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darter-blue · 3 years

Note

just saw you reblogged the sam to bucky texts saying you're all for a stucky fic with sam eagerly befriending bucky and i have to say i'm so glad someone thinks this would make such a fun fic too. thanks for validating my silly headcanon.

Hello hello Bri!!

I did see that, I loved your tags ❤

So... I wrote a little something, but it's probably not what you were expecting. It wasn't what I had set out to write, but well... this is what took over so...

I hope you like it?

(Special thanks to @oh-i-swear-writes for the 'keep me on read' line)

Sam and Bucky - text saga:

Bucky feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and rolls his eyes.

And then it vibrates again.

And again.

He thinks about taking it out of his pocket and throwing it on the ground. And stomping it under his boot. And then punching it with his left hand, just to be sure… (these little flip phones are fucking built to last, Bucky is strangely proud of his tough little phone).

But then he wouldn’t have a phone for Steve to call him on. And lately those calls from Steve are all that’s keeping Bucky going.

He shouldn’t say that. He certainly should never let his therapist hear that. But it feels true. Steve is happy, Steve is safe. Steve is taking time that he needs, to hide away from the world, and Bucky needs to respect that right now.

And he’s there for Bucky, when he needs him.

He’s just not here here. Not quite as close in proximity as Bucky would like him to be. Out here in the world, where Bucky needs to stop hiding. Where he needs to make amends. To reintegrate. To become a person again.

To get another fucking message on his phone.

He does pull it out of his pocket, finally. Holds it up as if its very existence is offensive to him, and then flips it open. Just to be sure. To be sure that it isn’t Steve who’s texting him.

It isn’t.

It’s Sam.

He has fourteen unread messages from Samuel T Wilson.

‘For fucks sake,’ he says under his breath. Then squeezes the phone a little too tight in his right hand. Tight enough to hear a crack. And then he stops. He doesn’t really want to break it. He slowly releases it and checks to make sure its still working, the screen is still intact - it is - And then he stares at the unopened messages for a minute. Wondering if he can will them away with the power of his mind.

Alas no. Hydra had not, in their wisdom, imparted him with any powers of telekinesis. Just plain old strength and speed. And healing. And then fried him full of volts and sent him out to kill kill kill…

No. He’s not thinking about that now.

He does, reluctantly, press his finger to the button to open his texts.

Its a fucking onslaught...

Samuel T Wilson: Hey Buck, just wondering if you’re free for dinner. My sister Sarah’s a great cook… just saying.

Samuel T Wilson: Hey Buck, so dinner is still on offer, never too late to reply.

Samuel T Wilson: Okay, so - and only because its all already gone - it is now too late to reply. But its a standing invite okay? Dinner at Sarah’s every Sunday.

Samuel T Wilson: I forgot to say, you can just show up, you don't even have to reply.

Samuel T Wilson: Or maybe, I mean… okay. So I was just wondering - is it too much? With the whole family? I get that that could be too much.

Samuel T Wilson: we could grab a beer

Samuel T Wilson: or watch the game

Samuel T Wilson: whichever game - I don’t know whether sport is your thing.

Samuel T Wilson: Or we could talk

Samuel T Wilson: Or not talk

Samuel T Wilson: Not talking is fine. Totally fine.

Samuel T Wilson: you have that stoic, stone cold badass thing happening, I get it.

Samuel T Wilson: Listen, its okay, you can leave me on read. I wont push im just… the offer is there okay?

Samuel T Wilson: Oh did I tell you this new kid, Torres, says people think Steve is on the moon? You believe that?

‘Ha!’ Bucky lets out a huff of laughter at the last text. ‘Really?’

He wonders if its true, that people really think that. Then he looks back over the preceding thirteen messages again and shakes his head.

How he managed to get on Sam’s good side he’ll never know. He barely knows him. Which is entirely by his own design, he knows that.

Steve may have asked Sam to keep an eye on Bucky while he’s hiding away in wherever he's trekked to this week… but Sam has better things to do than babysit Bucky’s grumpy ass.

He’s too good a man, too full of light and love for his family for Bucky to let him get too close. For Bucky’s special brand of toxicity to seep into his life and eat at it from the inside out…

Sam is too good a man to be wasting his time on Bucky…

It wouldn't be a waste of Bucky's time though, to get to know Sam. To let Sam in.

Sam is the kind of good man that Bucky could learn from. The kind of man that Steve would trust his shield to. The kind of man that could help Bucky see all the ways this world might be able to use him again. Give him somewhere to fit.

As a friend. A colleague.

As family.

He's thinking about that. Not about what Sam deserves, but what Bucky deserves. How much more he might deserve if he were to be more like Sam - more open and affable and genuine - when the phone rings.

And he's distracted enough that he answers it without thinking.

'Hello?'

'Buck!'

'Bucky,' Bucky says, instinctively, because only Steve gets to call him Buck.

'Bucky,' Sam corrects himself, 'You picked up!'

'I did.' Bucky doesn't have the heart to tell him it was an accident.

'You ah… free tonight?'

It's funny actually, that Sam, who is always so charming and charismatic, suddenly sounds so nervous.

It touches something in Bucky, that such a little thing, spending time with someone as useless and broken as Bucky, might be worth something to a man like Sam. Enough for him to be nervous about it.

'Yeah, I'm free.'

'Really?' Sam says, his voice pitched high and happy, 'Well that's… I mean, are you maybe interested in catching up?' he asks. 'With me?' He adds quickly.

'Sure, we could watch the game.'

'Which game?'

'I don't know, I don't what games there are.'

'Oh, well there's basketball tonight? Wizards are playing the hornet's,' Sam says, growing less hesitant, voice deepening into something richer.

'Wizards aren't real.'

'It's the team name, Bucky, Washington Wizards.'

'Oh right, any good?' Bucky asks, at this point just to keep him talking. Sam has the kind of voice that settles something in Bucky, something deep in his chest. It's the kind of voice that can sooth. Heal.

Its a good voice.

'Friend, you haven't seen a real shooting guard until you've seen Bradley Beal.'

'Well then I guess I'll have to check it out.'

'Want me to come to you? Bring some beers?'

Bucky looks around his apartment. At the total lack of furniture. Or food. Or anything resembling a home.

'How bout I come to you?'

And Sam can no doubt hear the edge in Buckys voice, but he doesn't mention it. 'Sure. Easy.'

'I can bring sushi,' Bucky offers.

There's a pause, and Bucky is ready to take it back, apologise. Maybe sushi is a terrible idea.

'Soft shell crab?' Sam asks, and Bucky laughs.

'It's my favourite.'

'Well alright! Games at seven.'

'See you then, and hey,'

'Yeah?'

'Thanks, Sam.'

'Uh huh. Just bring me my crab and I'll be happy.'

Bucky hears the connection cut out and can't help but smile. Sushi and basketball. Might not be so horrible.

He closes his phone and then flips it back open to call Steve.

Its very important that he a) makes him jealous about the soft shell crab sushi and b) makes him jealous that he's missing out on spending time with Sam.

It might even be enough to lure him back out of hiding. Give Bucky a reason to buy some furniture.

Maybe this will be a win win for Bucky. And Maybe…

Maybe he deserves that.

#sam and bucky #bucky barnes #sam wilson #gen fic #sunshine #just felt like some happy #thanks for the inspiration bri #iamthe-wo-manwhocan #bec answers #fanfic #tfatws #the falcon and the winter soldier

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albino-whumpee · 3 years

Text

Demon Angel AU: Bought and Sold

I had an idea, so I went ahead and wrote it for @whumptober2020 day 20 for the prompt “field medicine” and “medieval”. Hope you like it!

Summary: The demon plans the angel and his escape after learning the angel will get sold and sent to a rich family´s rarity zoo after he shows signs of being too exhausted to heal the demon properly to harvest his horns.

Tag list please tell me if you´d like to be added or taken out of it!: @as-a-matter-of-whump @orchidscript @haro-whumps @giggly-evil-puppy @grizzlie70 @rosesareviolentlyread

CW// captivity, slavery, winged whumpee, waterboarding, stress positions, bone sawing, magic exhaustion, manhandling, noncon bondage, whumpee hunted as pray, whumpee turned whumper, catching poles, cages, muzzles, convulsions, inaccurate field medicine (sorry!), forced bathing, implied noncon, blood, auditory and visual hallucinations, thralling and slightly gorey stuff at the end.

It had been a few months since they had arrived to the circus. The routinary wake up call in the morning where the demon was grabbed by the back of his shirt and had a muzzle with bit shoved into his mouth to then be dragged to the river close by for a quick “bath” that was essentially, just submerging him in water and rubbing away the blood and sweat from the day before, was exactly like any other day.

The demon was then seized and brought to the “Demon´s lair”, where he would be thrown into a cage inside the patch of woods until a costumer came. When that happened, the sound of a hornet and the door lifting would be his signal to run.

The demon ran everyday, tried to climb the trees or find something pointy enough to reap the leather binding his numb arms on his back and the muzzle covering half of his face, or tried to jump over the wooden walls, but it wasn´t that the only thing he had to worry about. The demon stopped dryly upon facing a human with his wooden pole with rope on one end. His tail swished in distress behind him, as the bulky human stepped forward and the demon stepped back.

He had had enough humans fishing him by the neck and digging the rest of the pole into his back, forcing him to step into the “trophy cage” to know not to understimate the stick.

The trophy cage was small and he would get stamped on his thigh by the human that caught him to prove they, among a group of three had caught the demon. They would then be asked if they wanted to bring a pair of horns as memento of their victory over the demons: a pair of his horns.

If he didn´t get caught, on the rare days that happened, they would hang him by his ankles or his arms for a while, just so they would be too sore and uncomfortable to properly run away the next day.

There were days where the demon felt hopeless about escaping someday. When he got frustrated from getting away from the gods and their angels to end up captured yet again less than two months later.

The angel, Sann, would sometimes reach to him through the cramped cell with his wings tightly pressed against him, still wearing the clothes that barely covered any skin. On those nights, where the demon leaned into that friendly hand, he heard the angel tell him they had ran away once, so they could do it again.

The demon braced himself from tearing up, because they would burn the angel if he touched his tears. So he just quietly sniffed them back and tried to believe him.

The only times he would see him was at night, more often than not, knocked out until the humans took him in the morning or was too tired to talk and fell asleep on his wing cocoon, the others would be when he was inside the trophy cage.

The demon would see flashes of him flying through the barred cage and the tall tents. Doing acrobacies in mid air that looked similar to when he was above in his homeland, but the feeling to which he flied to, was entirely different.

There was no soul on it, there was no joyful laughter making company to the beautiful dance Sann did on the sky when he first saw him through the small window of his cell, even before Sann first came to visit him at the dungeons.

How long had he observed Sann to know the closed turns were his favorite trick to do back then? How many times had he laughed when he saw those three pairs of wings work, and has seen the angel splat into the trees because he didn´t know the terrain so later he would come to him asking if he could help him take off a stick out of his wings?

In his defense, he was just too interesting to take his eyes away.

He felt a sense of dread when he was pulled out of the cage and forced to walk back to the starter cage. Leaving Sann behind as two poles, one around his neck and the other pinching him in the back, dug into his skin.

How much he regretted he didn´t notice when the hunters came that night and how much he wished he could give him back that freedom to enjoy flying.

The demon was pushed forward and snarled at the human, receiving a painful poke to the side of his abdomen.

“You damn beast should behave like your winged pal. Now, that one knows his place” the human shouted as he digged the pole on his neck getting a pained groan that made him stumble and choke a little on the rope before the human pulled him straight again.

“Such a shame we won´t have him anymore” the other human commented in a sigh. The demon perked his ears and tried to turn, but the pole dug deeper.

“Keep walking” the man growled and the demon obeyed shoving away the anger coiling inside him. Anxiety began tro brew as the two humans continued to talk.

“So that´s really gonna happen? I thought the ring master was more interested in exploring the capabilities of his healing. There´s good coin there…” the man said in a langid voice.

“Oh, he was, but the angel is getting sick or something. It takes too long to make this one’s horns grow again. The Butcher was getting in trouble because he wasn’t providing enough, so he talked to him and Sir decided to put an advert for him” The demon almost stops on his tracks, but he knew better.

The Butcher had certainly hit Sann when he had stopped healing him mid horn before he collapsed on his side and his body squirmed in violent spams. It took him a few minutes to come back to himself.

During that moment it was the only time he was allowed to get close to him and touch him in the Butcher´s presence. The other humans screamed, thinking the demon was doing that to him and tried to hold the angel down, but when the demon used his tail to smack the humans away and hissed to leave him alone, the humans only watched the demon rept to the angel whisper through the muzzle that everything would be alright.

They stared in awe at the demon as the angel came back to himself still shaking even after the convulsions stopped. Both creatures nuzzled each other´s face before inevitably, they were ripped apart. The demon in for another beating.

Of course they would think it was him. Humans didn´t know anything about the rarity´s that occured to them and came to demons for the answers to the questions they barely could formulate and then blame them when it didn´t go as planned.

What happened to the angel, was mere exhaustion, the demon knew, he would have to rest and stop healing him for at least four months if they wanted to continue their wicked business.

The demon continued muttering through the muzzle until the angel opened his eyes again. But even then, his eyes crossed just right when the Butcher straightened him up by the hair and fell flat inconscious into the ground.

With how often it had been happening lately, he had been put into his cage for a while, shows were suspended but instead, he was forced to sit perched up on his cage´s swing and look pretty for the visitors. Wave at them through the nausea he would tell him later he felt all day. He wouldn´t mention it either, but some of his bones and ribs were damaged too because of the human handler´s attempts to keep the angel still.

Without being able to heal it, the angle experienced neverending pain.

“Apparently some rich family´s daughter decided to buy him to form part of her rarity´s zoo” The man said, tuning the demon back into the conversation unfolding before him. “Some of their men will come get him tomorrow night” The demon´s heart skipped a beat as he was shoved inside the cage in heavy panting. The human freed his neck from the rope, yet, he wasn´t relieved in the least when the human kicked the wooden cage “If he´s not around guess we won´t have any use for you anymore, beast” the man´s canines showed as he smiled and patted the cage “Can´t wait to finally have the chance to hunt you down. For real this time, little pest”

The demon kicked the cage as the humans laughed walking away.

“As if I will let a human do that” he spatted in the solitude of his cell before he heard the horn yet again and the door lifted. He still ran in stampede, but this time, he ran to his hiding spot above a tree. By now he had run through the space enough times to recollect enough rocks with his tail and smash them on the ground with just the right amount of strength to sharpen them. He didn´t have much time to experiment with durability, but as the months passed, the large river stone had become quite the sturdy knife. Polished and sharpened enough to cut through his tail, the signs of it, healed by the angel every night.

He grabbed the knife and carefully made a cut through the leather bindings on his arms, stopping right when he felt skin. It was enough overture to give way for the knife to enter and small enough to pass inadvertently.

But now, when he jumped down the tree, he ran through the obvious traps he had fell on the first few times, avoiding the most invisible ones, the bastardous, ankle breaking claws on the ground that would give out his position once he screamed and fell in pain until “the hunters” came to kick the shit out of him or even, hold him down with their poles or seize him. So in that state, he was less of a threat to try to inspect the odd demon that kept a somewhat human form.

He hated the humans that would do that the most. So he stayed a few inches above the ground now, trying to jump from branch to branch.

He wasn´t captured after that, every hunter lost and he was sent to hang next to the Butcher´s tent. This time, there weren´t horns cut up, even if Sann was better, they had sold out tickets to the “great last hunt”

Supposedly, the hunter that got him first the next day, would get to keep him and do to him whatever they pleased.

The demon tried not to think about it and keep the knife working inside the leather keeping his arms together. This night hanging upside down was exactly what he needed. Despite the ache on his ankles and the blood rushing to his head, his hands didn´t stop cutting until they cracked and his arms, numbed out and achy and possibly mismatched as he pulled them forward with a loud crack that forced him to bury the screech on his throat. He cracked his shoulders before bending to cut one of his ankles before the second, careful to not make any noise as he straightened up.

His arms were free finally, if just a bit too heavy, but finally he could lift them up to feel the buckles wrapping around his head, heavy metal padlocks hanging from three different places. He put all his strength in pulling the knife and cut off the leather straps around the edges of his head, slightly cutting one of his ears in the process before he felt it loose and threw it to the ground with a slam.

His chin was a drooling mess and his jaw was so sore without Sann’s healing, but he felt his fangs free, sharper than the knife on his hands or the Butcher’s saw. He passed his tongue over his lips. He felt his muscles aching to run and smash, his claws twitching to be dug into human flesh.

He had been fed everyday for the last months just once a day. Always having Sann put the disgusting gooey putridge between his lips before he ate too because of his useless arms. Whatever was on the bucket had never tasted quite like real food but sufficed to satiate their stomachs for a while.

Suddenly, he heard steps behind him. Heavy, familiar and blood thirsty.

The demon’s pupils became an edge that fixed on The Butcher’s voluminous figure as he set himself in an offensive position. The Butcher passed his hand over the horns hanging from his belt, the very first ones he chopped off his head with a laughter so low it sounded more like an animalistic growl.

The Butcher had never talked to him directly, but his voice, low and deep, sent a shudder down his spine.

“Very well, Pest. I had planned to take you to the young lady who bought the bird, when I caught you tomorrow, but this is perfect” the Butcher stretched his hand towards the bone saw and the fear installed on the demon´s head almost overthrew him, making him hiss and growl as his hair spiked and his tail swooshed irritated “We can just get started now”

The demon bared his fangs and twisted the knife on his hands, adrenaline running through him as the man walked closer, sure to win.

A say ran through the lands closer to the demon´s domains, where unfortunate humans were the one hunted by them, just like he was: For fun and sometimes as appetizers.

“There´s a say in my lands” the demon spoke the human tongue in a hundred voices that drilled inside the Butcher´s head “The sun stole the demon´s true shape, so when night falls, the moonlight grants their true form back to wear and hunt”

A ray of light illuminated over the small demon and shifted, the Butcher stopped on his tracks seeing the monstruos shape it took, a sound close to broken bones, going over and over as the demon became something that made the Butcher’s jaw fall, that made the demon inhale the scent of fear demons craved.

The human in his desperation, in the irrationality of fear, swinged the bone saw above his head, screaming madly.

“As you wish” the demon spoke in a hundred voices behind the Butcher. The demon was pleased to see the moment his eyes widened in absolute terror seeing his gigantic form as the curtain to his tent closed. Catching the blood from the man´s neck from staining the dirt outside.

The Butcher didn´t understand what happened was an illusion at all. The demon licked his bloody lips, sitting over the fallen body of the human, a bite that punctured his throat was non stop bleeding.

“You don´t even taste good enough to be a snack” the demon let out as he licked the blood off his fingers, a claw mark on the man´s stomach digging dip into him. He lifted himself off and picked up the bone saw. Put a little pressure into the middle that ended up breaking it “Well, I will give you that. You at least knew you should have me muzzled” he said tossing the shards away “Word spells are hard to cast with a metal bar inside your mouth” the demon kicked away the muzzle with a huff, “wished I had something better than just words, but demons like me gotta use what they have” he looked down at the human laying on the floor “Now then…”

The demon took the horns hanging from the Butcher´s waist and took one of his assistant´s aprons for himself. Putting the horns on the pockets. He could make very durable knifes with them after all. One for him and one for the angel.

He walked out the Butcher´s tent, finally free to let the humans know who the real hunter was.

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vivifrage · 3 years

Text

I posted 8,382 times in 2021

338 posts created (4%)

8044 posts reblogged (96%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 23.8 posts.

I added 3,002 tags in 2021

#hollow knight - 1326 posts

#destiny - 586 posts

#hornet - 227 posts

#pale king - 190 posts

#ghost - 180 posts

#thk - 179 posts

#jaxx writes - 98 posts

#transformers - 86 posts

#grimm - 66 posts

#hades - 64 posts

Longest Tag: 125 characters

#*rubs my grubby qa hands over the alpha builds to bless the testers with creativity and sharpness and the devs with patience*

My Top Posts in 2021

I'm so friggin' excited for this it's all I got in me to keep from hooting and hollering all through the apartment.

I commissioned @chipper-smol for Haldegard in snazzy clothes and boy is she snazzy!! Really hit the blend of familiar and alien that Merciful Steel aims for, IMO.

138 notes • Posted 2021-07-11 02:16:30 GMT

Y'know I'm glad I've been able to better enjoy the like, masc vibes of whatever gender nonsense I've got going on, and I hope I can further enjoy the overlap of it and my occasional more feminine moments as well as whatever else is in there.

