#DEFINITELY something very much here. intentionally or not god only knows. but i am sniffing something intriguing to my snoffler.

[raspberryjellybrains]

idk if I'll ever share it, but I AM cooking up some dandadan critical analysis. whether they make the intended picture or not, I am connecting dots.

[myherowritings]

hearts intertwined | t.s.

— You and Todoroki have been roommates for months now but have barely had more than a two minute conversation. When quarantine hits and everyone is on lockdown, you find yourself forced to spend more time with him and actually end up...enjoying it? 

pairing: todoroki shouto x reader word count: 3,055 genre: roommate au, pro hero!shouto, fluff warnings: suggestive content, 16+, mc and todo are both mid-20s

a/n: this is written as part of the crackhead sanctuary’s server collab! (pls excuse my server name lmfdkgfdg i have terrible naming skillz) i hope y’all enjoy and pls lmk what u think!! xx sof

In many ways, Todoroki Shouto was the perfect roommate. 

He cleaned up after himself, always made an extra serving of food and set it aside for you (though it may only have been because he sucked at measuring out ingredients rather than him intentionally planning on leaving you leftovers), and generally kept his volume to a minimum when entering the apartment at ungodly hours of the night. 

There was also the fact that he was the most attractive person you had ever shared a living space with in your life, and seeing him shirtless on his way to his bedroom from the bathroom was a definite bonus.

But despite all that, he was never someone you considered yourself close to.

You needed help paying for rent and expenses and he happened to be a friend of a friend of a friend who was looking for a place in the city to stay. Call it a divine intervention, a gift from the gods, or even fate… But you still wouldn’t consider yourself his friend.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t want to befriend him--Todoroki seemed like a sweet person. It was more along the lines of neither of you having the time. While you spent most of your day in the lab studying and doing research, Todoroki was always working in his office or out in the field to fulfill his new hero duties. 

This quarantine was probably the first opportunity either of you had to be in the same building for more than thirty minutes at a time. Which was why, as the two of you sat side-by-side on the living room sofa, no one knew exactly what to say.

“So, the weather--”

“Looks warm out--”

Both of you opened your mouths and shut them at the same time.

“Sorry,” Todoroki said with a small smile. “You first.”

“I-- Oh… It was nothing,” you managed, clearing your throat in an attempt to compose yourself. “Just trying to make some small talk.”

With a tight-lipped smile and wide eyes, you slowly craned your head away from his view. Who admits they’re trying to make small talk? That breaks all the rules of how to properly talk to someone.

The faint sound of the television playing old infomercials buzzed in the background while you and your roommate sat in silence. You never struggled to talk to him during those brief moments of passing, so why now? 

Looking at the screen to pass time, you noticed an outdated commercial of an older Tamagotchi game playing and felt yourself breaking out into a grin.

“Aw, I miss that game!” you cried as you turned to Todoroki with an excited glint in your eye. “Don’t tell anyone, but in elementary school I used to play it in class and since I was such a goody two-shoes, the teacher never suspected a thing.”

He raised an eyebrow in response. “I see we have ourselves a rebel in disguise here.”

“It’s our little secret, though. To everyone else, I am the epitome of innocence.”

You couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze travelled down your body and lingered on where the fabric of your oversized pajama shirt stopped and the expanse of your thigh started. 

“Sure. I believe you,” he said in what was almost a teasing tone. 

You felt your face growing hot but you paid it no mind. 

“As you should,” you sniffed, crossing one leg over the other haughtily. When he chuckled, you turned back to him. “How about you? Are you a secret bad boy who played with his Tamagotchi in the back of class?”

Todoroki shook his head. “I never had one. I actually never even knew what it was until high school, I think.” 

“Really?” Your eyes widened. Sure, the hand-held game was marketed to girls, but to never have heard about it through your whole childhood? You weren’t sure how that was possible. “Not even your older sister had one?”

Now, you didn’t know much about his personal life (whether or not he was dating someone, if he slept on the left or the right side of the bed, which leg he put in his pants first, et cetera), but you did pick up on a few things about his siblings from the previous interactions you’ve had with him.

“Not to my knowledge,” he said, looking away thoughtfully. “My father never afforded us such luxuries.” 

You frowned. “What about toys like Pokemon? Oh! Or Yu-Gi-Oh cards?”

“Yu-Gi-Oh cards?” repeated Todoroki slowly, as if he was unsure what you were talking about.

Your jaw dropped in disbelief. “You never played--? Oh, never mind. How about family games like Twister or Just Dance?” 

As far as you were aware, Todoroki Shouto came from a rather affluent family. So it was a wonder why he never participated in at least one of these experiences that characterized a whole generation’s childhood.

Again, he shook his head. “Never did those either. I wasn’t exactly allowed to play with my siblings, let alone other kids my age. My father always made me prioritize my training.” 

“That’s not right of him.”

You winced. Of course he never had the opportunity to have a “normal” childhood. How could you be so insensitive? It was no secret Endeavor had a troubled relationship with his family, but you weren’t exactly sure to what extent. You didn’t focus much on the whimsical world of heroes and, ever since you were a child, you know you wanted to pursue the field of research rather than use your quirk. The lives of heroes--even top ranking ones--was something you never paid much attention to. Still, even you have heard some gossip about the estranged Endeavor. 

“Sorry for pressing you,” you said, toying with the hem of your shirt. “I didn’t mean to be so insensitive.”

He gave you a nonchalant shrug and a small smile to let you know it was okay.

“Don’t worry about it, Y/L/N. You didn’t mean to,” he comforted. “Besides, it’s been a long time. It would be useless to hold a grudge against my father for this long.”

You tilted your head to the side. “Forgiveness, huh? That’s very mature of you, Todoroki. I think I admire you.”

His shoulders moved upward in silent laughter. “Thank you. I admire you, too.” 

Ignoring the faint heat you felt in your cheeks, you beamed. “Thanks. Anyway-- You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“You did not have a childhood.”

While his face remained passive, you could have sworn you saw his eye crinkle in amusement.

“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” he said in agreement. “My youth was spent quite differently than most.”

You nodded profusely. “Right. And while I don’t think there is anything inherently wrong with that, per se, it could be beneficial to do these things you haven’t had the chance to!”

He examined you curiously as you bounced up from your seat on the sofa with an excited grin. After a few moments of silence, he craned his neck, prompting you for clarification.

“You’re bored on lockdown, I’m bored on lockdown,” you stated matter-of-factly. “What better time to reclaim your childhood than now?”

Todoroki didn’t bother to hide the small smile making its way across his face at your determined words. “Okay, then. Count me in.”

- - - - -

When you decided you wanted to help your new friend Todoroki reclaim his childhood, you expected your days to be full of cute Beanie Babies and Webkinz, as well as the presumed amounts of chaos that followed edible bubbles and candy kits. And while the first few days of the week consisted of that, the tone changed rather drastically when a certain game was introduced. Of all things, what you expected least was to be practically panting on top of Shouto as you braced your muscles and tried not to collapse onto him.

