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c-rose2081 · 2 years ago

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Of Siren’s Deep [Chapter 1] - story concept

Just some writing thoughts. Pirate-Fantasy baby, can’t go wrong with that 🏴‍☠️🧜🏽‍♀️

To my mutuals who lurk, pls reblog and let me know what you think in the comments and tags, it really helps the process ❤️

— — —

The small island is truly a forbidden gem on the vast cerulean sea. It sits on a horizon break halfway between Velazquez Point and Spanish Bay; a lush, green paradise seemingly isolated from any known trade route. I’ve crossed this way many times before, though today was the first time a wayward squall took us off-course.

I was—naturally—thrilled to find uncharted land. It’s been months since a new discovery and my patience was beginning to fester. However, my find will have to go unpublished for now at the decision of my ship’s crew.

We, and any others who come here, must be wary of this place. It seems the island itself is determined to remain unexplored. The white sand beaches around its perimeter burn with the heat of an unrelenting sun, while the clear turquoise water reflects its golden rays like mirrors. Many of my scouting party returned with blistering sores on their necks and faces from the intensity of it all, after only quarter-of-a-tick believe it or not. Some on the deck passed out from exertion or threatened to throw themselves into the sea in madness.

A vote was cast; I lost, Captain be damned. And though it burdens my heart to leave such a wonderful treasure behind, the crew has decided not to return again, claiming the island cursed. — from Oceans & Islands: A Sailor’s Journal by Amadaex Cabrera

— — —

“Back at it again with that book, milady?”

I lifted my head from the yellowed pages of Oceans & Islands, squinting in the sunlight which now cascaded through the window above my desk. It hadn’t even been dawn when I started reading; I’d completely lost track of time.

“Amaris. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I did call for you. Twice.” Amaris lifted two fingers as I slumped, closing the book still open under my hand.

“I’m sorry, I was just…”

“Reading? Yes, I can see that, milady. But why not a different book? You’ve read that one at least a dozen times by now. Doesn’t it get old?”

“Not to me. I’d love to be the one to discover a seemingly cursed island. It was father’s dream, too.”

At the mention of father, I briefly turned my face away from my longtime maid and friend. It had been a few months now since he passed away, but it still felt as though he’d walk in the door any second, just like he used to. I was already used to him not being around, as his work took him all over the world. He’d be gone months at a time, then would waltz back in like he’d never left. Yet knowing for sure this time that he wasn’t coming back? I squeezed my eyes shut, urging them not to burn with tears.

“Your father passed doing what he loved most.” Amaris said from where she was making the bed. “He wouldn’t want you to be cooped up in here all day.”

“I’d rather be, seeing as what Aunt Frenrise insists of me.” I replied flatly. “I feel like a prize trout when I’m with her.”

“Lady Frenrise is merely doing what Lord Pennrose asked of her.”

“I know that. I just wish things didn’t feel so…so showy all the time. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, but now that Papa is gone, she’s insufferable.”

“Lady Frenrise is a peacock amongst quail, milady. But you?” Amaris paused her work to glance at me, smiling in her matronly, sweet way. “You have the gold of sunlight in your eyes, child. Such a beautiful young woman you’ve grown up to be.”

“Hm, that’s all anyone ever says these days.” I sighed, rising from behind my desk with a stretch and leaving the warm patch of sun behind.

“It’s lucky you’re so bronzy, milady.” Amaris commented as she fluffed a pillow. “Sitting in that sun would make anyone redden like a Phoenix Fruit.”

“You know I enjoy a hot day.” I smirked, plopping onto the freshly made bed which caused Amaris to squeak in protest.

“Milady, honestly. You’re almost eighteen….”

“Please don’t make me get ready today, Amaris.” I begged, jutting out my lower lip as the woman rolled her eyes. “I just want to stay here for the rest of my life.

“Lady Aria. If I don’t get you ready, Lady Frenrise will. And we both don’t want that.”

“Hm. Point taken.” I scoffed, running a finger over the thin chain around my neck. It was still weird, wearing my father's pendant. He’d carried it for as long as I could recall—I hadn’t ever seen him take it off. I had been handed the trinket in lieu of seeing his body the day news reached Macatania of father’s death at sea. It was all the proof I needed that he was gone for good this time. His first mate had looked me straight in the eye that day, pressing the amulet into my palm with the most apologetic look an old sailor could give.

Tugging the artifact from my collar, I held it above my head and turned it between a thumb and index finger. The amulet was worn around the edges, with a center made of bluish glass like some rum bottles I’d seen. The lumpy frame was cracked and tarnished from wear, like father himself had rehammered the silver back into place several times. It puzzled me as to why he wore such an unusual, haphazard piece of jewelry. His many rings had been made of fine silver and gemstones. His earring was made of gold. He could’ve had the glass reset into something fancier; something more suited to his rank. Yet he never did.

“….milady?”

“Hm?”

I pulled my eyes from the blue glass, glancing at Amaris, “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said Lady Frenrise is expecting you to be well dressed for today’s ceremony. Something interesting in that amulet?”

“No.” I tucked the necklace back under my shirt, feeling it through the cloth as to assure myself it was there. “Just thinking about father, that’s all.”

“Your Aunt sent up a dress for you….”

“Of course she did.” I sat up, giving my friend a pointed look. “How bad is it?”

“Er…not bad, milady.” Amaris drawled, refusing to meet my gaze as I scowled. “It’s, well, a lovely shade of yellow.”

“Not yellow.” I groaned, tossing myself back amongst the sheets. “Just kill me, Amaris.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Lady Aria. It’s a lovely color for you.”

“I don’t understand why she insists on the color of Sunbam every time she gets me something. It’s gaudy and attracts flies.”

“You’ll wear it for your poor Aunt’s sake, won’t you?” Amaris made a face not dissimilar to my own. “You know she only tries her best. And if you don’t wear it, I won’t ever hear the end of it.”

“I wish she’d just listen to me for once.”

“Lady Frenrise is difficult, milady. Always has been. Now come, I’ll help you dress.”

Exhaling a deep breath again, I nodded and rolled into a standing position. As we did every morning, Amaris helped remove my nightdress. The noise of discontent she made from behind my shoulder was new to the routine.

“Something wrong?” I wondered, perturbed by my friend's silence.

“Have you been feeling unwell at all today, milady?” She asked finally, meeting my gaze over my shoulder. “Any chills?”

“No? I’m perfectly fine.” Furrowing my brows, I stiffened as Amaris ran the back of her fingers along my right shoulder blade. The itching was sudden as I twisted away from her hand in surprise, keeping a yelp behind my teeth. “Gentle, Amaris.”

“You have some rashing on your back. Does it hurt?”

“Only when you touch it.” I huffed in annoyance, walking to the bedroom mirror and craning my neck to see what Amaris was talking about. Indeed, there was a small patch of reddish skin blistering along my right shoulder. It wasn’t very big, not even the size of a fist. But now that I knew it was there, the urge to scratch at it was maddening.

“We’ll put some Sunbam oil on it.” Amaris said, “Just don’t itch it or it could get worse.”

“You know, Sunbam isn’t the remedy for everything.” I teased, receiving Amaris’s wagging finger as she headed to the washroom.

“Tell that to my Maman.” The woman chortled, returning with a small silver plate of balm. “Sunbam is nature's miracle.”

With the ointment applied, I did my best to ignore the rash’s presence as we continued the routine per usual.

Indeed, Auntie’s dress was made of a gaudy yellow silk with pale lace frills around the edges of the sleeves. It’s skirt barely touched the ground, while the waist hem sat comfortably at my hips. Normally, the dresses Frenrise picked for me were conservative in build. This one however had a surprisingly low neckline, one I felt the need to cover up with a lace shawl.

“I believe Lady Frenrise sees you as an eligible young woman now, milady.” Amaris commented as she worked with my long auburn hair, pinning half of it into place with Macatanian pearls while leaving the rest to hang down my back. “Isn’t that exciting?”

“Let’s see, my overbearing Aunt trying her damndest to find me a husband by lowering my neckline?” I recounted dryly, fiddling with Papa’s pendant as I sat before the mirror. “Yes, very exciting.”

“You could find someone that suits you,” Amaris shrugged, running her fingers through my hair just as she did when I was a girl. “Elias found someone, didn’t he?”

“It was an arranged marriage.” I corrected, rolling my eyes at the mere mention of my cousin. “Besides, he’d do anything his Mama told him.”

“He seems quite happy with his blushing bride, arranged or not.”

“Elias is a simple man. He likes guns and women—there’s not much else to him.”

“Don’t speak so harshly of your cousin, milady. Don’t forget he’s family and has just lost an Uncle.”

I grimaced, but relented to the fact with a silent head nod. As much as I disliked Elias’s coarse, boyish attitude, he and Papa had been close in the months before his death. “Now, you look beautiful. Lady Frenrise will be pleased.”

I stared at myself, hazel eyes flicking across the reflection in the mirror. The yellow of the dress made my skin seem even darker than it actually was as my throat constricted painfully tight. “Come now, child.” Amaris placed her hands on my shoulders, giving them a comforting squeeze. “Any longer and Lady Frenrise might send the Navy.”

