watched you fix it before turning to him. "comfy?" you asked and he nodded, giving you back your book as you cuddled up to him. he smiled down at you and wrapped an arm around you while you leaned against his chest.

"what's this? movie night without me?" you two looked up at the owner of the voice and saw sam walking in, making his way to the kitchen, probably to make himself some coffee. "what movie are you guys watching?" he asked, leaning against a pillar to look at the tv, trying to figure out what movie was playing.

"actually, only bucky's watching the movie—it's mean girls, by the way—and i'm just reading my book." you told sam without looking at him, lifting your book up high to show him before lowering it back down to continue reading it.

"barnes, what are you doing watching a movie while y/n is reading? she won't be able to focus with all that background noise, shut it off." sam told him off, now back in the kitchen to make his coffee. you shook your head at the man's antics. "sam, it's fine. i told him it was okay,"

"of course you did, you're too sweet to say no to anyone." he quipped back, now standing nearby, watching the tv too, seemingly interested in the movie playing. you only rolled your eyes playfully at him before going back to the book. after a few minutes of him just standing, bucky spoke up. "just sit down if you want to watch the whole movie, birdbrain."

and sit he did. on your other side, snuggling comfortably under your blanket after putting his now empty mug on the coffee table. this caused bucky to huff as he pulled the other end of the blanket which led to them having a tug-of-war over the blanket, you unfortunately stuck in the middle of it. deciding that it was too distracting to read while squished between two grown men who were also fighting for the blanket, you finally closed your book.

"sam, can you help me put this on the coffee table?" you handed sam your book and he immediately took it, stretching his body forward to place it on the coffee table. with the book out of the way, you could finally settle comfortably and the blanket was now shared between the three of you equally. not long after, your head was back against bucky's chest with his arm around you while your legs were over sam's lap under the blanket, one of his arms resting over it above the blanket. if it had been someone else doing that to sam, they probably would've had their legs chopped off already.

"movie night and you didn't invite me?" you chuckled at the question by the newcomer, tony, finding it funny how sam said almost the exact same prior to him. "you're welcome to join us, tony." you offered kindly, to which he replied with a small chuckle.

"i'm just kidding, cupcake. i came up for a drink and a little snack but that's it, i have stuff to finish down in the lab." you nodded understandingly, turning back to the screen in front of you.

"hey, stark, while you're there can you grab me a bottled water from the fridge?" bucky asked him. "oh yeah can you grab me chips from the snacks cabinet too?" sam added.

"you guys have legs for a reason, get them yourselves, i'm not your maid," tony sassed and you bit back a chuckle. bucky and sam then decided to rock-paper-scissors the situation to decide who had to get up and get the water and chips. bucky ended up losing and he begrudgingly got up and came back quickly with his water and sam's chips.

shortly afterwards, tony approached the three of you on the couch, with a juice box and a small bag of pretzels; your go-to movie snack. "here you go, cupcake." he handed them to you and you accepted them happily, beaming at him while he ruffled your hair.

bucky and sam shared a look of disbelief at tony's actions. "what gives, man? we asked for stuff and you didn't want to do it but y/n gets her stuff without even having to ask for it?" sam complained.

"that's because y/n's my baby. now shut up and let her watch the movie in peace." he scolds before leaving the common room, leaving the two men to huff in annoyance. it soon washed off though when you laughed out loud at a scene and they returned back to normal, loving the sound of your contagious laughter.

when the movie ended, it was already late and you had fallen asleep on an also asleep bucky. sam took a look at you and chuckled. he slowly removed the blanket from over himself and you, gently scooping you up into his arms and taking you back into your room, laying you down on your bed. he noticed the lack of blanket on your bed and remembered the blanket you brought down to the common room. he opened your closet for a spare blanket, retrieving it before covering you with it, tucking you in. "night, kiddo." he whispered, kissing your forehead before leaving the room.

-

next morning came and you groggily stretched, noticing that you were in your room. last you remembered was falling asleep mid movie. you deduced that it was most likely either bucky or sam who carried you back to bed. you went to your closet to grab work out clothes since you had training today, before realising what day today was. wanda's breakfast day. you quickly ran to the bathroom and got ready.

once you were done, you dried your hair and left your room, practically bouncing with excitement when you thought of what wanda probably made for breakfast. the week had been a bad breakfast week since everyone who had so far been tasked breakfast duty, sucked at cooking. the only good cook of the team was wanda, explaining your overexcitement.

before you could get far though, you slammed into a solid body, being caught by your wrists before you could fall. "be careful, lady y/n!" a deep voice spoke and you look up, a large smile on your face before you jumped happily, taking the man into a big hug. "thor! you're back!"

he laughed, returning the hug, you almost disappearing due to his big frame before you let go of each other. "where were you headed to so eagerly?"

"it's wanda's breakfast day, thor! i haven't had a decent breakfast all week because no one in this tower except wanda can cook to save their lives. come on, big guy!" you cheered, trying to get onto his back for him to give you a piggy back to the kitchen but he was too high for you to reach. he watched your attempt in amusement before bending down so you could get on his back. you gratefully got on, lightly patting his back and dramatically pointing ahead of you. "to the kitchen we go!"

when you two arrived in the kitchen, clint and wanda were talking as the latter made breakfast. thor's booming laughter echoed through the room as he zoomed with you on his back, laughing your heart out. "we have arrived to our destination, my lady." clint and wanda turned to you, adoring smiles on their faces when they heard you giggling uncontrollably.

"i thought you had more important things to do that you couldn't even walk 10 feet to grab me a spoon." clint raised his eyebrows at the demigod. "yes but y/n needed a ride so i provided her one." thor gave your hair a ruffle before he left the room, going to do what he initially left the kitchen for before you managed to get him to bring you back there.

"morning, kiddo." clint ruffled your hair right after you just fixed it, causing you to glare at him before fixing it again. "morning," you grumbled, sitting down next to him.

"morning, y/n!" wanda greeted, placing your plate of perfectly made blueberry pancakes with extra blueberries neatly placed on top, butter in the middle of it with maple syrup dripping down. your mouth watered. had it really been that long since you had a good breakfast or was it just because it was wanda's creation? or was it both? "here ya go, bubs. your favourite," she grinned at you, placing your glass of orange juice beside the plate.

"thanks, wands! i love you!" you thanked her, already beginning to dig into your breakfast.

"what the heck? you gave me burnt pancakes and didn't let me have extra blueberries because you said there already were some in the pancakes," clint whined to wanda from beside you, watching you eat happily.

"that's because the extra blueberries were for y/n, she loves them. and about the burnt pancakes...yea i just didn't want to give her burnt ones. look how happy she looks," the two turned to you, looking at your cheeks being filled up, making you look like an adorable squirrel.

"okay, fair point." clint slumped down on his chair, continuing to look at you fondly, like a proud father.

-

after breakfast, you made your way down to the training room where steve, nat and peter were training. when you entered, peter immediately noticed, waving and you from the treadmill with a huge smile on his face. nat, having just flipped steve over her her shoulders, smiled at you. "hey, bub." you smiled back at her and steve who struggled to give you a wave but did it anyways from his position.

"alright, y/n, you can warm up and run 2 miles first before we start." steve says once he had gotten up from his position on the ground. you mocked a salute before walking to the treadmills.

"what?! how is that fair? i'm running 5 miles!" peter exclaimed from beside you just as you started your run. "you're enhanced, peter. if anything, it's unfair for y/n/n. actually, that's right, it is unfair for her. y/n/n, you can go ahead and just do a mile."

peter's jaw dropped at this, his mouth opening and closing like fish out of water. "b–but.."

"get back to work, peter. once you're done, we'll start both your and y/n's training." the boy only huffed in annoyance, focusing back on his run while you smirked, internally cheering in victory.

-

"boy, that was tiring!" you dramatically plopped back onto the mat, limbs spread out as you tried to catch your breath. it had been a gruesome 3 hours of training and you were beat.

"y/n/n, get up. sam, bucky and clint's gotta train soon," nat tells you after steve and peter left and you were still sprawled out on the ground. "but i'm tired!" you whined childishly.

"y/n, if you don't get up, i'm gonna leave you here to be trampled on by the boys when they train." nat nagged, hands on her hips as she made a disapproving face at you.

"no you're not. you're gonna carry me to my room so i can shower and sleep soon." you tell her, eyes already closed as the fatigue washed over you. after a few seconds of silence, you heard her sigh out loud before you felt her crouching down beside you.