“Left hand, blue,” he called after flicking the spinner. 

How he managed to turn the spinner with one hand and keep his body balanced with the other on a Twister mat without toppling over was a mystery to you.

Stupid heroes with their stupid, bulging muscles, you thought crossly as you relived your many previous losses. You tried to ignore the bead of sweat dripping down your face as you struggled to stay up. 

Somehow, you turned your head just enough that you had the perfect view of Todoroki’s flexed triceps as he held himself in a modified pushup position of sorts. There was a look of concentration on his face and, while you found his furrowed brows to be rather cute, you still couldn’t help but focus your attention on his arms. He had a lean type of muscle that you thought would feel especially comfortable wrapped around your waist-- 

“Y/L/N, do you forfeit?” 

You blinked, feeling lightheaded both from this game which you lacked the stamina for and from the lack of oxygen that travelled to your brain as you held your breath while staring at Todoroki. 

Once your mind processed his words, you huffed. “Forfeit! Me? Never! Why would you think that?”

“Because I called ‘left hand, blue,’ minutes ago and you still haven’t moved.” 

Blood rushed to your face and you were thankful you had the exertion to blame it on. It wasn’t your fault Todoroki’s arms were so toned and strong and...distracting.

“No,” you said, unsure if there was even a question asked for you to reply to. “I don’t quit!”

Your eyes scanned the mat feverishly, looking for a blue circle to place your left hand on that would cause the least amount of strain. Shouto had already won the first two rounds and you’d be damned if you were to let him win again. (As much as you loved witnessing him succeed, your pride would simply be too hurt if you lost a third time in a row.) 

“Find a spot yet?” he asked in amusement. “I’m not sure how much longer my arms can hold.”

Of course, just the mention of his arms drew your attention from finding the optimal Twister position to staring stupidly at his triceps again.

As you attempted to tear your gaze away from him, you spotted hints of a smirk lingering on Todoroki’s face.

Did he notice your staring? There was no way… 

You looked at him, wide-eyed and dubious, and almost choked when you saw his shoulders start to shake as he tried to hide his laughter.

His laugh was muffled by his shirt in an attempt to keep his volume down, but it still rang rich and deep in the air. It was the first time you heard him laugh like that and you wanted to do anything to hear it again. 

With a shake of his head, he removed his hands from their spot on the Twister board and sat upright beside you.

“I concede,” he said when he saw you eyeing him with curiosity. “You win this round. My arms were getting too sore.”

After hearing the sweet sound of Todoroki saying, “You win,” you let yourself collapse on the floor, rolling onto your back to get a clear view of your cream-colored ceiling.

“For some reason, I sincerely doubt that your arms were getting sore,” you said, stretching your own--genuinely sore--arms out in front of you. “But seeing as I was about to fall flat on my face if I waited any longer… Thank you for conceding.” 

“Doubt I’d be sore?” he repeated, craning his neck to peer down at your face. He placed his left hand on his right bicep and gently massaged it with his thumb and forefinger. “What for?” 

By then, whatever rational thought was left in your brain had been fully replaced by Shouto’s arms and Shouto’s arms only, and you couldn’t even complain. 

“Mmm, what did you say again?” You blinked, clearing your throat. You suddenly had the desire to chug a cool glass of water.

Todoroki’s only reply was another small--almost imperceptible--smirk. It would have been easy for someone to miss, but to you, someone who was perhaps being more attentive to their roommate and newfound friend than they’d care to admit, it was clear as day.  

“You’re totally messing with me!” you groaned, covering your face with your hands as you continued to lie with your back on the floor. “Aren’t you?”

He let out a breathy laugh and shrugged, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. “Sorry. It’s just cute seeing your reactions. I didn’t know you liked my arms so much.”

You could’ve sworn he flexed once more for dramatic effect and an indignant squeak escaped your mouth.

“I-I don’t!” you protested, making sure to look anywhere but his arms. “I just never noticed how...proportionate they were before! Just thinking about how da Vinci would admire them. For scientific purposes, of course.”

“Sure.” 

You gaped at the knowing look on his face. “How did you even notice? Aren’t you a bit of the oblivious type?” With wide eyes, you slapped your hand over your mouth. “Wait-- I’m sorry. That was rude to say.”

Todoroki waved it off with a smile to show he wasn’t offended in the slightest. “I guess I was rather oblivious in the beginning of high school. But as I grew up I became more accustomed to picking up on such things.” 

You hummed in silent contemplation. Of course he had to have grown used to people making moon eyes over him. He probably got it all the time.

“I usually pay it no mind,” he continued as he stood up, peering down at you sprawled out on the floor. “But when you do it, I find it sort of cute.” 

As if he didn’t just say something that caused your heart to skip a beat, Todoroki extended a hand out to help you up.

Ignoring the heat rushing to your cheeks, you gently placed your hand in his.

“Thanks,” you murmured as Shouto pulled you off the mat and towards his body, a feeling of lightheadedness overcoming you at the sudden motion.

One hand held yours while his other was placed firmly above your elbow to help you steady yourself.

“You okay, Y/L/N?” he asked, a hint of concern in his voice as he watched you regain your balance.

“Oh, yeah! No worries. This happens all the time, to be honest,” you admitted, vaguely taking note of how your chest was almost fully pressed against his. “Whenever I move my head too fast I get a bit dizzy. And whenever I stand too fast my knees sort of just crack.” 

Your words did nothing to soothe the worried furrow between his brows.

“Is...Is that not normal?” 

He blinked.

You grimaced. “Okay. Guess not. Maybe I need to work out more.” 

“You can work out indoors with me,” Todoroki suggested with a small smile. He looked so sincere you were just about to agree until he opened his mouth for a second time-- “As long as you don’t spend the whole workout gawking at my arms.”

With an indignant cry, you pulled yourself away from his loose grip, face burning with such intensity you wouldn’t be surprised if he were able to sense the rise in temperature. “I never gawked at your arms.” 

He hummed. 

“Well, okay, maybe I did,” you relented with a huff, bending down to fold up the game mat in front of you. “They look very strong. Being a hero must be hard work.”

Todoroki shrugged, helping you clean up. “It’s worth the toll it takes. I can imagine your research requires hard work too.” 

You tried to hide the look of surprise on your face. You briefly talked to him about what you did during the roommate-finding process, but you didn’t think it was anything interesting enough for him to recall. It brought an odd warmth to your stomach knowing he cared enough to remember. 

“I guess. But I’d say it’s nowhere near as difficult as hero work,” you brushed off. “Not everyone has what it takes to be a good hero.”

A faint blush colored his cheeks as he followed you into the kitchen for a glass of water.

“There are lots of great heroes,” he stated, filling up two cups and handing one to you. 