It's so easy to fall into that hurtful trap of "men and masculinity are bad" especially coming from a lot of woman- and feminist-oriented spaces where critique of the systems that cause harm doesn't always translate in full. I think one time I read that SCUM manifesto that the TERFspotting post mentioned but the entire time it was like... There's no need for everyone to want to be a woman, or for masculinity to be some aberration upon humanity. It just... Is, like how yellow and green are both colors. Or like iron ore. You can forge iron into a weapon, but you can also make tools and containers and armor from it. Just because some people make it into a weapon doesn't make it bad. It just says they wanted a weapon, and made one out of what they had. You can make femininity and androgyny into weapons, too. Gender and sexuality are not inherently moral. Lesbian, bi, pan, gay, ace, straight, man, woman, agender, genderfluid, demigender, the list goes on... They're expressions of human variety. It's great we have all of them. The systems built around them are not the fault of the layperson.

And it's like, if you've fallen into that (I know at least one person getting this on their dash has, and I'm sure others have been there too with how insidious it is), I'm sorry you think you need to base yourself on hate. It's exhausting, it leaves you insecure, and it can drag you down such an awful tailspin. You should be able to celebrate your own human variety and that of others, too. Life becomes a wonderful kaleidoscope then.

142 notes • Posted 2021-04-06 16:56:56 GMT

Hatchday

Ghost woke to their sibling's hand shaking them awake. Well, more like rolling them like dough, most of their body cupped in Hollow's palm.

They swatted at their sibling's wrist and when they tried to pull away, Ghost latched on, letting themself be hauled up to eye level. Hollow shook with laugher, bouncing Ghost as if to test their weight.

Even after Ghost dropped to the floor, Hollow stroked the space between their horns with a thumb and held one of their hands in their fingers to marvel at how small. Ghost's continued staring didn't bother them, but they finished with their game eventually and gestured for Ghost to follow them.

Rude sibling. Ghost smacked their ankle. They were clutchmates, excuse them. They were not a hatchling.

Something did smell very nice. A food smell? Yes, a food smell, and Hollow was leading them to the kitchen. Food was so fun. Midwife even let them help sometimes, when she cooked! All the siblings were learning, she said. Learning important things like not touching hot stuff, and using knives right. Knives were strange, like nails more than needles, but different even from those.

The kitchen indeed smelled wonderfully. Sweet, but not as sticky-sweet as the Hive. And there was baking smell, too.

They darted around Hollow and charged into the kitchen, shadows bursting around them as they dashed through the doorway.

Midwife curled up by the stove, all her long loops piled together, and she looked over at the siblings' approach. Her mask was all the way on, thankfully, and she didn't seem to be about to remove it. They didn't like how fast she was at that.

"Oh, hello dears! Sit down, sit down. The honey cake is almost done, as best I can guess."

Honey cake?

Ghost immediately disobeyed the command to sit down and launched themself onto Midwife's side, the danger of her teeth forgotten for the sake of honey cake. They stared at the stove and the chamber below, the glow of heat below it.

"Yes, dear." Midwife's voice was a little strained, and so Ghost let her move them back with one of her many legs. (They wondered if, for long things, legs and size were inverse? A wyrm had none, Bardoon had few, Midwife had many.) "I know you two like it, and I thought I ought to make something special. Why not?"

They cocked their head, Hollow doing the same behind them.

"Happy hatchday," came Hornet's voice from the doorway, all tired like she'd been running around too early. Which she probably was.

Ghost jumped off Midwife's side to run to her anyways.

She held out a hand to stop them, her other occupied with a small bucket. They strained to look up at it, Hollow loomed above to look down into it. She chuckled, let Hollow get a good look, then tilted the bucket to show Ghost a handful of little red berries. Small, plump, and overall very nice, but not many at all. Where did she find these?

"Hallownest hatchday tradition," she explained while Hollow nuzzled her, their mask bumping against and almost under hers. "The one who hatched gets a number of these berries according to how many years ago they hatched. I couldn't find many, though, and I don't know how old you two are anyways. Not that we know your hatchday, either, really. Today will have to suffice."

Hollow's arm looped around her for a brief hug. Well, Ghost didn't know this hatchday stuff, but if it made Hollow happy, then all right. Plus, Hornet must have had to go looking and looking for these! A caring sister. They stepped forwards to thank her with a hug of their own.

"Okay, if you two want these, you have to let me go." Even with her batting at them, the siblings were slow to let their little sister go.

Now Ghost sat at the table, watching Hornet as she produced those few berries and set them in front of Hollow and Ghost, one by one, until they had four apiece.

Ghost certainly wasn't four, but if they got the amount of berries that probably matched their real age, they'd not be able to eat them all.

"Go on," Hornet said, popping a leftover berry in her mouth.

Ghost and Hollow both picked up one; it was small even in Ghost's hands, and ridiculously delicate pinched in Hollow's fingers. But both ate them anyways.

Oh! They were sweet! Nice and sweet, with a little pop of juice and barely an edge of tartness. Ghost shoved another in their mouth as fast as they could, bursting it on the roof of their mouth before resolving to savor the rest. Only four this year, after all.

But... maybe five, next year. Five would be nice.

And maybe they'd know how to make the honey cake by then, too, to make it even sweeter.

156 notes • Posted 2021-02-24 13:15:15 GMT

New Destiny season called Season of the Scribe but it's just Eido and Variks asking you to ferry a USB port with their drafts back and forth between them for editing with increasingly ridiculous reasons they can't just send each other the files via internet and even more ridiculous obstacles getting their drafts to them.

238 notes • Posted 2021-11-01 03:13:56 GMT

Thinking about how Eido is named Eido and not Sjur (metawise probably because that would be very confusing) and just like

Misraaks: her name is Eido!! like you!! ::)

Sjur Eido: that's very sweet but uh i think i need to explain how last names work because-

Misraaks: ::3

Sjur Eido: ...no fuck it you're right the little vent baby is my family

289 notes • Posted 2021-09-20 11:46:30 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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xxisxxisxxis · 4 years

Text

Gateway Drug | Part Sixty-One

Words: 3.6K

Warning(s): explicit language, sexual situations, mentions of drug abuse

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I pour dog food into Whisky's bowl, hearing his little paws smack against the floor as he rushes into the kitchen, his collar rattling and his excited panting greeting me when I feel his tongue licking at my arm.

"Good morning." I say to him, patting at his head before he starts eating.

Once he's finished I'm picking him up as Nikki comes in, scratching another thing off his to-do list.

When he steps by me I grab at his hand to stop him and he shakes his head.

"Nah, I don't need dog hair on me, babe." He grins, dodging me and I follow him.

"But, daddy, look at this cute little face." I hold the puppy out to him, giving my best puppy dog eyes and Nikki raises a brow.

"Whisky, tell mommy she can't call me 'daddy' because it'll make me wanna do stuff to her that I don't have time to do right now." He warns, grabbing his packed suit case.

"We're about to leave for a couple months, Nikki, and he'll be at obedience school. At least hold him for a minute so he won't forget we love him." I suggest and Nikki blinks at me. "I'll give you a blowjob on the way to the airport." I add.

"Aww, boy, am I gonna miss you!" He takes the happy little Whisky from me and holds him, kissing at his head and calling him a "good boy." "Viv, he's gonna be the best lookin' little stud muffin in that place." He tells me.

"Speaking of which, maybe they'll figure out a way to combat the humping." I say and Nikki looks at me.

"We're not getting him fixed."

"Are we going to breed him or something?"

"No, I just don't wanna take his balls, Viv. He's a man's man. He's a good boy. Not a good 'kinda/sorta' boy."

"He's gonna be more prone to hump anything and everything, and pee on everything more than normal and it'll be a struggle to take him anywhere with other dogs because he'll wanna misbehave."

"Exactly, it'll be like me as a dog." He explains with a smile. "Just look at him, babe. He wants to be just like daddy."

"Okay, well, if he isn't fixed as soon as he can be, daddy isn't allowed to even breathe the same air as mommy until he gets neutered." I take Whisky back and Nikki cuts his eyes at me.

"You use your pussy as a like a 'get out of jail free' card anytime you want something and it's annoying." He tells me and I raise my brows.

"If it's so annoying, why haven't you just put your foot down already?" I ask him, putting Whisky back down on the floor.

"Because I like the fear of never getting between your legs again. It's thrilling." He jokes and I roll my eyes.

"Shut up and pack." I chuckle, nudge at him.

"I'm packed." He states.

"Four shirts, two pairs of pants, and a Bowie record, isn't 'packed', Nikki."

"It is when you have money to buy everything else when you get to your destination." He states.

I ignore him and grab my suit case, about to pack my own stuff.

When I come back from my closet, two of my bikinis I only wear at home are already laying in the bottom of my suitcase and I look at Nikki, picking the neon pink and bright purple bathing suits up.

"I already told you earlier, I'm not bringing these, Nikki." I tell him.

"Why not?"

"The top barely covers my nipples and my boobs spill out, and the bottoms aren't much better."

"But I bought those for you." He reminds me.

"And I like wearing them here, when nobody else is around."

"At least pack them just in case."

"Nikki--"

"--Don't argue, Viv. Trust me, you're gonna want them." He says.

"Fine." I give in, packing them, and my more modest bikinis, before packing clothes and essentials.

When I come back with pads and tampons, there's articles of lingerie I've never seen before.

"Nikki." I look at him, holding up a scarlett red number with ribbons that criss-cross down the back and tie in a bow where the base of my spine should go. "Are you up to something?"

"What?"

"What are you planning?" I ask him and he scrunches his face up.

"Nothing, baby, I just thought you'd look pretty in that while I'm knocking your hips lose." He shrugs casually.

"You hate me wearing lingerie while we're fooling around because it interferes with your ability to see everything." I point out.

"Just accept it. And pack it. Because you'll want it." He mumbles.

"I know you're up to something, Sixx." I accuse him and he shakes his head.

"No, I'm not up to anything." He denies.

"Skimpy swimsuits, expensive lingerie, sketchy phone calls with Fred...you're up to something."

"Nope. I'm just looking forward to all the time we're gonna spend together on this tour, is all." He shrugs.

"Mhmm." I sarcastically let out, doubtfully.

"I mean, if you wanna spend our anniversary--which lands on our day off--with the guys, our opening band, and screaming fans then that's cool, too, I guess." He shrugs.

"Oh, shit, we have our anniversary this month?"

I might have remembered our anniversary had I been able to wear my wedding ring but it'd gone missing at that point, and I had no clue where it was.

And neither did Nikki, honestly.

"I'm not even gonna say anything about you forgetting our anniversary because I've secretly forgotten our anniversary and your birthday every year until someone reminded me a couple weeks in advance, so..." He smiles innocently and I raise a brow.

Whisky's picked up a couple hours later and Nikki and I are off to the airport without a moment to waste the second our driver pulls up.

And then the clothes come off.

We don't even notice we're at the airport until the door is flying open to reveal Fred.

"Get dressed and c'mon, guys, we're running late." He urges as Nikki marks up my neck with his teeth, causing me to laugh at Fred's face turning red in aggravation.

He slams the door shut and I hear them open the trunk to grab our bags and I hum out, smiling when Nikki presses his lips to mine.

"We gotta go." I breathe out, moving off of him and he groans. "We can do plenty of this in the hotel." I motion between us, buckling my bra, and he smirks.

"...And on the plane, and on the bus on the way to the show, and backstage, and during Tommy's drum solo, and after the show." He says slyly, pressing a trail of kisses up my arm to my shoulder.

"Exactly, so, get dressed." I mumble against his lips when he kisses me again.

Once we're done, we get out of the car and board the plane.

The stewardesses are gorgeous blondes, which doesn't surprise me, because if Vince has any say in what their female help looks like, they're going to be blonde.

"Guys, we need a picture!" Tansy insists.

"Tansy--"

"--I want one." She interrupts Fred, her blue eyes silently begging, and he gives in.

Morbid reality was that Tansy didn't expect to live much longer, and she wanted to take as many pictures as possible for us to remember her by.

No one really expected Nikki to live much longer, either, of course they never told me that until it was obvious he was crashing.

Once we get the picture taken and take off, it only takes ten minutes before Tommy and Nikki are snorting zombie dust like it's pixie stick powder, and demanding alcohol.

"You guys need to stay as sober as possible for the show!" Doc argues when Nikki calls him an "asshole" for not giving him a whole bottle of whiskey.

"We'll be fine like we always are, man, just fucking--"

"--Nikki, please, sit down." I gently tug at his arm when he stands as if he's about to march to Doc and start throwing punches.

He just glares down at me.

"Please, baby." I ask him, really, really not wanting to deal with a messed up Nikki Sixx before their show even begins.

He just stares at Doc before plopping back down beside me, lingering in and out of focus.

As if it can't get any worse, when we land, there's a slew of groupies waiting in the airport.

Which we only realize this when we're in their sight and they start in out of nowhere.

And, of course, ignoring Fred's orders--made from the motivation to keep the guys protected and out of trouble, which is why they hired him--Tommy and Vince gladly accept every single woman throwing herself at them, from the comfort of the bathroom.

The "Girls, Girls, Girls" tour was nicknamed the "Airport Blowjob Tour" because at every airport we came to, and I mean literally every airport, groupies were like Hornets swarming the place with all the motivation in the world to simply blow the band.

A few of them would make multiple trips to multiple airports, following the guys wherever city they flew to.

I admired their passion.

Some of them were more dedicated to trying to blow my husband than I was.

Which said a lot because I was pretty dedicated.

"It's hot as satan's balls out here." Nikki groans when we step off the tour bus after leaving the airport.

"We're in the middle of Arizona, babe." I remind him.

He just looks at me from behind his sunglasses.

"What?" I ask as we head to the hotel's building.

"Nothing." He shakes his head, opening the door to the lobby, letting me walk in first.

Doc gets everyone checked in, before I'm getting a shower and getting ready for tonight while Nikki and Tommy dick around.

By the time we all meet at bus to head to the venue, Fred's got the backstage IDs ready for the road crew and Tansy and I.

"Here." Fred puts the lanyard over my head with my picture on it, under it reading "Vivian, 6½".

"Thank you." I tell him, climbing in to see Nikki already sitting down, bottle of Jack in his hand as he hands Tommy a lighter for his cigarette.

I'm slightly startled, feeling Vince suddenly throw his arm around me, causing me to stop in my tracks.

"I want a drink. I'm gonna hide in the bathroom and you're gonna sneak it to me." He tells me in my ear and I look at him.

Before I can say, "hell no", I can tell he's desperate.

"Please, Viv. My nerves are eating me alive right now and I can't drink anything without them jumping on me about it." He nods to Nikki and Tommy who aren't paying attention in the slightest.

"Vince--"

"C'mon, move it." Doc nudges at Vince's back to get us to hurry up and sit down so he can get by.

"Fine, gimme a couple minutes." I mumble to Vince before walking to Nikki, sitting down beside him.

Vince goes to the bathroom, and Emi and Donna sit in front of me and Nikki as Mick sits with Tommy.

Within a few minutes, I'm actively attempting to slyly sneak Nikki's bottle of Jack back to the bathroom after Nikki abandons it to comment on this month's issue of Hustler Magazine with Tommy.

I tuck the bottle into my purse, well...the best I can, at least.

"Baby, can you let me out so I can go use the bathroom." I sweetly ask Nikki, and he doesn't even look at me as he responds: "Sure, babe" and stands up, pointing at a girl in the magazine and going "there's no way she's actually able to do that, that's gotta be edited", and I roll my eyes. I wish he wouldn't look at magazines like that, but it's a lost cause if I try to ask him not to, so I just ignore it the best I can and try to tell myself he doesn't look at them because I'm not good enough or something.

He just looks at them because guys just like looking at naked girls in explicit positions.

By the time I get to the bathroom, Vince is snatching the bottle from me as I lock the door behind me, crossing my arms in the small bathroom as he takes a long drink of it.

"You're welcome." I state to him, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Did I thank you?" He smartly asks and I raise my brows.

"Umm, you should. I'm risking getting an earful from Nikki if he finds out I'm giving his singer--who's on a court mandated sobriety streak--liquor." I blink at him and he rolls his eyes.

"Oh, please, if he or Tommy were in my shoes they would've put sobriety aside two weeks after it was in place and never would have looked back." He scoffs out.

I don't argue because it's true.

"Be nice." Is all I say and he looks at me pointedly.

"C'mon, Viv, you know it's true. And if it were one of them that got in that wreck with Razzle, and they got caught drinking afterward, nobody would blink an eye because they're Nikki and Tommy."

"Vince, that's not true." I try to tell him.

"Whatever Nikki says, goes. Whatever Nikki wants, he gets. He's the one that put the band together which means his say is the final say, and same with Tommy because he's close with Nikki and Nikki backs him up."

I can't say anything.

"And you're not even arguing because you know as well as everyone else that it's true. It's Nikki and Tommy and nobody else fucking matters. Certainly not the washed up singer that nearly killed their careers."

He hands me the bottle back and I rub my lips together.

"Thanks." He mumbles before sliding past me to open the door and leave.

I put the lid back on the bottle and hide it back in my purse before I go back to Nikki and put the bottle back, undetected, my mind reeling over what Vince said.

It was clear there was a disconnect between Nikki, Tommy, and Vince after Razzle died, and it just got worse and worse as the years went by.

Tommy and Nikki, notorious "Terror Twins" got into more shit than anyone else around us, combined.

The deepest shit Vince got into was that wreck, and after that he quit a majority of his bullshit on making life for everyone around him, difficult by acting up, and just started moving in silence.

He'd have his petty moments, but for the most part, he would lay low and leave Tommy and Nikki to raise hell and embarrass the band and their team.

I could tell he was bothered by the fact that he made a mistake that Nikki or Tommy had a higher chance of making at the time, and because of that, he was kicked out of their little club.

And the fact that Tommy and Nikki got away with absolutely everything, got to him the most.

I admit, Vince should have served more time for the Razzle tragedy, but he still had to live knowing Hanoi Rocks was no more, knowing he let fans down, knowing he gutted Razzle's friends, family, band and fans, and knowing--although accidental--he was partly to blame for one of his friends' deaths.

But Nikki and Tommy didn't give a fuck what they did, who they did it to, why they did it, how they did it, or whether they meant to do it or not.

And they didn't care because they would always get away with it.

Always.

Vince was tempted to tell me about Vanity, but decided not to because he didn't want to hear shit from Nikki, but also because he'd rather me find out from a place of genuine concern.

Not just him blurting it to me in order to spite Nikki and finally make sure there was something he didn't get away with doing.

My lips pull into a wide grin as I cover my mouth before a loud shriek can fall past my lips and alert everyone outside the bathroom of the venue, what's going on in here.

Nikki continues to slide his hot, warm tongue against my clit as I grind in rhythm with his mouth.

Just as I'm about to come, someone's banging on the door.

"C'mon, guys!" It's Fred. "Nikki, you're on in, like, two minutes!"

"Got it!" I reply for him, being that his mouth is busy, and Nikki just grins up at me, causing my third orgasm to begin to build.

"Nikki, dude, we gotta go!" Tommy calls from the other side of the door.

Just as I'm coming, the door is unlocked with Fred's key, and I'm too shell shocked to try to get away from Nikki.

We both just look at Doc, Fred, and Rich Fischer, who are nearly fuming.

"Fred, what the fuck is wrong?" Nikki snaps as I pull my dress back down, my face burning bright red as I try to fix my hair and my lipstick, and ignore my cum running down my legs.

"You're about to be late for your first show of this tour over some pussy, that's what the fuck is wrong. Get out there." Doc snaps at him.

"Wait." I say, taking my crucifix off, handing it to him.

He takes it with a sly little grin, looking at me before clasping it around his neck for good luck on the first show.

"Thanks, Viv." He tells me, kissing my cheek before he heads to stage.

I follow after him, but Doc grabs at my arm, gently, to stop me.

"What?" I ask him, still embarrassed from earlier.

"You're not going to be too big of a distraction, are you?" He asks me and I raise my brows.

"Excuse me?"

"Anytime he's late, Vivian, it's either linked to you or heroin, and he's off smack so he's gonna be onto you more." He explains.

"We've been married for four years, Doc, and I've never been a 'distraction'. What the hell are you talking about?" I ask.

He just lets out a breath.

"Just don't let this happen again." He tells me and I exhale, rolling my jaw.

"I'm sorry, it won't happen again." I assure him, feeling like I've just been scolded by my freaking mother.

"Good."

Did I mention that Mötley was in their prime and Doc was considerably paranoid of someone throwing a wrench in the machine that was Mötley Crüe?