"get on my back in five seconds or i'll leave you." she threatened. you quickly opened your eyes, grabbing your small towel and water bottle before getting on nat's back. she mumbled something about you being lucky that she loves you or else she really was going to let sam, bucky and clint trample on you.

"what's wrong with her?" you could hear steve's concerned voice asking nat when you two reached—you assumed— the lobby. you were too tired to keep your eyes open so you left them closed while your arms were around nat's neck.

"nothing," you heard nat reply as she walked you both into the elevator. "kid's just too lazy to get up and walk on her own so she made me carry her." you internally rolled your eyes. she made it seem like she was forced to do it when everyone clearly knew she would do anything when it came to you.

you heard steve chuckle before nat started walking again, probably towards your room. you heard the door open and nat finally let you down, prompting you to open your eyes.

"do you want some food after you shower?" she questioned as you looked through your closet for comfy clothes to change to before ultimately deciding on cow print pyjama pants and an oversized tee you stole from steve.

"i'm good, nat, thanks. i just wanna take a nap." as if on cue, you yawned right after. "okay, bub. you'll have to get up later for dinner and movie night though, okay?" she reminded and left the room after you replied an 'okay' back.

-

when you were woken up a few hours later, it was by an annoying scream and a body bouncing on your bed. "y/n/n, wake up! it's dinner! mr stark ordered your favourite!"

you groaned, putting your pillow over your head to block out peter's annoying voice. "come on, y/n/n wake up! you haven't eaten since breakfast and it's movie night tonight!"

"okay, okay, i'm up. you can shut up now, pete." you grumbled crankily. it was quiet for a few seconds before peter yelled out once again. "wake u–"

he never got to finish though because you kicked him off the bed. "i said i'm up, dude." you then sat up, stretching before getting up to wash up, ignoring peter who was on the floor rubbing the side of his head which hit your lamp when he fell off your bed. he then got up, deciding to tidy your bed up a bit while he waited for you to finish washing up so that you two could go down together.

-

"is that my shirt?" was the first thing you heard when you walked in with peter. the team were all sitting, eating your food from your favourite place. "i uh, maybe?" you answered sheepishly, sitting down next to sam and peter settling down on your other side. "i've been looking for that shirt since forever."

"aw, let her have it, steve! she looks better in it than you do, she looks so adorable!" wanda screeched, absolutely adoring how tiny you looked in cap's enormous shirt. she continued to gush over you, even taking out her phone at one point to snap a picture of you. you chuckled at her antics, proceeding to eat your dinner while the team talked.

after dinner, everyone slowly made their way to the common room for team movie night. you guys collectively agreed to watch 'white chicks' after steve revealed that he hadn't watched it.

you sat down next to bruce, who gave you a tired smile when you smiled at him. he must've been working in the lab all day, you thought. halfway through the movie though, a bathroom break was called by tony. a few took the chance to get up and get snacks while you told bruce you were gonna sit closer to the tv since you couldn't hear properly with sam and bucky squabbling over every little thing they could. you could even hear them arguing in the kitchen at the moment over hot chocolate.

when tony came back, you told the two bickering children in the kitchen that you were starting the movie again. not long after you started, you could hear them still bickering, except now they were closer, probably back in their seats. poor bruce, you thought. you escaped the two but he was still stuck next to them.

meanwhile in the back, sam and bucky were still busy fighting over the hot chocolate. you paid them no mind as you focused on the movie, having not watched it in a hot minute.

"dude, i made this for myself! go make your own hot chocolate!" bucky whisper-yelled, moving his mug away from sam's reach when the latter tried to reach for it. "you took my snack now i'm gonna take your drink so it's fair!" sam countered.

before the two of them could stop it, the steaming hot chocolate spilt. not on the carpet, but onto the doctor whose patience had already been running thin with the two quarrelling next to him for the past hour.

his face slowly turned green, clearly a sign that he was fighting so that the other guy didn't come out. the team stared in horror, preparing for a fight to break out with the big green monster.

you, being the closest to the tv, didn't notice this all happening as you happily watched the movie that you couldn't hear properly for the past hour.

you laughed joyously when your favourite scene came on, trying to control your giggles that were starting to get louder and louder. bruce was currently hunched down, trying to even his breathing. but when he heard your laughter, he immediately looked up at you.

the team panicked, thinking that you could be a target for hulk since you just attracted attention to yourself. they were about to get up to protect you as they looked at bruce apprehensively, when the doctor smiled, the green on his neck slowly, but surely disappearing.

the team looked at each other in confusion and bruce smiled weakly at them. "sorry about that. i'm...i'm gonna move up and sit with y/n." he got up and made his way to you. you smiled when you saw him. "got tired of them too?" you joked and he nodded, making himself comfortable next to you.

you nodded and turned your attention back to the tv. it was clear you were oblivious to whatever just happened and the team couldn't help but chuckle at the situation. you really just unknowingly calmed down the hulk.

the team didn't know if you were aware of how much power you actually held over them. nevertheless, you were their little baby and they were willing to do anything for you.

[thefanficmonster]

if it's okay and won't trigger you could i get an emetophobia comfort fic with joel/roomie? going thru it rn. just had a panic attack :(

Oh I'm so sorry to hear that darling. Emetophobia is an intense phobia from what I've heard and what my research showed me and I'm really sorry you have to deal with that. I wrote a little drabble I hope will help comfort you (if there are any inaccuracies, I'm really sorry, I navigated the writing by what the internet told me when I looked up the term, feel free to correct any shortcomings in the comments)

Enjoy 💕

Pairing: Roomie (Joel) x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Emetophobia, Vague mentions/allusions to throwing up, sickness, illness, the flu etc. Panic attacks

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: see request above

The previous two weeks have been super freaking stressful as is, the last thing you needed was this.

Even as a kid you'd noticed how you'd become physically repulsed by anxiety inducing or tense situations and with the amount of stress you've been under this entire month almost, your stomach's been tied in a countless amount of knots that have become very sensitive to specific foods. You learned that the hard way when you ate leftovers from two nights ago after dragging yourself home from another endless shift. Typically, you'd be able to stomach them down with no issues considering the food was neither spoiled nor had gone bad in any way. Why it'd triggered such a bad response from your system is a guessing game but one thing's for certain - you've been in shambles since you woke up.

The twisting and turning in your guts had you on edge the moment you got out of bed. You tried breathing exercises, chewing gum, taking in some fresh air, anything and everything you could do to suppress the restlessness in your belly from climbing up your throat.

But it didn't work.

That's why when your boyfriend Joel came by your apartment like he'd typically do on the weekends, he was rightfully concerned and downright terrified to find you sat on the bathroom floor by the toilet bowl with your back against the tub. Your face was hidden in your hands as small sobs wracked your chest, your entire body trembling. You couldn't stand it. The sensation, sight and smell of it and the burning pain it left in your throat. It triggered a series of panic attacks from you every time your guts tightened with another wave of repulsion.

Of course, Joel dropped everything and immediately ran to you, removing your hands from your face to be able to peer into your eyes as he questioned you on what had happened. He got no answer until you slowly grasped control over your lungs and their function. Although your answer was chopped up by small sobs and sniffles, he understood exactly what you meant and wasted no time helping you up so you could sit on the rim of the tub, moving your hair out of your face before rushing to grab you a bottle of water. While you rehydrated yourself, he took action in decontaminating the bathroom so there wouldn't be any remnants of your phobia in sight - he flushed the toilet several time and sprayed an extra dose of air freshener around. With that being done, he took a pack of wet wipes from your cabinet and proceeded to help you get cleaned up, all the while whispering reassuring little words and phrases which managed to get a smile on your face.

Seeing you slowly returning to your element sent a wave of relief washing over Joel whose heart fluttered at the sight of your smile, "There you are, you're ok. I won't let it be any other way."

And he stayed true to that, lifting you in his arms and carrying you to the living room couch where he tucked you in with a warm blanket and that water bottle handy before running out to the pharmacy down the street to grab some medicine in case your stomach decided to start disagreeing with you again. Upon returning, he found you asleep and felt himself finally at peace as well, only then realizing how heightened his own pulse had been.

With his best efforts not to wake you, he slid under the blanket beside you, securing you in his embrace, letting you know, even in your slumbery state, that you have him by your side. Always.

[bi-bard]

Please Say That You're Joking (Pt.1) - Chuck Shurley Imagine (Supernatural)

Title: Please Say You're Joking (Pt. 1) [You can read part 2 by clicking here!]