“Yeah, there are. And greatness is one thing, but you’re a good one-- In the heart.” Your gaze flitted to his, unsure why you were filled with the sudden urge to have such an intimate conversation after a game of Twister. Still, you rolled with it. “I know we haven’t talked much prior to this lockdown...but even I can tell how caring you are. And I’m looking forward to getting to know you more.” 

A comfortable silence filled the air as he took a seat beside you. If Shouto was taken aback by your sudden compliment, he did a good job at hiding it, simply giving you a small smile as he let his shoulder rest against yours. You glanced over at the point of contact and bubbled with elation. 

“Todoroki?” you called quietly, the edge of your pinky brushing against his. 

He looked down at the gentle touch of your hand and didn’t move away. Instead, he took the initiative and placed his fingers on top of yours, his hand surprisingly soft despite the calluses on his fingertips. The back of your neck heated at the sudden movement, but you decided you rather liked how his hands felt on yours. 

“Hmm?” 

“Thanks for letting me drag you along to play these childhood games,” you said, letting out a sigh of contentment. “It’s a nice change of pace while we’re stuck indoors.”

Shouto shook his head. “I should be the one thanking you. These are much better childhood memories than the ones from my actual childhood,” he admitted with a light laugh. “I’m glad we had the opportunity to spend more time together, Y/L/N.”

By now your fingers were intertwined with his, his thumb lightly stroking the peak of your knuckle.

He continued, “I hope this continues even when quarantine is over.” 

“I hope it does, too.” You couldn’t stop the grin from spreading wide across your face as you nuzzled your head on his shoulder. “Let’s keep making memories together, okay, Todoroki?”

“Happily.” 

[imnotcameraready]

Enjambment (chivalry au)

A/N: it’s the first not-main-story story!!!! wrote this while tryna figure out how to get from point a to point b, and it doesn’t really fit in with the story’s Flow, so it’s gonna be its own lil part! it’s also got a little bit more character building for the Playwright and the Artist, if anyone wanted that lm a o — they’re good bois, they’re just. really bad at being good bois. 

also i kNOW chapter 11 came out like, last night, but  ,. ., ., .. . ive had this sitting ready for literally a week ., ,. ,..  sorry for bombarding y’all with this au :’’D

WARNINGS: self-deprecation, self-hate, touch starved, threats, cursing/swearing, destruction of property, destruction of art (ewe)

Words: 2085

AO3 link to this story; AO3 link to chivalry’s main plot

MASTERPOST! <-- i dont think this story is understandable without reading the other parts, hence im plugging it so much  ; v; i’m sorry y’all ilu <3 

chivalry taglist: @starlightvirgil​ @forrestwyrm​ @daflangstlairde​ @marshmallow-the-panda​ @askthesnake​ @k9cat​ @patromlogil​

general tag: @jemthebookworm​

hope you enjoy!! <3 <3 <3 

The Playwright didn’t like admitting he was wrong. He often wasn’t. Having the position of an omniscient narrator meant he got to be right a lot, which was one of Roman’s favorite things.

But his argument with the Artist may not have been one of those “right” things. The Playwright leaned on the table, twirling a pencil absentmindedly as he contemplated. He wasn’t entirely wrong, no. The Artist had to keep in mind the safety of the other Sides. If anything happened to any of them, Thomas would be hurt, and Roman would riot. Every bit of him, except for…. The Playwright winced. On the other hand, this in-fighting was exactly what they should be countering. Sure, everyone disagreed and that was the purpose of this dismantling, but the Playwright was above these squabbles. Should be above them, figuratively, because in physical space, he very much was above them.

Apologizing would be the logical thing to do.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. He didn’t enjoy entering the medieval town, didn’t like going deeper into the Imagination, but it seemed he would traverse there more often.

The sound of a paper flipping caught his attention. His eyes shot open as he looked around the room. No one was there.

But he’d definitely heard movement. The Playwright swallowed down his fear. “Hello?” he called out.

Nothing. None of the costumes had moved, none of the shoes or benches or any of his paperwork.

Wait, no, there was something. The Playwright moved a few scraps to the side and picked up an envelope. This hadn’t been there before.

Cordial invitation of Roman ‘Playwright’ Sanders to the Entry Gala — in celebration of Morality, Logic, Anxiety, and Deceit’s welcome to the Imagination.

The Playwright’s eyes widened. Oh, fuck.

He tore the envelope open and read its contents.

The Artist wept.

He ran his hand along the ruined canvas — ruined by his hand, torn open with his own knife and dirtied with his tears — and pressed it fast to his chest.

Why was he so mean? Why did it hurt so much, for his creations to be picked at like vultures and a carcass? Wasn’t that the point, wasn’t that how artists improved?

Ah, who was he kidding. He wasn’t a real artist at all. Just a name he’d selected when they first started this game.

The Artist was so wrapped up in his lamentations that he didn’t hear the soft sound of paper falling onto the floor beside him.

He shouted again, cradling the broken mess of canvas and wooden frames. All good artists got second opinions. No one was safe from criticism, and there was always room for improvement! He should know this, he DID know that, it was reasonable. But hearing it from the others always made him so anxious—

He sniffed, wiping his face with the paw of his sweatshirt. If he was falling apart this bad, it must mean he was losing this challenge thing. But thinking of anxiety and then, well, Anxiety, Virgil…. the Artist wished he’d gotten to meet the two, too. Like every other bit, he did love them.

The sound of debris being scattered, then a surprised yelp. The Artist sighed, curling up tighter. God fucking damnit.

“What—I’ve—Artist?!” the Playwright asked.

The Artist was sat against the wall, cradling a bundle of broken paintings to his chest, previously white sweater dirtied with layers upon layers of paint. All around him, every painting that has previously been neatly stacked in the room was torn to shreds. Broken pieces of wood and canvases halved were strewn around the room in piles, or one thick pile, with only a small circle of ground around the Artist. Sketchbooks were torn, even the drawing tablet was — okay, the Playwright wasn’t going to look at that and think of the physical monetary price, because none of this was real. Holy shit, the Artist had put a hole into the wall of his house. There was a hole? He’d punched a hole into the wall? Good heavens.

The Playwright, in an effort to not damage any of his art, accidentally appeared on top of one of the piles. He fell over, landing on his butt amongst the shreds, and looked around wildly.

“What happened?” he asked once he caught sight of the Artist’s frozen figure in the corner, still since he arrived, “Did Dragon—”

“They weren’t good enough, so I tore them up,” the Artist whispered into his own folded arms.

The Playwright’s brow pinched in worry. That had happened only a few times before, where a single work had been so terrible that the Artist ripped it to shreds in anger, but he’d never done….this. And he especially wouldn’t have done this, since he had numerous pieces he wanted to show the other Sides.

He drew in a breath as his mind filled in the gap.