Once the show is finished, the guys are given masks for hyperventilation, their sweaty, liquor purging bodies slumped.

After they calm down, it starts.

"Alright, where we going?" Tommy asks Nikki, punching lightly at his shoulder as Vince is about to get a shower to get the sweat off of him.

"Strip club, probably." Nikki pants out, drinking a bottle of water in 20 seconds, handing it to me when he's finished. "What about you, Mick, you coming this time?" Nikki asks him and Mick shrugs.

"Doesn't really matter to me." He states.

"Guys, you want food?" Fred offers, sticking his head in the dressing room.

"Yes." We all say and he chuckles.

"Alright, we're on it." He assures us.

"You're not getting a shower?" I ask Nikki and he shakes his head.

"Nope." He replies and I wrinkle my nose.

"As long as you shower before you get in the bed with me." I say to him and he smirks.

"There's two beds in the room." He reminds me.

I blink at him, blankly.

"Don't even play like that." I tell him and he chuckles.

"Don't be a baby, Sixx." He says as he nudges at me and I exaggeratingly move away from him.

"No, stop." I try to hide my smile as he just gets closer to me again, so I move some more, only causing him to follow. "Nikki, chill out." I say, seeing the look in his eyes: he's up to no good. "Nikki, don't!"

He's suddenly tugging me into his lap, his sweaty, soaked clothing pressing to my back, causing me to squeal as he tickles at my sides, and I scream out in laughter as I get that nostalgic feeling I felt when I realized I first loved him, and would rather die than go without being with him forever.

We weren't arguing, we weren't trying to hurt each other, we were getting closer and closer to how we were when we first got married.

There was no heroin, there was no blatant meanness...we were just starting to learn to be in love with each other again.

I, completely overlooking blatant signs and red flags, figured, "we made it through his heroin addiction, we're making it through fame and public scrutiny, we're getting stronger and stronger and back to normal...mom was wrong, and we can handle anything."

And that was the problem: I felt too fucking secure.

Hearing and knowing about all these rockstars cheating on their significant others, and I felt prideful that Nikki might've been an asshole, but he'd never do such a thing to me.

I was beginning to have an arrogance about it.

And that's the thing about us when we get arrogant: God, or the universe, or Karma--whatever we believe--humbles us.

And I thought all of them had gotten together and made a plan to humble me to absolute hell.

#nikki sixx #mötley crüe #nikki sixx x oc #nikki sixx fanfiction #gateway drug

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thebestestboyo · 4 years

Text

How Remus Started Working For Patton: Part Three

Masterpost

Tw: eating? I mean it mentions fries/Remus being Remus/Swearing/Panic attack

After these nights out, Remus usually enjoyed the feeling of being in control of his body. But this time, all he felt was sore. He had forgot all the stuff he did before he decided to flirt with a gang member. Several of which left bruises.

"I knew I shouldn't have picked a fight with that seagull."

"Which one is it that you hate again?" Virgil piped up from his spot on the couch, one of his earbuds out to listen for Remus. Ree couldn't see much of his face from how his dark bangs covered his eyes, the roots beginning to return to their natural blonde.

"That one with the black markings on it's back. It has a personal vendetta against me, I can FEEL IT."

"Or maybe you just keep provoking it? I keep telling you to stop trying to steal it's french fries, it's unsanitary, and, the french fries are cold and those are gross."

"But cold french fries are my favoriteeeeee."

"Then get some that aren't from a deranged seagull?"

"Ugh. That's no challenge though!" He hopped over the back of the couch, collapsing over Virg's legs. "I need to feel the rush of running away from an angry flock! Natural instincts! We as humans were made to hunt!"

"Not in this day and age. Species develop over time, and as far as I can remember, you can get french fries at any fast food joint." It was clear Virgil was humoring him, prodding at his face. "Though, I suppose it's better than you chasing after people for their french fries. I remember you used to do that when we were younger."

"Ugh, I would, but I got away with so much more things when I was small. Nowadays it's less like 'oh a rambunctious boy!' and more like 'what are you doing??? Why are you wearing a toga covered in marmalade and trying to take my fries?'"

Snickering, Virgil merely tweaked Remus's nose, before turning serious. Ree had expected this coming, it wasn't like Virg to let things go that easily. "As much as I love discussing how much of a gremlin you are, I still wanna talk to you about last night."

"Ughhhh but we were having such a nice timeeeeee."

"Remus."

"Fine. Its not like we can change anything about it! It already happened! And I got this weird-ass earring from it which may have brought me into a cult or whatever. And now I have to wear a different earring in the new piercing and clean it because otherwise will get infected!"

"..." Virgil merely raised an eyebrow, not amused at Remus's usual shenanigans.

"Okay I know I'm not taking this seriously, but come on. You have piercings. You know how new piercings are."

"This is serious though! What if they're planning to kidnap you or something??? What do we do then??"

This whole matter was clearly bothering him, and when Virgil got too stressed, it didn't exactly do wonders for his mental health.

"Hey. Its gonna be alright. Let's just..." Remus wracked his brain for something that might soothe him, finally coming upon a phrase he remembered Logan using when he was stuck on one of his experiments. "Think things through logically?"

Surprisingly, it did not end in Remus's ass getting kicked, and instead on a quiet Virgil, who simply nodded as he messed with his earbuds, trying to keep calm.

"So. What do we know."

"We know that these are dangerous people who know where we live."

"Ok, and we also know one of them is an absolute candied vescular organ!"

"You don't know for a fact that they're a sweetheart Remus." He wasn't even thrown off by Ree calling it that, clearly more anxious than he originally thought.

"I do! He was very..." Remus tried to think back to some of the phrases Roman used, since he couldn't use his own and have it sound good. "Charming. If you will."

"Oh boy, this gang member must be something if he has you borrowing words."

"Hey! I can use words like charming! It's not borrowing!"

"Uh huh sure. Next you'll be saying-"

He was cut off by the buzzing of their apartment's old doorbell, an outdated thing that sounded like drunk and angry hornets. Virgil absolutely hated it, resorting to knocking if he ever got locked out, while Remus delighted in it, annoying the other with the horrid sound whenever he came home.

"Who the fuck could that be?" Curious, Virgil gently pushed Remus off of him, going up to the door and attempting to see through the peephole, even though the glass was cloudy and cracked.

Ree saw him begin to fuss with his headphone wires, mouth pursing as he began to overthink who was on the other side. This always happened when they weren't expecting someone, and even when they were, it wasn't much better unless Remus got up and checked whoever it was first.

"Don't worry Virgy! I'll get the door."

"Oh thank god."

Unlatching the lock, he made sure to have Virgil move out of the way, joking that 'if you're standing right behind it, I might make your body into a pancake!' He was expecting their landlord, or perhaps a neighbor, and maybe even Logan or his brother, though that was doubtful. What he most certainly didn't expect, was-

"Patton?"

Pat was standing beside...someone? He wasn't exactly sure, but this guy was pretty tall, even considering Remus's own height. Tall, a little lanky, but there was something in Ree's instincts that told him that he'd lose to this guy in a fight, not even including that splotchy looking scar on his face.

But back to Patton, why was he here?

"Sorry for the sudden visit Remus, I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay after last night." Pat was fiddling with his hands as he spoke, delicate fingers picking at stray pieces of lint or something.

"Oh! Yeah, I had a bit of a hangover earlier, but otherwise I'm as right as a guy without his left hand!"

Oops. Tall dude was looking a little more sour at that. Maybe he should-

"Ha! Is it because he's got nothing left?" Patton giggled, cheeks flushing a little at his clever pun.

Ok, scratch that, whatever keeps Pat smiling was worth whatever that other guy was cooking up. To his surprise though, tall bro seemed pleased, glancing between them.

"Remus...." Virgil called from inside, voice shaking. That was a bad sign.

As much as he wanted to figure out the mystery man, and to talk with Pat, he knew that if he left Virgil alone right now, it wouldn't be good. Leaving the door open for the other two, he turned to see Virgil attempting to ground himself at the thought of these two strangers.

"Hey. Hey tarantula. Its all cool. Is touch good right now?"

A nod was the only response he got, which was better than nothing. Remus lifted Virgil up into his arms, letting him rest his head on his chest to hear his heartbeat.

"Can you try and match my breathing? 4-7-8 right?"

Another nod, and the clench of Virgil holding onto Remus's wrist.

It took a while, but eventually Virgil was calm enough to mumble to be let down from Remus's arms. Vee clearly wanted to rest after that, so he took him to his room, letting him lie down on the mattress before he went back to the other two, who he had forgotten to take care of beforehand.

"I had to take care of him." He wasn't about to apologise for watching after Vee, even if the big guy expected him to. "How about we talk outside? I wanna let him get some quiet after that."

Patton seemed stunned at this stark change, but nodded, and let Remus lock up the apartment before leading them down to the complex's garden. The other one didn't say anything, just wordlessly followed after.

When they were finally settled down in the outside seats, Patton burst out immediately. "I'm so sorry! We didn't mean to make your friend scared!"

"He'll be ok. He's never been especially good with new people. You're okay though Pat and...you are?"

Turning his head to glance over at the other guy, he was surprised to find that his eyes were different colors, one more of a dark brown, and the other yellow.

"Demetrius. But you know me as Dee."

"Ohhhhh you're that guy! That guy who lifted me!"

He seemed surprised that Remus remembered him, or maybe just that he wasn't pointing out the obvious here, that because of Dee and Pat, Remus was apperantly part of their gang.

"Yes, I am...that guy."

Patton stopped fussing with his overalls to look over at Dee, perking up at that answer. Did he even know how cute he was?? Sure, Virgil had said that he and this Dee guy were part of a gang, but he did not have the rights to be so impossibly pretty.

"You're probably wondering why you now have a tag in your ear, am I correct?" Dee cut into Remus's thoughts with his voice, stern.

"I assumed it wasn't just a kink thing." Winking at him, Ree leaned back against his chair, legs propped up on the table.

"No, it was not a 'kink thing.' It was to give you clearance into our home of sorts. Since Patton clearly-"

Remus couldn't tell exactly, but he though he saw Patton jabbed his arm into Dee's side? Or something?

"-wanted to talk to you more."

"Oh! Alright. I have no idea where you live."

"In hindsight, we should have told you about it. But first-" Dee pulled down the collar of his shirt, showing the beginning of a tattoo. An anaconda, wrapping around his neck and disappearing into his shirt. "-I assume you know who we are."

"Dee! That really isn't necessary!" Patton frowned, pinching at Dee's cheek like a mother would to a naughty child.

"We need to make sure he doesn't tell anyone!"

Rolling his eyes, Pat leaned over the small table, clasping Remus's hands in his. "We're not exactly on the police's good side you could say. We'd really appreciate it if you didn't tell them where we live?"

Was he making puppy eyes? And, were those sparkles on his cheeks or was Remus just seeing things??? He couldn't tell, the image of dissapointing Patton was too much for him either way. "Yeah, yeah sure."

"Wonderful!!!"

The sight of his smile was dizzying, god it felt more intoxicating than the strongest drug. Was this that heaven Roman was always going off about?

Dee cleared his throat, throwing Ree off again. How many times was he gonna interrupt his inner monologues??? "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to hurry this moment up. I have a meeting later, and watching you two stare into each other's eyes isn't the best use of my time."

"Dee!"

"Not much of a voyager huh?" Remus wasted no time clearing the air, attempting to ignore the way his own face was beginning to turn red.

"Considering it's my brother, no."

While both him and Virgil had confirmed it, it was difficult for Remus to accept it. There was a couple similarities, sure, the way that their jaws sloped into soft lines, their hands, both worn with use, and their curly brown hair. But the glint in their eyes was different, not to mention the scars that seemed to line Dee more frequently than Pat, at least from what Remus could see.

"Can I grab my phone?"

"...grab your roommate too."

"What?"

"So he knows where you are."

"I'll see if he's okay, but it's not a guarantee."

Surprisingly, Virgil was already calm enough to answer Remus. "What the fuck would they want with me???"

"The big guy, Dee, said it's so you know where I am. I guess they'll want to suck out our brains together!"

"...as if they'd get anything from you. Your head is empty."

It was surprising that Virgil didn't fight about it, by his reaction earlier, Ree was almost certain that he wouldn't come.

The four met back up downstairs, Patton already chatting up a storm with Remus, leaving Virgil and Dee walking beside each other.

"What do you want with Remus?" Hushed, Virgil watched his friend and...Patton, walking ahead, the two already gushing to each other about who knows what.

"Oh I want nothing with Remus. My brother on the other hand has taken a liking to him."

"And that's enough to straight up make him part of your gang???"

Virgil couldn't believe this guy. Who the fuck does that??? Shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket, he continued staring ahead, not wanting to have to look at him.

"Well, I'd like to see you try and resist him. He can be very...persuasive."

"Oh am I gonna have to worry about him threatening me too?"

Demetrius (he felt weird thinking of him with the informal title of 'Dee,' when he already hated this guy's guts) seemed to bristle at that, and from the corner of his eye Virgil could tell he was glaring at him.

"Patton would never threaten someone!"

"Listen, considering your guys' jobs, I wouldn't be surprised if he did."

"Well if you're such a smart-ass, then why did you come along?"

"To make sure my friend didn't turn up on the news by the end of the day, why else?"

Demetrius shrugged off his leather jacket as they all walked, probably due to the afternoon heat. Virgil snuck a look over at him, about to make fun of him before he noticed that Oh Lord He Was Fit. He looked so lanky before though??? Where did those arms come from???

Demetrius didn't seem to notice Virgil's stare, or if he did, he ignored it, tying the jacket around his waist. "I doubt he'd be dead. You on the other hand, would not fare well under the gang."

"Oh you think I'd be useless???"

"No, just your pretty-boy ass would get torn to shreds."

"Oh so now you're saying I'm pretty." It was mocking, but he couldn't help a twinge of curiosity. Demetrius was handsome after all, even if he was a gang leader. But that was no excuse for him to fantasize! He probably killed people!

"Wha- no!!!"

"Mmhm sure."

The two continued bickering behind Patton and Remus's backs, the odd group traversing the city until they reached...well...home.

It certainly was going to be interesting...

#ts virgil #ts patton #ts deceit #sanders sides #sanders side fic #virgil sanders #patton sanders #remus sanders #gang au #potential anxciet?

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lostinfantasies38 · 5 years

Text

Modern AU Prompt

I did not reblog this list, but I saw this prompt and had to write it! I’ve had this Modern AU in my head for a while and this gave me an opportunity to write something for it and lay the groundwork for later.

Tagging those I think might be interested in reading or the prompt list. @kittimau @ginnyq @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold @fandomn00blr @somniaran @bigfan-fanfic @sharkapologists @theaiobhan

#70 from this prompt list from the TOFTS blog. “I am twelve kinds of confused right now. But fuck are you cute.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hazy atmosphere almost swallowed the riotous lights, a combination of vape smoke and fog effects, so dense it vibrated in time with the thunderous bass filling the crush on the dance floor of the club. Lost in the music, Alistair allowed himself to let loose, holding onto the slight woman in his grasp. Well, girl, actually. Too young, probably not even old enough to drink, but when she dragged him from his spot at the bar into the middle of the room, he hadn’t argued.

She was pretty, in a sorority girl kind of way. Long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, introducing herself over the thump of the heavy bass. He nearly missed learning her name was Mari. He smiled, but did not give his name in return. If she was hoping for a fling, the poor dear would be disappointed. Alistair wasn’t one for casual trysts, for which the guys at the precinct all gave him grief over. Yet, he had no intentions of ever treating a woman the way his father treated his mother.

Keeping his hands in neutral territory, they never strayed from her dainty waist and once the song was over, he thanked her kindly and made his escape before he had to reject her. He was almost off the dance floor when he caught sight of a strange movement along the back wall near the DJ’s booth. Automatically, his large hands sought his pistol on his belt, but he cursed himself when he remembered he was undercover and not wearing his Glock.

Maker, damn it. Of all the blasted luck…

It was hard for him to blend into the crowd when he was at least five inches taller than everyone, but ducking and weaving as though tipsy through the masses, Alistair sidled close to the DJ. Tucking into the shadows he saw the faint outline of a door in the wall's paneling. Hidden in the darkness behind the blinding light display. Smart.

He’d be sure to pass the information along to the team and triple check with his informant to see if he had any new intel. This job was becoming tedious. They needed to catch a break on the damn thing or the Chief would probably tell them to shelve their operation. He hadn’t worked on this case against Kazmer Brosca’s lyrium smuggling for six months to see it go down the drain. Alistair would break the Carta’s stranglehold on Denerim. No more of that shit would kill innocents on his watch.

From his darkened corner he watched the door for signs of movement for a while, but no one entered or exited. With a weary sigh, the tall human turned on his heel. He’d been away from his perch at the bar too long, anyway. As he crossed the dance floor, someone crashed into his lower body and he spun in concern to make sure whoever bumped into him was all right.

A dwarven woman smirked at him from her splayed position on the ground. Delicate features framed by dark hair cascaded in waves down her back and paired beautifully with captivating dark eyes. Her ears and nose glittered with numerous piercings in the strobe lighting, and he struggled to breathe as he wordlessly grasped her petite hand to assist her in regaining her footing. The navy top she wore sat low on her shoulders, exposing her ethereal skin, and he could see more flashes of porcelain through her ripped designer jeans. Ankle boots gave her some height, bringing her mid-way up his chest, but he knew without them, she didn’t even hit five feet tall.

“Hello, handsome,” she murmured in a raspy voice. “Dance with me.”

Alistair laughed nervously. “Are you sure you aren’t concussed? Running into me is like hitting a brick wall. You should… sit down or something.”

Luscious full lips curled into a genuine smile and she snatched his hand, dragging him deeper into the melee on the floor. “I’m perfectly fine, gorgeous. If all walls wore your face, I’d run into them on purpose.”

Something about the way she said that set the gears in his brain whirring and her grin widened. With a smooth nod, she beckoned him to bend closer. “I see you are catching on. And they say Denerim’s finest aren’t very bright.”

“Who -”

“Listen, do you want Brosca or not?” Alistair shut his mouth and nodded tersely. “Good,” she purred.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she tilted her face towards his in invitation and breathed against his cheek. “Kiss me.”

His eyes widened in shock and he opened his mouth to protest, but her eyes flashed warningly even though her smile held, and he realized there might be spies on the floor.

With a groan he couldn’t contain if he tried, Alistair’s hand cupped her neck and pressed his lips to hers. Soft, yet demanding, the dwarf took control, her lithe fingers slipping into his hair, and in seconds their fake kiss turned into a heady embrace. Alistair was sure she didn’t need to sell their stolen moment on the dance floor with this much enthusiasm, which caused his stomach to flutter with excitement. Maybe she wanted to kiss him as badly as he did her.

His other hand settled in the dip of her waist and he moaned into her mouth when he found delicious curves that overflowed his palm. One petite hand caressed the slightly tapered peak of his ear and he growled into the kiss, nipping her lip in response and soothing it with his tongue before she leaned back with a husky chuckle.

“Well, well, handsome. Tell me do all the uniforms in this town kiss like that or just you?”

Smiling smugly, he replied. “I wouldn’t know, since I don’t go around kissing any of them. But even if I did, I’m not the type to kiss and tell.”

Alistair was twelve kinds of confused right now, but fuck she was cute - gorgeous actually, and damned irresistible.

The small woman hummed appreciatively, and he swallowed thickly as her pupils dilated, blown wide with unquestionable desire. He’d never understood the meaning of the phrase “bedroom eyes” until this moment. But Maker, those espresso irises made him want to break every one of his rules and take her straight home.

“That was an even better answer than I was hoping for,” she stated.

Tangling her hands into his shirt, the dwarf closed the gap between them, murmuring against his lips in what looked like a lover’s embrace.

“Tomorrow. Zero hundred on the dot. Western quay. A shipment will be delivered inside shipping containers bearing the logo of a broken ‘S.’ Manifest will be under the name Beraht Zandt.”

Pressing her mouth to his cheek, she whispered. “And I’m sorry to tell you, your informant is dead. You won’t find him, either, so don’t go looking or you’ll attract unnecessary attention.”

Alistair’s hold on her tightened, and he attempted to lean back, pry more information out of the woman, but her grip was strong for such a tiny person.

Shaking him slightly, she hissed in his ear, “Promise me, handsome. You won’t go looking for trouble. Take what I gave you. Use what you find against Brosca, but don’t stir up the hornet's nest or you’ll put a target on your back so large you’ll never escape their reach. Promise me.”