Pairing: Chuck Shurley X Winchester!Reader

Requested: Nope

Word Count: 2,930 words

Warning(s): mentions of sex, threats of violence

Summary: (Season 4; Season 11) (Y/n) had a single one-night stand while coping with loss in a not healthy way... if only they had a clue about the weight of their actions.

Author's Note: I was recently going back through some of the "lighter" episodes of Supernatural because I wanted to watch something I could chuckle at. That's where this came from.

This might be the most crackheaded thing I've written in a while.

Also, the amount of things I had to bullshit my way through this is actually ridiculous.

Hey! I did a rewrite of the ending of Supernatural. It took a really long time to complete, so it would mean a lot to me if you check it out. Here’s a link! (it’s on my personal account)

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

Sam, Dean, and I walked into the motel room. We were all confused and slightly scared.

We had gone to a comic book shop to do some work on a case. However, we were then called fans.

Fans of what?

Well, fans of a series of books about our lives.

I was the middle Winchester child. Two years younger than Dean, two years older than Sam. I was beyond confused when I saw some weird, romanticized version of me on the cover of a book.

"This is so weird," I mumbled, plopping onto one of the beds in the room.

Sam jumped onto his laptop and started researching. Dean was holding one of the books, reading through it. I didn't even want to touch it.

"I don't like how he describes (Y/n)," Dean commented. "It's weird. It's like he's in love. Listen to this..."

Dean dramatically clears his throat and starts to read in an even more dramatic voice, "'Even after a hard hunt, (Y/n) could easily be seen as the most beautiful of the siblings. They mimicked the beauty of their mother more than their brothers. There's no bruise or cut that could take the loveliness away from the natural curves of (Y/n)'s face. If only they could see how everyone else would stare-"

"Okay, ew," I muttered, walking to the table. "What'd you find?"

"Well, it seems like Carver Edlund is a pen name," Sam shrugged. "And the fans are intense."

"As in," Dean asked, closing the book and joining the two of us at the table.

"Well," Sam handed me the laptop so Dean and I could look at it, "there's fanfiction. About all of us."

"What's this, 'Sam/Dean'," I asked.

"It's... me and Dean... together."

"They just don't care that we're related," Dean asked. Sam nodded.

"God, this is so weird."

"So, how do we find this guy," I asked.

--time skip--

We managed to find the publisher of the novels and found her house.

"So, you published the 'Supernatural' books," I asked as we walked in.

"Yep," she nodded. "Yeah, gosh. These books... they never really got the attention that they deserved. All anybody wants to read anymore is that romance crap."

"Could not agree with you more," I said. "We're hoping that our article can shine a light on an underappreciated series."

"Yeah, because, you know, if we got a little bit of good press, then maybe we can start publishing again," she replied excitedly.

"No, no, no," Dean immediately shut her down. "I mean, why... why would you want to do that? It's such a complete series with Dean going to hell and all."

"Oh my god, that was one of my favorite ones," she rambled. "Dean was so strong and sad and brave. And Sam... I mean... the best ones are when they cry... like in 'Heart' when Sam had to kill Madison; the first woman since Jessica he'd really loved. When Dean had to call John in 'Home' and ask him for help. Or when (Y/n) went back to the motel room after getting kidnapped and just had to sit in their own head and had to truly process not only the death of their mother but now their father. The mixed feelings were amazing."

"You're a really big fan," I noted. She nodded.

"Gosh, if only real men were that open about their emotions."

"Real men," Dean asked.

"I mean, no offense," she replied. "How often do you cry like that?"

"Well, right now I'm crying on the inside," he muttered.

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Lady, this whole thing is funny."

"How am I supposed to know this is legit?"

"Oh, trust me," Dean mumbled. "We're legit."

"Well, I don't want some smart-ass article making fun of my boys," she snapped as she sat in her chair.

"Oh, never," I replied quickly. "We actually are big fans."

"You read the books?"

"Cover to cover," I promised.

"What's the year and model of the car?"

"1967 Chevy Impala," Dean smiled proudly.

"What's May 2nd?"

"That's my- uh... Sam's birthday," Sam replied.

"Sam's score on the LSAT?"

"Umm... 174," Sam said nervously.

"(Y/n)'s first hunt?"

"Vampire in Washington," I answered. "Dean was at the motel sick and (Y/n) almost chopped John's head off when he scared them."

"(Y/n)'s favorite memory that's not related to hunting?"

I smiled, "Helping Sam get ready for a date when he was a teenager because Sam didn't trust what Dean had told him."

"Dean's favorite song?"

"It's a tie," Dean replied. "Between Zep's 'Ramble On' and 'Traveling Riverside Blues.'"

She finally laughed and smiled again, "Okay, okay. What do you wanna know?"

"What's Carver Edlund's real name," Sam asked.

"Oh, no. I can't," she shook her head.

"We just wanna talk to him," Sam continued. "You know, get the 'Supernatural' story in his own words."

"He's very private," she shrugged. "Like Salinger."

"Please," Sam tried again. "Like I said, we're um... big fans."

Sam unbuttoned his shirt enough to show his anti-possession tattoo. Dean pulled his shirt to the side to do the same. I rolled my eyes and yanked the arm of my jacket down and pulled up the sleeve of my t-shirt. I don't wear as many layers as them and I had opted to put the tattoo on my upper arm because I thought it looked nicer.

"Awesome," the lady mumbled before standing up. "Y'know what?"

I looked away as she pulled her pants down.

"I got one too."

"Wow, you are a fan," I slapped Dean's arm. The lady fixed her clothing before grabbing a pen and paper.

"Okay," she said. "His name's Chuck Shurley-"

And I stopped listening after that. I knew that name... why did I know that name... oh... oh no. I'm gonna kill him. We're going to meet this man and I am going to end up killing him.

I followed Sam and Dean as they started walking out of the woman's house.

"Excuse me," she called as we reached the door. We looked back at her. "I'm sorry, but you look exactly like how I picture (Y/n) when I read the books."

I chuckled, "Thanks."

"He describes (Y/n) with so much detail," she smiled. "You could play them in a movie."

"Thank you," I waved as we walked out.

"'You could play them in a movie,'" Dean teased.

"I know who Chuck is," I said, ignoring him.

"What," he asked. I nodded. "How?"

I pointed to get into the car. I got in the back seat and Sam and Dean sat upfront. Dean started driving to the address the lady gave us before I started speaking.

"Okay, when you went to hell, Sam's not the only one who ran off," I explained. "I wasn't gone for four months... just two weeks. In those two weeks, I got involved in a single one-night stand. The name he gave me was Chuck Shurley."

"You screwed the man who wrote books about us," Dean asked, sounding angry.

"Do you think I knew he was writing books based on our lives?"

"He had to have known who you are," Sam added. "This isn't an accident. He has to get visions or something."

"Yeah, I know," I nodded. "He made money off of my name and then screwed me."

"Damn," Dean mumbled. "I missed a hell of a lot."

I rolled my eyes.

--time skip--

I knocked on the door loudly. Sam grabbed my arm, shaking his head at me. The door was opened and I smiled obnoxiously as Chuck. He was in a robe, his boxers, and an old white shirt. He looked tired and like he hadn't had a goodnight's sleep in days.

"Chuck Shurley," Dean asked.

"Chuck Shurley that wrote the Supernatural books," Sam added.

"Nice to meet you," I said. "This is Sam... Dean... and I'm (Y/n)... the ones you've written books about."

Chuck sighed and went to shut the door. I stepped in, stopping it with my foot.

"Listen, I appreciate the enthusiasm, I really do and I remember you," he motioned at me, awkwardly grinning before seeming to shake the memories out of his head. I almost slapped him right then. "But please... go get a life."

"You see," Dean followed me, helping to force our way inside. Sam made sure the door shut behind us. "We have a life... and you're selling books about it."

"Okay, this isn't funny," Chuck mumbled.

"You're right," I said. "We just wanna know how you're doing it?"

"I'm just a writer, I'm not doing anything."

"Then why do you know so much about demons and tulpas and changelings?"

"Is this some kind of 'Misery' thing? Ah, it is, isn't it? It's a 'Misery' thing!"

"No, it's not," I shook my head. "Believe me, we're not fans."

"What do you want then," he asked.

"I'm Sam... and that's Dean and (Y/n)," Sam tried again.

"Those are fictional characters," Chuck yelled. "They aren't real!"

Dean grabbed him and pulled him outside.

"Wait, wait-"

"We aren't kidnapping you, calm down," I rolled my eyes. Dean opened the hidden compartment in the impala's trunk.

"Are those real guns?"

"Yes," I nodded. "And real rock salt, real fake IDs."