“Oh, Artist, what did they say?” the Playwright whispered, pushing himself up and slowly making his way closer.

“Nothing. Get away.”

He grit his teeth. The Artist was going to be difficult, wasn’t he? Now, now, it wasn’t a good time to lose his temper. He came with a job to do, and he wasn’t cruel enough to leave the Artist to be upset alone. And he needed his help. This was purely logical.

He wanted to laugh. Being logical was so taxing; how did Logan do it all the time?

“Artist. I’m not leaving,” the Playwright sat in front of him, “I take it that Logic and Morality didn’t take well to your paintings?”

He glanced up at the Playwright, quick enough to now show an expression but slow enough that the Playwright caught a glimpse of his tearstained eyes.

“They–They said my art’s unfinished. Logic did.”

The Playwright frowned. “Wait. That’s it?”

The Artist curled up more, and the Playwright gently put a hand on his forearm. “Wait, wait, I didn’t mean it  judgy. I just….that’s something you’ve complained about, too.”

To that, the Artist shot him a small glare. When the Playwright put it like that, then the Artist’s reaction seemed childish. “Yeah, but,” he sighed, “I didn’t want them to say anything about it.”

“Then why didn’t you warn them about it?” the Playwright asked, confused.

“Look, I don’t–I don’t know!” the Artist tossed the painting he was cradling aside and ran his hands through his hair, “It all happened so fast, and Padre was getting mad at me for not letting Child stay here. It—they both got upset at me, and they interrupted my painting, and Padre kept hugging me and it felt weird.”

The Playwright exhaled. He put a mental pin on the hugging thing — a similar thing had happened to him the other day, and he would have to talk to the others about what may be occurring — and then scooted closer again, sitting beside the Artist.

“Seeing as I wasn’t there, I cannot speak to what your argument may have been about. But I know that Logic and Morality wouldn’t have wanted to intentionally harm us.”

“How do you know, Pencil pusher?” the Artist hissed, though his words held an emptiness that betrayed his disbelief.

“Because they wouldn’t. They’re calloused, but they wouldn’t hurt us. Maybe Prince.”

The Artist snorted. “You really hate that guy.”

The Playwright smiled. Good. He cleared his throat and threw up his hands in the Prince’s signature style. “Hoo hoo, look at me, I’m a Disney Prince and I like singing songs and being an idiot!” he said, mockingly emphasizing a mispronunciation of “Disney.”

That got the Artist to laugh, shoving the Playwright gently. “Hey, hey, Disney’s cool! I’ll defend Disney to the death,” he rubbed the back of his neck.

The tension returned, but only slightly. The Playwright didn’t want to push him, but he was a little impatient for the Artist to pull himself together. His feet gently tapped against the ground in a small, familiar tune.

After what seemed like ages, the Artist let out a breath.

“....I did….overreact. A little,” he said. “The knife was too much.”

“A lot. Wait, did you say knife?”

“Yeah. I, um, I lost it a little.” He rubbed the back of his head again, looking up at the Playwright. “Thank you for sitting with me.”

The Playwright smiled. Wonderful. He patted the Artist’s arm comfortingly. “If I cannot comfort myself, then what am I doing?”

They both shared a small chuckle at that. It was easy to forget that they were two parts of a much more cohesive whole.

It was also easy to forget that the Playwright had something else he wanted to ask. He clapped, sitting upright and startling the Artist.

“Sorry,” he put his hands up, eyes blazing with new worry, “I actually came to ask something else — did you get invited to the party?”

The Artist’s brow furrowed. “The….party? No?”

“Oh, come, you must have,” the Playwright looked around.

The same envelope he’d received prior was sitting beside the Artist, on top of some of the ruined paintings. He picked it up and found two more envelopes beneath. “Great Ben Jonson, you got Logic and Morality’s invitations, too,” the Playwright flipped through the three cards and handed the one addressed to the Artist, to the Artist. “You must not have noticed it earlier. I got a letter similar, this morning. From Dragon.”

“From Dragon? Fuck, how’d he find us?” the Artist read the front and flipped it over again, tearing it open.

“I don’t know. Perhaps he just sent it to the location of whoever said Logic’s name last night. I also don’t know how he got backstage to deliver mine,” the Playwright read over his shoulder, “I honestly came here hoping to find the other Sides. We need to warn them.”

“We do? About what?” the Artist shot him a frown, but the Playwright just gestured to the paper, so he read the invitation.

His eyes scanned through it once. His body slowly tense as he realized what was being asked, and he flipped it over, checking all around the letter and the envelope that there wasn’t more.

“This,” the Artist reread the letter once more before lowering it and staring, stricken, at the Playwright, “This is a fucked up joke, right? Like, it’s gotta be a joke. Dragon’s Disney pranking us, without friends.”

“I don’t want to hazard that,” the Playwright stood up and motioned for the Artist to get up, “We need to find the others and warn them. If Logic and Morality’s invitations are here, then they must not know, and it’s a safe bet that if they don’t know, then Anxiety and Deceit don’t know, either.”

The Artist pushed himself up, rolling his sleeves up and wiping his face slowly. “He wouldn’t hurt them,” he mumbled. “Why’s he mentioning Prince, too?”

“I don’t know. And after what he did to Damsel?” The Artist rolled his eyes as the Playwright continued, “I don’t think Dragon would hesitate to hurt them, and he’s using the concept of Prince as bait.”

Goddamnit, he was probably right. The Artist rubbed his eyes and fixed his glasses. “Alright. I just,” God, he was hideous. “Should I change?”

The Playwright squinted. “Have you not left your house since this all started?”

“No,” the Artist looked at him like he was stupid, “Why would I?”

Alright. Alright, this was a predicament. The Playwright blew out a lot of air, eyebrows raising as he tried to figure out, in the most concise way, he could tell the Artist that he wanted to throttle him. His attire was absolutely not correct for the setting that they’d established, and he couldn’t fathom WHY the Artist wanted to parade around a medieval town looking like THAT.

No, you know what? It was fine. Sleep was walking around in a leather jacket, it’s FINE. Perhaps the Playwright was the only one who cared about the sanctity of the setting.

Meanwhile, the Artist looked around and waved his hand. The torn paintings all disappeared, leaving the room empty, looking larger than ever. The hole in the wall faded away, establishing itself as a solid wall once more. He looked down at his outfit and simply wiped it, the paint stains all disappearing as his hand passed over them, revealing a creamy-white color once more.

“That’s good enough,” the Playwright snapped, grabbing a fist of his shirt and tugging him forward, “Come on.”

[hunterartemis]

La Femme en Chemise Soie: A Sherlock Fanfiction-Oneshot.

Words: 3672

Theme: Libera Me , From Interview with a Vampire: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N6aPxaCpP

Summery: Sherlock comes across a piece of clothing which shall lead him to something he learned not to believe.