Relaxing his grasp on her curvaceous form, he choked out a harsh whisper. “I promise.”

Unfurling her fingers from his cotton shirt, she stepped lightly out of his embrace, tossing him an inviting smile.

“Thanks for the dance, gorgeous. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Her stride was quick for such a short-legged woman and in seconds, she melted into the crowd, lost in a sea of humans. The perfect escape route.

What in the Void just happened?

Returning to his place at the bar, his phone vibrated in his jean pocket. With a heavy sigh, he checked the harsh glow of the screen, and waved the bartender over to pay his tab.

They parked the stakeout van in a side alley halfway up the block from the club. The rest of his squad were hunkered inside, monitoring the surveillance footage of the interior and exterior activity of the club. Checking the alley was clear, he rapped his knuckles on the door of the vehicle and clambered inside as soon as it opened.

Immediately his partner, Cullen, rounded on him with a vicious snarl. “What the actual fuck was that, Alistair? You could have blown the entire op with that stunt!”

Scowling, Alistair snatched a piece of paper and messily scrawled the dwarven girl’s intel across the blank page. Spinning the sheet towards his partner in silent irritation, he tried not to gloat as the blonde read the information with wide eyes.

“Shit… if that’s true…”

“Then we have our first lead in six months and Chief can’t shut us down for failure to deliver,” Alistair finished.

Running a hand wearily across his features, Cullen glanced at the other faces of their squad and shook his head.

“We can’t be sure of this information, though. But we don’t have time to vet it, either. Not if the deal really is going down tomorrow night.”

“I know. It’s all we’ve got. We can’t sit on it.”

“No, we can’t,” Cullen agreed. Blowing out a breath, the blonde nodded crisply, as though reaching an internal decision.

“Fine, we’ll make plans for the bust tomorrow. We must all agree not to inform the Chief who your source for the intel was until we make good on it.” Multiple heads in the van nodded grimly.

Alistair snorted softly, his chiseled features crinkled in confusion. “And why not? She’s only a girl. Probably ex-Carta.”

A sinking sensation washed over him at the shell-shocked expressions on his team members’ faces in the van. Cullen barked out a sharp laugh of incredulity.

“Maker’s breath, you really don’t know who she is, do you?”

Crossing his arms, the auburn-haired man narrowed his eyes and replied evenly.

“No, we didn’t exchange pleasantries. I never gave my name, and she never gave hers. Why? Who in the blasted Void is she?”

At Cullen’s chin jerk, Charter executed a complicated set of keystrokes on the computer. A long-range surveillance shot of the dwarven woman he’d lip locked filled the screen. Her heart-shaped mouth was quirked in the same teasing smirk from the club, and her dark eyes brimmed with cunning intelligence. She stared directly at the camera as though she knew it was there.

The name under the photo stopped his heart.

Sirra Brosca.

Kazmer’s only daughter and favorite child. Codename: “The Carta Darling of Denerim.”

“Andraste’s fucking sword.” Alistair groaned as he sank unsteadily into an empty chair.

“Yeah,” breathed Cullen.

#nacl prompts #modern au #sirrastair #Alistair x Sirra #carta darling #alistair theirin #sirra brosca

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thewhiterabbit42 · 5 years

Text

Wicked Games Part 2

Pairing: Gabriel x reader

Series Summary: When a trickster seeks revenge on Gabriel, he traps the archangel in a sex dungeon with the person he despises the most: you.

Word Count: 2726

Written for: @spndarkbingo - sex dungeon

@heavenandhellbingo - dark fic

Chapter tags/warnings: kidnapping, nonconsensual removal of clothing, threats of violence

Series tags/warnings (as it stands): dark fic, medium burn, kidnapping, sex dungeon, mutual pining, enemies to lovers, violence, graphic depictions of horror, dub con, non con, oral sex, it’s a sex dungeon so likely all the sex, confessed feelings, bondage, more tba

<<Part 1

“You are such an asshole!”

You’re crouched behind - well, you honestly don’t want to think about what it is you’re hiding behind. Your stomach flips just acknowledging the combination of wood, leather, and metal bars, let alone the variety of uses one could get from it.

There’s a chill to the room that settles across every inch of bare skin, which happens to be just about all of you, because someone decided to outdo themselves in the giant dick department and play the douchiest prank of the century. Possibly the last several by snapping you to some god awful place in a matching set of black lace bra and panties.

This isn’t what you expected to find walking into an abandoned hunting camp in the middle of the woods. It has to be Gabriel’s doing. There’s no way that faded wooden planks can disguise this much concrete, let alone double in size the moment you walk through the door.

You know you saw windows, a little sliding glass door off the side, but the only glass you can find comes in shapes for things you’re trying really hard not to remember exist.

“This isn’t funny!”

“Do you hear me laughing?” The sardonic edge beneath his words becomes lost to you as you look up at the wall.

There are rows and rows of hooks with various items hanging from them. Floggers, paddles, canes, whips, all staring back at your wide-eyed face.

Then there's the restraining materials; ropes, chains, zip ties, leather cuffs, actual manacles, metal ones that belong in medieval dungeons.

Given the lack of anything but wall to wall stone, you can't discount that you might really be in one.

What the actual fuck.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and you have to remind yourself that none of this is real; you haven't actually woken up naked in some sort of sex dungeon. This is just Gabriel being a shit.

The worst kind of shit, but one nonetheless.

"Bring us back," you order, hugging your knees to your chest.

"You need to calm down," he barks right back at you.

Yeah, like that's helpful. Like you want the sensation of your lungs shrinking as another windowless room starts to overlay this one.

You try to focus on something else, but it’s hard to ignore the way your head begins to spin as you struggle to take in air, how unforgiving the lights above you are, highlighting all the physical reminders of why you hate being boxed in by concrete.

The back of your neck begins to burn with a familiar feeling of helplessness, signalling things are about to get messy real fast.

"You need to bring us back right fucking now!" You've never yelled at him before, not like this, and he has to know how much he's messed up and snap you back. He has to.

"I can't!" He erupts, voice booming through the large room. "You really think I'd snap myself naked into a place like this?"

The unspoken with you is a given, and you're so done with everything that it takes a moment for what he’s saying to sink in.

He’s naked?

You lean toward the end of the table, curiosity making you slowly peek around the side. A muscular thigh greets you, pale golden skin offset by meticulous black stitching that runs nearly to his knee. He shifts his weight, and you yank your head back a split second before anything else can slide into view.

Oh sweet jesus.

Heat sweeps into your cheeks. Of course he’d be naked. Why wouldn’t he be?

"You know anyone else that can pull things out of thin air?" Your retort comes out a little less confident, though you’re still not convinced he’s not to blame. Who’s to say he’s not smart enough to put himself in a precarious position to prove his supposed innocence?

He goes silent, and after several seconds of nothing you begin to worry.

Your second glance around the corner gives you an eyeful of firm backside. He’s drawn up to full height, spine straight and proud as if surveying his handiwork.

What. A. Jerk.

"It's got to be another trickster," he announces.

Yeah. Like you’re going to buy that.

Your eyes are drawn past him to the carnival-esque signs that detail what can be found on each wall, as if advertising for things like ring tosses and balloon popping rather than dildos and nipple clamps. Not to mention how every wall of sex toys is backlit in some gaudy display, surrounded by obnoxious flashing lights you might find on a gameshow.

What really makes you suspicious is the giant wheel in the midst of it all, which is clearly the centerpiece of this freakshow.

"You're so full of shit." And you're so so over this. “Give me back my clothes and get me out of here right now.”

Apparently, so is he.

“Are you really that brain dead after spending so much time with the dynamic duo?” He snarls, and it isn’t the contemptuous bite of his tone that has your stomach knotting, but the black bands you notice as he throws his arms out wide. “Because what part of I can’t did you not understand?”

His hands shake with his frustration, the material around his wrists flaring bright with his anger.

You swallow, more than familiar with the types of symbols that glow a heavenly blue before fading from sight once again.

Oh fuck.

“God dammit, Gabriel!” You scream, because you have to scream at something. Someone. Anything.

You drop your head back hard against the metal eyelets behind it. For a moment there’s nothing but the small flare of pain and the increasingly frantic cadence of your heart thumping away in your ears.

You’re actually trapped. In a sex dungeon. With a powerless archangel who hates you so much he'd likely prefer to bury his angel blade inside you before he touched you with his personal one.

“What the hell did I do?”

He has the gall to sound miffed, and you cling desperately to your fury like driftwood to keep your head from going under.

"Anyone else kick a hornet’s nest lately and now has a host of vengeful deities on their ass?”

He at least has the decency to shut his mouth for three seconds.

You, on the other hand, lose the ability to close yours. “Let’s not all speak up at once.”

"Just... let me think.” The bite beneath his words unexpectedly vanishes, and you don’t like how deflated he sounds.

Your mind starts to race, the frantic pace pushing the fringe of hysteria with how fast it whirls.

You should have seen the signs.

You should have walked away.

You didn’t, and just like before, you’re going to pay for it.

“Jesus Christ, kid, can you take a breath? I can’t hear myself think with the way you’re panicking.”

He’s not harping for once. If anything, he might be the one panicking, but you’re beyond being able to read the subtleties of his demeanor. All you hear is the same message he’s been feeding you for months.

You’re the problem. You’re always in the way. Useless. Useless. Useless.

“Why is it always my fault?” You yell. “I’m the one that always ends up as collateral in the collective shitstorms you bring down upon yourselves.”

You know you’re not thinking clearly. You’re falling straight down a rabbithole that has nothing good on the other side. But your brain doesn’t see that, and it can’t do anything other than fire away with warning.

“For all the bitching you do with each other, you’re exactly the same.” Your voice continues to rise, adrenaline saturating your system. “You’re so wrapped up in your own agendas that you can’t see what it’s doing to anyone around you even when the damage is sitting in front of your god damn face.”

For the life of you, you don’t understand why you do it anymore. Your relationship with Dean is so broken you’re not sure it can ever be repaired, and you’re pretty certain what shred of one remains with Gabriel won’t survive this encounter.

The archangel says your name, but you can’t hear him. There’s so much you’ve held back and desperately tried to bury that there’s no more space for it to go. Everything comes barreling to the surface in a tidal wave of rage, because you can’t allow it to be what it actually is. Hurt layered upon injustices that fester so deeply, trying to cleanse yourself of it at this point might actually destroy you.

But hate, you can handle that.

“I don’t need either of you or your bullshit excuses!”

For a moment there’s nothing but seething red and an overwhelming need to release it. You don’t even know what’s happening with your foot until it slams against the pillar in front of you. The stone doesn’t give, but your ankle does, and you growl at the explosion of pain that cuts through the whirlwind of emotions inside of you.

“Now, now, we can’t have you damaging the goods so early in the game…”

You can’t tell where the voice is coming from, only that it’s everywhere. Above. Behind. Flooding in from every side, wrapping you within the confines of its sultry accent and sending a knot through your stomach. It pulls your head back above the water, where you find you’re dragging in lungfuls of air no differently than if you really have been drowning.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Gabriel knows who it is, and given recent events, you’re not reassured, even if he sounds more peeved than anything.

The air next to the cement column shimmers, and if there was any give to the object at your back, you would have shot back several feet. The thing sits bolted straight into cement, however, and it doesn’t do much other than wiggle as your spine slams against it.

You’re not sure what materializes in front of you. Those are definitely human legs rising up from the floor, long and lanky, with golden bronze skin that make you think of places filled with warmth and sunshine. The rest of it is most definitely not a person, though you’re grateful at least one member of this party comes with clothing.

Somewhere beneath the brightly colored wrap around its waist it changes, skin giving way to a sprinkling of fur that thickens the further up your eyes travel. It’s chest is fully covered with a coat so glossy you’re tempted to see if it really does feel as silky as it looks. As odd as the whole thing is, it helps make the coyote head sitting on top of humanesque shoulders a little less shocking.

You take in the regal headdress that you imagine says something about its status, the red and yellow feathers a colorful contrast to the sea of blacks, metal, and greys of the room. Nothing about the figure jars anything specific loose from your lore knowledge, though by it’s accent and appearance your guess would be some sort of deity from Latin America.

“You.” The archangel grumbles, accusation threading through his word.

The creature smiles. “Me.” He spreads his arms wide, an exorbitant amount of pride accompanying the gesture, and it’s not lost on you how very Gabriel-esque the whole entrance is. “How are you, old friend? I imagine you’ve seen better days?”

His gaze drops to where you’re sitting, and his head gives a curious tilt. “And I imagine you have too, my dear?”

“Who the hell are you?” You don’t feel as fierce as your words would imply, and you could be wrapped from head to toe and still feel exposed with the way he drinks the sight of you in without shame.

The thing chuckles, clearly amused.

“Kid, meet Huehuecoyotl,” Gabriel announces. “Another trickster.”

You can feel the smugness permeating the space around you, bordering on hubris in a way that’s been inauspiciously absent. You can’t help but feel like it’s an act, no different than yours, and it only makes you that much more nervous.

“Now are you going to tell me what is going on, or are you here to finish that round of twenty questions we started at the turn of the century?” He demands.

You can just see him now, hands on his hips, boorish indifference splashing across his features.

The whole act is just as ignored by the thing in front of you as it would with you.

“May I?” The trickster inquires, though he doesn’t actually wait before he reaches for your ankle with grotesque nubs caught somewhere between a paw and a hand.

You jerk back and he pauses, letting out a soft snort. “Ah, yes. How silly of me.”

An unsettling popping fills the room, and you watch as it’s joints begin to shift, tips extending into fully-formed, fingers. The fur covering them adds another touch of surreal to the whole situation.

“That’s better. Won’t get very far without these.” He wiggles the new digits at you, bones cracking as they shake off their stiffness.

He’s not going to get far, period, opposable thumbs or not.

You’ve never been so relieved to hear Gabriel open his mouth or intentionally diminish your presence. “C’mon, Coy. Stop wasting time with her.”

The thing smiles, and your stomach drops at the row of long, jagged teeth that emerges.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what to do with my time, Loki, or should I say, Gabriel.” He draws the archangel’s true name out, rolling the r on his tongue in a way that’s intimate.

There’s an unmistakable gleam in his gaze when he glances up, and the moment the weight of his stare shifts from you, you realize how magnificent it is. Copper hues blend seamlessly with bronze, the colors tied together with flecks of gold that sparkle more playfully than anything.

It tugs at something in your chest, something you immediately smother.

“That was quite the trick you both pulled, making the world believe that only one of you existed.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “But we’ll get to that in a moment.”

With a wave of his hand, the room around you fades to darkness, as the light above your head intensifies. The sudden spotlight makes you uneasy, as does the way you can still touch the floor beneath you, but not the table at your back.

“Seriously. Stop dicking around with her and let’s talk about this.” Gabriel’s voice floats in on the fringes, but it’s like he’s calling across a chasm, the familiar timbre distant and faded.

It takes all of an instant to realize what’s happening.

“What do you want?” Your arms tighten across your chest, and you’re even more acutely aware of just how exposed you are.

“So many things.” You can’t begin to unpack the complexities of his statement or the ones that follows. “Mostly, I just want to help.”

Your eyes widen at the knife he brandishes, stomach plummeting well beneath concrete as he holds the blade up in front of your face. Power pours off the metal, prickling over your skin in a way that alarms you. It has to be ancient, filled with something you don’t recognize or understand.

“Sometimes, in order to make something stronger, we must first destroy it.”

You can’t help but notice the short but curved blade attached to the end or the spiked ridges along the inner edge that can’t be for anything other than tearing through flesh.

“Pain, as a construct, is ultimately fleeting, though the weight of breaking or watching someone break can be unbearable, no matter which side of the knife you are on.”

You swallow, eyes drifting up to the handle, trying to find something you recognize.

It’s exquisite, a combination of beautiful gems and the finest spellwork you’ve ever seen with ethereal, symbols and lettering shifting along the surface in a way that almost makes them seem alive. There’s no rhyme or reason to how they move, not that you can tell, and you’d be otherwise fascinated with the weapon, except it’s leveled in your direction.

“Now hold still,” He instructs, his grip on your calf tightening. “I’d prefer not to hurt you more than necessary.”

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Gabe Squad

@disneymarina @starchaser-the-prophet @bloodstained-porcelain-doll @the-kryomancer @supernaturalways @erisunderthemoon @hankypranky @fruitypieq @missihart23 @a-wing-and-a-pen @waywardspringchild @luciferseclipse @greeneyedtrickster @fand0maniac @gabegirrl86

#gabriel x reader #gabriel bingo #spndarkbingo #gabriel #spn gabriel #gabriel fanfic #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #rabbit writes

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echodrops · 5 years

Text

Kicking the Hornet’s Nest...

I’m procrastinating hard on other tasks, but in chit-chatting (both on tumblr and on Discord) about my stance on criticism of fanfiction, I realized that there’s a very low-hanging analogy I can make to explain my thoughts on this, so…

Uh first, please remember this is my personal blog and just my personal opinion. If you think that giving unsolicited concrit is the worst, I promise I’m not here to grab you individually, shake you by the shoulders, and try to change your minds. We can agree to disagree; I’m fully aware my opinion is unpopular on tumblr but also fully aware of the irony of people giving unsolicited criticism on a post about why unsolicited criticism is a good thing.

And second, please note that the analogy used below is only an analogy and not meant to be a one-to-one comparison–obviously the issue of vaccination is a far more critical, serious, and solemn issue and the topic of criticism on fanfiction (of all things) is not equal to a global health crisis that has cost real people’s lives. I’m drawing radical comparisons to thought processes because it’s shocking, not genuinely comparing fanfiction comments to moral and ethical world health decisions because I think those two things are equitable in importance.

Uh and third, please don’t respond unless you’re going to read it all. I'm happy to take your constructive criticism after you're finished with the whole thing. I get so tired of people rushing to my inbox after only getting half way through my arguments–90% of the time, I already addressed the thing you wanted to come yell at me about and you just didn’t make it there, promise.

So, at the risk of pissing off just about everyone who thought they respected me before this:

The current anti-concrit mindset stems from a similar logic to the one used by anti-vaxxers.

(This analogy lasts a grand total of five paragraphs or something, don’t get your jimmies too rustled.)

Most people on tumblr are happy–downright gleeful–to mock anti-vaxxers. The average anti-vaxxer is considered close-minded, self-centered, and under-educated. Although the issue of anti-vaxxing is probably more complicated than we paint it here on this website (to be fair, I wouldn’t know if it’s more complicated, since I agree that anti-vaxxers are generally stupid and don’t look into their arguments very often), almost no one on tumblr has any issue with anti-vaxxers being dragged up and down the block for their bad choices.

Usually, the logic of anti-vaxxers is understood to work something like this:

Anti-vaxxer: I don’t want to expose my child to something potentially harmful, so I am not going to vaccinate them.

Literally everyone else: You’re exposing your child to far greater risk in the long-term by not vaccinating.

Or:

Anti-vaxxer: My child doesn’t need to be vaccinated; they’re fine as they are. Those diseases aren’t a big deal anymore.

Literally everyone else: This mindset will make those diseases a big deal again.

On paper, sometimes anti-vaxxer logic works out–it is true that some children suffer very painful and awful reactions to vaccinations. It IS true that poorly made or contaminated vaccinations have killed children and will continue to do in the future. It IS true that vaccinations are painful and stressful for children in general and can even–depending on how the children respond to pain and how their doctors/nurses treat them–result in long-term phobias and health care aversion. There can be serious lasting consequences from vaccinating.

But most of us laugh in the face of anti-vaxxers. Why? Because we know that in comparison to the number of benefits, the risks are minimal. In the long-term, the number of people helped by vaccines far, far exceeds the number of people hurt.

I hope you can see where I’m going. At its core, the issue of giving unsolicited constructive criticism follows a similar pattern of short-term risk aversion. Authors who don’t want constructive criticism and choose to actively refuse it are following a similar thought process to anti-vaxxer parents:

Author: I don’t want any constructive criticism. Criticism can be painful, and my writing doesn’t need to be exposed to that.

Or:

Author: I don’t need any constructive criticism because my writing is fine as it is and I’m just doing it for fun anyway.

The general attitude seems to be that exposing fanfiction authors to unsolicited constructive criticism carries more risk than it does reward. And please be aware that I’m talking about genuinely constructive criticism here, well-intentioned and polite comments (the vaccine in this analogy), not troll comments deliberately designed to hurt people’s feelings (which would be equivalent to say, an injected contaminated drug in this analogy–no one should be okay with those).