Chuck let out a laugh at it, "Well, I gotta hand it to you guys. You really are my number-one fans. That... That's awesome. So, I-I think I've got some poster in the house."

"Chuck, stop," I rolled my eyes, grabbing his arm as he went to walk away.

"Please don't hurt me," he begged.

"How much do you know," Sam asked. "Do you know about the angels? Or Lilith breaking the seals?"

"How do you know about that?"

"Have you not been listening," I asked. "The real question is how do you?"

"Because I wrote it," he explained.

"You kept writing?"

"The books never came out because the publisher went bankrupt," he furrowed his eyebrows.

I stepped back, letting go of his arms.

"Okay, wait a minute," Chuck crossed his arms. "This is some kind of joke, right? Did Phil put you up to this?"

"Oh my god," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. I grabbed his robe. "I'm sorry but I'm really tired. Nice to meet you. I'm (Y/n) Winchester, these are my brothers, Sam and Dean Winchester. You wrote and published books about us, probably knew who I was, and then you still slept with me."

He stared at me in shock.

"What," I asked.

"The last names were never in the books," he mumbled. "I never told anyone about that. I never even wrote that down."

"Then I guess we have a lot to talk about," I let go of his robe.

The three of us followed him inside.

--time skip--

"I got a visit from Cas," Dean explained as he walked in. "I've some important information."

After talking to Chuck and getting a draft of what was supposed to happen, we were all panicking. Dean told us to wait here. Lilith was going to come for Sam and we both thought it'd be harder if there was more than one of us here at all times.

Now, Dean was coming back from seeing Chuck.

"And that important information is...," Sam trailed off.

"He's a prophet of the lord," Dean said, smirking at me.

I shut my eyes, letting my head fall forward.

"Please say you're joking," I mumbled.

"Nope," Dean replied.

Sam looked over at me. He only started chuckling after his brother broke.

Dean was laughing his head off within seconds, "You screwed a prophet!"

"Shut up," I groaned. "I'm gonna kill him!"

"Archangel will kill you."

"I'll happily pay that price," I muttered. "I slept with a prophet."

"At least that means he didn't write himself to sleep with you," Sam tried to comfort me.

"Yeah, God just decided I was supposed to sleep with the guy publishing books about my life," I replied sarcastically. "That makes me feel so much better."

"Come on, it could be worst-"

"Sam, love you, but don't finish that sentence if you even kind of value your life," I muttered.

I was desperate for this conversation to just end.

--time skip--

After all was said and done, and Chuck accidentally helped us chase Lilith away for a while, we gave Chuck a lift back to his place.

I followed him up to his door, offering to look around and make sure that he's safe. He shook his head.

"I have an archangel protecting me," he reminded me. "Can't get any safer than that."

I nodded.

"I'm sorry, by the way," he said. "About us. I didn't recognize you until after... it all... and I didn't say anything because I didn't really know how to explain it. The whole event makes me feel all scummy."

"It's alright," I replied with a chuckle. "It's fine, I promise."

He offered me a nervous smile, "Y'know, in all of my visions, you're the most vivid thing."

With a grin, I leaned over and kissed his cheek gently. I stepped back and headed back toward the impala. I made sure to take note of his nervous and flustered face.

"See you around, Chuck!"

"You... You too," he called after me. I got in the backseat and got comfortable.

"So... screwing the prophet wasn't that bad," Dean asked.

I just rolled my eyes, waving through the window at Chuck as Dean pulled away from the curb. Leave it to a Winchester to end up in a situation like that.

--time skip (season 11)--

Sam and I followed Dean with our guns ready. Dean was following the amulet that he had owned for a long time without even knowing it could show us where God was.

Everyone had been infected by Amara only minutes ago but now it was okay and Dean's amulet was glowing.

"Holy shit," I mumbled, seeing who was walking over to us.

Chuck.

He was supposed to be dead. That's why Kevin's prophet powers had been activated.

"No way," Dean said.

"Hey," Chuck... or God said. "We need to talk."

Despite our understandable hesitation, Chuck reached forward, teleporting all of us back to the bunker. I stepped away from him, slightly overwhelmed.

"(Y/n)," Chuck walked over and tried to grab my arm. I instinctually slapped him. I was nothing but confusion and anger. "I deserved that. Just, please?"

I stepped away again.

From behind Chuck stepped Kevin's ghost. My breath caught in my throat. The poor boy had been through so much shit because of us.

Kevin told us about how we looked stressed and that we should listen to Chuck.

Then, Chuck waved his hand. Kevin turned into a ball of white and blue light before ascending beyond the bunker.

"Where'd he go," I asked.

"Heaven, where he deserves," Chuck promised. I nodded.

I listened to the rant about how Chuck had abandoned us all and how awful things were. Then, the conversation turned to the plan to stop Amara. The boys talked about needing Lucifer and Chuck got incredibly upset. In a fit, he went to leave. I stepped in front of him.

"No," I said bluntly. "Even if you want to avoid the subject of your estranged son, you can't just leave."

"(Y/n)-"

"Sam, Dean," I looked at them. "Give us a minute?"

They both nodded, glaring at Chuck on their way out. I tried to ignore the instincts that were telling me that Chuck was just selfish.

"(Y/n)," Chuck mumbled.

"Just answer my questions," I said. "Then we can discuss what to do with Amara without you storming away recklessly. Okay?"

He nodded.

"Have you been God the whole time," I asked.

He nodded.

"You wrote all of our stories?"

Another nod.

"Did you write that I was going to sleep with you?"

I felt manipulated and angry. I was desperate for an answer. I knew that this could've made me feel like dirt, but I needed to know.

"No," Chuck said. I clenched my jaw, ready to call him a liar. "I told you. I had been pretty much hands-off for a long time. Did I know who were? Absolutely. I'm sorry I lied to you about that. But I didn't plan anything between us. We weren't some divine plan."

I nodded, looking down.

"You know how Dean and Amara are connected," he asked. I nodded, looking back at him. "We're like them."

"And that's not a divine plan-"

"I'm not doing a good job explaining this," Chuck shook his head. "It feels like we're like them. Like there's this bond that just happened as soon as we met."

"You lied to me, for years," I said. "Saying we have some bond isn't gonna fix that."

"I know."

We both fell silent. Slowly, I started laughing. Chuck furrowed his eyebrows, "My only one-night stand... and it was God."

Chuck started laughing with me while I really processed what I had done.

I slowly stopped laughing.

I didn't notice until it was too late that Chuck had slowly gotten closer to me. As soon as his lips brushed mine, I pushed him back. Not hard, but enough to get him to step away.

"No," I mumbled. "Not that, no."

Chuck nodded, "Got it."

"Now," I sighed, "we need to actually plan to stop Amara, and if we need Luci-"

"We don't," he said bluntly. "We can do something else. We don't need him. Okay?"

I nodded. In my gut, I trusted him. Maybe that was me being an idiot but I did trust him. For now at least.

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

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[bodycountgame]

Ahead of voting opening on Sunday,  I just wanted to drop a quick FAQ to help answer some of your questions! 

Remind me why we have to vote?

When I started writing Body Count, I didn’t like the idea of deliberately writing filler characters that I didn’t really like and was perfectly happy to kill off. So I thought: “Hey, the beauty of interactive fiction is that it’s interactive! Why not just write only characters that I adore and make my readers decide for me?”

I think it’s kind of a fun idea, and I hope that you guys do too :) 

What are we voting for?

The vote will be between the 9 cast members that you have met so far. You are voting for the character you most want to save; the RO that you most want to keep around and see more of. The top 6 characters in the poll are guaranteed to survive (at least until the next poll).

What are you going to do with the results?

From the results of the poll, the bottom 3 characters will be at risk. I’ll then make the final decision about who actually gets the chop - otherwise it’d be really obvious who is getting murdered from just looking at the poll, and that wouldn’t be very fun at all. Gotta keep some element of surprise, right?

Will all of the votes happen this way?

Not necessarily! I’m trying something new doing this, so I’ll see how it goes. I’m keen to have all of the murder decisions being made by readers, but who appears on the chopping block may vary.

How many times can I vote?

There’s some amount of strawpoll magic stopping you voting more than once, but feel free to get all your friends/family members etc to vote on your behalf. It seems to be more browser based than IP address-y (I don’t know anything about computers - is it obvious?).

When does voting end?

Voting begins on Sunday 30th May and ends at 11:59pm BST on Sunday 13th June (so you’ll have just over two weeks)

More frequently asked questions under the cut!