Warning: Suicide, horror, general creepiness

“John what can you deduce from this--“ Sherlock threw a piece of black satin camisole at John’s face.

It was raining outside in Westminster city as it does most of the time in this part of the month. John just walked in after stepping out of his raincoat that he got along with his army uniform. Before he could sit down for the warm comfort near the fireplace after a tiring day of piles, blisters, and vaginal warts, a piece of fabric hit him square across his face. Before it could glide off, John gathered the small thing in his fists and held it at a distant to examine it first.

“That you are finally getting laid like a normal human being“ Watson shook the fabric in the air and suddenly the true form of the fabric unraveled in front of his eyes. “My God, it’s true isn’t it?“ John looked at Holmes with an affirmative look. Upon his finger dangled a black silk chemise by its spaghetti strap. Even in the dark lighting of the room, it gleamed with its dark pearlescent sheen. 

“Never form a theory before judging the facts, Watson. One must form a theory to suit the facts, not the other way around--“ Sherlock sprung upon his feet, his blue dressing gown swaying behind him “now Doctor, let’s see how much of a deduction power you have acquired to this date.“ His blue eyes twinkled upon John.

“C’mon Sherlock, this is childish.“ John Watson tossed the chemise at his friend, “you saw me out a few days, you’re bored without a case and you found someone to sleep with you and now you are being a diva about it--grow up“ John slumped oh his chair angrily. Sherlock on the other hand silently smirked towards him, a smirk specially reserved for someone who is entirely wrong and adamantly establishes the wrong facts as truth.

“Wrong dear Doctor, not once but on three accounts. First, if I slept with a woman I found attractive but difficult to court, I would fling her knickers up in the air, like a trophy if you will. If I found the woman attractive and was attached to her, her brassieres or top would be in my possessions, and I would lock it up safely in my bedroom, hidden, like a treasure if you will. And last but not least, I found this in my bedroom, on my bed, after I woke up. The doors and windows were closed as usual and I was fully clothed in my nightwear and didn’t move an inch from my designated sleeping position--so tell me now doctor, what can you deduce from this?”

John looked at Sherlock with a surprised eye. It took him some moments to adjust to the facts he was given by the faster than a common speech by Sherlock. Sherlock smirked again and tossed the chemise towards John. He was more careful and delicate this time as he slipped his finger at the underlining of the think silk chemise, fondling it between his fingers.

“It’s good silk...“ he commented, without tearing his eyes from the cloth, “well maintained and-- clean.“ He briefly sniffed it, “by the style and the size, it seems to be of a young woman's... “ Watson lifted his face and shrugged casually, “nothing in particular...“ and suddenly, as if realising he was doing something improper, he dropped the chemise in his lap, “look, I am really out of my depths here--and besides, why am I deducing the owner of this, like a bloody pervert--“

“because you have more experience with women, isn’t that obvious?“ Sherlock remarked with an annoyed expression and then he stooped to pick up the piece of clothing, “as you refuse to do it, let me demonstrate--“ he shook the chemise like a piece of a napkin before tucking it into the neck and swiped it in front of his nose, to sample its odour. “Hmm... a young woman with simple but impeccable taste, no less than 28, tall with a short torso and long legs, very attached to the few clothes she wears, insecure about her endowments, single, introverted and has red hair, “ Sherlock said with a self-satisfied smile.

“I hate when you flex on me Sherlock, you cannot possibly tell that much from a piece of undergarment-- it’s just impossible,” John said exasperatedly as he cocked his legs on Sherlock’s table, an act he seldom does.

“Ah, Doctor... how many times shall I tell you to observe...” Sherlock turned a little on his heels in an exasperated motion. His gritted teeth bared in frustration as if something is at the tip of John’s nose and he can’t see it, “reverse the top, it says La Perle, it is not a commonly worn brand of lingerie--”

“and I am sure you have plenty of experience with that--” John added sarcastically.

“Alas, I don’t get enough credit for my range of knowledge...anyhow, a brand that expensive and design this simple as a cut-piece of black satin it means the woman is of Impeccable taste. And look near the hem Watson, it is slightly distressed at the sides, why? because it is regularly tucked inside the bottom other than that the chemise may show under the hem of the top she is wearing, hence short torso. The gap--“ Sherlock held out the chemise by its thin straps and examined it very carefully “is impeccably wide... this indicates large shoulders, hence she is tall--“

“--Or she is an athlete, like a swimmer or a weightlifter--“ Watson suggested obliquely.

“Don’t be absurd, a bodybuilder or a swimmer won’t spend their money on something that will be destroyed with sweat and abrasion--this is a cloth of a delicate fashion-conscious woman. The overall structure of the fabric is relatively well kept, but the label suggests it is at least three years old, so I am guessing someone who is at their late twenties--that’s the time when you skip the frill and ribbons“ Sherlock indicated with a wave of the hand, and then stepped into the light holding the chemise against it, “and therefore my conclusion is that someone who wears a capsule wardrobe--treasuring a few but quality items of clothes....a classic sign of an introvert.“

“Not all introvert wears muted colours--“ Watson interjected.

“Oh don’t be daft, all introverts wear neutral colours, they don’t want unintentional attention amongst the stranger--and that brings us to the next objective, her current relationship status. As an introvert, she wants to make a connection but never goes as too bold, not in action and definitely not in her lingerie. She recently had a breakup and therefore she is trying to form another connection and she trying to feel sexy again. What is the best way?“ Sherlock paused for a dramatic effect but his friend decided to veer to a very different side.

“And what about her...“

“her what...?“

“You know...“ Watson made a curved hand gesture in front of him, refolding his cocked legs from the table to underneath him, as he straightened up.

“What?“

“Her endowments?“ John spat the words and instantly reddened around the ears.

“Ah..” Sherlock exclaimed like nothing has happened, but suddenly his blue eyes twinkled with mischief, “you are getting curious where you need to--”

“Sherlock, I swear to god--” John exasperated.

“Anyhow... you see how wide the shoulders are John?” He almost flailed the clothing on John’s face, and threw it in his lap for him to examine “with shoulder this tall and torso that short, the inclination at the bosom has barely any stretch, so it definitely means--”

“You just read the size label didn’t you, you sod?” John reversed the chemise and held it up for Sherlock to see. “That’s it, I am going to sleep--enjoy your perverted fantasies...“ he threw the chemise at his face and walked away.

The last thing Sherlock heard from John that night was the slam of the door of his room.

...

For the next few mornings, Sherlock spent an ungodly amount of time near the window of his flat. His natural deductive mind told him that the unknown owner of the Chemise will loiter around here--somewhere, at the corner of his mind told him that it was left intentionally because the Chemise was clean--

too much clean.

But fate was with him as it seemed. For, two-three days he could see a woman loitering around Baker Street, awfully close to his flat. He couldn’t see her face very clearly to make out her features, but from the distance, she fitted the description he made about the owner of the Chemise. 