But like anti-vaxxers who insist that the short-term risks of vaccines are more dangerous than the long-term risks of major diseases… is there really any evidence that genuinely constructive criticism, even when unsolicited, really does discourage and upset a large number of fanfiction authors? Or, more to the point of the analogy–is the number of people who would be entirely discouraged from writing ever again by some constructive criticism really greater than the number of people who would benefit from getting some (again, polite) tips for improving their writing? Which is the greater risk–being hurt in the short-term or losing out on the opportunity for growth in the long-term?

Clearly there are different opinions on this and I suspect that my opinion is heavily colored by the fact that I am older than the average tumblr user and therefore have many more years to look back on to weigh on the scales of this debate.

But I will always, always argue that the long-term benefits of helping other writers where you can far, far, far outweigh the short-term risks, for a couple reasons.

1) The world is a shitty, disappointing, stressful, and painful place. We encounter harsh criticisms every single day. Your teachers will give you poor grades. Your bosses will tell you your work isn’t up-to-par. Your friends will tell you the new top you bought and absolutely love… actually makes you look like you’re wearing a potato sack. If you’re into relationships, you’ll probably experience at least one break-up in which you hear that it’s YOU, not them, who is the problem. Your feelings will be hurt by callous comments from others an uncountable number of times. Your confidence will be shaken, if not actively crushed. I’m sorry to say it, but for almost all of us, having some miserable, anxiety-inducing and extremely discouraging moments in life is part of the unavoidable human experience. (And this is doubly, maybe triply true when we are starting out new hobbies or first entering a new field. Anyone who has ever tried to learn how to skateboard and gotten laughed at by experienced skateboarders knows exactly what I’m talking about.)

The world is full of truly awful things. And I’m not the kind of person who thinks we should just be exposed to all of them right from the get-go and fuck you and your snowflake feelings or things like that. I highly urge people to tag for triggering content and am on the record again and again telling people to block characters or ships that make them uncomfortable.

But many fanfiction authors are young authors, some of whom are posting work for public consumption for the very first time. Still more have no positive experiences with constructive criticism in the first place, and the extent of their literary criticism knowledge comes from really awful and boring high school English classes. When budding writers encounter a sudden explosion of access to readers–from having maybe one or two friends read their work to suddenly having their words in front of the eyes of thousands of strangers on the internet:

It’s disingenuous to give starting writers nothing but positive feedback. Only hearing positives about your work actively discourages change and self-reflection. It gives writers an unrealistic picture of their work that can result in far more serious disappointment and embarrassment later. When someone is awful at singing and they’re only told how nice their voice is, eventually when they sing for a more serious group of strangers, they’re going to be in for a very, very miserable time.

It’s a terrible missed opportunity for young writers to get a glimpse of what “professional” writing is like. Everyone benefits from genuinely constructive criticism–both the person getting it and the person giving it. We create young writers who are passionate about improving their writing by inducting them into the culture of planning, drafting, bouncing ideas off each other, finding beta readers, and taking others’ advice to grow their abilities, and oftentimes, one of the first experiences a person has with that process is someone spontaneously going “Hey, what if you tried this instead?” People often become inspired to become doctors and nurses after witnessing a family member experience a medical crisis–people often become inspired to become writers after receiving thorough feedback on things they have written. It’s impossible to really know whether or not you want a piece of constructive criticism until after you have heard what the criticism is, and adopting a “no unsolicited constructive criticism” policy as a whole creates an entire generation of fan writers who would miss out on opportunities for growth and inspiration.

This is waxing REALLY philosophical, but bear with me here, because this is also a well-documented concern of mine: we are entering an age in which people are no longer responsible for the media choices they make, where the internet is no longer viewed as a the equivalent of yelling into a crowd of (potentially dangerous) strangers, and the onus for protection is shifting away from self-preservation “I need to not put myself near upsetting things” to “other people have the responsibility not to expose me to upsetting things.” I’ve seen a lot of people say “If authors want constructive criticism on their fics, they can just say that in a note!” My ladies. My guys. My non-binary buddies. This is the utter opposite of how the internet functions. When you put anything on the internet, you are literally putting it before a crowd of an absolutely uncountable number of strangers and there are no rules (barring the laws of their home countries) dictating how they can respond to the things you put out there. Posting your writing on the internet is explicit consent to receive constructive criticism from anyone at any time unless you take actions to prevent that in advance. Sites like AO3 actively grant you the power to dictate who can SEE your work, comment on your work, give you the power to remove messages, screen comments before they appear, block comments entirely, or simply write in any of your notes sections that you do not want constructive criticism. (If it’s that easy to write “I want constructive criticism!” why is not seen as equally easy to write “I do not want constructive criticism!”?)

Public spaces on the internet are opt out, not opt in.

Why do many (though lord knows, not all) tumblr users easily agree to the idea of “If you don’t like a ship, you should just block it” or “If you see properly tagged content you don’t like on AO3 and you click it, that’s your own fault for not reading the tags,” but have the complete opposite mindset when it comes to constructive criticism? “I’m submitting my work in a public place where anyone can express their opinion on it… But even though there are multiple tools at my disposal for discouraging and blocking opinions I don’t agree with, it’s actually other people’s responsibility not to say anything that might upset me.”

As I said, waxing philosophical here, but this is kind of a scary mindset. The ability to enter a public space–and the internet is the MOST public space in the world–and then declare that you simply don’t want to listen to dissenting opinions is scary. I mean, this is how we get a common anti-vaxxer mindset–I don’t want to listen to your opinion because I have my source telling me I’m right and that’s all I need. “I put my work out in a public place and left it accessible to everyone, but I don’t want to listen to what everyone says about it.” I don’t mean to jump off the slippery slope, but this issue is a slippery slope in and of itself. Down this way lies a dark future. “It’s other people’s responsibility to curate my social experience for me.”

But really, after all this… I just flat out think it’s important to give genuinely constructive criticism to each other without people needing to ask for it because it just kind of sucks to see a fellow writer struggling with something and not say something about it. It’s not about feeling superior or thinking you know better than someone else; we all have our own strengths and weaknesses, and spotting something that could use a bit of work in someone else’s writing doesn’t make you a better writer, it just means that’s not your particular weakness. When someone is struggling to learn to swim, you don’t just leave them to their own devices and assume they’ll figure it out–even if they swear they’ve got it. When someone is learning to sew and you, who has sewed that exact thing before, don’t offer any advice, that’s not encouragement, it’s apathy. There will be many, many, many times in your life where you did not know you needed advice. Where you did not know HOW to ask for advice. Where you might have known you needed advice but not really wanted to admit that. Where you might have known you needed advice and been too shy to ask for help. Where a piece of advice completely from the blue changes the course of your life. Fandom as a whole–fan creators as a whole–cannot become a culture that closes the door to that vital form of communication, rejects willingness to not only uplift but also help each other grow even when we least expect it.

Anyway, I’m literally just writing this to avoid real responsibilities, but the point I’m trying to make is:

Most writers, even very young writers, will not be discouraged by polite, well-intentioned criticism. They may not like it. They may not take any of the criticism to heart, but most people, even young people, are far more resilient than tumblr (which on the best of days is a negative feedback loop that can romanticize a victim mindset because having the saddest backstory makes you immune to cancellation) wants to give them credit for, and a vast majority of writers will not be traumatized or scared away from writing by people trying to offer them genuine advice. Remember, no one here is advocating for asshole trolls who post comments like “Your writing sucks and you should delete your account.” A majority of writers, even very young writers, will be able to weather the storms and tosses of even really rudely-worded advice and recover. Sometimes it might take a while, but human beings have survived as a species because we’re really, really persevering.

(But some people aren’t! you might say. Some people really will give up writing if they’re criticized! And you’d be correct. There are people who will give up, even if all they are faced with is a single gentle, well-intentioned piece of criticism. But the truth is… People give up on hobbies for all kinds of reasons! Not every hobby is for every person! Every hobby carries with it its own challenges, its own share of risks, and its own pains. Learning a new hobby consistently requires putting yourself out of your comfort zone. Wanna learn how to ride a snowboard? You will get bruised. Wanna learn how to play chess? You will lose. Wanna learn to draw? Someone will make fun of your early drawings. You will make fun of your own early drawings. Wanna post your writing on a public platform? Someday, someone is going to say they’re not a fan.

And that leads me to address the point that just keeps coming up and coming up in this issue: People aren’t always posting their fics to improve as writers! A lot of times people are posting for just fun or for personal reasons.

Yeahhhhh bullshit. No, no, hang on–I don’t mean that people don’t have fun writing and posting fics, or that fics can’t help you through traumatic experiences because everything I’ve ever posted is basically me dealing with my own personal shit–what I mean is that there’s always an additional dimension to posting your fics on large-scale public websites. People write stories and share them with their friend groups for fun. People write characters overcoming trauma and share them with their therapists (or the friends who help to fill that role) for healing. People post their stories publicly, where anyone can respond, for validation on top of their fun and healing. There are ways to hide your fics entirely on many sites. You can leave things in drafts. If a fic is appearing as unmoderated and open to the public on a major fic site such as AO3, Wattpad, ff.net, etc., it’s because that fic’s author wants responses from others! They want views. They want subscribes. They want kudos. They want comments. There’s literally no reason to post publicly except for your work to be viewed by the public.

The fun one has writing a fic is often tied directly to the thrill of seeing a comment or kudos notification pop-up in your inbox. We love seeing people enjoy our fics–it absolutely makes my day when someone sends me a message telling me they re-read my fic for the third time.

It’s NOT fun to write something and get no response.

Writing something and getting no response is actively discouraging, actually.

So whenever someone says “They’re not writing fics to improve as writers; they’re just doing it for fun!” I have to laugh a bit–because when the concept of “fun with fanfiction” is tied so closely to the experience of having your work viewed and enjoyed by others, the fastest and surest way to increase the fun you have with your fanfics… is to improve as a writer. The more you write, the more you improve. The more you improve, the more loyal readers you gain. The more loyal readers you gain, the more excited people you have to gush about your fics with. Want a Discord server full of people willing to help you brainstorm ideas for your favorite AU? Write well, attract followers. Want fanart of your writing, probably the most fun and exciting thing I can think of as an author? Write well. Just plain old want more friends in the fandom to talk about your favorite characters and fic ideas with? Make writer friends.

People have fun writing about their favorite characters and post publicly to receive responses and validation for their creations… Responses increase the fun writers have because they make the hard work of writing worth it and give you people to keep writing for and with… Improving your writing increases the number of people attracted to your works and the number of people willing to spend time responding to them… The bigger the response you get, the more invested you become in your fics, the more fandom friends you make, and the more you want to write–it’s a process that is self-fulfilling, but also one that exposes you to criticism by its very nature. The very act of seeking responses from readers means that you’re open to responses that you don’t necessarily want to hear.

And I actually don’t mean this in the way of “If you can’t handle the heat, don’t jump into the fire.” What I mean is that it is impossible to create a world in which everyone who starts writing sticks with the hobby and keeps churning out works for us to enjoy forever. It is impossible to create a world in which no young writer will ever feel discouraged and give up. The writer you decided not to give constructive criticism to might just as easily become discouraged and quit writing because they didn’t receive enough response.

The first time you give your child a new vaccine, you cannot predict the results. Your child might suffer an allergic reaction. They might die. Every year, numerous severe reactions to vaccines do occur. But the majority of people don’t question the effectiveness of vaccines because we understand that the number of people who have severe reactions is very low in comparison to the number of people who benefit from the vaccine. The number of people who will be discouraged from writing by genuine, polite, constructive criticism is minuscule in comparison to the number of people who will either 1) benefit from it directly and be thankful you gave it, 2) not benefit but not be upset by it, 3) be mildly upset by it but then benefit, or 4) just be mildly upset by itself and then move on with life unharmed because sometimes people say things we don’t like but that doesn’t ruin our lives every single time it happens.

I’m not saying that providing polite constructive criticism doesn’t have risks, just that its risks are smaller than its benefits.

And I’ve successfully whittled enough time away with this now that I can go to sleep without guilt over the things I didn’t finish, but I started this by saying the long-term benefits outweighed the short-term risks and I feel obligated to defend that…

The long-term benefits of well-placed constructive criticism are enormous. Sometimes people need ego checks. Sometimes we need wake-up calls. Sometimes we need a gentle helping hand and didn’t even realize other people could be the help we needed. Sometimes we need a reason to get fired up–even if that reason is spite, trying to prove a critic wrong! Sometimes the answer is glaring us in the face and we don’t notice until someone else points it out. Sometimes we just plain out make mistakes. Sometimes we need a teacher because the ones in school let us down. Sometimes (oftentimes) other people bring incredibly unique perspectives to our stories that we would never have been open to on our own. Sometimes we write something unintentionally hurtful and need some gentle correction. Sometimes we could be having a lot more fun if we knew the tips and tricks others had to offer. Sometimes improving ourselves is hard but worth it. Sometimes bitter medicine is the only thing that will cure an ailment.

Shots hurt. People avoid them because they aren’t fun–what parent wants to expose their child to the painful, stressful situation of getting stabbed with needles? (What parent looks forward to the yearly flu shot themselves?)

We naturally flinch back from criticism. There are many times when we swear we don’t want it, don’t need it, can’t bear it! In the moment, it is incredibly difficult to be confronted with someone basically implying that you should change something integral to yourself–your art. No one likes to feel like they’re being picked apart for weaknesses, definitely not.

But sometimes a single comment can make a massive difference in your life–even when you didn’t want it at first.

All my life, I have been helped along by teachers, family, and friends who refused to settle for patting me on the back. The people who mean the most to me, who I most credit with getting me where I am today, are not the people who just told me I was good at things. They’re the people who told me I was good at things BUT. They people who challenged me to not just sail through life or even coast in my hobbies, content with the level I entered on–they’re the people who had faith in me and trust that I could refine my skills, could have even more fun IF I took that next step, challenged myself to go a bit harder… They’re the people who took the time not just to skim over my writing and slap a thumbs up on it, but the people who thought hard enough about it go: “This story was good, but have you thought about…”

Today, I’m a professor of English because I started writing fanfiction when I was 11 years old. Because I started posting fanfiction when I was 13. Because at 14 years old, someone–without being asked–taught me the correct way to format dialogue and how to strengthen my dialogue tags. Because at 15, someone flat out laughed to tears at a cliche metaphor I’d extended too far and I was ashamed, but they taught me something else to try instead. Because by 18, I’d received–and taken–enough unsolicited writing advice to land myself the highest paying on-campus tutoring job my university offered. Because by 19, someone challenged me to write something I told them was impossible for me. Because by 20, that impossible writing became the sample that got me accepted to grad school. Because by 21, I was furious enough at the criticism I received from my creative writing masters classmates to write a thesis so feverishly overwhelming that it inspired one of the foremost postmodern poets in the country. Because by 27, it was brutally honest criticism that gave me the gall to finally leave an abusive job and apply for a teaching position. Because by 30, I got to sit at a public literary journal volume launch and watch an entire class of my creative writing students become published authors.

And even though I joked about why I was writing this, and even though I’m really not, at the heart of it, trying to persuade any one person over to my side, I hope it’s clear how much of a labor of love this post is. How passionate I am about this topic.

This whole thing is a drawn-out plea: Please, do not let fandom creation sites become a place where no one offers advice unless it is begged for. Do not miss your chance to help someone else improve. Do not close the door to criticism that could change your life. Do not let fear of short-term discouragement prevent you from seeking long-term growth. Do not let the immediate side effects cloud your view of the global benefits.

Inoculate yourselves with good advice as a shield against the very hard future.

A dearth of criticism will not make fandom a better place. It will just make it a quieter one.

#anyone want to take bets on how long it takes someone to get outraged #skip reading the actual argument itself #and put something in the replies or my ask box that was blatantly answered on this post itself #it's 4am so like I give it about ten minutes #writing #fanfiction #constructive criticism #I tire more each day of tumblr's bizarre ways of thinking #like could you imagine if this was the attitude in any other hobby #nah bro #I know I almost broke my arm back there but I don't want any skateboarding advice #I got this #yeah I know the horse has broken loose and is kicking people but have you tried NOT commenting on that #you didn't brace your sculpture correctly and it no longer resembles what the art gallery expected #Jesus ask before you give concrit for once

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reydelcastill0 · 4 years

Link

Fandom: Marble Hornets, The Blackout Club (Video Game)

Words: 1880

Rating: General Audiences

Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Jessica Locke & Jay Merrick, Jessica Locke (Marble Hornets) & Lucids (The Blackout Club) Characters: Jessica Locke, Jay Merrick, Lucids (The Blackout Club), Masky (Marble Hornets)

Additional Tags: The Blackout Hornets AU, Hospitals, Hospitalization, Unreliable Narrator, Inaccurate Representation of Hospitals, Memory Loss, Implied Trans Male Character, Jessica Locke and Jay Merrick are Twins, No Diagnosed Illnesses, Implied Illnesses, Implied Trans Jay Merrick, Lucids as a "Doctor", Lucids as a "Nurse"

Series: Part 1 of inTheMAZE

Summary: Jessica wakes up in a hospital bed with little to no memories. A doctor catches her up to speed, but she doesn't believe Him. She thinks it's all a lie, but she doesn't know what to do about it, so she won't. Instead, she becomes close friends with a patient suffering from the same problems as her.

Jessica sat up with a groan. Her head was pounding and her mind sounded so loud it was almost unbearable. Her mind almost sounded like it was singing to her, but Jessica wouldn’t describe the sounds as a song. It was close, except it was barely recognizable. Jessica decides to identify it as static that so happens to vary in pitch. Regardless, she didn’t like the noise. It was almost as if it was trying to drown out her thoughts. It made her headache worse.

It couldn’t fully take over her mind, though. She managed to tune it out at some point and focus on her own thoughts— on things that weren’t the static. She could focus on the slightly scratchy bedsheet beneath her, the white curtains that surrounded her bed, and the weird smell that reminded her of a hospital room, and oh—

That’s ‘cause she is in a hospital room. This realization makes her panic. ‘Focus, why are you here?’ she thought. She moved to dangle her legs off the side of the bed (ignoring the way her feet slightly brush against some shoes that weren’t hers, but might be for her) and closed her eyes to take some time to think: What is it that she can remember?

‘My name is Jessica— um— Jessica… Jessica,’ she couldn’t remember her last name. ‘What was it again?’ She spent moments angrily trying to figure it out. Soon, she settles on Locke, as incorrect as it sounds. Her name is Jessica Locke.

Next, she tried to deduce what time it was, but nothing could help her figure that out. The lights from the room were on, but she saw no windows. She figured that would be a waste of her time (if she could even tell how much time passes).

She decides to try and figure out why she is here. That was almost more difficult to figure out than the time. She couldn’t remember why she may be in a hospital, in fact, she couldn’t remember much about herself. Her memory was spotty. She knew her age, name (she felt like she didn’t really know her name), and little personality things— the things that made her her. She also knew what her house looked like, but not who she lived with or how to get there. She knew she went to school, but not who her teachers are or if she has friends. She knew she knew people, but who these people were? That was beyond her.

She can’t remember anyone, except for Amy. Amy Walters, her best friend… She feels sad thinking about her, but she doesn’t know why. Amy is okay. The last thing she did with Amy— the last thing she remembers— was hanging out with Amy. If she remembers right, they were playing video games together and idly chatting about their friends (whoever their friends were). That was it. That was the only instance in her life she had the most memories about, yet she couldn’t even know the whole truth of it.

“I’ve lost my memories…” she said out loud (the first thing she has said since she woke up), “I’ve lost them…” Once she said the words out loud, she cringed. It was too loud and broke the silence, paving way for unease. Why is she here? She doesn’t get the time to fester in her thoughts because seconds later, a Man in a doctor’s outfit (He must be her doctor, then) walked in, wheeling in a chair so He could sit on it.

“It’s good to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?” He asks. Jessica tries to focus on the Man’s face, but her vision begins to blur. She panics a bit, but she doesn’t tell Him anything about it.

“I’m fine,” she mutters, quick to respond as if she were reading off some script. She tries to look at His face again, but she can’t. She continues to try— to try and ground herself in the reality of the situation— but there comes a point where trying to look makes the static song in her head louder. It hurts.

“Do you know why you are here, Jessica?” He asks. She shakes her head. She finds comfort in the fact that her name actually is Jessica, but she is uncomfortable. “Well, that is expected.”— His tone sounds like a threat— “You see, you’re sick. You have a terrible cough, constant and painful migraines, hallucinations, and, unfortunately, violent episodes.” Jessica doesn’t believe him.

“But I don’t… Remember anything?” She says so, but it’s some sort of question. She is positive she has never had some “violent episode” in her whole life.