When will we find out who gets murdered?

When I release a completed Chapter 2! I’d love to be able to put a date on it, but I’m afraid I just don’t know! I’ll still be posting fortnightly updates, so you’ll get a bit of an idea of my progress.

Are the results of the poll going to be visible?

Yep! You’ll be able to keep an eye on how many votes each RO has throughout the voting window. If your fave falls behind and you want to beg your friends to vote on your behalf then power to ya.

The producers aren’t on this poll - that means they’re the murderers!

I’m afraid that you won’t be able to sus out who the murderer is or isn’t based on who appears on polls. The producers aren’t in this one because I think that it makes most sense to have the first murder victim be a cast member - they’ll definitely feature on future polls.

Wait, so the same ROs will die in every game regardless of our MC’s actions?

Yes - at least for the early chapters/deaths. I would love to set it up so each death could be either of two people, but there would be so much coding and work to go into pulling something like that off and I just can’t commit to it.  There are already a lot of variables in Body Count to make the experience as varied as possible for different MCs, so adding this amount of variation would just be really unachievable. 

Ok, but what if all the NB/F/M ROs die?

This isn’t gonna happen! I’m really proud of my diverse cast, and I’ll be making decisions about who is at risk in future polls based on who has already been killed. Basically, there won’t be a situation where only characters of a certain gender/ethnicity are dying, because that would be fucked up.

If my fave dies I’m gonna lose my shit and send you loads of really aggy anon messages.

Ah! How about instead of doing that... you don’t? I realise that some people are going to be disappointed whoever dies, but that’s just the thing - I really can’t please everyone. Even if I just decided for myself who was going to die, it wouldn’t be possible to please everyone. 

If the idea of your RO dying will send you into a frenzy such that you cannot resist sending anon hate, please consider just not playing the WIP and waiting for the final game. I think that this is a really fun idea, but I absolutely accept that it isn’t for everyone.

I hate these mechanics and this game isn’t for me.

Cool, yeah, I totally get that! This game absolutely isn’t for everyone - it’s something that I’m writing for my own amusement more than anything else. If this game isn’t for you, you absolutely don’t have to play it! You could wait for a completed game when you know who is going to die, or you can just peace out altogether. I won’t take it personally and you don’t need to explain to me why you don’t like it.

Will you also give a warning at any point in the full, released game that certain ROs won't make it or will you completely leave it up to surprise?

Yeah, I think so. I plan on including an option to leave it up to surprise or toggle to lock off the romance paths with the ROs that are going to die.

How many murders should we expect to see before the end of the process?

At the moment, I have 3 or 4 murders planned (depending on who they end up being and the direction that I take the plot) plus there isn’t a happy ending with the murderer/s if they are your RO. I’m expecting to lose 4-6 of the original 13 ROs before we finish up. 

[sarahjkl82-blog]

Artistic Instinct Chapter Nine

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 6500

Warnings: Language as always, warning of racist language (Nush talking about her mother's experiences), yearning, fluff to second base (yes, my darlings- IT IS ON!), alcohol is mentioned, food, anxiety attacks.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something. This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

People often think artists

Create with their hands

But really they create

with their hearts

So please be gentle

For we wear our vulnerability

On our sleeves

And freely give all we have

Hoping someone will fall

In love with the parts we offer

R. Evelyn

Chapter Nine

The sharp buzz of the door startles you out of your daydream. Laden with roughly the entire contents of your spice cupboard, vegetables, meat and prawns, your hands are crisscrossed with creases from where the weight of the totes has gouged at your skin. A smart-looking kindly gentleman greets you, “You must be Ms Pierce. Mr Pike has asked for you to wait here for him.”

Wow! Marcus’ place has a concierge - who did he have to blow to get a place like this?!

Throwing the bags onto one of the hotel lounge-like chairs, you slump into another as you rub soreness from your hands. A small ping tells you that the lift has arrived - you look over in the direction of the noise, a tremor of excitement rippling through you. An adorably scruffy Marcus, wearing old jeans and a t-shirt, steps out - his face utterly beaming on seeing you. “Hey! How are you doing?” he leans in to kiss your cheek twice - hang on, when did this start being a thing?

“Why didn’t you let me pick you up? You’ve carried so much over- lemme see your hands,” his brow knits on seeing the rapidly reddening welts as he takes your hands in his, brushing his thumbs gently across your palms.

“You live four roads away from me - they’re not that bad! And anyway, you can help me now- which floor do you live on?” You outwardly roll your eyes at the sweetness Marcus shows you, secretly enjoying the stroke of his fingers and the ghostly press of his lips still burning a hole in your cheek.

Marcus takes all of the bags from the chair, refusing point blank to entertain you helping him to take them upstairs - you watch as his arms twitch under the weight, enjoying the mixture of confusion and shock at your strength across his face, “you carried all of this?”

Nodding at him, you try to take a bag again, but he dangles it just out of reach, “Watch it - you do realise that I have two other brothers apart from Ads? I will think nothing of rugby tackling you to the floor and pinning you down,” you warn, enjoying the flush brought to his cheeks.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Marcus flusters as he calls the lift, handing you the smallest, lightest bag.

✪✪✪✪✪

Exiting at the top floor, you’re taken aback by the amount of light and quiet that washes throughout the building. Feeling so removed from the shadows cast from the tower blocks and the hustle and bustle of the streets below, the broad daylight offers a sense of serenity, a peace that invites itself into the soul and makes itself at home. As Marcus unlocks the door to his flat, you kick off your shoes at the entrance, “You don’t have to do that,” he offers through the keys in his mouth, holding the door open with his elbow, still refusing any help from you.

“Oh believe me, if I didn’t, my mum’s radar would go off and I would be cruising for a bruising,” you giggle, taking in the glorious spaciousness of his apartment, “I promise my feet aren’t too stinky and that I put on clean socks.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Marcus’ eyes crinkle at you, “Can I get you something to drink or eat?”

“A coffee would be ace - strong and black please,” you reply, your gaze drinking in the details of his home. Books line the shelves along one wall - such a mixture of titles ranging from airport bestsellers to obscure art catalogues - the relief to see actual paper and hardbacks adorning the shelves rather than trinkets and plants when so many keep their books electronically in their pockets.

A couple of large canvases lie propped against another - long hours preventing them from being hung - their bright colours sure to bring joyful hues to quite a stark room. There are a few photo frames dotted around - mostly pictures of a moment in time rather than poses - of people you assume are friends and family from back in the States. Handing you a steaming mug, Marcus looks over your shoulder as you look at a photo of an older couple dancing and laughing at a wedding, “That’s my mamá and papá at my oldest sister’s wedding. It was such a magical day - just so much love in the air.”

“You can feel the joy radiating from them,” you offer, lowering your gaze from him to grab the frame next to the picture of his parents, “Are these your sisters or cousins? You all look very alike.”

“Yeah, my little sisters,” he grins proudly. “This one is Beth - she’s two years younger and is a paediatrician in Texas. Has two kids with her wife, Sophie. And this one is Cat - she’s doing her own thing out on the West Coast as a musician. They definitely inherited all the clever and cool genes.”

“Hah! You’re kinder to your sisters than I am to my brothers,” you grin, “They’re all total idiots but due to some weird genetic and biological insistence, I still love them.”

Taking a gulp of your coffee, you turn back towards him, “Come on you, we’d better get to work if you want a curry this evening.”

He pouts, looking more like a sulky little boy than a middle aged man. You can’t help but laugh at the sad puppy dog eyes he is conjuring at the thought of work, “Oh poppet, what’s wrong?” you teasingly mock.

“I kinda hoped you were a magician who could just magic a curry outta nowhere so we could watch films til the others arrive,” Marcus grumps shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Well, there is UberEats for that but you horrible lot put me up to this so you’re going to help,” you wag your finger at him, “But as you’re the only one here, you get the honour of being the chief taster,” you add, tapping him playfully on the nose.

With a soft huff and a furrow of the brow, Marcus guides you into the kitchen where, whilst he was making your coffee, he has helpfully already put all the fresh produce in his fridge as the sides are delightfully blank apart from the bags of spices.

“What are we making today, Chef?”

“Ok, meat dishes are a spiced yoghurt leg of lamb, a keema - don’t you give me that look, a cardamom butter chicken, and, a prawn and courgette curry,” you turn to Marcus’ fridge to find the lamb, “Needs to come to room temperature before we cook it.”

“My tummy is rumbling already,” Marcus adds, his eyes glinting excitedly as he licks along his lower lip, the skin glistening damply. You have never quite figured out whether your love of his lips is due to their fullness or the association with the kindness of his words.