Tall, red hair, dark clothes, long legs.

she indeed has some broad shoulder. Sherlock could see that from upstairs, the top of her head, from where at the very fleshy dot, the red hair cascaded at the sides upon her shoulders, and even then, Sherlock could see her sliding top, which was adjusted to cover her flesh-colored bra strap. However, her ways seemed peculiar, strange almost--the way she walked or moved in general--a strange anxiousness stuck like fly in the ointment in Sherlock’s mind.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one who was keeping an eye on her.

A blond bespeckled woman rushed towards her after gaining an opportunity by saying “excuse me” to her. After a little, rather stiff and uncomfortable conversation, the red-haired woman darted her head upwards. She was directly looking at Sherlock.

The eyes looked pickle-green and glowed with a feline grace--Scottish?

As if within a blink of an eye, that woman vanished out of Sherlock’s side. His keen eyes veered throughout the length of the street but no girl or woman that looked like that could be seen. Sherlock swiftly thumped downstairs and had a run throughout the block but in vain.

...

That night Sherlock could not sleep well. He tossed and turned about his bed, the air hung above him like a thick canopy, asphyxiating him with an invisible hand. He laid on his back, eyes fixated on the ceiling, bored and tired. He felt as tedious as one feels in a long winding line... like that case in Pope’s Court... what was the name Watson wrote in his blog? Ah yes, the ‘Red Headed League’... romantic that man! what metaphor: “as if the entire Pope’s Court was filled with orange--”

His sudden train of thought was interrupted with the creaking sound of his door. Strange, how could a closed-door creak? It would have been the first thought of his deducive mind, but alas. Today his mind was asleep with himself. Sherlock had to step out from his tousled bed to shut down the creaky door.

slam

The creaky door, whose handle was almost near Sherlock’s grip, slammed itself shut with an ear-shattering slam--on its own.

Sherlock hadn’t yet been nervous. His steel-like nerves were too well trained for something a little startling as this one. Instead, he tried the doorknob, and when it failed, he tried to slam it down, but apparently, no force in the world could open the rusty door that was creaking miserably a few moments ago. When he finally gave out of exhaustion and perspiration, he sunk in his floor. the leather belt of his wristwatch felt against his temple. 

Time was exactly 3 in the morning. Not a second more, not a second less.

Another strange matter crossed in his mind, How come John or Mrs. Hudosn did not come slamming towards his room after all the banging and thundering he had done. And why everything was so awfully quiet... It’s  London for God’s sake, no matter what’s the time, there’s always traffic, and at this hour--slurs of drunkards, hustles of all-nighter food-stalls, late-night cabbies... what happened to the creatures of the night--

The train of his thought halted stop abruptly because there was something else that occupied his mind. the window that was closed securely up until now, slammed open with a gust of wind that roared and stormed in like a cold easterly. Even in a hot night like this, the wind froze the atmosphere around Sherlock to a point that he had to reach for his dressing gown. 

No, Sherlock knew he wasn’t under the influence, he was completely sober and normal. However, he wished that he were, because if he were high then he would have consolation for not be able to understand why the other window beside this ones were completely still and closed like nothing has ever happened to it.

His revolver was under the dresser of the nightstand. He cautiously reached for it to pull it out. Gently and very cautiously he walked towards the window--nothing was making sense anymore, because if it were then it would have been the last thing he would have done. The faint streetlight shined dimly with a strange yellow hue, almost as if they were gaslights. A buzzing sound rung in his ears as he wondered at the strange atmosphere of the night. The air was stuffy, very still--but it felt like it was the end of November. There was not a single living creature that walked the street anymore.

Except her.

No, it wasn’t a mistake--a tall red-headed woman was standing still on the other side of the road, looking at Sherlock with piercing feline eyes. There was no spasm in her silhouette, nor did she blink. In the entire wide Baker Street, there were only two creatures--him and the woman. The darkness at her back seemed denser and colder to Sherlock’s eyes, he tried very hard to speak up, but in vain. He felt his voice has been sucked out of his body by some invisible hand. 

His prized mind was paralysed, and the only thing he could do was to climb down his bedroom window--he felt he couldn’t lose her sight--the only thing his mind was registering in the fragility of the moment. Not a blink shall be spared, not even a breath. He looked at her as if she would vanish into the thin air.

The moment he descended into the street, his senses started to come back. He cautiously approached towards her. As the distance shortened he could see her face more clearly. She looked sallow and her feline eyes dug deep into the purplish shadow; she looked like she hadn’t seen Sun in days and hadn’t slept for weeks.

“Who are you...?“ Sherlock asked, with his hand extended towards the woman, but instead of answering, she looked at her right.

“What is there in--”

At first, Sherlock couldn’t understand what was going on, because how can a person of flesh and blood disappear within a few seconds. But it soon vanished from his head, because he clearly remembers she looked left--what was in the left side of the street.

Like a fly towards the flame, Sherlock’s mind led him towards the hauntedly empty Baker street, with a bubbling agitation in his heart that he felt seldomly. A sense of danger and melancholy plagued him like a nightmare. 

The crossroad where Baker street and Park road meets, Sherlock saw her standing under a streetlight. The bustling Park road stool still and empty like a wasteland, as if there were no single living soul in the city of London. The streetlight on top of her head accentuated the high points of her face in a gaunt manner, she looked almost bloodless, and the shadow on her neck looked like a thin choker-like reddish line.

“Who are you...?“ Sherlock asked, this time a little more compassionately, “what do you want from me?“

There was no answer from her. The thin lips quivered under the streetlight as if she wanted to say something but no answer came. Empathy was not the strongest suit of Sherlock, but there was something about this mute woman that evoked pity in his heart--he approached slowly and cautiously this time, trying not to aggravate her, “look, if you don’t tell me what do you want from me, I cannot help you....”

She stood still, like a lifeless statue, as if she couldn’t help but do so. He approached her quietly, almost uncharacteristically he placed his palm on the girl’s cold cheeks.

“Tell me, why are you following me...“ Sherlock said softly, “If you can’t speak, sign me, I can read--if you are in danger, I will sort it out.“

Again, she did nothing. She turned her head slowly towards her back.

“Did something happen there?“ Sherlock asked her gently, he was quiet surprised himself, if it were any other client, he would have ditched it--but somehow he couldn’t ditch this girl. He had ‘oh-I-am-so-helpless’ cases and client, but this case somewhat was pulling his heartstring for some reason, his mind resonated with an old suppressed feeling which he censored as stupid.

“Did something happen there?” he asked again. She nodded softly.

“Where? Upon this road?” Sherlock’s eyes veered towards the road, and suddenly his hand felt like it was grabbing air, and suddenly he remembered that afternoon five years ago.