— — —

“You look beautiful, Aria. Simply stunning.”

I smiled at Aunt Frenrise as best I could, bouncing a heel as the carriage clattered down the cobblestone road towards the harbor. My Aunt had been my primary guardian since I was born. What with how often Papa had to travel, it was a surprise we weren’t closer than we were. But Aunt Frenrise wasn’t someone I had much in common with, even after so many years of being under her care. She was a traditional sort of woman, preferring to keep the house and wear expensive fabrics and gems than pick up a book or take a late night swim.

“Thank you, Aunty.”

“I just knew this dress was for you,” she continued without missing a beat. “Yellow is such a wonderful color. Though I wish you’d show that neckline a bit more? It’s terribly hot for a shawl.”

“It’s to keep my shoulders from burning, Aunty.” I lied simply, glancing out the window again as the buildings and shops of Macatania grew scarcer and scarcer as we approached the East Harbor. “Is Elias excited about today?”

“Simply over the moon,” the woman chirped, clapping her gloved hands together as she tossed her white gauzy scarf over her shoulder. “Imagine it. Me, the mother of a Naval Officer.”

“I never thought Elias was interested in military service.” I mused honestly. “He seemed much more keen on traveling.”

“He’s a bit of a free spirit I suppose, but Catalina has been so good for him. She’s a wonderful influence. They’ll make beautiful children together.” Aunty sighed happily, melting into her corner of the carriage. “Now that he’s ready to settle down, I can focus more on finding you a suitable match.” She drawled, staring at me with her deep blue eyes. “You know the walls talk. It won’t be hard to find someone who will absolutely ravish you.”

“Aunty.” I breathed, feeling embarrassed heat crawl up my neck to my ears.

“What? I’m just saying that there are plenty of men in Macatania who would go to the ends of the world for your attention. You’re a beauty, child. I already know at least one who has begun drafting an impressive dowry, hm?”

“If you’re referring to Officer Ambrose, I’m not interested.”

Aunt Frenrise pouted as I removed a pale silk fan from my skirt, flicking it open as a cue to halt the current topic. Unfortunately, my Aunt wasn’t keen on being brushed off.

“Oh, tush, Aria. Ambrose is a perfectly respectable man. He has a wonderful position and could build you the perfect home.”

“He’s also primitive, Aunty.” I argued unhappily. “I’m not an object to be won, nor a gem to be admired.”

“I never said that; merely implied that he could make a wonderful husband.”

“What if I don’t want a husband?” I retorted, fluttering my fan a bit faster. “I want to sail, just like Papa.”

“My child, there’s no place for us on the high seas,” Aunt Frenrise said with furrowed brows. “It’s terrible luck, you know. You belong here in Macatania, safe, sound and settled down with someone who will protect you.”

“You didn’t stop Elias from going to sea.”

“No. Because it’s traditional for men to join the Navy at his age; it’s an honor he’s chosen to take. I will not hear of my niece out gallivanting with some…some degenerates on a boat.”

“But….”

“I will not hear another word of this, Aria,” Aunt Frenrise insisted, lifting a warning brow. “You will be in the company of Officer Ambrose today at the ceremony and that is that. His offer for your hand will no doubt dwarf any others; he may just be your perfect match.”

“Father would’ve let me sail.” I muttered, slowing my fan as my head drooped. Aunt Frenrise shook her head, snapping open her own fan.

“Yes. But look where that’s gotten him.” Her eyes narrowed unhappily as I slumped even more, feeling Papa’s pendant resting against my skin. “Aria, I promised Atticus I would look after you; it was the last promise I ever made to him. The sea is no place for a young woman, I don’t want to see you end up like he did.”

“Quite.” I rasped, turning my head away from my Aunt’s attention. Refusing to look at her again lest my emotions get the better of me, I stared out at the beautiful Macatanian sea glistening in the afternoon sun. A few boats were moored off the rocks, their brilliant ivory sails shining as though illuminated.

A few months ago, one of them could’ve been Papa finally returning home from a long journey. He would stomp into the house with his big heavy boots, reeking of salt and seaweed. The man would haul me into his arms till my feet dangled off the floor, spinning me around like a windmill until I begged him to stop. He would tell stories of what he saw and show me worn journals and maps used during the trip. We would talk for hours before falling asleep sitting at the table, content and happy.

Those times, all of them, were now just memories. Papa was dead, settled at the bottom of the ocean never to return while I was expected to take a husband. To settle down as some Officer’s wife in order to raise children, keep home and never leave Macatania’s pale shores.

It felt like I’d just swallowed a rock, pursing my lips to keep from choking on it. Tears burned my eyes as the sniffles caught in my nose, causing my whole body to hurt.

“Please don’t cry, Aria.” Aunt Frenrise sighed, though I still refused to look at her past my fan which still waved out of mere habit. “It won’t be as awful as you think,” she mused, no doubt smiling as a single tear ran down my cheek. “I just know it.”

—

To those who made it to the end, thank you! Always appreciated ❤️ I like this concept a lot so I hope to explore it more :)

#Of Sirens Deep #writing #fiction #fantasy #pirates #world building #original character #oc #character building #original concept #mermaids #sirens #original writing #original story #literature #fiction writing #fantasy writing #author things

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soapfcrce-a · 1 year ago

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Excerpts from the journal of John MacTavish. If found, return to 22nd SAS regiment, Credenhill, UK. (Part 1. Part 2. Part 3)

PAGE 1.

I never thought I’d end up one of those journal people, but cousin Gary made a pretty good point about keeping one of these. Safe space for keeping your thoughts, he said, though I’m thinking right now it’s more a safe space that’s keeping me from getting kicked out of the bunks. Andrews sure seems appreciative at least, so I have that going for me.

PAGE 2 – 8.

[ Various drawings of scenes around Credenhill and the barracks. Plus some birds he thought were pretty neat. All noticeably a bit messy. ]

PAGE 20.

Selections are up.

Seeing Captain Price on the committee was a surprise, but God does that just drive home how serious this is. It’s distracting to know that someone like him’s watching me out there do my thing, but it just makes me want to impress that much more. I gotta show that I’m ready for this, maybe be serious for once in my life. I’m good at what I do, and from all the stories I hear around the base I just know I wanna be the best for him.

Maybe if I get picked, we’ll get to work together. Maybe I can finally ask him what kind of money he had to slip for that dick tickler of his to not get neutralized out of oblivion.

[ Below are a few of the same exact sketch of Price’s portrait, though noticeably each one has an equally ridiculous mustache to match. ]

PAGE 25-30.

[ Sketched out blueprint of a Russian cargo boat with notes indicating ideal points of entry, likely guard positions, and a list of gear to take. ]

PAGE 31.

Maybe the first one’s never meant to go smoothly. I can still hear the panic and Price’s gun hitting the floor of the helicopter. Even in my dreams I can still see his face full of fear as he grabbed and hauled me up into the back…

He’s going to own me one day. I think that’ll just make us even.

PAGE 50.

[ There’s a very obvious looking sketch of a man in a hoodie, mask, and sunglasses on the top of the page, followed by a few other ones. One has no mask but a giant looking scar across the face, another with a burn, another that’s just a normal looking face, and one that seems to have the face of a beagle with the words ‘Don’t be stupid’ scratched out next to it ]

They’re putting me with that beast of a guy for the Russia job. Dunno why I never thought about it when I heard about him, but the boys got some fun theories about why he seems to wear a balaclava all the time. The skull’s a bit stupid though… maybe he’s just one of those edgy guys?

Dossier says his callsign’s Ghost. Can’t get over the name though. What the hell kind of name is Ghost?

PAGE 52.

The helicopter was quiet for the whole trip back. I couldn’t blame the looks I got, but the senseless waste of life over… what exactly? Power? Territory? The Kremlin’s not stupid enough to associate with some ultranationalist nut, so what the hell was the point of any of this? God, even trying to think about it is pissing me off…

I should’ve beat his face until he was spitting up his own teeth. I should’ve put the lead through his fucking eye. Damn the rules, they don’t do anything when we’re keeping assholes like him alive, and for what?

May the Gulag eat him alive for what he’s done.

#drabble tag #confidential files «¤» ( headcanon #i spent most of the day writing this #8) this'll come in parts

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steviewashere · 1 year ago

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A Little WIP Peek (5 + 1)

Eddie was no stranger to snooping. It's his favorite hobby of all time. Surpassing being a dungeon master and playing on his various guitars and selling ketamine. Well, the drugs are more of a job, but that doesn't matter right now.

What matters is that Eddie is sitting in Steve's giant living room. He's waiting for the man of the hour to finish making dinner. But on the surface of the coffee table, in the open, sprawling space of the room, is a pocket-sized journal. Something that could easily be slipped into a vest or behind a wallet or in the depths of an unsuspecting purse; if Eddie carried that sort of thing.