“Hah- you’re not getting away without having some veggies, too, mister,” you cluck as you hand him a bag of onions and several bulbs of garlic to skin, chop and crush for the various dishes.

“Ok, Moooom,” Marcus dramatically rolls his eyes at your dictate, “I admit, I’d rather eat sugary or salty things over green stuff but I can make an exception for curried veg.”

The arch of your eyebrow virtually reaches your hairline at him teasingly calling you mom, so you reach for the towel, twist it and flick him hard on what you’d hoped would be his hip but catch him square on his arse instead.

A yelp of pain and wide eyes greet your action, “Did you just…? Oh, it is on.! You might think you’re tough from your brothers but my sisters taught me sneaky tactics.”

“Come at me, bro!” you taunt from the other side of the kitchen, putting up a boxing stance.

Brandishing the hand without the paring knife in your general direction, he answers, “Nope, gonna use the element of surprise and attack when you least expect it!”

Tutting your tongue at Marcus’ weak ass response, you grab the spices you need to prepare under the power of your pestle and mortar. With the waft of roasting cumin soaring through the air and your battle with your boss at a supposedly declared ceasefire, everything starts to feel comfortable and easy again. You could be six years old and standing on the chair next to your mum, watching like a hawk as she lovingly prepared meals for your family with an ever burgeoning belly. It was then, during those hours shared in the galley kitchen that became your time with her when normally it felt pretty split between her work as a GP and your brothers.

What the fuck… You jump out of your skin when a warm, solid wall presses you out of your nostalgic reverie, “Hah! Pinned ya! Sneaky tactics- told ya they worked,” a deep, soft voice whispers in your ear.

Your heart flutters like a bird trying to escape its rib cage with the closeness of Marcus, the heat rising through your body from your proximity to him - a visceral response to the glorious cocktail of masculine smell from his aftershave and body wash.

What do I do next?

Why can’t I bloody think straight?

Wiggling yourself around so that you face him, his face now so close that you can feel his warm breath upon your cheeks. Your eyes playfully catch the steady gaze of Marcus’ deep soulful pools. It would only take the smallest of movements to reach forwards and kiss him right on that stupidly gorgeous, plush Cupid’s bow and crease. But… what if he doesn’t want that? He’s my fucking boss - that would be a stellar move to make…

Instead of the tiny incline forwards to press your lips against his as every inch of you screams to do so, you drop to the floor and crawl out from between his legs, “Not pinned well enough it seems,” you tease haltingly as your tongue sticks in your dry throat.

As you check the browning of the cumin seeds, out of the corner of your eye you see Marcus’ head drop sadly, hearing a small sigh - his hands still upon the work surface and feet not having moved from the position he had pinned you in moments earlier.

Did he want to...? No, surely not.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, Nush,” Marcus humbly apologises, pushing himself off the side, “I hope that I haven’t made things awkward.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” you softly say, pouring the roasted cumin into the mortar, ready to be ground, “I was the one who flicked you on your arse - I am the one who should be apologising.”

You beckon gently to Marcus, who has now taken refuge in the furthest corner of the kitchen from you - wringing his hands instead of chopping the onions, “Come over here - I want you to experience one of my most favourite smells of childhood. These are roasted cumin seeds and when you grind them, they release the most heavenly scent.”

After a few grinds, you offer the bowl towards Marcus’ face as he closes the gap between you, “I… Wow! I wouldn’t have thought it would make such a difference but it’s almost like you’ve entirely transformed it. See,” the dimple deepens in that right cheek of his, “you are a magician.”

“I love how spices - a bit like paint - can take on completely different characters depending on how you treat them. Leave the spice whole and you have this mild and fragrant taste. If you crush them, then their attitude comes back tenfold with a vengeance. Toast them, and they may as well be Clark Kent in a phone booth.”

Looking up you see Marcus gazing at you with a sweet half smile on his face - could he like me… like that?

“Sorry, you don’t need to hear me blathering on,” you fluster, waving your hand in a dismissive gesture as the heat rises through your face.

Shaking his head gently without dropping your regard, “No. No, please don’t ever stop. Your passion for things is beautiful.”

“Growing up, I didn’t realise that other people didn’t have whole cupboards filled to the brim with herbs, spices and seasonings. I mean, for all the damage the British Empire reeked, you’d have hoped that the spices would have entered more of their culture, but no! Apparently, my family was the weird one for having food with a flavour,” you shrug your shoulders at some of the ridiculous things you’d heard as a child - accusations of differences you’d never thought to be of note.

Marcus chuckles at your indignance, “It’s funny you should say that. I didn’t realise that my mamá had an accent until it was pointed out to me when I was a kid.”

Noting your slightly confused expression, Marcus explains, “She’s Argentinian- came to the States as a political refugee as she was a journalist following the disappearances during the Dirty War. Met my dad, and I came along very soon after, and the rest is history..”

You can’t help but laugh at the flush on Marcus’ cheeks as he recounts his personal history to you, “Love can’t be held back when it hits and it’s obvious that they’re still crazy about each other now from that photo.”

“Exactly, no point in wasting time when you know what you want,” Marcus grins, looking at his feet.

“My parents have a similar story. My dad is as English as they come - I mean we’re on a freaking island so there’s no true thing as being completely English. My mum is from Pakistan - Karachi - it’s in the South.”

“She came over due to the fighting between East and West Pakistan - the two countries that are now Pakistan and Bangladesh. It kept interrupting her studies to become a doctor so she came to England and restarted her degree here.”

Marcus’ brow creases in thought, “Why did she restart her degree? Could the credits not just be transferred to the college she moved to in the UK?”

“Hah- yeah. It was the seventies, during a time where all Southern Asians were P*kis - no matter where they were from on the Indian subcontinent- and thought of as dirty, lesser beings. There were constant race riots for anyone who wasn’t ethnically white or English. She would never have been taken seriously with her mediocre medical training from some Adobe hut in the middle of a jungle,” you fume, pounding the seeds into fragments. The mortar being threatened with the same fate too.

Marcus’ fingers wrap around your wrist to try and prevent your rage at the ignorance of others from causing you an injury, “I am so sorry,” he pulls you into a warm, tender hug, tucking your head under his chin, “How long before food can take care of itself so we can put a film on? I think we both need a rest.”

“Hmmm, ten minutes and then most things can simmer or be switched off ready for a reheat or proper cook this evening,” you say, leaning reluctantly out of his comforting arms to go check on the bubbling saucepans of food.

“‘K. I’ll go get things set up so you can flop for a bit,” Marcus touches you gently on your shoulder as he goes to set up the front room. You go to squeeze his hand but it’s removed from your shoulder too quickly for your response.

✪✪✪✪✪

“You ready?” Marcus calls through the wall as you turn off the heat from the final pans.

“Mhm,” you mumble in response to his question - double, triple checking that everything is off. Too many fire alarms ruining perfectly lovely meals or moments.

“What did you pick?” You ask, curling up on the other end of the sofa to Marcus, “Do you have no cushions?”

“Shit, no -I’m a guy, what can I say? - lemme grab the pillows from the bed,” Marcus jumps up, calling through from his bedroom, “Bet you have loads on your couch.”

“A fuckload, but, mainly to hide the fact the springs have gone. It’s like a precarious balancing act of comfort on there,” you surreptitiously sniff the pillow, inhaling the smell of Marcus’ shampoo, “Did you give me your pillow?”

A confused look is shot at you from the other end of the sofa, “Whaddya mean?”

“Smells of your hair,” you say as you squish it into the perfect comfy shape, “Like a mixture of lemon and eucalyptus.”

“That’s a sharp nose you’ve got. I gave you the other side though,” Marcus huffs through a chuckles he shakes his head at your somewhat strange comment, “Guess I’ve been sleeping across both sides then.”

“Best thing about sleeping alone- getting to starfish across the bed. Unless of course…”

Marcus can’t help but laugh at your awkward dig to find out whether he’d brought home the goddess from Friday’s antics, “So you wanna know if I brought home Kemi?”

“She was very beautiful. You’d have been mad not to,” you try to school your expression as best you can, keeping your eyes glued to Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly singing about true love, desperate to hide the jealousy coursing through your veins.

“Must be mad then. Didn’t even kiss her,” Marcus honestly answers whilst copying your tactic of staring at the tv, “She could see that there was someone else I liked so it would have been cruel to have done anything.”

You mull this over in silence, trying not to speak, to ask a million questions.

“Nush.”