“That might be the medicine we gave you.” She can’t see His face, but she could decipher a frown simply by his tone of voice.

“Oh… Okay.” She doubts meds can cause people to lose their memories like this, and if by chance such medication exists, she feels that maybe the medical industry should work on fixing that. “How long will I be here?”

“Until you get better.” He sounds annoyed.

“Of course.” There is no point in talking anymore. She wants Him to leave. She wants to leave. She feels out of place, like she’s bad at playing pretend. Like nothing is real and she just has a role to fill. She is a patient; she is sure that’s a fucking lie.

But she’ll play along. She doesn’t know her lines or what her stage directions are, but she’ll figure it out. She has to, or she’ll never know when she needs to exit the stage— the hospital.

Luckily, it becomes easy to fulfill her role after being provided a nurse. She talks to her nurse more than she talks to her doctor, but the conversations aren’t worth much to her. Jessica is glad that she gets to talk to the patient from the next room over. Apparently they share the same doctor and He saw it fit to introduce the two.

“Jessica, this is Jayme,” He says, “Jayme, this is Jessica.” He is very blunt about the introduction and then has their nurses whisk them away. It isn’t until lunchtime that she learns the other patient goes by Jay and not Jayme.

“Why is that?” Jessica asks.

Jay thinks about his answer for a moment before he tells her. “I don’t know why the doctor calls me Jayme. My name is Jay Merrick.”

“Funny, that sounds familiar,” Jessica responds. It does, and a bit too familiar. Then again, if this whole “sick” business is real (she doubts it) and she accounts for the fact that she has memory problems, perhaps Jay is a patient she knew. She finds it unlikely. Jay would have remembered her, but he has never met her before.

He stumbles on his words for a moment. “I— It’s just… Um, it’s a pretty common name, so,” he says. She watched as he grew anxious and decided not to press on the issue.

She forces out a chuckle. “Oh, duh,” she laughs. She wouldn’t know how common the name actually is and she thinks maybe Jay doesn’t either. He laughs, too, and then their nurses come and separate them again.

They do that a lot. She doesn’t know what they look like. Only that Jessica’s nurse is a Girl and that Jay’s nurse is a Guy, but she can’t see their faces (like how she can’t see her doctor’s). But she can see Jay’s face. Jay is the only person she can hold eye contact with and she finds that odd. She wonders if he feels the same, but it’s difficult to attempt to question him. He’s here for the same reason as her. She suspects that’s why the hospital staff limit their time together.

Some few weeks pass and Jessica forms a strong bond with Jay. They are always together when they are allowed to be. Sometimes, they sneak into each other's rooms and cuddle together. The feeling reminds her of sneaking into her younger sister’s— She doesn’t have a sister…— her younger brother’s (‘Is that right?’ she thinks) bed or when he would sneak into hers because being separated wasn’t something they dealt with so well.

Luckily, her nurse seems to turn a blind eye whenever She catches Jessica sneaking to Jay’s room and she assumes that Jay’s nurse does the same when he sneaks to her room. She’s glad, but their doctor seems to dislike it very much.

He continuously grows frustrated with Jessica and Jay. “You aren’t making any progress to recovery and if this keeps up, Jessica, we’ll have to change our methods,” He says and it’s clear he is becoming impatient with her. That doesn’t matter to Jessica. She dreads the idea of different methods and resolves to confront Jay once and for all about their situation.

One night, Jay sneaks to Jessica’s room and slips into bed with her. He has a question, but he does not ask it. So she asks him one instead: “Don’t you think it’s a little weird that besides you, me, and our doctor and nurses, that we’re the only ones here? Like, I know they don’t let us go everywhere, but it feels like maybe that’s because this is all that there is…”

“I… It is weird—”

“And also don’t you think our situation sounds like a lie? Our doctor dodges most of our questions and instead tells us we’re violent and sick… Jay, they haven’t diagnosed us with anything. We’re just sick.” Jessica is whispering and it makes the faults and quivers in her voice more prominent. Jay, nonetheless, seems to understand her point of view.

“It’s really weird… I was actually going to talk to you about this. I think we need to run away…” He says the last sentence even quieter than his normal whisper voice, paranoid as if the nurses are waiting to hear him say that.

“I think so, too…”

They proceed to formulate a plan. Jay is the one making it, but Jessica is helping him bring his thoughts together. Jay wants to escape the following night. They’ll sneak some protein and snack bars to their rooms and hide them under the pillows. They’ll ask for a water bottle some time before bed (Jessica will ask before “going to sleep” and Jay will ask a few hours earlier). When they have to sleep, Jay will go get Jessica. The two will have their snack bars and water bottle in their pillowcase. From there, they’ll hope they make it far (fully escaping sounds unrealistic, so they would rather be pleasantly surprised than disappointed).

They’ll escape. But then things go wrong right at the end. Instead of Jay coming, some boy a bit older than her goes to her room. He wears a white with black painted lips and while he doesn’t seem threatening, he charges at her and pokes her with a needle.

Before she faints, she realizes it’s a tranquilizer dart. She’s seen them before. Funny, the familiarity of it makes her slightly happy. Her last thought, however, is hoping Jay makes it out safely (and maybe in a better way than she did).

Jessica Locke— or as her name actually is— Jessica Merrick blacks out.

#akobj fic #the blackout hornets #marble hornets #the blackout club #marble hornets au #the black club au #mh jessica #mh jay #mh masky #tbc lucids #lucids #jay merrick #jessica locke #masky #oneshot #fanfic #inTheMAZE

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moveslikebuckywrites · 5 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Beelzebub & Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens) Characters: Beelzebub (Good Omens), Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Angst, The Fall (Good Omens), Gabriel and Raphael are also there slightly, implied Crowley was Raphael but not necessarily, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), I didn't want to come up with an angel name so their angel name is [Redacted]

Part two of the gift fics! This time for @tieflingbeelzebub (I'll tag that since that’s their Good Omens specific blog)! They wanted some Beelzebub set to Disquiet by Unreqvited, which is a really cool instrumental! So here’s my attempt at a character study on Beelzebub before and directly after the fall!

---

Buzzing.

Such a pleasant sound. The sound of their children.

[Redacted] loved her creations. From the smallest ant to the birdwing moths.

For some, it would be their job to help the plants, to spread the pollen that would let flora multiply and cover the new planet. To sustain the almighty’s new creation with things called ‘fruit’ and ‘vegetables’ and ‘grains’. And it would all be thanks to her children.

Others would be that sustenance, for other beings created by other angels. This made [Redacted] sad, but it was only the circle of life. Their purpose was to feed the smaller beings, which would feed larger beings, who would feed even larger beings, and so on. In this way, things would become balanced. And there at the start, their children.

[Redacted]’s favorite children shone like precious jewels, in all the colors of the universe. They spread bright shimmery wings and sparkled in the sunlight on the new world. They loved them so much, they shed their white feathers in favor of the brilliant oranges and deep blacks of the monarch butterfly. Six translucent amber wings catching the rays of sunlight and casting patterns around them. A tribute to their beautiful children to carry with them always.

Gabriel didn’t like them, but that was Gabriel’s problem. He also didn’t like any of the foods some of the others were creating. Said things were ‘gross’. That never stopped him from hanging around, though [Redacted] wasn’t quite sure why.

As with most days, [Redacted] was tending to the insects in the garden. Their beauties and their children. The sun was setting, and the fading light glimmered in their monarch wings, casting faint orange shadows on the grass around them.

They were singing. To the houseflies and the honeybees, to the hornets and wasps. To the butterflies, moths, and even the tiniest carpenter ants. [Redacted] loved nothing more than to sing to their children, to inspire them to motion, to work, to thrive.

As they were watching the bees learn to dance, marveling at their spins and turns and how the transformed that into a language only bees could speak, they sensed a presence sneaking up on them was not that of the nosy archangel.

“My dear brother, Lucifer,” [Redacted] stood and smiled at the newcomer, “You don’t often visit me in the garden, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Dear [Redacted] my most favorite of siblings,” Lucifer said, holding his arms out wide and welcoming, “Is it not enough to visit you? So rarely seen are you in Heaven anymore.”

“Well, there is much work to be done,” [Redacted] lifted their hand to a low hanging branch allowing a shimmery purple stag beetle to crawl onto their finger, “The Almighty says that my creations will outnumber even the stars in the sky. There will be more of them on Earth than anything else, and they will play one of, if not the most, pivotal roles in how the Earth works.”

“More insects than stars?” Lucifer chuckled, “Don’t let Raphael find out, he might get upset.”

“Oh, I doubt it, his heart is far too kind,” [Redacted] cooed at the little beetle before depositing it back where it came from, “And you are deflecting, what brings you to the garden today?”

Lucifer shifted nervously from foot to foot, “It’s happening tonight, I need to know where you stand.”

[Redacted] froze and turned to face their brother. The butterflies for which they modeled their wings flitted between them as a heavy silence fell in the air.

“Lucifer-“

“You know what I’ve told you, you know it’s true.” Lucifer stared them down, resolution evident in his eyes.

“We have to trust-“

“There is no more trust!” Lucifer exclaimed, grabbing [Redacted] by the shoulders.

“You don’t know that!” they replied, still steadfast. The flight of the butterflies changed, and they flocked to [Redacted], landing on their shoulders, arms, and hair, “You don’t know that.”

“[Redacted] I am begging you, I cannot bear to see you hurt,” he reached out and gingerly ran a finger along one of the butterfly’s wings, “These creations, these humans, the Almighty will favor them, and we will all be cast aside.”

“That is not for us to understand, brother! You know that as well as any!”

“She will not speak to us, won’t give us real answers!” He said, letting go of their shoulders and stalking a few feet away, “Just these continual tasks, one after the other, all for these…for these…creatures!”

“And then that is our purpose!” This path was a dangerous road, [Redacted] was sure. The Almighty had always had reasons, even if those reasons had not always been clear.

“It does not have to be!” Lucifer shouted before taking a few deep breaths and calming back down, “We only want answers, will you stand with us?”

[Redacted] considered this for a moment, noting the trembling in the butterflies perched upon them.

“And what says Raphael?” [Redacted] asked with trepidation.

“He is with me, as you should know,” Lucifer turned back to them, “All our lives it’s been the three of us. I cannot do this without you, [Redacted].”

[Redacted] took a deep breath, “And we are just seeking an audience? To have our questions answered?”

“That is all, my dear sibling,” Lucifer said, extending a hand warmly. Invitingly.

“I see,” [Redacted] said, turning to gaze out to the garden. The bees flitted from flower to flower, the butterflies floated in the air, a mosquito hummed pleasantly in their ear. They were filled with so much love for their children. So much that they thought this must be the way the Almighty felt for Her creations. Their questions would be answered, because God is love and thus loved them in turn, “well then, let us go speak to Her.”

[Redacted] took in the sight of the garden; the sounds and the smells. The sun dipped fully below the horizon, and their beautiful fireflies danced in the air. Tiny starlight flickers, fading in and out. Despite their trust in both Lucifer and Raphael, they could not shake a feeling of foreboding.

They did not know this would be their last day in the garden.

---

The next events happened so quickly, [Redacted] had barely been able to process.

Lucifer, Raphael, and themselves had approached the throne room of the Almighty, seeking audience. Gabriel, Uriel, and Michael had barred them from entry. Raphael had shouted something about just needing to ask questions, and Lucifer had drawn his sword.

The last thing that [Redacted] could remember before plummeting through the clouds was thinking they saw tears in an archangel’s purple eyes.

They had crashed into a pool, blinding heat searing through to their bones. They could feel their face bubble and blister with the burning heat. They could hear one of their brothers screaming nearby, but could not tell which. With a special kind of horror, they realized the creeping burning was working its way down their wings. They screamed in pain, in anguish, and in hatred.

Their Grace was pulled out, tossed aside by the archangels. On the Almighty’s own order, they had said.

[Redacted] fought through the pain and dragged themselves out of the scalding liquid, gasping for breath. They thrashed and spread their wings, screaming again. Their beautiful wings were no longer a brilliant and shimmering orange, but translucent. Almost opalescent, catching the light of the fire in muted purples and blues.

A familiar buzzing followed them. Opening their eyes, they saw the humble houseflies. Lowest of their children, but beloved all the same. It gave them some comfort. They grieved for the loss. The loss of their grace, the loss of their wings, the loss of the garden and their beautiful children.

[Redacted] did not know how long they stayed there, crying and burning, before they sensed another approaching.

“Rise, my dear sibling,” Lucifer, skin burning red like volcanic rock, stood beside them, “we have much work to do.”

“Why,” [Redacted] cried out, “why would She do thizzz!” They shook their head at the buzzing sound that left their throat, words catching on it and dragging it out unprompted, “And why can’t I remember my name?”

“I told you, we are replaceable,” Lucifer said, “We are the fallen now, we have been cast aside, for the simple want of being loved. Our grace is burned out, and our names have been ripped away as well.”

[Redacted] gave up all pretense, burying their face in their hands and crying.

“Shh, my dear sibling,” Lucifer said, “there will be time for grief later, for now, we must plan.”

“Plan for what?” [Redacted] asked, trying to wipe the tears from their eyes

“For our revenge,” Lucifer smiled, his teeth now yellowed and sharp. He extended a hand once again, “Rise, Lord Beelzebub, and take your rightful place by my side.”

As Beelzebub looked around, they saw other angels falling through the heavens. Those who undoubtably took Lucifer’s side after the initial casting. Anger welled inside of them at a God who could profess to love but be this vengeful.

Lord Beelzebub made their decision and took their brother’s hand and with it their place as Prince of Hell.

#good omens #beelzebub #my first time writing something centered on them I hope it's good!#also Lucifer is there #but whatevs #senshi I hope you like this #thank you for being an awesome person! <3

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timelordthirteen · 5 years

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Killing Time 11/?

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: After taking the newly discovered poetry book to the station, Weaver and Belle have a heart to heart.

Notes: FEELINGS. I actually started to cry while I was writing this. I'm sorry. There's a lot of exposition in the beginning, but I didn't want it to get too unwieldy. Enjoy a little bit of Nick and Jack's backstory as I attempt to setup some more plot. For the Writer's Month prompt #21: hope.

Warnings: Please see AO3 for complete warnings and tags. No additional warnings for this chapter.

[AO3] Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10]

It was another two hours spent at the station after they brought in the poetry book.

Rogers and Humbert were too shocked to chastise them for going back to Belle’s apartment, but that was the only small blessing. Belle explained her theory, that Jack left the book at some point while he was in her apartment. Everyone agreed that the highlighted phrases were disturbing when put in that context, especially given the strange nature of Jack and Nick’s relationship, as well as the bits and pieces they’d been able to pull together of their background.

They boys were brothers, four years apart, with Jack being the oldest. Their father, Edgar Branson, was assumed to have been abusive, though there was little actual evidence of it beyond one trip to the emergency room for a broken arm when Jack was eight. It was a spiral fracture, but in reality it could have come from any number of possible incidents. Their father died of lung cancer a few years ago, while living in a care home, and it appeared that at no point after high school did either son have any contact with the man.

In general, there was very little paper trail on their family, and no evidence of a sister as one of the poetry selections seemed to reference. Weaver had been unable to find anything on their mother beyond her name on their birth certificates, Ellen Branson. She didn’t have any employment or tax record, and tracking down the marriage certificate had taken six calls to three different states and the better part of an afternoon.

Rogers made reviewing records for any indication of a sister his first priority for the morning, and Belle agreed to come back in the afternoon to file an amendment to her statement, covering the return trip to her apartment. After that, Humbert all but kicked Weaver and Belle out of the station and forbade them entry with the only exception being official business.

They returned to Weaver’s apartment some time later, after a brief trip to the nearby market. Belle insisted she wasn’t hungry, but Weaver knew that once he got into cooking she would likely come around. Fortunately, he was right, and after a steaming hot shower, she came wandering back into the kitchen, sniffing loudly, just as he was pouring the noodles into the strainer.

He smirked as he slid onto one of the stools at the island. “I see someone is still a sucker for garlic butter sauce.”

“Shut up,” she replied around a mouthful of noodles, and he laughed.

The rest of the evening consisted of Belle at one end of the sofa, reading a book, and Weaver flipping channels back and forth between a football match and The Maltese Falcon. He didn’t really care about either, he was just trying to keep his mind occupied instead of wondering what would happen when it got late enough to go to bed. Part of him was all too happy to curl up with her again and spend the night beside her, while another part desperately wanted to protect his heart until he knew where he stood.

He’d been a little too ready to throw himself at her before, to take every moment she would give him, and give her everything she wanted. It stung when she pretended their first encounter in her office never happened, and it was even worse after the second time. He felt like he’d taken advantage of the situation, in spite of the marks she’d left on his back when she came.

Belle yawned, and he glanced at his phone. It was after nine, and given everything she’d been through that day, it was no wonder she was worn out.

“You should rest,” he said, turning down the volume on the television.

She sighed, but didn’t look up from her book. “Yeah.”

“You can have the bed again.”

She marked her spot in the book, and looked up at him. “And you’re going to sleep out here?”

He swallowed and nodded. “I think that’s probably best.”

“Is it?” She bit her lip, and then shook her head as she pushed up off the couch. “Sorry. I’ll just go. Good night.”

Weaver caught her hand as she walked by him, and her fingers reflexively curled around his. “Belle.” She stopped, and he stood up. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

She looked down and watched their joined hands swinging slowly back and forth by her hip. She knew they couldn’t keep going this way, but the thought of Ian sharing the bed with her was immediately calming.

“Yes,” she said softly, her eyes closing as he turned and put a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll clean up out here and come in, okay?”

She nodded, and gave his hand a squeeze in thanks.

Weaver sighed as he slid between the cool sheets. The bed had been their most expensive purchase as a couple, and while he’d initially balked at paying so much for a mattress, it was definitely the best possible thing they could have done. Coming home to a comfortable bed was an amazing feeling, no matter how long or shitty the day was. That Belle had been in it as well made it as near to heaven as he imagined he’d ever get.

The intervening years after the divorce had found him sleeping in the chair or on the sofa more nights than in the bedroom. It had done his back no favors, but it was too hard to be in a space that had been such a refuge and was now full of bitter memories.

Belle was laying on her side, facing him, so he stayed on his back. He hoped she’d fall asleep quickly, for both their sakes, but that didn’t seem to be likely.

“How do you do it?” she asked.

He frowned up at the ceiling. “Do what?”

“How do you keep all this shit from affecting you?”

He exhaled and rolled onto his side, facing her. “I don’t. I just...ignore it.” He shifted and tucked one arm under the pillow to prop his head up. “I keep moving on, until eventually it catches up with me, and I do dumb shite like punch a wall or shove some arsehole’s head in a barrel of water.”

Her lips curved and she let out a snorting laugh. “Right.”

He gave her a half smile that he hoped she could see in the dark. “The only way I can deal with the things we see is to go out and keep trying to stop it from happening.” Then he sighed heavily. “Failing that, I try to find the prick who did it.”

“And shove their head in a barrel?” she asked, though he could hear the grin in her voice.

He chuckled softly. “If they deserve it.”

She was quiet for a long moment, and he nearly rolled over again.

“I just...” She paused and swallowed. “I don’t know what to do. Like..I know how to deal with victims, how to talk to them about the trial, about what to expect, about how it will be like it’s happening all over again. But...I don’t - I don’t know how to be a victim, you know?”

Her wobbly voice made his throat tight with emotion. “I’m so sorry, Belle. None of this should have happened.”

She sniffled and pushed a strand of her hair back. “It’s not your fault. We kicked the hornet’s nest together. If we had thought that Jack would come after either of us...”

Weaver let out a ragged, shaky breath and closed his eyes. Every time he thought about walking into the emergency room, about seeing Belle covered in blood, he was filled with a nearly blinding rage. The hand under his pillow curled into a fist.

“I wanna kill him...” he muttered.

She reached for his free hand where it lay on the bed between them. “I know. But you’re better than that.”

He opened his eyes. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Her voice was so emphatic, and he shook his head. “You always want to see the good in people.” Then he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Even when it’s not there.”

“Stop.” She squeezed his fingers. “You know you’re a good man.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Some days maybe.”

She gave him a look and tugged at his hand. “No, every day. I wouldn’t have married you if you weren’t.”

“Yeah, well,” he sighed, “we know how that ended.”

She pushed up on her elbow. “Hey.” She pulled on their joined hands, drawing them across to settle them under her chin, against the bare skin of her collarbone and chest. “Don’t - don’t do that.”