It's important to note that him and Steve are buddies. Good pals. Life-long trauma bonded bros. It doesn't count here or anywhere that Eddie has a raging crush or that he wakes in the night, drenched in sweat, and with a hard-on that could cut burnt steak, if need be.

Oh, but the journal is tantalizing. Within arm's reach. A little thing; red cover, silver spiral, lined paper. No way of identifying who it belongs to. Unless...

No, he chides. Do not open the damn thing. It's not yours.

It's red cover pulsates in the glow of the floor lamp next to the couch. A button with the sign: do not push. And the spiral spins. A hypnotizing magician tactic.

His eyes sweep back and forth across the room. Double take over the back of the couch into the kitchen. Steve is shifting from foot to foot at the stove, humming gently under his breath, stirring at something in a large pot. Eddie turns back towards the coffee table.

And suddenly, his conscious is an angel and a devil on his shoulders.

He's distracted, one squeaks.

But, he left that in the open probably because he trusts you, the other says.

Eddie collapses against the back of the couch. His hands fidget in his lap. Twisting rings, pulling at rips in his jeans, pinching the skin on his palm. One leg shakes. Then the other. And then both. Chews on his nails, his lips, the insides of his cheeks.

One look, he concedes. And then I'll leave it alone.

So he does one last look to the kitchen, where Steve is now rummaging through his kitchen cabinets for two matching bowls. Then, his shaking hands quickly spring forward, swipe the book off the table, and flip open to the back of the front cover.

It reads: "This journal belongs to: Steven Harrington."

Eddie heaves a giant breath. Obviously it's his, he notes. And now that I know who's it is, I can just-- put it back.

Before he does though, his eyes accidentally shift to the first page. Like they do when he reads a book, starting at the first paragraph, but then leaping to end of the page; evidently spoiling a major plot point. Steve's chicken scratch writing is glaring at him. Shining like something holy. Eddie feels as if he's opened Pandora's box. What contents lay inside this journal, they could potentially swallow the universe whole. They could stake Eddie. They could just burn that fucking Munson Doctrine.

Eddie doesn't resist anymore with flipping throughout the pages. Each one is dated at the top, filled to the brim with information, and then signed off with a simple S.H. And that's probably the cutest thing his eyes have ever seen.

Of course he signs each one, his brain chuckles. He'd probably autograph headshots if given the chance.

So, with almost all these pages filled, scratched at with a black pen. Bolded in too many areas where the ink would pool. Eddie pockets the journal inside his vest.

Steve comes out from the kitchen with two bowls of steaming spaghetti.

He smiles at Eddie and hands him a dish. "Hope it's good," he says. Eddie can only hum.

Oh shit, he thinks. Can't put this back now. Fuck.

#steddie #stranger things #fanfiction #wip #hurt/comfort #eventually #miscommunications #also eventually

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defeatsthem · 1 year ago

Note

“📔” FOR MJSEFF I AINT EVER SENT SOMETHING SO FAST

TW for anyone that might read this, as this extremely dark au has already been discussed with @twotonesoffun. Read this with the utmost caution.

MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING: depression, suicidal thoughts and ideation

This takes place after Max's surgery and beyond. All he could do with his free time was mull over every stupid thing he'd ever done or said in his life.

Day 1:

Yesterday you left. I don't blame you for it one bit. You should've left. Matter of fact, you shouldn't have ever even shown up at the hospital at all. I keep staring at the bottle, the temptation to grab a fistful of pills and just end it right here is so tempting without you here. This house is so bare and I never realized how empty it was until your laughter wasn't here to fill it.

Day 13:

Thirteen days post-surgery. My knee still hurts like a fucking bitch. I won't lie, the worst part isn't getting out of bed by myself or having to resort to an in-house nurse in the meantime to take care of me now. It's humiliating. My fingertip keeps hovering over your name in my contacts, wanting to send a message but I don't dare to. Instead, I just open the video of me fucking that blonde woman to remind myself why I hate myself. Still, the temptation to take all those leftover painkillers lingers. I dunno why I haven't done it yet.

Day 42:

Physical therapy is getting easier, I guess. I can finally get off crutches in a few weeks but... whatever. It's been three weeks since the New Year holiday came and went and I can't believe it's been nearly a year since Seth and I hooked up at that rest top for the first time. I still remember how he felt... how I felt. It's forever engrained in my brain no matter how many times I wanna just forget about him because I'm ninety - nine percent certain he's forgotten about me already. I really need to stop directing this journal to him so maybe with this entry, it'll force me to.

Day 99:

Fuck, I miss you. I almost sent a message to you today, asking you how you were as if you'd even fucking respond. I at least finally flushed the rest of my meds down the toilet finally. They were burning a hole in my chest every single fucking night sitting on my nightstand. It was hard to discard the only thing you'd ever race to see me for. Fuck, I'm writing about him again when I said I wouldn't.

Day 273:

Nine fucking months. I was told I'd be out for an entire year but I'm a damn machine apparently. The past nine months have been an absolute mindfuck, but weirdly enough, it was necessary. I had to be on the brink of killing myself to see what I really wanted out of life. All I want is for him to be by my side again. Luckily, after getting some insider knowledge, I was able to find out where RAW is tomorrow night. I'm gonna go see him again. I can't be caught by security or talent otherwise I'll be kicked out immediately and probably arrested for breaking and entering into his bus but... at this point? I don't have much else to lose.

Day 274:

I'm burning this motherfucking journal right away tomorrow regardless of what happens in the next couple of hours. No one can know I even did this shit or sounded like such a whiny teenager bitch, okay? I can hear his music playing and I'm watching the show, sipping back an IPA from his fridge. The same kind that was in there the first time we met. He never changed, did he? He shouldn't. I can also smell that body wash he loves lingering throughout this entire thing. I don't dare make a sound since his driver is right outside, mingling with the crew. [THREE HOURS LATER.] I can hear his music playing again. He must've done the dark match after the show. At least it gave me some more time to get mentally prepared to see him again. I feel nauseous. Maybe I shouldn't have come...this was so fucking dumb of me. Shit. I hear his voice outside... here goes nothing.

#* answered.#// would tag appropriately but i don't want this in max's tag lmfao

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scummy-writes · 2 years ago

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Oh god I'm doing it. I'm putting it under a cut for everyone's sake.

I posted 766 times in 2022

255 posts created (33%)

511 posts reblogged (67%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@scummy-writes (lmao)

@kissmetwicekissmedeadly

@alby-rei

@loptyrs

@shookspearewrites

I tagged 480 of my posts in 2022

Only 37% of my posts had no tags

#ikemen vampire - 202 posts

#ikevamp - 201 posts

#q - 87 posts

#smut - 74 posts

#ikevamp isaac - 66 posts

#ikevamp arthur - 59 posts

#ikemen vampire isaac - 57 posts

#ikemen vampire arthur - 54 posts

#replies - 40 posts

#ikevamp theo - 36 posts

Longest Tag: 133 characters

#vincent is wanting to set up painting outside somewhere and isaac runs into him trying to lug a bunch of stuff out and offers to help

My Top Posts in 2022:

Musings

Pairing: Isaac/Mc(Reader)

Rating: Mature (there is not explicit sex, but still references/light discussion of sex)

Words: 889

Note: A short, unbeta'd and spur of the moment piece about 'Mc' asking a burning question or two after Isaac thoroughly spoiled them in bed.

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The night air was a relief as you rested on your bed, thankful the cool breeze coming from the window Isaac opened reached your burning cheeks. His usual shyness at your naked body was long discarded, his mind too busy with making sure you were comfortable as he came back to the bed, settling in beside you to kiss your temple.

See the full post

100 notes - Posted August 25, 2022

Rating: Explicit

Words: 1,226

Tags: Masturbation, guilty pleasures, Isaac is a bit hard on himself

Full fic under the cut!

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It wasn’t often that Isaac was unable to sleep due to a certain flavor of… excitement. Though he had climbed into bed a couple of hours ago, he found himself with a peculiar itch nagging at him, causing him to uncomfortably toss and turn as he tried to calm his racing mind in any way that wasn’t what his body craved.

He pinched the bridge of his nose as a heavy sigh escaped, eyes slowly blinking open to stare at the ceiling. The earlier talks with Jean and Napoleon, while the three of them bathed, were circling his restless thoughts still. They left him plagued, nearly wanting to beg with his mind for entertaining the heated thoughts that lingered.

Why, oh why, were the others so intent on bringing you up in the baths?

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134 notes - Posted April 21, 2022

I've been doin some...Journaling? To destress and try not to get anxious so much, but it is Simp Journaling. Thought I'd share because I think it looks Neat but messy

Isaac's spread:

Arthur's spread:

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138 notes - Posted April 8, 2022

This request is...old. like. Embarrassingly old to the point where I don't think the requester is even into ikevamp anymore- that old.

But. I wanted a small writing warm up while on my lunch break, so I whipped this up and the context of the ask is needed- so I took a screenshot so I wouldn't bother the person who asked, haha...

Short, unbeta'd since it's a request I'm using as a warm up, gets a little heated because while Mc might be innocent, Arthur is a pervert at heart (even if he's a sweetheart).