“Mhm?”

“Can I talk to y…”

You both jump as an alarm goes off on your phone to remind you to turn the lamb down in the oven.

“Oh shit. Hold that thought,” you jump up from the sofa, heading in the direction of the kitchen with zero thought of what the man at the end of the sofa is desperately trying to tell you. Fiddling with Marcus’ ridiculously swanky oven until it looks like it is doing what you want it to do, you walk back in with two ice cold beers from his fridge.

“Raided your fridge,” you cheekily grin, holding one out to Marcus, the condensation running, down your fingers, “Hope you don’t mind!”

“Good thinking, Batman,” Marcus nods in appreciation, “Any more alarms set to scare us both?”

“Only due to go off when the film is done, so…” you yawn widely, “We’ve got a while yet.”

Marcus’ hand that was slung over the back of the sofa, lifts to stroke your shoulder, “You sleepy? C'mere, you.” With a soft tug of your t-shirt sleeve, he pulls you into his side - your willingness to sink into his broad chest very apparent. Your ear is pressed against him, his heartbeat singing a lullaby to you as his fingers stroke and caress the silken waves of your hair. You wonder at how this man - a total stranger a week ago - has seemingly knitted himself into becoming a cocoon of safety for you, his gentleness and calm offering a haven of tranquility in your otherwise cacophonous world, as the light in the room slowly fades to black.

✪✪✪✪✪

“Uh oh.”

“Hey, welcome back, sunshine!” a gentle pair of fingers stroke back the hair that had drifted into your face as you dozed.

“Sorry for falling asleep. Again,” trying to finesse your way through the heat flaming your cheeks, you offer an awkward grin towards your chuckling pillow, “Guess we’d better start getting things finished as we’ve only got a couple of hours until everyone arrives.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Marcus! I don’t want to move either but this curry won’t finish cooking itself.”

“Spit spot, there’s work to be done,” Marcus trills as he adopts his best attempt at a British accent.

“What the fuck was that? Did you just turn into Dick Van Dyke or something?” You tease mercilessly at the appalling sound coming from those lips, choking back laughter at his mock offended face.

“C’mon, you’re right. We’d better get moving,” Marcus stands with a stretch and a creak before reaching back to tug you to your feet.

Back under the glowing lights of Marcus’ kitchen, his presence is now constantly close to yours as you glide together around the space - stirring, chopping and checking. Every time he passes, above the general aroma of cumin and coriander, the onions and garlic, you can smell the cedar and amber upon his skin- a deliciously masculine scent that only seeks to entangle your senses further.

“Here, try this,” you hold out a heaped teaspoon of mince curry to Marcus, “This is the keema - I promise that I only put in the two chillies you chopped for me, this time.”

“Mmm, that’s so good,” he says thickly between chews, stealing the spoon from you as he dives in for a second, third, fourth spoonful.

“Hahaha! Leave some for the others- and you need to try it with some raita and fried onions too,” you check through your dog-eared, yellowed and slightly sticky recipe book that your mum had handed you the day you’d left home at eighteen - a memo of all the times you had cooked them together.

“Shit, I’d better start the chicken,” going through the spices in front of you, you search for the cardamoms that would make the butter chicken sing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Marcus’ head snaps up from the green beans he was preparing towards you, “What’s up, sweetheart?”

“I can’t find the cardamoms for the butter chicken - gah I knew I’d fuck this up!” you cry, scraping your trembling hands through your hair, eyes flashing around the room wildly as your cortisol rises, making you want to run and scream at your failure to feed your friends.

“Whoa - where’s this coming from? C’mon, look at me. Look at me, Nush,” Marcus has his hands on either side of your shoulders, squeezing them gently, “There’s enough here to feed our whole office for the week with the daals you prepared yesterday, the vegetables we’re about to make and the meats that we’ve cooked up already here. Andy is bringing all the rice and naan, Kiri is bringing beers and Dian is on gin and tonic duty. You have done more than enough and I will not allow you to get this upset over one missing ingredient especially when there is a small store downstairs that I’m sure will have it, if we cannot find it after we look for it together.”

After seeing your numb nod as an agreement, Marcus moves his hands to the side of your head to focus your gaze on him rather than the panic seeping through you. As he strokes his thumbs across your cheeks, you allow your eyes to close and your breathing to regain a normal pattern.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologising?” Marcus searches your now open eyes.

“My reactions are ridiculous. Most people tell me to stop being so stupid and that just whips the storm inside my head even more,” you whisper, “But you. You know how to slow everything down and stop the spinning.”

The corner of Marcus’ mouth twitches, “D’ya wanna know a secret?” You nod at him, “As you know, I was married before. When it ended, I totally spiralled. The world kept spinning too fast and I experienced constant anxiety, very nearly burning out of my role.

“I was lucky. My boss was understanding but made me promise to get some support. He knew of someone mental health trained within the FBI who was there for mainly hostage negotiations - not part of the true psych team but someone who could help without it turning up on your record.

“Kwame worked with me for almost a year - pretty much to the point my decree absolute came through. Our sessions were done on a track - by running with me, he was teaching me the skills I needed to control my fears. By my feet hitting the tarmac, he was grounding me. By going over running techniques, he was teaching me how to control my breathing- taking longer and deeper breaths. And running is just repetition. A mindful repetition that allows your brain to have a bit of a break.

“So when I see you start to spiral, I try to give you the same steps he taught me. Get you grounded, opposite me so you copy my breathing and hope that gets you on the right track.”

“Thank you,” you drop your head forwards, relaxing onto his chest. He feels so - safe.

“You don’t need to thank me. Well, okay maybe you do as look what I’ve just spotted,” Marcus holds the offending spice aloft.

“Oh my god, I could fucking kiss you. You have just saved the curry,” you dramatically declare, clutching the cardamom jar to your heart before placing it next to the other ingredients on the counter.

“Go on then.”

What?

His comment makes you snap your head over to catch Marcus’ tremulous gaze, his eyes darting between the floor and your lips. He takes a small step, closing the small distance between the two of you, threading his fingers between yours. Each slow movement offers an unspoken opportunity for you to step away. To tease him and move on with the day.

But why on Earth would you?

With your heart racing faster and faster, you lure him ever closer with your eyes, soft but absolute in their conviction of what was about to pass between you. A small part of you understands that when you kiss him, something will change forever. That within his lips you may find the place to call home - the aching in your stomach may cease and life could start to make sense again. The anxieties of the week washing away, the pain of your collective pasts and the hint of a brighter, happier future before you.

When he doesn’t move again, you seize the moment. Pushing up onto your socked tiptoes, you tilt your chin, inclining your face until your lips come to rest upon his in the sweetest, chastest kiss. Drawing back slightly to check that Marcus is okay with a raise of your eyebrows and widened eyes, he holds your gaze steadily, similarly stunned - a mirror of each other with racing hearts and slightly parted lips. It’s like in that moment everything around you ceases to exist as anything other than extraneous nonsense - all the noise inside your head silenced by that one touch.

A small dumbstruck smile creeps across Marcus’ lips before he lowers his head to press another gentle kiss upon you. Then another. Then another. Each press of your lips a little longer. A little deeper. Your lips part to allow his tongue entry as every single thought is quietened by the taste of him. Dropping hands for his to cradle your face and yours to thread through his hair as your bodies press together tightly.

Oh the taste of him is utterly exquisite! From where you’ve been using him as chief curry taster, there’s an element of spices with the tiniest hint of mint. And how you have missed having that beautifully solid warmth of his body next to yours. Inhaling his breaths that fall upon you, your hearts match each other’s rhythms as your lips explore each other, every sensation drawing together to create a humming ball of energy, like you are standing at the point where lightning strikes the Earth.

✪✪✪✪✪

Hands fisted tightly in each other’s clothing - both stuck in the quandary of wanting to tear the fabric from your bodies but also frightened of pushing the other too far. Finally pulling apart, you gaze upon Marcus - all lust blown pupils and dopey smiles. Your foreheads come back to rest against each other, unable to quite let go just yet, not wanting to break the spell and return to reality.

“I have wanted to kiss you since perhaps the first time I met you,” Marcus murmurs as his lips gently ghost over your cheeks, “Maybe even from seeing the photo in your file when Andy drove me here from the airport.”

“Was the person, me?” You quietly ask, finally with the confidence to finish that conversation, “The reason you didn’t kiss or sleep with the goddess?”

He drops his eyes as he gives you a small nod, “Normally, I’d have just asked you out but I was scared of fucking up. It’s been a long time since I felt a spark with anyone.