“Please help me... someone’s going to kill me.” A frantic woman grabbed Holmes’ lapel and shook it helplessly. Holmes was irritated as he would have been if someone breached his personal space. He let go off her rather rudely, and stood on the side of the window.

“Boring... boring!” he mused, “you are a ex-schizofrenic with zero sense of personal space, go see a doctor and stop boring me.”

“No... no..” she shook her red hair violently, “I am not hallucinating, I swear—it follows me day and night, and sometimes I have troubled sleeping because I feel someone is always in my room--”

Now Holmes already had lost it, “this proves that you are in dire need of psychiatric help” he almost pushed the woman towards the door, “good day--”

Suddenly the woman’s expression changed from the previous helplessness to a distinctly threatening calmness. She looked straight into Holmes’s eyes, and as she stood at the dark background of the old landing, her paleness stood out gauntly and the purple shadow on her eyes looked grotesque as she threatened Holmes with a cold voice

“If I die Mr. Holmes, it would be on you.”

Sherlock would have forgotten about his nearly nutter client if Lestrade didn’t storm in with another murder case next day. And out of all the blessedly sacrifical people in London, Lestrade found Sherlock the body of a dead woman found floating in her chemise and knickers near Regent’s Park. He even followed him to St. Bart’s where she was under Molly Hooper’s examination... yes, it was her no doubt. That same red hair, the round face, the wide eye socket casketing two brilliant feline eyes.

“– her lungs were full of water and the CCTV footage told that she had jumped from the bridge near the Atrium Apartment on Park Road–“ Molly concluded, “apparantly a suicide but there was no note.”

“So I suggest leave the case alone, I am sure Scotland yard is more than capable of handling it”

He had shut that memory for good. Deep down in his mind he blamed himself for the girl’s death. She was so desperate and he turned her down. He could never be like Mycroft, stone cold and guilt free.

But why it was happening now

A strange chill paralyzed him like a naked man in a cold night.

So does that mean, his client is seeking revenge even after her death?

“If I die Mr. Holmes, it would be on you.”

Was she trying to... harm him?

 Suddenly he knew, he shouldn’t be in here. He knew that if he ever deared him life, he shouldn’t be here. Because his subconscious told him he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, he saw something that a living being should not be able to see. Whatever motor reflexes were left in his body, he concentrated on them and started to run, run like hell, into the ever bustling Baker Street that didn’t exist moment ago. The last thing Sherlock remembered a flash of white headlights and a rib shattering pain as he crashed off a cab onto the street.

It would have been fatal if Speedy didn’t see him.

Sherlock knows that no one will ever believe what truly happened that night. Watson and Molly believed he fell off  his bedroom window, and he will let them believe. He kept his mouth shut as the Orthopaedics and psychiatrists came to evaluated him.

Sometimes, when the night is too quite, Sherlock lies awake in his bed, wondering about the woman in the silk chemise. Sometimes in a crowded street he sees a flicker of that distinct red hair or a pair of twinkling feline eyes with dark circle. Of course he will never tell that to anyone, and not even admit it himself. Not a day goes by when he doesn’t think of herself at least once. If the street is deserted and the lights are dim, he would wonder off to the canal near the Atrium building to scream his heart out—

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?”

No one ever answers.

--

La Femme en Chemise Soie: The Girl in the Silk Chemise

I often saw in Writing Prompts, ‘bring your character out of their depth’, although Sherlock is not ‘my’ characters, but I thought I would introduce him with a bit of paranormal stuff.

I was watching Perfume the other day and I remembered watching Benedict’s version of Hamlet for my class. So I had an idea, what if I could cross Hamlet’s guilt of killing Ophelia with Sherlock’s disbelief and boredom. What if Ophelia could haunt Hamlet? I had to keep the paranormal under the radar because it’s Sherlock we are talking about... it could be a ghost, could be a hallucination. Upon the interpretation.

[ecotone99]

[HM] A Girl Named Lucy

Everybody’s had a bad date. But my date with Lucy was definitely the worst date of my entire life. We met online, of course. I don’t think people meet any other way anymore. We really hit it off, she laughed at my dumb jokes and honestly, that’s pretty much all it takes for me to fall in love.

We decided to meet up for drinks and appetizers at Applebees. I was nervous, so I showed up early, had a drink at the bar and waited for her to arrive.

Meeting someone from the internet and finding out they’re significantly less attractive in person brings a uniquely guilty depression. It’s not that the person is necessarily unattractive, but in your mind, you’ve built up the anticipation for how you think the person will look. Expectation ruins reality. Usually this is just a result of normal people trying to look impressive. Which is understandable in the dating world.

But that’s the thing, when I saw her walk through the door, Lucy did not look normal. She looked very far from normal. Her face was too thin and her nose was entirely too big. Freakishly such. She probably knew this because the she covered it up with three or five or nine inches of chunky, pasty white makeup. It could have been Plaster of Paris, who’s to say? That shit was out of control.

She wore a giant green sweater, which in and of itself is not necessarily a bad thing, but it was almost eighty degrees outside, even after the sun went down. At first, I thought this was to compensate for being overweight, but she didn’t seem overweight. She seemed deformed. Like two or three different skinny people squeezing themselves into the same sweater.

She had shredded blonde hair and walked with a wobbly limp, like an ether-sniffing marionette doll at a sobriety checkpoint. Her feet were disproportionally big, as if her shoes were hiding something nasty.

Oh, God. I can’t do this, I thought. This is just too much. But I feel bad, because the expectations were built up in MY head, right? I’ll just turn and sneak out the back, text her saying I had car trouble or something.

“Seth!?” She squawked. Or barked. It was a bark-squawk that was entirely too loud for the public, very unfortunately public situation at hand. Heads turned.

Ah, shit. She saw me. Of course she saw me. I’ve been staring her down slack-jawed and silly. But really, can you blame me? This poor woman looked like a rubber horse mask wearing another rubber mask of Gary Busey’s face.

“Seth! It is me. I am Lucy! The woman you speak to.” There’s no way she’s been using this voice her whole life.

My voice was too dry so I just nodded. We’re already here, might as well have a few drinks and enjoy the food. How bad could it be?

When my mouth finally began producing enough saliva necessary for conversation, we engaged in small-talk. I intentionally kept it awkward and as far from lively as possible. Maybe she’d catch the hint and we could just chalk it up to a lack of chemistry. I started dumping whiskey down my throat like my soul and sanity depended on it. Which, at this point, I was convinced it did.

“So, where are you from?” I asked, hoping another unknown cultural origin could explain this catastrophic misstep in acceptable courtship.

“Lucy is from Wisconsin. That’s normal, right?”

Jesus Christ, whatever they put in that cheese really did a number on this one. Remind me to never drink Budweiser again, either.

“I don-uh, I mean, yes, yes that is normal. Right. Have you ever been in like, a car accident or something?”