-----

This… was torture. Divine torture; pain that was worth bearing just to have you so close to him, but Gods, Arthur was suffering so.

You wiggled your hips as you settled in his lap, ignoring the wooden chair creaking as you leafed through the pages on his desk, "hm, you've written a lot today! Are you sure you're hitting writer's block, Arthur?"

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156 notes - Posted July 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Suitors reacting to Mc riding their thigh

Rating: explicit, minors dni

Suitors: Isaac, Arthur, Vincent

Prolouge: It happens as the two of you paw at the other's clothes, stumbing onto the bed between biting kisses. The lust is swirling through your mind, taking most reason away until you're whining, worked up to the point of throwing your leg over his thigh and seeking relief for the burning arousal coursing through you…

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185 notes - Posted August 22, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

Damn, I'm surprised over a lot of this LMAO. I'm surprised my #1 post was something random I just wrote super spur of the moment, *almost* didn't post since I wanted to add Theo and Comte but couldn't think of what to write, and finally said 'fuck it' and posted. Wow.

I am also surprised about my lil journal pages being popular too. I really want to do another one when I have the mental and physical energy to, haha.

I am happy that Isaac jacking off made it to the top five. It's as nature intended.

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rawrmeansilyindinosawr · 2 years ago

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****TR1GGER WARNING: M3tH!!!!!!***

itz 2023, Im a widdle homosexually homoAF n tried to explain masturbation in English to a French gurl at melting point n due to language barrier she didnt know what “clitoris” or “fingering” meant but as tha clock strikes midnight i asked her iF she wanted 2 make out anywey N she said “Yes” in YOLO. . speakinG of melTing point …… i sTumblEd / limPt in cuz i wuz a L@mb K3bobb the nite b4 n had a fuck machine in my poonani hole. 0/10 starz but 1 more thing oFf buCket List CHECKKKKKED OFF..!!!!! :-] <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 alSo bouncers l3T m3h n fwendzz get in fo fReE cuz we were hot n sexy n famous .

SoOooOo i Got h1Gh n D3LetEd 9 of my tumblrs i’ve had since damn near wheN i Wuz 14 n I’ve been punishing mYselF by not blogging even when i rly rly rly Rly Want 2 n idk i jus hav 2 rememeberr ive lost so many journals/lil notes n poems i’ve written n tucked in notebooks n let them fall to the floor in hopes tht strangers will find them n feel inspired.. I feel lik it’s kinda lik how i have found so many poems in passing like walking places like on the floor (one time walking in east LA i found a note ab someone’s dreams and like exploring astral planes) n the time i found someone’s cd collection in the trash n it had a bunch of personalized cds burned “4 hayley” n the time i found a bunch of poetry books in a suitcase randomly on the st . My words will never leave me if i can’t read them all the time they r inside me and tht makes me nvr wanna destroy my brain or body tht helps me remember n keep all of these things that eternally exist . Memories n love r the realest things we kno or will ever find .

Butt it’s still new yrs n yr seeing ur friendzz take off their sunglasses off n their dialted eyes for the first time ever ever n yr reminded the sunglasses in tha club hide @LL the shame so keep wearing dem . We may or may not hav dropped Acid n ended up getting lost in the dirty warehouse rave n sharing one bathroom stall with 5 people , one girl who was weird n acted like she didn’t share blow w one of us at Bossa the other nite n acted weird and another kept asking if i was an aquarius or scorpio . Bitch huh ?!

tha full Moon In cancer got meh feelin PISSSSST more than emotional . butt yr leaving nowiezz w yr friendzz to go to aftiez n we r all holding hands running to the Karr n howling at tha moon lik wolves . n it feelss surreall n we say we r sentient beings made 4 this . n we agree we r charging our energies , our souls under the glare of the circular Cheese ball above Us in the polluted niTecore sky.

unlock it Lock iT L0cK it L0Ck iT L0CK Itt by charliXXX got me feelin EMOTIONAL!!!!!!1 idgaF if ppl d0nT rly understand cUz iM complex n this street adderal iVe been buying (Kinda m3Thy) . i wrote a poem ab LUV :-3 again cuz of it .

“hold my hand until it breaks

take my heart to wound

til it shatters

in a million

shard - l i k w

pieces

and i’ll pick them up

one

just so u could find

yourself inside “

i kno is i wuz considering singing BIPP by sophie at heaven karaoke 2 sound lik The embodiment of ChaOs computer but it wuz hard . i imagined to sound like dis : <*+<*+~*+~*~+~*~++~*~~>~#~##~{,{~+~++~+~+~++++~~*~*~*~**~*~*~*BIPP!!!

i luv all my friendzz who r soooOo photogenic n hot n creative n cool n i h8 all the meanie Bo Beanies at public hot3L altho we did Dance in tha lobby to BETTER OFF ALonE on maXXX volume n ppl told us we were the party not whut wuzz goin on upstairs then hoppin thru the WEIRD SLIDYY SLIDDY FAST doors 2Gether then danced w mR Uber man n did so much Ketamine in le bain n hugged the door men then watched a stupid boy not own up to his own squirt puddle.

iNs for 2023::

-geTting 75% fisted (4 out of 5 fingers unless the fist counts as two fingers) til u Bleed b4 work to Charlixxx’s “Pop2” album.

-Making out with ur Fwendzz in the nowiez yurT

-snorting untested molly oFf Ur Phone in nowiez yuRt from boys whose names R just singular individualized Letters of the Alphabet (ie: A , C , P , M)

-acCepting bAe applications only for autistic ppl

-pink drug baggies w pandas on them

-Living heterosexuality vicariously thru ur friendz

-weAring ur reading Glassez when Ur not Resding

-sTealing mirrors from F@mily doLLar

-not feelingresponsible 4 oTherzz problemz

-4Somes

-Mutual ghosting

-Fergie and nitecore and fergie nitecore

-hOney MusTarrdd s@uce from Popppeye w bits of Jalapeñoz .

-saying Popeyes like Pop-pie-eyes and Katz ‘s deli like Kat-siziesez

-Un-identifying w marshmalloWs n identifying with Jellyfish instead (if they go their Hole lives without getting fucked they can literally morph back into being a baby to try again to get fucked)

-twitching b4 u sleep

-Sending them selfies even after they told u they don’t wanna see u anymore

Outs for 2023::

-Bottoming

-OverapologiNg

-nUrses at Callen Lourde

-Asking if u look autistic up close for verbal validation

-Tr1pL3 cancers born at 3:33 who think ur big 3 is “boring” but their big 3 is all the same .?

-the nUmber 3 cuz of that sentence rite there .

-being SinGLe for ANY FUCKING L0nG3R????.!!!!!

-Taking mosh pits personally

-Projecting when ur hangry

-exPecting Ur plug to come to the Door like P1zza delivery mans

-justin bieber slander

-fAlling asLeep to “ My saD liL Peep Mix “ any longer than 4 nites in a row

-Monogamy (?)

B BAK SOON IM GOOGLING THE LYRICS TO CLITORIS THA MUSIKAL BY ASHNIKOO TO MEMORIZE n telling ppl thE faKe stoRyy of how i carry moi Muthas ashes with meh in a pizza locket with a DrugSp000n attTacHed to the bottom. mi Mommy is not dead tho it’s a Joke knock on W00D.

XXX FOR SEX ,

rennybaby69247<3 <3

#blog

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citizen-zero · 2 years ago

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I just went back and reread Mina’s very first entry, her letter to Lucy on May 9, and in it she writes,

I have just had a few hurried lines from Jonathan from Transylvania. He is well, and will be returning in about a week.

Which REALLY sheds a new light on two things: 1) the fact that even while he was rushing, Jonathan sent a full paragraph of text to her, and 2) the fact that Mina was expecting Jonathan to be home by mid- to late May, and hasn’t seen or even heard from him in damn near 3 months at this point.

(Note on that last point: there seems to be some discrepancies in the text here? Jonathan writes two letters on May 12, one to Mr Hawkins and one to Mina, but it doesn’t seem like Mina, at least, ever gets this one, and it isn’t the one that gets burned later because Jonathan specifically discusses writing that one. The single line Mina gets seems to be one of the three written on May 19, specifically the one dated June 19, and from what I’m seeing in her journal thus far there’s no mention of her receiving a letter explaining he’d be staying another month; in fact, on July 26 she actively says she hadn’t heard from him in some time. It doesn’t seem likely that Mr Hawkins would receive correspondence and then not tell her, so either those letters were never sent or Stoker forgot to account for them, lol.)

But I digress. Her mention of him sending “a few hurried lines” in May is a stark contrast to the single line she received yesterday, and we can see exactly why she immediately sensed something was wrong—again, even when Jonathan was in transit and had a pressing need to be on time, he still found time to write more than a single sentence to her mentioning that he was doing well and giving an update on his ETA. One would assume that, if he’s sending this newer letter while still at Castle Dracula and not yet actively traveling, he’d have plenty of time to write something longer and more descriptive, even if he’s not waxing poetic.