Her body was so warm and soft and he wanted to savor every second of it. “Sorry,” he managed. “I’m - I’m sorry. For what I said earlier, I shouldn’t have put that on you.”

Belle frowned. “No. No, you didn’t. You were being honest, and that’s - that’s all I ever wanted you to do. To trust me and talk to me.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Better than never, eh?”

“I think so,” she replied, shifting her body closer until their hands between them were the only thing keeping them apart. She leaned in and kissed him softly. “Thank you. For everything.”

His jaw clenched as he swallowed hard.The lump in his throat felt like a rock. “Aye.”

She sniffed again and closed her eyes, feeling a tickle against her cheek as a tear loosed itself. “Fuck, I’m such a mess.”

“Hey,” he pulled his hand free from hers and reached up, brushing the wet trails from her face. When she opened her eyes, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’re a bloody gorgeous mess.”

She pushed herself up to sit, her tears coming faster now. Her hands swiped at her cheeks and then pushed her hair back as her shoulders started to shake. Weaver sat up with her, scooting back against the pillows, and stretched his arm around her, letting her fall against him as she cried quietly. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. Let it out.”

Belle began to sob, her tears falling on his chest and soaking into his t-shirt. His chest ached and he closed his eyes, dropping his head to rest his cheek against her. “None of it’s your fault, okay? All right?”

She shifted back and looked up at him. His eyes were shining in the faint glow from the street lights outside, and she managed a small nod.

“I’ve never - never been mad at you for any of it,” he said. “Not - not this, not the divorce, not - not our baby...” His voice broke on the word, sending his own tears tumbling free. “Not any of it. Do you understand?”

She reached up and laid her palm against his cheek. “Why? Why did - why did you do it?”

He shook his head. “What?”

Her bottom lip wobbled, and her body shook as she tried to get the words out, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Why did - why did you sign the papers?”

“You left,” he said. Confusion and surprise at her question made him feel dizzy. “It’s - it’s what you wanted.”

Belle sniffed loudly and rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand before she leaned in and rested her forehead against his. Everything was a mess and she didn’t know how to fix it. There was so much that needed to get out, that she’d kept to herself because she’d thought it was for the best. Except she didn’t know that it was anymore.

“I don’t know what I wanted.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, but it didn’t seem to matter as she collapsed against him, sobs shaking her body. He held her tight until she got everything out, her body giving up out of pure exhaustion and finally letting her fall asleep. The feeling of her in his arms was like nothing else. It gave him hope that maybe things could be better after all of this, but he’d thought that before and it ended worse than he could have ever imagined. He wanted to soak up as much of Belle as he could while she was here, but he knew that when things finally went back to normal it would wreck him all over again to see her go.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #woven beauty #woven beauty fic #my woven beauty fic #fic #killing time #lemon fic

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aldigond · 6 years

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Acnologia’s Legacy Chapter 9: The Butcher of Regaza-La

tag for people who might be interested in this or I asked if I could tag: @marumigamer @theupcomingstorm19 and @chychymazzu

As Jonathan walks back to the door, he’s greeted by two very familiar faces. Both Wendy and Gajeel are astonished by Jonathan’s power, taking attacks from Blue Note like it was nothing.

“How did ya take that old guy out?!”, asks Gajeel very irritated.

“That’s what I also would like to know”, adds Wendy in a little angered confusion, as she adds, “And how did you withstand his magic? Didn’t it affect you at all?”

Jonathan looks at the both of them for a few seconds. Then he lifts his arms and crosses them holding one hand to his chin.

“How should I explain this...”, he starts, “...it’s like this. Blue Notes Magic is powerful but his arsenal is almost completely composed of gravity-based Spells. Meaning, that I could counteract it with either brute strength or with a magic spell that cancels out his Magic”, Jonathan explains.

Wendy thinks for a moment and then nods at Gajeel: “It makes sense”

Gajeel looks at him for a moment, sceptical: “Listen here, Punk. After this mission I want you to fight me! Got it?!”.

The blue haired Mage looks at him a bit concerned and then looks back at Jonathan. He looks back at her, gazing into her beautiful brown eyes and as he snaps out of it he turns to Gajeel: “Alright. I’ll fight you”.

He holds his hand out to the iron Dragon and waits for his reaction. Gajeel seizes the opportunity and squeezes the young man’s hand with almost all of his strength, waiting for Jonathan’s reaction. To his surprise Jonathan doesn’t seem to feel any change at all. Rather than that, he just smiles at him very friendly.

As they loosen their grip, Gajeel goes back to the bar and starts talking to the owner.

“I’m really glad to see you again, Wendy”, says Jonathan.

“Likewise”, she responds.

“How was your meeting with the council?”, she continues.

His friendly smile disappears almost instantly. The man’s green eyes look down on the ground. His entire posture changes and his all so friendly and happy behaviour swaps to one filled with sadness and frustration.

“Not good, to be completely honest...”, he answers rubbing his neck with his hand, avoiding any kind of eye contact.

Wendy slowly takes his hand and looks him dead in the eye: “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to”.

Both of them look their eyes into one another and slowly draw closer to each other. Suddenly Jonathan turns away with a little blush on his cheeks. As Wendy realizes what she was doing, she turns away immediately with a very red face.

Gajeel walks up to them and says annoyed: “Alright, I got the reward. Now let’s go. I want to be home as soon as possible!”.

At their departure the local civilians wave at them and wishing them farewell.

Walking on the path back to Magnolia Gajeel steps back a little bit from Jonathan and pulls Wendy back to him, a bit further away.

“Be careful around him”, he whispers to her.

“What do you mean?”, asks Wendy him.

“The entire year I spend at the councils police force, I have never seen or heard of him”, he musters his mind quietly.

“I don’t think that he’s a bad person, Gajeel. Nor do I believe, that he’s spying on us for the council”, Wendy responds to him in the same tone, “...and I also trust him that he’s being honest to us”

“Still. I’ll keep my eye on this guy”, he tells her.

“What are you guys doing back there?”, shouts Jonathan to them.

They continue their travels and reach Magnolia after a short while.

As they enter the guilds building, Lucy and Luna great them.

“Welcome back. How was the mission?”, asks Lucy, not paying attention to Jonathan.

“It went well, we finished the job. Although I don’t know if we would be so successful, without Jonathans help”, tells her Wendy, with a smile on her face and points at Jonathan.

Jonathan only raises his hand and waves at Lucy.

“Ok now we can go at it, PUNK!”, shouts Gajeel at the top of his lungs, waiting for the Grand Wizards response.

Jonathan immediately takes of his big cloak and folds it together.

“Shall we take that outside?”, he asks politely.

“You go first”, says Gajeel.

Both of them enter the backyard of the Guild and stand a few meters away from each other. Wendy, Lucy and Luna follow them and sit down on one of the benches. A few newer members gather around them. Natsu, Gray and Laxus also take a look at the two combatants.

“Are you ready to get beaten?!”, asks Gajeel very loudly.

Jonathan stretches his arms and legs: “Ready when you are”.

And so Gajeel makes the first move. He charges at Jonathan full speed and stretches his arm out, turning it into an extendable iron pillar. Jonathan swings the fingers from his right hand up and a wall made of earth appears in front of Gajeel, blocking his attack completely. But the Iron-Dragonslayer is hardly impressed; he quickly smashes the wall into little pieces with only one punch. However Jonathan flicks his fingers and the shattered pieces of hardened earth start flying around like a swarm of hornets, which surrounds Gajeel entirely. The Iron-Dragonslayer quickly cases himself in his iron to protect himself from the flying rocks and dirt particles. With a mighty roar he penetrates this giant cloud of earth and attacks the spot where Jonathan was standing earlier, But the Grand Wizard is gone. Suddenly he stands right behind Gajeel, holding his hand out on his back. Right before he can land his punch, Gajeel turns his hands into swords and swings them around himself to fend of Jonathans attack. The brown haired mage backs of and makes some distance between the both of them.

As they continue fighting, Levy walks into the party with Mest behind her.

“What is going on?”, she asks Lucy.

“Gajeel is fighting against Jonathan”, she replies.

Mest instantly tells her with a very panicking voice: “We have to stop this right now! Gajeel is in big danger!”.

Lucy shouts out of her seat and looks at Mest very concerned.

“What?! Why is he in danger?!”, she asks confused and scared.

Mest looks at the continuing fight.

“I remember Jonathan from the time I was undercover in the magic council! He started working for them from a very young age. His Magic Power and Intellect far exceeded his age and he was even said to be better than almost all Mages from the council forces”, he tells the two girls.

Levy takes out an old newspaper and shows it to Lucy: “And look at this”.

The newspaper reads: Kingdom of Regaza-La completely destroyed over night!

“That was Jonathans doing. Five years before he joined the Magic council forces he eradicated this small military country in one night, at the age of seven”, she tells her in horror.

“That’s why they gave him the nickname Butcher of Regaza-La! He’s a cruel and monstrous being!” says Mest terrified.

Wendy looks at the three of them. Her eyes filled with conflict and fear as well as despair.

Mest adds one more thing: “at the magic council he asked them to not reveal his existence to the public or to the majority of the council forces!”.

The moment Mest finshes his sentence Levy immediately screams to stop the fight.

Neither Gajeel nor Jonathan has landed a hit on each other.

Jonathan looks at their faces. He sees the terror and fear in their eyes and figures what has happened.

“Is it true?!”, shouts Levy at him, “is it true that you killed Millions of people?!”

He puts down his guard and stands up straight.

“Answer me!”.

He closes his eyes and opens them slowly. A single word leaves his lips after that: “yes”.

Gajeel looks at them confused: “What is going on?!”, he asks angry.

“An entire kingdom, whipped out by you and you alone!”, she continues, completely ignoring her husband who is now looking at Jonathan with confused eyes.

“How could you! How do you sleep at night!”.

Jonathan only stands there and takes her shouting at him for killing men, women and children alike.

After coming closer to him she continues to insult him, making him responsible for the deaths of many. Suddenly she get’s stopped by Cana. She snaps out of her rage and looks at Cana then at Jonathan.

He’s shaking. His hands clenched into fist. His eyes looking down on the ground. His lips shaking afraid to give her an answer.

Wendy walks up to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. She looks him in the eyes and as she does, he starts stuttering

“I-I-I d-didn’t I didn’t w-want to. I didn’t. I-It was an a-accident. I didn’t m-mean to”.

She takes him into her arms and calms him down.

Levy slowly walks up to him: “I’m sorry. I didn’t think that this was such a heavy subject for you”.

He slowly starts to calm down and takes a seat on one of the benches.

“No, it’s alright. You deserve an answer”, he starts

And so he starts explaining.

I thank you all for waiting for so long for chapter 9! and a special thanks to @marumigamer for helping me with some of the errors I made while writing. she’s a really great writer herself and I recomend all of her stories!

The reason why I wasn’t uploading anything lately is because I wasn’t feeling very well. at some point I felt lost and useless. my mental and physical health was going downhill and I was hiding it from everyone because I didn’t want to bother anyone with my personal problems. However I feel better now and I should post more in the future. sorry for giving this post and that it took me so long again but I’ll try to be better then before thanks for understanding.

also I you no longer want to be tagged of if you want to be tagged tell me because I don’t know who would like to be informed when I post it

#fairy tail #fairy tail oc #jonathan torias #own character #wendy marvell x fan character #Wendy Marvell #Acnologia's Legacy #fan character #fairy tail fan character #fairy tail fanfiction #fanfiction #chapter 9 #wendy marvell x fancharacter #levy mcgarden #fairy tail mest #fairy tail afterstory #fairy tail au #oc #my oc

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star-trekkin-across-theuniverse · 7 years

Text

Resource Management, pt14

Word Count: 3001 Tags: @supermoonpanda @rayleyanns @sistasarah-sallysaidso @feelmyroarrrr @anyakinamidala @dirajunara @anotherotter @little-study-bug @rampant-salamander @goodnightwife @samaxraph99 @anotherotter @outside-the-government @kingarthurscat @coyote-in-space @originalpottervengerlock @dolamrothianlady @curiositywillbethedeathofme @superheroesofbothuniverses @mtriestowrite @wanderingkat77

I would be lying completely if I said I wasn’t dragging my sad, sorry ass out for my morning running date with Lex. I slowly made my way to our meeting place. Lex was waiting for me, looking far too pleased to be awake. I stifled a yawn and tried to smile.

“You look exhausted, Anna.” Lex had the concern of a doctor.

“It was one helluva weekend,” I admitted.

“You’re sure that’s all? You’re so pale.” She stepped closer. I waved her off.

“Really, I’m just tired,” I excused. “I’m going to be pathetic, but I’m here.”

“Okay. I’ll push the same as I did on Saturday, but just walk if you’re really dying,” Lex said. We stretched and then headed out. I figured if Lex was going to treat me like it was any other day, I should probably act as though it was, and I tried to shake off the exhaustion. I truly tried. About 15 minutes into the run, I felt the fatigue drop off, almost like I was shedding a weight. My legs felt good, my muscles felt loose, and I felt awake. And energetic. I picked up my pace, and kept up with the intervals when Lex pushed. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she’d noticed because our pace increased just a little. I pushed through to the end of the run and felt amazing when we finally slowed down. I was hot, and sweaty, and tired, but it was a different tired than when I’d arrived at the park.

“You broke your wall,” Lex commented as we stretched.

“Yeah, I feel good.”

“Endorphins are a powerful thing,” she laughed. “Seriously. Good for stress, increased energy. You’ll probably have a great day.”

“Well, I am in the process of rebuilding a destroyed department. Might not be the best day ever, but I certainly feel better for it right now. Thanks, Lex. I’ll see you Wednesday.” I headed home to get ready for work. Before I headed out the door, I packed up my gym bag for my hand-to-hand training, strapped on my sidearm, and pocketed my badge. I had a total James Bond moment as I walked down to my car. I was certainly dressed to kill, taking my new role as director to heart. I had dug out my nicest blazer and pencil skirt, and matched it with a pair of patent heels. I’d wrapped my hair in a bun, and slipped my glasses in the front of my blouse. Combined with all the new ‘accessories’, I really felt like I was an international woman of mystery. Not that I would give someone like Romanoff a run for her money, but I’d decided to own the sexy librarian comparison Rick had made. I almost wished I had Lola just so I could complete the utter badassery of my image. The self-satisfied smirk I wore was probably enough though.

I strode into the office, feeling confident, and surprisingly, there was nothing to bring me down. I almost expected something. I locked my purse in my desk and went to fill my coffee cup. Erin was leaning against the counter in the kitchenette, waiting for the pot to finish brewing. She was holding a ridiculous sea life pirate mug in her hand that I recalled her having at her place. It had a school of fish with pirate bandanas and an octopus with a peg-tentacle and tricorn hat on it. It was ridiculous, and silly and brought exactly the kind of levity we needed into the office.

“Settling in then?” I nodded at the mug.

“When I close my eyes, I see the eagle burned into my eyelids. It’s on everything. I just needed something to make me feel like I am still me,” she sighed. The coffeemaker beeped and she pulled it off the burning to pour for both of us.

“Thanks. Have you checked email this morning?” I asked.

“I have two or three urgent emails from Fury.” The way she said urgent made me think she was not going to be answering them any time soon. She sighed and sipped at her coffee.

“Has he spoken to you about your new responsibilities?” I asked, trying not to give away what I knew to be Fury’s expectations.

“If he thinks for one minute that I’m going to become a field agent, he’s out of his goddamn mind. I joined SHIELD to use my HR degree, to put money into a 401K and not ever have to think about a different job somewhere else. I’m not about to go from safe and secure in my office to carrying a sidearm and a stupid goddamn badge,” she rolled her eyes. My shoulder holster felt heavy. I wondered if my blazer was hanging funny.

“Erin, it’s not really any different than taking a self-defense class. It’s just paid.” My coffee was still too hot to drink, and I could feel my endorphin high starting to fade. I started back toward our offices.

“Well, if you want to jump through Fury’s hoops, you go right ahead. I, however, am polishing up my resume.” It was unlike Erin to be quite so snarky, but truth be told, I knew where she was coming from. She really wasn’t well suited to the operations side of working at SHIELD. She liked a set schedule, uninterrupted vacation time, and the finer things in life. Had she discovered someone hacking encrypted data on a Saturday night, she certainly wouldn’t have run into the office to find out what was going on. I had no response for her. I accepted everything that came at me in this job, usually without question. In the end, I guess I was more of a company person than she was.

My inbox was filled with angry demands for reinstatement of security clearance. I had anticipated that, and already had a form letter ready for posting in response. I selected each message and attached the letter to it before sending it. That cleared about half of my inbox. There were a few inquiries regarding death benefits, and a cryptic message from Stark that I didn’t understand at all. I finally lit on the last unread message. It was from Kate’s grandmother. I stood and closed my office door before opening the message.

It was short, and sad, and broke my heart. Despite only knowing Kate for the week at the academy, I’d liked her very much. And her grandmother was grieving. I picked up the phone and dialed the number that I’d pulled from Kate’s personnel file. When Kate’s grandmother answered, I quickly identified myself.

“Katie spoke of you after you were away at that conference. She said she was glad to have made a new friend at work.”

“I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Banks.” I was at a loss for words. “I just wanted to let you know I received your email, and I have flagged Kate’s file. Your survivor benefit should be fast-tracked.” My voice cracked as I spoke.

“Oh dearheart, that’s not why I wanted you to phone me. I just wanted to tell you about something that happened to me years ago. I found a hornet’s nest in the tree in my backyard. And hornets are horrible pests. They destroy everything around them, and their venom can be quite lethal. I needed to get rid of that nest. I smoked them out, dearest. I waited until they were out of the nest, and calm because of the smoke, and then I dropped a bug bomb right at the nest and killed them all. When there was no more activity, I took down the nest, and I burned it. I’ve never had an issue with hornets since,” she explained. I pinched the bridge of my nose in confusion. Kate’s granny was dotty. I didn’t recall seeing a dementia diagnosis in Kate’s file, but I’d been so emotional I couldn’t see straight.

“That was very brave. Hornets and wasps terrify me,” I allowed.

“Well dear, sometimes we need to face the things we fear the most in order to make our homes safe. Thank you for calling me.” The line went dead. I called up Kate’s personnel file to make a note in it that her next of kin contact was not of sound mind. When I clicked into the cell to access Mrs. Banks’ information and add the note, a deactivated personnel file opened. Cecelia Banks, retired from duty in 1983. Kate’s grandmother had been a field agent. I skimmed the file quickly and saw that she had specialized in encrypted messages. I grabbed my cell and texted Phil quickly.

Do hornets and wasps have any significant meaning in coded messages?

Why?

I just had a weird conversation with someone about how to kill hornets. I think it was a coded message.

Try to remember everything you can about it. We’ll talk over dinner. XO

I slipped my phone into my lap as Erin knocked and entered my office. I closed Cecelia and Kate’s files as Erin flopped into the chair across from me.

“Fury says until I complete my training, my clearance is pulled. This beautiful stack of folders is now all yours.” She dropped a thick stack of files on the edge of my desk. I rolled my eyes. Of course it was.

“And that would be?” I prompted.

“Every outstanding Stark, and Hulk-Smash in the organization. There’s about 85 there,” she winked and patted the pile. I let my head drop and hit the desk.

“Thank you so much,” I groaned. Erin looked far too satisfied as she left my office, annoyingly pert pirate octopus coffee mug in tow. As she breezed out, Natasha Romanoff stepped in. My stomach tightened, and I unlocked the drawer where I kept my purse and dropped the files in before locking it again.

“Agent Ellis.” She offered her hand.

“It’s Ms. or Director, Agent Romanoff. I’m not an agent,” I corrected her and shook her hand.

“But you are. You have your badge now.” Her smile was knowing. I closed my eyes and sighed.

“Of course,” I agreed.

“There’s a training facility a few blocks from here. Did you bring something to change into? You’ll stand out dressed like that.” She was in a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt herself.

“I’ll just go get changed now then.” I grabbed my gym bag and headed to the washroom.

I landed on my back, hard. I could feel the eyes of the other agents training on us. Romanoff’s knee was across my throat in seconds, and we were both breathing hard. I kicked out, arching my back and rolling us both over until I’d pinned her. Before I could properly pin her arm, she tucked it between us and used it as leverage to push me back. I scrambled away, and regained my footing, sweat dripping into my eyes. Romanoff’s chest heaved as she circled around me. I sidestepped to keep an even distance between us, keeping my eye on her. She faked a punch to my left and as I dodged, swept my legs from under me. I was done. She pinned me on my stomach and I tapped out, raising both my hands from the mat in surrender.