“You’ve entered my life in this whirlwind of intelligence, beauty and tenderness - I didn’t want to frighten you or make you feel uncomfortable if you didn’t reciprocate.”

A thousand thoughts flood your mind as Marcus says those words. All at once, you want to tell him how safe he makes you feel. How much now that you’ve started kissing him, you never want to stop. How the cruel critics of slumber, silence themselves when you feel his heartbeat against your cheek.

Instead you stand there, silent.

Trying to stroke out the creases you’ve created in his t-shirt as you attempt to find words to put into a logical order, you notice his face twitching when the material under your fingers makes contact with his sides, “Oh Marcus, are you ticklish?”

“Um, no,” Marcus tries to deny breezily as he takes a small, hesitant step back from you, pretending to steady himself.

Making a small movement towards him, your hands at the same level as the point of the bunched fabric - you ask, “Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Marcus is now eyeing you suspiciously - desperate to kiss you again but also a little worried as to what havoc your fingers might reek.

“Then, why are you moving away from me?”

“No reason…” his usually deep voice now a little tighter and higher, “Nush… What are you about to ARGH!”

His knees crumble beneath him as you attack his sensitive sides, “Gah! Quit it, woman,” he weakly commands between wheezes and hoots of laughter.

Taking full advantage of Marcus’ prone and vulnerable position, you take the opportunity to straddle him - effectively pinning him to the floor, “This is how you pin someone.”

“I let you pin me,” Marcus corrects you with a wink.

“Oh really?” you contest, entirely unconvinced by his bravado.

“Yeah,” he says with a small wiggle, bringing his hands to the back of your head, “Cos y’see, I can flip our positions quite easily.”

Suddenly, you find yourself flat on your back in Marcus’ kitchen with zero air in your lungs to form any sensible thought other than to kiss him hard. His large hands cradle your head as he props himself gently above you on his elbows. You feel his entire body covering yours. Deliciously pressing against every single inch of you and oh how it takes every bit of the minutismal amount of self control you have to not beg him to fuck you senseless into that floor.

✪✪✪✪✪

“Shit, is that your door?”

“Fuck,” Marcus pushes himself up to kneeling between your legs, “Can we pretend we’re not in?”

The harsh realisation of an evening with your colleagues, albeit lovely people, sinks in to you both.

“Nope,” you groan, popping the p with a deflated gusto, “Hang on, don’t buzz them up until I’ve tucked my boobs back into my bra.”

“I dunno, makes for easier access,” Marcus lopsidedly grins with a wink as he heads for the door.

“You certainly didn’t seem to make hard work of it earlier,” you mumble at him, before you affix a smile to your face, “Hey! How are you all doing?”

A sea of never ending hugs envelopes and separates you from Marcus as everyone piles into his apartment. The stupid grin still firmly in place on your face since you’d first kissed, you find that every time you look over at him, he’s gazing right back, mirroring that lovestruck smile.

“Oh my god, it all smells so amazing,” Dian waxes lyrical, squeezing you tightly as she inhales a lungful of exotically scented air, “What’ve we got?”

You take her by the hand into the kitchen to show all the different things you had bubbling away. Andy ducks into the kitchen behind you, laden with bags filled with pilau rice, naan and chapatis, and a beautiful small bunch of spring flowers in his other hand - tiny tête-à-tête daffodils with multiple heads along each stalk, brilliant yellow and red tulips standing like soldiers and the otherworldly looking stems of hyacinth, wickedly scenting the air under your nose as he thrusts them under there.

“Hey pretty girl, here’s all the bits you asked for. You deserve a much bigger bunch for what I’ve roped you into but I know you love the early blooms,” he offers by way of apology, sticking a kiss to the side of your forehead, “Smells fucking good though as ever. Hope you don’t mind but I’ve brought a box to take some home for Greg - he was a jealous arse this evening so I suppose I should share.”

“You know the way I cook, enough for several small armies,” you wonkily grin at him, truly thankful for the part he’d had to play, “‘Fraid there’s no easy way to say this and you will have to be the one to break it to Greg, but there’s no butter chicken tonight.”

“You’d better have a damn good excuse for this slatternly behaviour, madam,” Andy gives you a serious side eye for this infraction.

“Well…”

“Initially Nush couldn’t find the cardamoms but then we ran out of time. Plenty of food here, though,” Marcus answers for you, his hand gently holding your hip as he reaches around you to grab a couple of beers from the fridge.

You see Andy catch Marcus’ hand lightly stroking your side as he walks back to Kiritopa, but are entirely grateful when his expression and mouth say nothing. The light chatter in the kitchen, whilst Dian dips a teaspoon into all the pots, is interrupted by a small knock at the door. Sticking your head around the kitchen door, you spot Marcus opening the door to a nervous-looking Harper. Andy sidles past you, to pull her into the main room, rather than her previous position of standing on the doorstep, utterly awkward and obviously feeling quite out of place.

“Hi, I hope you don’t mind me coming. I know I wasn’t there Friday but I don’t really do large crowds and drinking.”

You walk over to her amidst the chorus of “not to worry”s and “lovely to see you”s, “Fancy something to drink now? Got plenty of soft options and I think I’ll stick alongside you as I’ve got to make sure I don’t burn stuff.”

“Including yourself, this time,” Harper retorts quickly with a small smile and a raise of her eyebrows.

“Hah, chance’d be a fine thing,” Andy laughs, slapping your shoulder before turning back to clink bottles and talk with Kiri and Marcus.

✪✪✪✪✪

Through the full length doors of Marcus’ balcony, evening spring sunshine streams through, bathing the group of your co-workers in a gentle, diffused light that flows around the room coating you in a golden glow. You all eat your fill and then some, with full tummies and tired eyes - the kitchen still full of half eaten dishes.

“Can we make this a weekly thing?” Kiritopa asks through a mouthful of food, hopefully.

“Not unless we take it in turns or get a take away - I don’t have the physical or emotional energy to make this level of curry every weekend,” you pointedly remark, looking up from your coke to meet Marcus’ eyes.

You’ve spent the evening barely speaking to each other for fear of alerting the others but surreptitiously brushing past so that you can sneak touches. Tender hidden strokes that feel like the kindest stitches on hidden, gaping wounds.

Marcus stands up to help usher the evening to an end and get you to himself again, “I have some boxes for y’all to take food home as otherwise, I’ll be eating this for weeks - delicious as it is.”

Everyone thankfully takes their boss’ hint and head into the kitchen to grab platefuls to reheat after long days. Slowly saying their goodbyes, your friends drift off in the direction of their homes as you throw yourself in an exhausted heap of bones on his sofa. Two strong hands grip you under your arms, to drape your torso across his lap.

“Hey tired girl,” you slightly open your eyes to spy a smiling Marcus gazing down at you. His fingers draw lazy patterns over the sensitive skin of your neck.

“I’d like to take you on a proper date this week. Wanna do this properly. Make a bit of a fuss.”

“Yeah? Not just pin me down and ravish me on the kitchen floor?” you grin widely at him.

“Well, I’d hardly call that a ravishing…” your eyes widen, eyebrows raising at Marcus’ comment, excitement pooling in your tummy, “Yeah, I saw there’s an Argentinian restaurant in Blackheath so how about steak, Malbec and homemade ice cream before I bring you back to either yours, or mine, for another, even better ravishing?”

“That sounds amazing, although with the amount of food in my belly, I may never have to eat again,” you give your stomach a rub, “But the ravishing…”

Hauling you up to sitting across his lap, you protest loudly, “I am going to crush your legs.”

“Stop making ridiculous comments and c’mere,” Marcus demands as he gently turns your head towards him, stealing a delicate kiss from you.

“I...should… - argh! Stop kissing me for a second,” you beg halfheartedly, “I should go home.”

“Stay.”

“Please stay,” Marcus desperately entreats you, “I’m not expecting anything but I’d love it if you stayed. I know you’ve got nothing here but give me two minutes and I can have a spare toothbrush for you. I’ll drop you home early tomorrow morning so you can grab some clothes and then we can go into work together?”

It feels as though the wind is knocked out of your lungs with the depth of Marcus’ need to be around you.

How does he do it?

“There’s no games with you, are there?” you twist in Marcus’ lap so that you now straddle his thighs, placing your hands on either side of his ridiculously handsome face.

“No,” he shakes head slowly, all the while holding eye contact with you, “I’m too old and I know what I want.”

“What’s that?”

Stroking his hands up and down your sides as he nuzzles your neck, he clearly and confidently declares,

“You.”

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