And on top of that, she hasn’t heard from him at all in 3 months!!! Oh my god! Imagine if you were making plans to see your friend or partner next week, and then they totally dropped off the face of the earth without warning, and then three months later they texted you sounding completely different from how they normally do and offering absolutely no explanation for their absence. You’d be freaked out too! You’d have probably been freaked out much sooner than that! You’d probably assume they were missing or fucking dead!

I understand that travel and communication took more time back then (especially if we agree with Stoker’s portrayal of Eastern Europe as less technologically advanced) and one couldn’t always promptly inform about delays, but we have telegrams and trains at this point, and it’s not like Jonathan’s in the middle of the ocean (haha!). It’s entirely reasonable that he might be delayed a week or two or even three, but one might expect that if he was going to be delayed THREE MONTHS long, he’d have sent word much sooner. If Jonathan could send a letter from within Transylvania that got to Mina within a week or so of his arrival, and if she could reasonably expect him to be home in a week from her May 9 letter, AND if she could consider it noteworthy not to have news of him within a day of his single line…then it doesn’t make sense to me that it’d be reasonable to anyone for him not to communicate this long of a delay.

Which makes it SO interesting that Mina’s downplaying her own uneasiness about him, because it mirrors Jonathan trying to rationalize everything he’s experiencing in the castle. She has a plethora of reasons to be completely panicked by now, and it seems she’s suppressing that panic by pretending like she doesn’t know why she’s feeling uneasy. The line from Jonathan should’ve been comforting, it’s finally news of him after all this time…but it’s jarringly out of character. I think on some level Mina knows that something isn’t adding up, she knows that there’s red flags everywhere, but she has no proof and no way of finding out, there’s no real reason for her to think that anything is wrong. It’s the kind of suppression you might do when you’re desperately trying not to have a panic attack about a situation you have no control over.

Once again, reading Dracula this way really makes for a richer experience because in the book, her May 9 letter and her journal entry on July 26 are much closer together and you could easily read both of them in one sitting. But when it’s spread out the way it is, you can go back and be slapped with realizations like this.

#dracula daily #dracula #mina murray #jonathan harker #personal #erika's blog and bar

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mjbunnyluv · 2 years ago

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The Scoop, Part 2

Summary: PH!Bakugou, QL!Izuku AU where they are estranged childhood friends and haven’t had contact in a little over a decade. As he couldn’t achieve his dreams of becoming a hero, Izuku has become a hero journalist instead. The entire hero community loves him, but as he becomes more popular, Izuku finds it harder and harder to avoid his former friend.

“Midoriya,” an excited squeal preceded the bubbly pro hero as she skipped down the hall.

“Pinky!” Izuku grinned at her arrival. He’d just finished setting up in one of the conference rooms at A-Chic, the acid heroine’s personal agency. This was not the first time he was interviewing her.

In fact, Pinky was one of his number one interviewees, her PR team giving him a call every few months for a new story. The bubble gum haired woman was extremely active in the community - hosting charity events and dinner parties, fundraisers and community nights. During his last interview, Izuku covered the breakdance battle she’d organized to raise money for underprivileged kids. With Mina’s infectious personality and Izuku’s top-tier journalism, the event was a huge success, meeting its goal and then some. The funds were used to build a youth center that provided free meals, tutoring services, and job placement opportunities to school aged kids in Greater Tokyo. And it also helped Pinky rise almost 10 spots in the hero charts.

“It’s so good to see you,” Mina giggled. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week!”

“Me, too,” the greenette nodded. “I know it’s only been five months since our last interview, but it feels like it’s been forever.”

“Ugh, tell me about it!” She waved her hand dramatically. “Seriously, though, a Pulitzer?!”

Izuku shrugged, a sheepish smile gracing his lips as a deep blush danced across his cheeks, the bronze freckles dotting his skin popping against the color. The announcement of his achievement last month had come as a huge surprise to Izuku. “I mean…I don’t really think I deser-”

“Nope!” She slapped a hand over his mouth, and emerald eyes bugged out wide with surprise. “None of that. You are the best, period! Deserving of any and all awards that come your way.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” he chuckled, pulling her palm away from his face.

Mina rolled her golden eyes, “Honey, there’s a reason you’re the only journalist I talk to.” Izuku cocked his head to the side. That couldn’t be right. He swore he’d seen a story from the Tokyo Journal only a couple weeks ago where she made comments about a recent villain fight. “Respect goes a long way, my friend, and most journalists are severely lacking. They all act like heroes owe them every second of their free time after a fight or a gala, or God forbid on our days off. My dude, all I want to do is take a damn breather, and you,” she pointed at the journalist with a big flourish of her wrist, “always make me feel like a person. Like I can be myself and not get judged for it, you know?”

“Well, that’s the goal,” Izuku grinned. “Glad to know I’m doing my job as I’ve always intended.”

“Seriously, though,” Mina sighed as she took a seat at the conference table. “You are our precious little bean and we will protect you at all costs!”

“Our? We?” The freckled man scrunched his nose as he tried to work out who she was talking about. He got situated in one of the rolling chairs and drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

“The hero community, silly!” The pinkette giggled, lightly slapping his wrist. “Actually, I was just talking to Ejirou the other day- you know, Red Riot – and we were thinking, how great would it be if you covered the upcoming Hero Billboard Chart? I mean, you’d have no problem interviewing anybody and since Dynamight is about to be named Number 1 it would be the perfect opportunity-”

“NO!” Izuku shouted. He clenched and unclenched his hands, cheeks burning crimson at his sudden outburst. Clearing his throat, the greenette stated very calmly, “S-sorry. What I meant to say was, I won’t be in town for the event. I’ve been asked to cover a story on the World Heroes’ Commission and I’ll be traveling to Switzerland during that time.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Mina slumped. “I was really hoping you’d be there. All the other reporters are so stuffy. You’re much more fun to talk to.”

Izuku let out a calming exhale. That was only a partial lie…he really was going to be in Switzerland covering the World Heroes’ Commission, but he hadn’t been asked. In reality, he’d begged for it. As a journalist who primarily covered all things heroes, Izuku always kept a close eye on the charts. And when it started trending that Dynamight would finally be achieving the highly coveted rank of Number 1 Hero, the greenette marched into his boss’s office and practically got on his knees to request that someone else cover the Hero Billboard Charts this season. Was he being a coward? Probably. But was he sufficiently relieved when his request was accepted? Absolutely.

Five years…five years Izuku had been conducting interviews after earning his Bachelor’s in Journalism. And in all that time, he had successfully avoided one hero in particular. Dynamight continued to be his current favorite hero, in fact, he had analyzed plenty of his former friend’s fights and published his excited ramblings on his fanboy blog - the one he ran under the pseudonym Deku. Izuku knew he wasn’t being slick, if anything, the explosive hero would know it was him right away from the old nickname he’d given the freckled boy when they were kids. But whenever it was brought up that the explosive hero was looking to schedule interviews for PR, Izuku made sure he was unavailable for the man’s requested time slot.

“S-So, what did you want to talk about today?” Izuku stuttered, looking over the notes he’d taken from the pinkette’s PR team. “A team up?”

“Mhmm, that’s right,” Mina perked up. “Well, it’s not the type of team up most people would be used to. Not in the traditional heroic sense anyway.”

“How would you classify it then?” he asked, recording device having been picking up everything since just before the heroine joined him. But in true old school fashion, Izuku just couldn’t get away from scribbling down bits of information and quotes in a notebook. There was just something so nostalgic about pen meeting paper. Or maybe it was just a safety blanket. He had been writing down thoughts since he learned how to read and write, and in all honesty, writing things down had saved his ass more than once after a power outage.

“Oh, it’s a burlesque show.”

Izuku’s hand stopped scribbling. Emerald eyes blinked at the page before slowly lifting to meet golden irises. “A what?”

“A burlesque show. You know, provocative dancing, short skirts, sensual music.” Mina moved her body in a smooth movement bringing attention to the cleavage just above the neckline of her costume.

Izuku gulped, “F-For charity, I presume?”

“You got it!” She winked. “And the list of participants is outstanding.”

“What are you raising money for this time?” Izuku’s hand resumed scratching down notes.

“Support for the victims of that villain attack a couple weeks ago. The one with Subterranean, you know that guy who caused 9.0 earthquakes, leveled three towns and killed almost 1,000 people.” Pinky leaned back, the chair groaning as she pressed into the seatback. “It was awful. And everything happened so fast that rescue attempts turned into recovering bodies. Sometimes this job weighs on you and you just can’t help but lie awake at night and think what if I was faster? What if I did x, y, or z differently? But I learned a long time ago that those kinds of thoughts don’t help anybody. So, instead I find ways to help the survivors, to do what I can in the aftermath.”

“I’m sure any kind of support would be appreciated right now. I’ve seen that nearby communities have been taking in families who've been displaced by the attack.” Izuku commented.

“Yeah, everyone is doing good things to help their neighbors. One of the things I’d like to do with the money we raise from this show is to build sustainable housing to shelter those who’ve been displaced, and offer free meals as well.” Mina nodded. “Our goal is set at 11 million Yen and I really think that’s achievable. Especially since a handful of agencies have agreed to match donations.”