She stepped off me, and offered me a hand up, patting my shoulder once we were face to face. I had at least an inch or two on her, and probably weighed thirty pounds more than her, although I think most of that weight would have been in my boobs. We probably wouldn’t have been in the same weight division in a tournament, is what I’m trying to say. She was incredibly fast, strong and agile. I felt like a lumbering drunken moose beside her.

“You’re better than the report read,” she commented as she grabbed her water bottle. I pulled my own from my bag and took a long drink.

“You certainly live up to the legend, Romanoff,” I complimented.

“Well, I was raised for this. What exactly is your story?” She asked.

“I grew boobs when I was 11. My dad thought I should know how to defend myself. One thing led to another,” I shrugged.

“You’re good. You telegraph your punches on the right,” she commented.

“I do?”

“No one has ever mentioned that?” She seemed surprised.

“I don’t know that anyone has ever noticed before.” I had a few DVDs of tournament footage at home, I was going to have to look at it and see what she was talking about.

“Well, it’s worth working on. I’ve got a pretty good idea of what I’m going to teach you now. We’ll discuss it over lunch.” We headed toward the change rooms.

Lunch with Romanoff was interesting. Once we were seated at the café, she insisted I call her Natasha, and dropped all the formality I had noticed in the gym. She was a genuinely pleasant person. It took me off-guard, but I wasn’t stupid enough to comment on it. Instead, we enjoyed lunch, and getting to know one another better. We were equally guarded in what we shared. I was careful because we were still trying to keep Phil’s continued pulse quiet. Her reserve came from years of training. She had little tells though, that made her more human. She wore a necklace with an arrow charm on it. After New York, everyone had speculated that she and Barton were close. The charm was very telling.

“I like your necklace,” I commented. She smirked, not the least bit deceived by my ruse.

“I hear that a lot these days.” She looked me in the eye. “It’s just an arrow, Anna.” There was a finality to the way she said it that warned me it wasn’t something she was going to talk about. I raised an eyebrow and smiled back. It was fair. We barely knew each other. I would be disturbed if she started volunteering personal information that we both knew wasn’t in a personnel file.

“Your training. I’ve never actually had a reason to read your personnel file, so I’m not sure about it. You said you were raised for this?” I asked, moving back to what I hoped was a less invasive topic.

“I was orphaned, and the government put me in a program as a young child to train me as an assassin. In Russia, although I think you probably knew that part.” It was an abrupt answer. Fair enough. I would probably be uncomfortable talking about that kind of history as well.

“I’m sorry if that was too personal a question.”

“You have clearance to read my file. It’s nothing you couldn’t have already seen,” she shrugged.

“Dr. Richmond thinks very highly of you.” I was floundering. I felt out of place and awkward and really uncomfortable, despite how easy and pleasant things felt. Almost as though the pleasantry was a façade. She finally broke a genuine smile.

“Lex is a remarkable woman. I wasn’t aware you were friends.” She leaned in a little.

“I would like to say we are, but we’re still acquaintances, mostly. She’s helping me out with the running and fitness portion of my training,” I admitted.

“If anyone can teach you to run, it’s Lex. If she’s not already working on your strength training with you, you should ask her about that too. It’s not really her area, but she’s pretty damn strong.” Natasha looked thoughtful. “You could probably help her with her hand-to-hand in exchange. She’s not as terrible as she used to be, but she’s nowhere near your ability. I work with her on occasion, but not often enough to be able to be consistent.”

“I’ll mention it on Wednesday. Thanks, Natasha.” I’d heard that Romanoff was the most cerebral of the Initiative, and that one little off-hand comment put that into perspective. Her brain obviously never turned off. We collected our things for the short walk back to the office

“I heard you’ve had a couple run-ins with Stark?” She changed the subject with a wry smile.

“I wouldn’t really say run-ins. Well, yeah, I guess. He was in my seminar during the attack on the Triskelion, and then he basically saved my life. And then he bugged my phone and my office,” I laughed.

“I’d call those run-ins. Tony is worth having as an ally, Anna.”

“I’ve already discovered that, and am currently overlooking what I find to be faults,” I laughed. Natasha joined me, nodding.

“We all do.” We were standing outside the building my office was in. I looked up and sighed.

“So, anything you want me to work before Wednesday?” I asked.

“Your shooting. Clint says you’re terrible. And this is going to come easy to you, so don’t sweat it.”

“God, I feel like I’m the current Avengers Initiative assignment,” I laughed.

“Listen, if anything feels weird or off to you, contact one of us. You’ve got contacts now for Clint, Tony, and me. And Lex can get Steve for you in a heartbeat. If anything at all bugs you, trust your gut and track one of us down,” she leaned in and spoke quietly.

“What?” I breathed. I felt the air rush out of my lungs like I’d taken a punch in the solar plexus.

“We both know that attack was an inside job. And whoever did it intended you to die in it. Fury says he’s got one of his best agents keeping an eye on you, but he won’t say who, so I don’t know if he can be trusted. But this isn’t over, Anna, not by a long shot. So if you think you are in the least bit of danger, you let us know,” she kept her voice low. “And don’t forget, stop telegraphing that right,” she raised her voice, and slapped my shoulder as a couple of people came out of the building.

#avengers fanfic #avengers fanfic with OFC #Phil Coulson x OFC

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schrodingers-rufus · 7 years

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So. Marble Hornets Haunted House AUs.

Historically, I tend to inflict Haunted House AUs on every fandom I find myself in. (And I’m not talking literal haunted houses here; I’m talking about those places that pop up around Halloween or year-round, where you walk through spooky sets and actors jump out at you. Sometimes there are free-roaming actors in scarezone-type things.) I just...love haunted houses/haunts. Very much. And therefore it becomes fun to think about how a cast of known characters might behave in one of them.

Harbly Marblies, however, is a little tougher, because here we’ve got a cast of characters who are living in a modern-day world where haunts would exist...but who are also deeply traumatized by supernatural spookythings, probably to the point where there is no chance in hell you’d ever get them through the front doors of a haunt.

So we’ve got some options here. Here are a couple of them.

(Cut because holy cow this post got longer than I expected.)

Option #1: Everything Is Fine AU. Nobody’s been affected by the Operator, but for the sake of recognizable characterization, everybody’s still got some existing issues. Let’s say this is the October after the movie shoot, so now the gang all knows each other.

Going to the haunt was Alex’s idea, because of course it was. Brian may be the Alpha Extrovert of the gang, but Alex is the Idea Guy. Alex comes up with stuff to do, and Brian’s the one who actually ropes most of the gang into doing it.

Alex: “It’s Halloween. This is what people do on Halloween. If you’re too old to go trick-or-treating, you get drunk or you get scared.”

Brian: “Or both.”

Alex: “Definitely both.”

Jay tags along because he guesses Alex is a friend, and friends hang out, right? That’s what they do? Also he’s been curious about this place for years, but it’s not like people go to haunts by themselves. And they definitely don’t bring cameras. That would be weird. (He definitely was planning to go by himself the previous year and upload footage from it in case the internet might take interest, but he got struck down by midterms and a nasty cold and had to miss it.)

Tim’s not sure if he can handle it, but Brian’s going, and maybe if he makes himself small enough the scareactors won’t notice him. Also, a part of him cynically points out, he’s probably seen worse.

Jessica’s going because Amy’s going because Alex’s going. Amy might or might not be hoping Jessica latches onto Brian in fear. Or Brian’s cute friend Tim, but she doesn’t really know if Tim’s on the market. Maybe Jay? She barely knows Jay, but she’s not sure if she wants to inflict him on her poor sweet roommate. They’d probably just stare awkwardly at each other for hours, and cute as that is, it’s lacking in passion. Also she heard a rumor that Jay has secret cameras set up in his apartment, so not the place for romance.

Seth and Sarah tag along because they don’t have anything else going on that night, and they get discount tickets through the university. Also Sarah and Brian have a running bet that Seth’s going to try to use her as a human shield when something scary jumps out.

Everybody piles into the disaster of a minivan Brian inherited from his parents. (Everyone except Sarah and Seth, that is, because they want an easy out in case the place sucks.)

The structure of this place: Five “mazes”, a couple of “scarezones”, and a few food trucks/pop-up food vendors. The whole thing’s held in a pair of old warehouses, and it makes the property-owners enough money that they keep the warehouses empty in the off-season. It’s like the Spirit Store of haunts.

Alex is insistent: They’re doing all five mazes, crowds be damned.

The Line of Suffering--i.e. the order they follow when going through the first couple mazes--is structured thus: Alex out front, with Amy behind him. Jessica’s holding onto the back of Amy, and Jay’s behind her (trying very carefully not to lay hands on her). Brian’s behind Jay, with Tim next to him, gripping his arm like a vice. Seth and Sarah bring up the rear. (Seth is indeed using Sarah as a human shield, but since they’re at the back of the line, this means she’s behind him, defending from any surprise threats from behind. She thinks he’s an idiot, but she’s endeared.)

Alex tries Very Hard not to jump when scareactors target him. And oh do they target him. They know an easy mark showing off for his girlfriend when they see one, and he’s painting a target on his forehead by leading the group.

Jay knows there’s a method to the madness. He’s seen enough horror movies (and watched enough haunt walkthrough videos online in preparation) to recognize the old tricks--hallways lined with doors, windows that can snap open, a room full of dummies mixed in with actors--and he is ready. His head’s on a swivel, camera roving over every inch of the walls. They won’t get him. They won’t. He has to keep the camera steady or the footage won’t come out right. He wonders if he’ll have to go through each maze twice, once with night vision and once without, like the other walkthrough channels do.

Tim knew this was a bad idea. He’s praying that he hasn’t actually bruised Brian’s arm, but he knows he’s probably left a mark. Seeing things twitching at the edges of your vision is one thing, but having a real, solid person in a rubber mask jumping out at you activates a whole different set of instincts. Tim nearly socked the first guy in the face, and since then, his grip on Brian’s arm is half to steady him and half to keep himself from reeling back and doing it again.

Amy thinks this is the best time she’s had in months. Jessica’s in a constant state of “AMY WHY”. Alex is Amy’s meatshield, while Amy’s Jessica’s meatshield. It works out.

Brian doesn’t want to let on how much this place unsettles him, but it’s really starting to wear on him. After the second maze, Tim asks if he wants to duck out and get a hot dog or something, and Brian happily agrees.

After Maze #3, Alex insists that “we should all stop for a snack” (because he’s getting burned out, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to say that). The gang sees Brian and Tim finishing off a truly ridiculously large order of chili cheese fries. Alex didn’t even notice they were missing.

Jay is exhausted from being so wound up and too wound up to calm down. He wonders if the scareactors are allowed to mess with people at the picnic tables. He wonders if he’ll die if he drinks a can of Coke with his burger. He buys it anyway. He leaves the camera running. Tim sees his hands shaking and gives him a look. Jay doesn’t think anyone who ducked out after two mazes is qualified to be giving him a look.

Seth and Sarah leave early. Seth says he has a project he has to get started on. Sarah wants to point out that it’s the middle of fall break and that he literally told her this morning that he didn’t have any homework over the break, but she doesn’t need to. Even Jay seems to have noticed how flimsy his excuse is. Sarah’s pretty wiped anyway, so she basically says, “So long, suckers,” and leaves the rest of them to suffer without their Rear Guard.

Tim and Brian rejoin the gang for Maze #4, now emotionally recharged and full of chili cheese fries.

Alex is very, very tired of being out front, but there are only two more and he just needs to power through it. (Also, he doesn’t feel like it’s right to force anybody else to take the lead, and nobody’s asked, so he’ll just suck it up and keep going. Somebody has to be out front, and it might as well be him.)

This house has a trick where a hatch slides open at about knee-level, and a scareactor reaches out for your legs--not close enough to touch, but close enough to make you notice. Jay doesn’t see it coming. He makes a truly embarrassing noise, a noise that will forever be immortalized on film. (No, he’ll edit it out in post.) At this point, Jay is well and truly shaken. He thinks he sees spots flashing in front of his eyes, but it’s too dark to really tell. It’s probably from the strobes from earlier. Maybe he’s breathed too much fog machine fog. (Is it true that stuff can burn holes in your lungs?) Jay’s fine. Really, he’s fine.

The gang shares a look of weary resignation before getting in line for Maze #5.

The last maze is alien-themed, something about invaders from another dimension. It’s new this year, and it shows. The animatronics are smoother, the sound design is great, and the makeup is--

One of the monsters has no face, just pale latex skin stretched taut.

Brian’s not sure why Tim just hid his face against his back, but he’s not going to make him move. Sure, he’ll miss the neat sets--Brian’s especially partial to the rusted-out feel of the old spaceship; it reminds him of Alien--but Brian’ll tell him about them later. Brian inches forward, and Tim follows, gripping the back of Brian’s sweatshirt for dear life. Brian wonders if they’ll have enough time to get another snack before they leave; chili cheese fries may not fix anything, but they seemed to help before.

The maze culminates in a brief scripted battle, as a pair of actors wearing scuffed-up space suits fire on the aliens while strobe lights fire off from a truss above the set.

Jay thinks something feels off.

Jay wakes up outside the maze, splayed out across the grass and surrounded by paramedics. No, he doesn’t have a history of epilepsy. No, it’s probably just anxiety, really, we don’t need to go to the hospital.

Jay wakes up in the hospital.

A few hours later, he’s finally released. (Brian stays in the waiting room while Alex and the rest of the gang drops Tim off at his apartment to get his car. Yeah, I’m good to drive. Just a bit shaken, that’s all. No, really, you stay here, and I’ll go. I hate waiting rooms.)

Jay comes out with a doctor’s warning and a six-month driving ban. (Tim snickers into his hand when Jay tells him.)

Jay laments the fact that his footage for the last maze is unusable and asks if they can go again. Tim somehow manages to give him a look while still keeping his eyes on the road. Jay’s as impressed as he is offended.

Option #2: The Gang Runs the Haunt AU. Alex’s family runs a haunt and they’re short on help, so Alex ropes the gang into helping him.

The Kralie haunt is pretty small-scale, as haunts go, but it’s been in the family for generations. (Well, Alex’s dad and grandfather started it in the early 80s, so Alex thinks that counts as “generations”.)

Growing up around all this stuff helps mold a young mind sometimes, and while Alex is still pretentious as all get-out, he wants to make horror movies. He wants to elevate the genre.

Alex suggested to his grandfather that they try one of those “intense”, full-contact haunts one year. His grandfather looked him straight in the eyes and told him that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard, but if he wanted to be an idiot, he could make his own haunt.

(Alex did not have the resources to make his own haunt. He’s still biding his time. Waiting.)

Jay tagged along with Alex’s family to an out-of-state haunt convention that spring, and he helped them pick out some spotlights and a new projector effect.

This may have been what planted the seed in Alex’s head for an idea that August: friends = free labor, right?

Jay agrees to help build sets and set up lighting on the condition that he’d be able to shoot some footage for his midterm project on-set. (The thing’s not due until mid-October, so the sets’ll be done with enough time to film and edit, right?)

Brian agrees to do the same on the condition that he’d be able to play a monster on the weekends. (From Alex’s perspective, that was a no-brainer; double the free labor!)

Tim agrees because he knows Alex is garbage at sound design, and he’d like to do something that’s actually helpful for once.

Amy’s been looking into being an SFX makeup artist (maybe as a full-time job, maybe on the side; competition is steep) so she wants all the practice she can get.

Amy tries to convince Jessica that monster makeup’s “just like regular makeup, really! It’s easy! Come on, I can’t do all the actors myself!”

Monster makeup is not just like regular makeup. Jessica feels a lot more comfortable painting sets, but she doesn’t want to throw Amy under the bus, so she also does a little bit of the makeup, too. She thinks her monster stuff looks awful, and from the look on Amy’s face, she knows she agrees. At least the haunt is dark.

Alex picks up a pair of stilts at a nearby Goodwill and begs Amy to design a monster for them.

Various ideas are brought up and shot down, including The Obvious. Tim vocally objects to The Obvious, for Obvious reasons. Alex concedes.

The haunt that year is themed after a haunted crypt (just like it was the past five years), so they wind up with Alex dressed as an eight-foot reaper in a cloak. (The cloak is to cover up the stilts.) Alex thinks it’s corny. (He secretly likes lurking around and looming into the edges of people’s field of vision. It’s satisfying. He Likes To Be Tall.)

Alex initially plans to make Brian a forgettable background skeleton, but then his mother has the idea to make Brian into a skeletal “barker” character who stands out front and improvises banter with the guests. Brian’s been taking some improv classes since that summer, and the improvements are noticeable. (Alex entirely blames the classes. No way was his lousy script to blame for Brian’s lackluster performance that summer. Alex is a genius. Brian’s just a psych major.)

Alex calls Brian “The Cryptkeeper” once. Only once.

Brian knows too many puns.

(Ten years later, Jay thanks every deity he can name that Undertale didn’t exist during the fall of 2006.)

The sets come together in time (barely).

Jay shoots what he needs for his project in time (not really, but what’s a few all-nighters among friends).

After an extended battle with a speaker rig that looks like it hasn’t been updated in fifteen years, the ambient sound design comes together in time (barely).

Jessica looks up lots of makeup tutorials.

The First Weekend of October Is Coming.

Actors: hired

Rehearsals: done

Costumes: done

Lighting and sound: checked and re-checked

Sets: safety regulation compliant

Everyone: smells like liquid latex and fake fog

The First Night Arrives.

Alex has a fever of 103. His parents say that, between school and the haunt, he must’ve overexerted himself.

Alex has seen Tim coughing the past week or so. Alex knows Tim is Patient Zero. Tim should’ve dropped out the second he started coming down with something; now he might’ve spread it to the whole crew.

Alex calls Tim up and curses him out through a sore throat. Tim can barely understand what he’s saying. Tim eventually hangs up.

It’s an hour until doors open, and somebody needs to wear the reaper outfit.

Brian’s already in costume as the barker, Amy and Jessica are busy, and everyone knows the last thing Alex will want to hear is that Tim took his part.

So that leaves Jay.

Jay has never worn stilts before.

Jay has never scared people before.

(Not on purpose, at least.)

Jay tries his best.

Mercifully, he doesn’t fall over, but he does get close a few times. He has to grip the foam-painted-to-look-like-stone wall for support for most of the night. The cloak would look baggy on anyone, but Jay’s swimming in it.

He still gets a few good scares in. (He sees why Alex likes it. It’s a power thing, he thinks.)

The next few weekends, once Alex is back on his feet, Jay shoots promotional footage of the guests going through the haunt. Jay prefers this job; he gets to dress in stagehand-black and lurk around the sets trying not to be noticed.

He gets some of his best footage out front, watching Brian. The guy really is a natural at this.

Tim stays backstage every weekend, monitoring lights and sound. Jay gets a little footage of him, too, to his mild annoyance.

Jay tapes interviews with Jessica and Amy one Saturday before the doors open. Amy turns the whole thing into a tutorial, seemingly out of pity after Jay stumbles through a couple of awkwardly worded interview questions.

When Alex’s family realize he didn’t set aside any money in the budget to pay his friends, they swiftly correct the error. The gang doesn’t make much, still, but it’s a nice surprise.

October ends. The sets are dismantled. The costumes are put away.

Brian tells Alex that if he ever needs more help next year, he’ll try to be around.

Brian’s off to medical school at the end of spring semester, but he's going to try to get into a program in the area. Alex rolls his eyes and tells him that maybe they’ll be able to come up with a mad doctor for him to play.

“Mad psychiatrist.” Brian wiggles his eyebrows.

“Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“Not as often than you’d think.”

Jay cuts his footage into a trailer for the website. Alex’s family is thrilled. Jay asks if can bring his camera to the haunt convention next year, and the answer is a resounding “absolutely”.

Jay might have found His Element.

It gets worse when he discovers that unsolved crime forums are a thing.

Then Jay’s either traveling around taping haunt walkthroughs or trespassing on private property looking for evidence.

Alex thinks Jay would make a great character in one of his movies.

The gang keeps coming back year after year, especially Jay and Tim. Brian has to miss a few years because of school. Jessica ends up at a grad school out of state but comes back as a guest a few times. For Tim and Jay, though, it’s decent seasonal work.

Alex is still trying to elevate the genre. Tim and Jay have a running bet on how long it’ll take for one of Alex’s movies to get wide enough distribution to win a Razzie.

Everything Is Actually Fine

#marble hornets #tim wright #jay merrick #alex kralie #brian thomas #jessica locke #amy walters #haunted house au #plotbunnies #You Have Activated My Special Interest #my fanfiction #sort of

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