She stared at me with big sickly brown eyes. Eyes that were almost yellow. Maybe she has cancer or something? I’m starting to feel bad for her now. Maybe the whiskey is melting the shock and warming my mind to a temperate state of empathy. She’s alone. She doesn’t get out much. Kinda like me, actually. Don’t be a dick, dude. Get it together.

Then she laughs, it’s a coughy sort of laugh. It resonates from a deeper part of the diaphragm and I’m reminded of an alligator. Bet she used to smoke a lot.

“You make joke! You funny man!” She swipes her hand across my forearm the way women do when they’re being particularly obvious about their intentions. Her fingernails are long. Monstrously so, and badly painted in flecks of a dark red. Her skin is entirely too rough for a woman. Maybe she works with her hands a lot?

Oh. Oh, no.

I check the neck. I don’t actually see an Adam’s Apple, but the skin does protrude in a hangy sort of turkey-neck way. I begin to sweat uncontrollably.

Look, I don’t hate anyone. I believe everyone should live their lives and be happy. But I’m just not ready for this. I’m afraid. I feel like I’m waiting for the cashier in a gas station and a cop gets behind me in line. I compensate with more whiskey. That’ll help.

I have to ask. I can’t just not know.

“Look, Lucy. I’m sorry. But are you, like, are you a girl?”

There’s that laugh again.

“Yes! Lucy is girl. Real girl. Clever girl.”

Of course she is. Trans girls are girls, too. It’s just… I’ve already paid for the drinks, she seems very interested in me, persistent even. I just don’t know if I can do this.

Maybe just a blowjob? That’s not gay, right?

I’m gonna need some cocaine for this.

That’s it! Cocaine! I’ll see if she’s down to score some blow, then we’ll just see how it goes. Worst case scenario I get all coked up and can’t get a boner anyhow, sorta solves the whole situation. I can blame the coke, she doesn’t get her feelings hurt. Win-win.

“Hey Lucy….”

“Hey Seth.”

She does the cough/laugh. Maybe the hormones haven’t been balanced yet?

“You uh, you wanna score some coke?”

“What is ‘score coke’?”

“You know, like cocaine?”

“Cocaine? If we score cocaine, can I get your meat?”

Oh fuck. This is happening.

“My…my meat?”

“Yes. I want your meat inside me.”

Not gonna lie, my dick did a little twitch right then. Jesus. Well, I guess you learn something new every day, don’t ya?

“Okay! Um, I’m gonna pay the, uh, pay the tab. Why don’t you? Like, and I’ll then go to the car. Ya know, then we can like, you know. Wanna follow me while-“

“We ‘score coke’ like cocaine!”

“Yes.” I said. Fuck, I kinda like her now. I can get past the face. And the limpy, wabble-walk. And the…uh. Whatever else I find.

After I pay the bartender, we both walk back to my truck. I guess she took the bus or something because she never mentions a car of her own. I call up my buddy Allen, he usually has decent coke.

Allen says to come on over, I open the door for her, she does that little laugh again. It’s kinda growing on me, actually. I can’t believe this is happening.

As I’m driving, she starts purring and licking my ear. And I’m actually into it. Like, really into it. Once again, I can’t believe this is happening.

We pull up to Allen’s place, he sends me a text saying to come on up.

Allen opens the door and jumps back.

“Holy fuckin’ shit, Seth. Who the fuck is this? You told me it was just you, bro?”

“No I didn’t,” I said, “I told you a had a girl with me, Lucy this is Allen. Allen this is Lucy.”

“Hello, Allen.” Said Lucy, “Can I also have your meat inside me?”

“What the fuck?” Said Allen. Then he laughed, and I laughed, and Lucy laughed, we all laughed.

“You didn’t tell me it was like that. Why don’t you both just come on in?”

We all stepped inside and Allen clicked on the light. As he did, Lucy tripped over the doorframe. She didn’t fall all the way to the ground, but she fell just enough to cause her hair to tilt. Like, all of it just shifted to the side.

This caught Allen’s attention.

“Yo, that’s a fuckin’ wig, bro! The fuck is going on here?”

“Allen.” I said sternly, leaning in close to him. “Don’t fuck this up for me, man. I need this.”

But Allen wasn’t listening. Allen was recoiling in horror because he saw what I had been too drunk and horny to see all along.

While Lucy was fumbling with her wig and sliding around the foyer, her tail had slid out of her floppy green sweater. A tail that was long and scaly. Just as scaly as her scalp beneath the wig.

It was now painfully obvious. This was not a foreign woman. This was not a transsexual. This was a sixty-six million year old chicken-lizard stalking it’s prey from beyond the confines of the traditional understanding of time itself. And I, Seth Fox, horny drunkard and idiot extraordinaire, had fallen for it’s schemes.

Clever girl.

Allen screamed the only sensible thing to be said, “VELOCIRAPTOR!!!”

And we both dove behind the sofa for cover.

The Velociraptor Formally Known as Lucy shrieked, “MEEEAAAAAT!!!”

Why? Why me? Why couldn’t she have just had a penis!?

The Lucy-Raptor soars over the sofa with a dancer’s ease because she’s a theropod. An apex predator from the Cretaceous Period and I notice what made her gait so ungainly. Her shoes had been hiding a giant sickle-shaped talon on each foot with which her kinship would disembowel their prey. Unfortunately for Allen, he was this prey.

The Lucy-Raptor was on him instantly, she sliced open his belly with her toe-claws and his intestines flopped out like folded ravioli.

“Nnnnaaaauuuuuggggghhhh!!!!!” Said Allen as the Lucy Raptor chewed on his neck.

I had no patience for this nonsense, so I fled the scene hoping, praying, pleading with any deity merciful enough to hear my cries. I did not want to be eaten by a velociraptor tonight. I just wanted a blowjob. Is that really too much to ask from the universe? One measly fucking blowjob?

But the Lucy-Raptor wanted to feast on the flesh of living prey, and I was still fumbling with my keys when Allen had breathed his last. She came bouncing into the parking lot.

“CAAAUUUOOGGGHHH, CAAAUUUOOGGGHHH!!” Said Lucy.

The truck door clicked open.

Lucy reared back on her hind legs ready to pounce.

I yanked open the door and hurled myself into the driver’s seat, turned the key and started the engine as Lucy sailed through the air like a shark through calm seas.

Her claws barely missed my fender as I sped from my dead drug dealer’s parking lot.

I stomped the gas.

At 20 mph, there she was, nipping at my window.

I turned onto the street.

There she was.

30 mph. 35, 40 mph.

When I hit 55 mph she slowed down and wailed a roar of defeat. I had bested the Lucy-Raptor. Turns out velociraptors can run at speeds of up to 40 miles an hour. But a ’97 Dodge Ram can go up to like, 120 miles an hour, so FUCK YOU, VELOCIRAPTORS!!

Dating is hard, folks. But remember,

“Life finds a way.”

-Ian Malcolm

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