“Oh really? That’s great! Which agencies?” Izuku’s hand was flying across the page, eyes flicking up every so often to engage with the heroine.

“The usuals,” she shrugged. “Nightcrawler, Creations Inc., Ingenium, Icy Hot.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a little community of your own,” the greenette chuckled. “I’ve been making the rounds with interviews lately and those are all the agencies that come up pretty frequently.”

“Eh, you make your alliances, and they really don’t change unless someone does something really off the rails,” she laughed. “Not surprised my little circle of besties are always hitting you up.”

“You mentioned the list of participants for the burlesque show is,” he flipped back a page, “outstanding. Care to share a few names of who we can expect to see on stage?”

“Oh definitely,” Mina grinned, a mischievous glint in her eye as she stretched forward to lean on her crossed forearms. “I mean, there’s the usual suspects…Nejire-chan, Uravity, myself obviously, then there’s Galeforce and Phantom Thief. Oh, and I can’t forget Illus-o-Camie. Plus, a few surprises. But I don’t want to give it all away, you know. Gotta leave some things to the imagination,” she winked.

“Of course. It’s not burlesque without intrigue, right?” Izuku chuckled as he made note of all the names Pinky had mentioned.

“See, you get it,” she laughed, slapping his wrist again. “You should really come. I think you’d have a great time, Midoriya. And it’s all for charity, so everyone will be in high spirits. Nothing makes people happier than doing good deeds and heroes showing some skin.”

He laughed remembering the nude calendar featuring the Top 15 heroes that was released last year. Pre-orders sold out in a matter of minutes and once they were released in stores, not a single retailer was able to keep them on the shelves. Even Izuku had a hard time getting his hands on one…he did, eventually and he was still ashamed of the amount of time he’d spent staring at April. Because damn, Kacchan was ripped and the picture was equal parts tasteful and risqué. Hero mask pushed onto his forehead and slicking back that explosion of blonde spikes, dark black kohl rimming his eyes and not a single bit of fabric in sight. Just a well-placed Dynamight gauntlet hiding the most scandalous bits. Izuku coughed to hide that he was getting a little hot and bothered just thinking about that calendar.

“I’ll think about it,” he told her, and he genuinely meant it.

“Good.” Mina gave a short nod. A sharp knock caught their attention at the door and a petite brunette appeared in the doorway. The woman was dressed in a colorful pantsuit, her hair braided and laying heavily over her shoulder. Izuku immediately recognized her as the head of Pinky’s PR team. “That time already, Kimi?”

“Afraid so,” she scrunched her nose, making the glitter sparkling across her cheeks dance under the fluorescent lights of the conference room. “Nice to see you again, Midoriya.”

Izuku gave a little wave and turned back to the heroine. “Well, I think I’ve got enough to write a highlight piece.”

Mina squealed and squirmed in her seat, “I know I can count on you to rally the masses.” She hopped out of her seat and gestured for the journalist to come over. “C’mere, I need to give you a hug.”

Used to her need to shower him in affection, Izuku smiled and stood. The second he was on his feet, the pinkette swooped in, pulling him into a bone crushing hug. And she only let go when he wheezed and patted her back. They pulled apart in a fit of giggles.

“You promise to try to make an appearance at the show?” Mina asked.

“I will do my best to clear my schedule,” Izuku nodded.

“Good, cuz I think you’ll really enjoy the final act,” she winked at him, and the journalist couldn’t help the look of confusion that washed over his face. Mina just laughed, that mischievous glint returning to her eyes. “See you later little bean!”

“Until next time, Pinky!” He waved, watching her skip out the door. As Izuku gathered up his notes and stopped the recording device, he couldn’t help but ponder what the heroine had up her sleeve. Knowing Mina, it was probably her just playing around like usual. And it wouldn’t be the first time she urged him to come out just to play wingwoman or to get him drunk off his ass. Well, whatever it was, Izuku was intrigued.

#mha #bnha #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction #katsuki bakugo #midoriya izuku #bakudeku #estranged childhood friends #childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers #cute izuku #ashido mina #mha bakugou #mha midoriya #interviews #pro hero au #pro hero bakugou #quirkless midoriya izuku #quirkless discrimination

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pixla · 3 years ago

Text

Promises (tommy slater x gn!reader)

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3]

Request by: @j-st-patricks-day

Summary: After breaking into nurse lanes office, Alice and Arnie take you on a small detour into the woods where you make a shocking discovery.

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: swearing, light drug use

When Tommy said you were helping Cindy you thought it would be for something to do with colour war, not breaking into Nurse Lanes office. Considering Cindy’s goody two shoes persona, you were too surprised to turn down the request.

Walking into the mess hall, you watched as Cindy Berman pulled a single key from her pocket, placing it in the lock of the office door, jiggling it around. “Got it!” Cindy grinned as the door unlocked, granting her entrance. Tommy and you watched as Cindy rummaged through the woman’s draws and cupboards. “So what are we actually looking for?” Tommy chimed in as Cindy turned around. “Answers.”

As Cindy continued, Tommy stepped forwards grabbing something from the desk that caught his attention. You walked up behind him, glancing over his shoulder to see what had him so fixated. It was a small brown tie-around journal. “What is that?”

“Ah!” Cindy turned around, holding a small bottle of pills up. You looked to Tommy, only for his eyes to still be glued down to the book he held in his hands. Only when you finally looked at the contents of the book did you finally put two and two together. It was witchcraft. “Shit, maybe Joan was right.” You muttered lightheartedly.

Cindy snatched the book from Tommys hands, trying to regain the attention. “No she wasn’t, there must be some kind of logical explanation for this.” She reassured, walking out of the door, ready to leave with her findings when a figure jumped from the doorframe.

Cindy screamed, dropping the book to the floor. The person cackled at the reaction, their hand on their stomach. “Alice, that’s not funny!” Cindy groaned, bending down to retrieve the book when Alice beat her to it. Cindy reached for the book, only for her to pull it back out of her reach, flicking through the pages as Arnie snatched the bottle of pills from Cindy's hand. “Shit berman, didn’t know you were into this kinda stuff.”

Cindy grimaced. “I’m not-“

“Holy shit.” Alice interrupted. “Arnie, look at this.” She laughed, pointing to the page.

“The deal was made with the devil, Sarah fier cut off her wicked hand on satan's stone in exchange for eternal life, scaring the soil below with the witches mark, bringing darkness upon the land.” Arnie read out, smirking.

“How spooky.” Alice nudged Arnie playfully, taking back the book.

“It’s Nurse Lane’s diary, let’s put it back.” Cindy tried to reason with the two of them.

“Woah, woah, slow down there.” Alice continued to flick through the pages. “It’s not just a diary, crazy nurse Lane made a crazy map.” Alice stared down at the pages, a grin on her face, she pulled arnies wrist, the two of them running out the mess hall doors, Cindy running after them. You turned to Tommy, the both of you silently agreeing to follow after her.

—

You and Tommy followed close behind Cindy as she rushed through the forest, groaning as her shirt got snagged by a passing branch “shit-“ She turned to see you both jogging slowly behind. “guys hurry!”

You both laughed at her eagerness, but as you went to move, you were hit with a splintering headache, your hand grabbing tommys wrist in reflex. “You okay babe?” Tommy asked, looking down at you, lifting his hand to touch your forehead. “Damn, you're burning up.”

“I’m okay.” You smile, lifting his hands from your head, giving his knuckles a small kiss. “Love you.”

—

As the two of you finally reached a clearing, free of shrubbery, you sighed, wiping your trousers of the leaves and dirt they accumulated during your chase. You lifted your head at the sound of Cindy's yells. Looking over, you noticed a collection of deep, rectangular pits. “Maybe they’re graves.” Alice laughed trying to spook Cindy.

“Mary.” You spoke quietly as you picked the book from the ground, flipping through the pages. “Look, here, here, here, she was marking where she dug.” You pointed to a series of x’s marked on the small map of the camp. Alice took the book from your hands, turning to another page. “But without her hand, her grip on the land holds firm and the curse will last until body and hand unite.” Alice followed on.

“Maybe she was looking for the hand.” Tommy added, walking over to the two of you. “To end the curse?”

“That made her daughter lose her mind.” You continued.

“C’mon guys.” Cindy interrupted putting a hand on your shoulder. “I just don’t get why you guys always have to blame all of your misfortune on a silly old curse.”

You rolled your eyes at the girl's sense of superiority, she always did act as though she was so much better than every other shadysider. But at least you know exactly what you are, just another piece of shadyside trash.

“Hey, give me that.” Alice tried to reach for the book when Cindy snatched it from her reach. “First give me the drugs. If those made Nurse Lane go crazy then they’re dangerous.”

“Oh give it up already!” Alice hissed. “Remember when we used to have fun?” They both looked at eachother fury in one another eyes. But before anymore of their timeless bickering could take place, Arnie barged through the trees. “I found the witches hut!”

—

Alice shone her flashlight into the decaying structure. “Damn, just me expecting a house Made of candy or something?”

“Maybe there’s candy down here.” Arnie lowered his light down to the floor, revealing a stone staircase descending into the soil. You all gathered round as Alice crouched down at the entrance. “Hey Sarah! Got any candy down there?” Alice and Arnie laughed, but the rest of you stayed quiet. The light flowing down the hole, there seemed to be no end in sight, light a void or an entrance to the underworld, you felt your headache come back.

“Let’s leave.” You spoke quietly, dread seeping out of your very pores.

“Come on Y/N, don’t be such a wuss.” Alice snarled at you before lowering herself into the ground. As you all watched her figure disappear, you waited in anticipation.

“Hey someone’s been down here… recently” Alice called out as you and Tommy followed behind Cindy, his arm wrapped around you, his fingers tracing small shapes into your back.

Alice ducked down through a small entrance way, Cindy, Tommy and Arnie following behind as you opted to take a seat at a small desk. “I’m gonna take a breather, you can keep going.” You looked up at him, giving him a small smile.

Upon entering the room, they all froze. “What the fuck is that?” Alice mumbled as Cindy reached for the book, opening it. “It's…the witch's mark? Maybe Nurse Lane really was loopy.”

Arnie held the small pill in his hand reading the tiny engravings. “Shit Alice, this is tylenol.” He scoffed. “Let’s get out of here, maybe Joan will give us some weed if we pay her.” He ducked down, entering back into the room they came from. “Hey Y/N, we’re out of here-“ He furrowed his eyebrows as he looked at you. “hey you okay?” He leaned down taking a closer look, your eyes fixed and unmoving. The man clapped his hands in an attempt to wake you from your trance but you stayed unresponsive.

Tommy scanned the small bookshelf when a hand grabbed his shoulder. “What the hell alice-“

“I need to show you something.” Alice dragged him from where he sat. “Cyrus Miller.” She pointed her flashlight to the wall. “Billie Barker, Ruby Lane. You don’t have to be a fucking historian to know those names.”

“The shadyside killers.” Tommy muttered, not understanding Alice’s segue.

“Yeah, except one.” She pointed the light down. F/N L/N

“Is this some kind of joke?” Tommy held a stern face, not amused by Alice’s idea of humour.

“What do you think I carved your boyfriends name into solid stone with my fucking fingernails? Someone else did this.”

Tommy’s mind clicked. He raced after Arnie, ducking under through the rubble that connected the two rooms. “Arnie!”

#fear street #fear street 1978 #fear street 1994 #fear street 1666 #tommy slater #fear street x reader #tommy slater x reader #nick goode #cindy berman #ziggy berman #thomas slater

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wiypt-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Murder, He Wrote

Part 1

Co-written with @southerngracela

Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween… When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela for @jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.

There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide.

The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.

It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.

And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.

Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.

It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.

Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone.

It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.

As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.

Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.

You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up. You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.

To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news, In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud, So make sure that you read your answers out loud. As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise. Which may or may not be a scary surprise…

Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but, not enough to prevent cold

You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.

Turning back round, you then spotted that the door at the end of the hall was open, and you could clearly make out a Jack-o-Lantern looking at you, the candle inside flickering. Its face was creepy, really creepy. The nose and eyes were harsh triangles and the grotesque, twisted smile it sported was constructed of sharp, jagged teeth. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You may have had no service, but the flashlight was working. Keeping the light held in front of you so you could watch your step on the cracked tiles of the hall, you made your way towards the lantern and found yourself in a large, run down kitchen. The lantern and your flash-light provided the only light in the room as the windows were all overshadowed by gnarly trees, their branches every so often scratching the glass as they swayed slightly in the wind outside. The only other sound to be heard was the drip, drip of the faucet in the porcelain Belfast sink.

A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

“Oh come on…” you muttered, “That’ ones obvious. Knife, the answer is knife…” You picked up your phone and shone it around the various surfaces of the kitchen and your eyes honed in on a wooden knife block containing a solitary knife. You crossed the room towards it and as you closed in on it, you noticed that the handle of the knife was an ornate silver filigree. It was no ordinary kitchen knife and as you pulled it form the block you realised it was in fact a dagger, antique by the looks of things. The blade was curved slightly, reaching a sharp point, the silver tarnished. But the more you looked at it, the more you suddenly became horribly aware that it wasn’t merely a dullness of colour at all. It was blood.

“Dramatic…” you mumbled, and with a sigh you then realised there was no clue attached to it. Was this a distraction? A decoy? You were just about to stat ransacking drawers to find the actual knife you needed, when you glanced back at the block the dagger had been held in and noticed a flash of white peeking from underneath. Picking it up and moving it aside you smiled as you saw the same cursive writing, spelling out the word three. Seeing as you might as well play along, you used the dagger to slit the envelope open, tossing it back down on the counter as you read the next clue.

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

You fell silent, your mind racing to how the hell you were going to find a piano in this decrepit and yet enormous house. Then, your ears heard it. The subtle note from deep inside the house. It was a single key. But now that wasn't your concern, no, it wasn't the mice or the bugs or even the brown water. Your heart raced at the notion that someone was in fact in the house with you.

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Step by step you followed the note that chimed every few steps and you found yourself beginning to wonder if it was a recording or if someone were really playing it, timing their play with the sound of your boots over the rotting floor. You wound your way through the narrow hall, ancient wall paper peeling from its tack, mastick and plaster falling away to reveal studs in places.

Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room.

The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

“Get a grip Y/N” you mumbled to yourself. You were surprised to find just how much this place was starting to set your nerves on edge. You took a deep breath, the pounding of blood in your ears began to quiet and you took a look around the room. There was no one in there with you, you were alone.

With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

Not for the first time, you had to admire the effort Lucas was going to here. It was clear he had a flare for the dramatic, anyone could see that from his films and interviews but this was pretty damned good. It was making you wonder how he was doing it. Was he somewhere watching, pressing buttons to enact the various parts of his show? Instinctively you glanced up, looking for a camera or something you were being monitored by but you found no evidence of anything.

“Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat.

“Window. It’s a window.”

Usually, at that point, something happened to point your attention to the place you should be looking but this time, there was nothing. Instinctively you looked out of the one on the wall by the piano, but as you stared at nothing but the darkness outside you realised that was too obvious. Just then your ears picked up a sound you couldn’t quite figure out, but it was familiar all the same. And then it came to you, it was the familiar click and clack of a skateboard, the wheels gliding over the brittle old floor and you span round in the direction it was coming from to see a window you hadn’t noticed before, this one was an ornate, stained glass window which bore some kind of flower design that faced directly out into the hall.

He passed by slower than a flash but just enough to allow you to catch only a glimpse. You audibly gasped, your breath coming in a sharp intake of fright, because until then you had been alone on this chase. But it appeared you dramatic host had finally come out to play. He was merely a shadow, bulky in frame, tall and dressed all in black as he moved past but it was enough to puzzle you. You didn’t remember Lucas being that broad, or tall. With a frown you ran into the hall to catch him but saw nothing, and heard nothing, the only thing to indicate he had been there was a faint smell of the cedar and amber of what you assumed to be cologne.

You paced quickly down the hall in the direction the figure had gone but as you passed the stairwell the light flickered on, instantly attracting your attention. You’d only briefly noticed the ornate staircase before, but with the lack of light you certainly hadn’t noticed the writing on the wall, dripping in fresh paint. Swallowing, as you mouth suddenly felt dry with fear you stepped onto the first stair, and as soon as you did you were plunged into almost complete black. Letting out a shriek as, once again, he’d managed to get the drop on you, you shook your head and reached for your phone, taking another few steps up so you were level with the next clue which you read aloud.

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize.” You bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination.

Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Alongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby.

You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

This room was a little lighter thanks to a lamp which stood on a nightstand. It wasn’t bright, by any means, but it was enough so that you could clearly see the bed in the middle of the room. And there, placed by the pillows was a thin box. On unsteady legs, you shuffled slowly towards the bed, the box before you making you quiver, your insides churning. A shaky hand tilted the lid open slowly, afraid something would pounce in a sneak attack. You shut your eyes ready to protect them in case a bat or bugs flew at you and when nothing happened, you opened them slowly and inspected the boxes contents. There was no envelope this time, just copy of a newspaper. Your newspaper. And you felt your blood run cold as you recognise the bold headline across the top. Murder, He Wrote: A twisted tale of Inheritance, Crime and Exoneration "Drysdale," you whispered in realization. But now, while you were well aware of what the article meant and who it was referring to, your brain shut down processing how on earth Lucas Lee and Ransom could possibly be connected. Your breathing deepened and you moved to pick up the article, but then the lid to the box caught your eye and you froze, for on the inside of the lid was another clue, only this one was a straight forward question which was spelled out using cut-out letters from the newspaper in question.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath. And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

When Y/N went limp in his arms, Ransom laid her across the bed only leaving the room to hurriedly cover his tracks, blowing out candles and removing any trace of her that had been in the house. His time as his grandfather's research assistant gave him far more experience than it should have. When he returned to the bedroom she was still out cold but light as a feather as he carried her downstairs and out the back door to the awaiting SUV, smug that his plan had gone so well.

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

He drove away from the scene of his new crime towards the city, driving through the dead of night, on the beltway, and continued twenty minutes outside downtown Boston before pulling into the garage of a large red cedar and quartzite home. He killed the engine and closed the garage door, pulling Y/N from the seat she was slumped in when it was clear to do so.

He couldn't be seen, he wouldn't be seen. He carried her inside the spacious home, his boots tapping heavily against the dark marble floor of the kitchen and finally the lush carpeted staircase that wound down into the basement.

This is where he laid her, in the basement, on a bed, but not just any bed, the one that would now become hers. He adjusted the lighting in the space, low enough not to disturb her, but bright enough to give the room a glow so he could finish what he'd set out to do. In the shock of the struggle in the bedroom, she’d dropped her phone and he’d made sure to smash it long before he left the haunted house, making sure there'd be no device to track her. He'd already disposed of her car while she was playing his little game, every loose end as far as he could see was tied up.

And now she was all his.

He brushed the hair away from Y/N’s face where it had fallen over her eyes. With gloved hands he manoeuvred her undone, black woollen coat off her body, leaving her in the bottle green turtle neck sweater dress and thick tights she was wearing before he tossed it over the chair in the corner of the room and then undid the zips on her brown suede knee high boots. He dropped them to the floor, kicking them towards the same corner with the equal carelessness he’d shown her coat. With a final meticulous movement he rearranged her on the bed, so he’d appear more comfortable and just before he left the room, he wrapped the cool, metallic cuff around the ankle. It locked in place with a clink and with a final glance at her still unconscious form, he turned and exited the room, the door latching shut and with the snap of the deadbolt he locked her in.

*****

Your head pounded, your nose burned and your mouth felt dry with the faintest taste of something foul lingering as you swallowed. The light was low but still your eyes ached. You tried to decipher exactly what the hell had happened to you while you got your bearings. You tried to sit up but your body felt heavy, the soft bed you now realized you were lying on was not your own. Your breathing rapidly increased as you started to move in fear but a clink caused a screech to escape your throat. You felt the weight of the cuff around your ankle and a full panic set it.

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

You remembered getting the email from the Haunted Mansion supposedly hosted by Lucas Lee. You had arrived and were sent on what you thought was a fun and exhilarating maze littered with clues and riddles and then you remembered the last piece of the puzzle. You gasped as you remembered how his breath felt hot on your skin and how his voice registered in your mind.

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

The door to your room, now coming into focus around you, flew open and there he stood, smug smirk, raging ocean blue eyes, hair neatly in place, dismantling frame clothed in a black sweater and dark denim, heavy footfalls sounding against the thick carpet under his feet.

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"I...I'm not, don't call me that," you spat defiantly as he moved closer, taking you in, his predatory eyes moving over your body. This was it, you were going to die all because some trust fund prick was a hurt baby about an article (that you forcibly apologized for) revealing the sick and sadistic truth about him, his family, money and the justice system.

"Are you gonna kill me?” You watched him carefully as he crossed the room towards you, trying to keep your voice calm so as not to betray the utter fear that was coursing through your veins at the fact you were trapped, fuck knows where, shackled to a bed with a murderer being your captor. “That's what this is about, right? My apology wasn't enough?"

"Your apology was forced bullshit.” He responded, his voice carried a hint of amusement, because of course, this was all a game to him. “You smeared my name, dragged my reputation though the mud and you expected an apology like that, half assed and full of more crap than your original hatchet piece, to be enough?" He was standing damn near over you now, a hand moving up your leg that was held by the cuff, your body frozen in a confused silent argument of fight or flight.

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

"No. I. Didn't." He lied and you had to hand it to him, a lesser person might have bought the garbage he was talking, because he was good at it. Lying must have been enough of a second nature for him that he actually believed everything he said himself. But then again, it wasn't actually a lie was it? Sure, he'd planned on indirectly killing Harlan and that plan had backfired and Harlan had actually slit his own throat. So at most he was indirectly responsible for his death, but none of that had stuck with the prosecution and so now here he was, a free man.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

"Try me, you son of a...." You didn't expect his lips to cover yours but they did. Unexpectedly warm and soft, despite the painfully harsh kiss. You managed to pull away but his hand still gripped at your throat and you felt the fear constricting your chest. But you were damned if you were going to show him a shred of weakness.

“You’re an asshole, Hugh…” It was all you had, the only thing you could use in your arsenal given your situation. You still had your voice. And you’d noticed that for whatever reason he appeared to hate that name.

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

“Or what? You'll kill me?” your voice rose in both volume and pitch as your desperation began to show. “We both know you're gonna do that once you've fulfilled whatever sick, twisted little fantasy this is. What are you waiting for, Hugh? Huh?”

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

You stayed stock still as large and surprisingly gentle hands trailed your curves up the outside of your thighs to your hips. As he reached the hem of your sweater dress he paused as you wrapped your hands around his wrists.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“This will be much easier if you just play-along, sweetheart” he muttered as he pressed his lips to your neck. You let go of his wrists and raised your hands, laying them over the wool of his cable knit, palms flat against the plain of muscle as you attempted to push him off.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand. His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” He ground out, his lips inches from your ear as he nipped at your skin. He was impressively strong and balanced, his weight even through his body as he kept his knees between your legs, a hand against your breast and the other stroking your sides and up your thigh. All the while, his lips sucked at your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point as you turned your head away, tears filling your eyes

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

“I told you not to call me that.” He growled against your skin and pulled back, his eyes blazing as they locked on to yours. In sheer desperation, you managed to wrench a free hand from between you and gave him a slap, nails biting at his skin. Instantly you knew you’d pissed him off. His nostrils flared, his jaw set and as his eyes filled with fire and rage.

And you knew then, you were in for it.

“Bitch…” he snarled as he raised his left hand to his face where you had struck him, and then both his hands grabbed yours, yanking your arms up, pinning them above your head. You bucked upwards, violently in an attempt to shake him off, but it was futile. He was far too strong. His grip on your wrists grew tighter and despite yourself you let out a small whimper of fear.

In one hand he had the ability to cuff both of your wrists and he did so while his other grabbed at your dress, shoving it further up your body, fingers curling over the waist of your tights and panties, a handful of the material fisted in his palm. They wouldn't slide down quick enough and you felt your body lift away from the mattress slightly as he ripped away the material, the snap burning your skin. You fought, boy did you fight. You had no control of your hands or arms as he had them easily pinned, but your legs and the rest of your body gave as good as they could. You thrashed from side to side all the time screaming your objections. You drew your knees up to your chest in an attempt to buck him off. You screamed protests, threw every insult you had at him, but it was no use. He was simply too strong.

He didn't even bother with his belt or button, he just unzipped the flies on his jeans, pulled his solid cock free and slid in. You were wetter than you expected to be, but it still burned with friction and ached from the thick stretch against your tight walls. It hurt, definitely hurt.

"You know you want this. I know you want this." He rasped as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his face twisted in a look that was halfway between being smug and satisfied. Just looking at him made you feel sick but for some reason you were unable to look away as he continued his slow assault, before he picked up the pace slightly, his groans of satisfaction filling the room as he bottomed out, balls deep and it was at that point you closed your eyes and tried to block out what he was doing to you. But try as you might to remain mentally detached from the situation, your body was anything but. And the more he moved in and out of you, the more you could feel your physical reactions. You were powerless to stop them and the heat between your legs and in between your belly was spiking with each thrust into you.

It felt good. And you knew it shouldn’t. So you fought it, but eventually, you couldn't fight it anymore, not with the way his thick cock filled you, velvety smooth skin sliding in and out of your defiant core. You didn't want to cum, but your body told your brain it was going to and Ransom nearly puffed his chest as he fucked you into your body's submission.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you, Sweetheart? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck, yeah…see…” Ransom’s hips began to move faster, and then with a sudden movement he pulled out of you, making you wince involuntarily at the sting. He shot his load all over your thighs, a growl bubbling from his throat, the warmth of his release trickling down your leg made you feel even more dirty than you already did.

“Not so fucking smart are we now, huh, miss Investigative Reporter…” his snap was snide, and childish, but you knew he couldn’t help himself. Your head remained defiantly in its position on the pillow, turned to the right, eyes focussed on a spot on the wall. “Look at me, bitch.”

When you didn’t do as he asked, he grabbed your chin bruisingly, making you wince as he pulled your face round so he could see you. You knew he would be able to see the tears on your face, and you hated that. Hated that he would see how much he’d hurt you, scared you even,

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

"That's all you got? You're a fucking child, Drysdale. It's why you’re doing this." You said, your voice trembling and croaking from the fear and exertion of what he had just put you through and you shook your head. “You’re a fucking man child with mommy and daddy issues. A spoilt, little whiney brat who can’t bear to be told no.”

That struck a nerve, you could tell, as his jaw clenched tight and his fists clenched around the sheets by your side to the point they were shaking. He grabbed your chin once more with his right hand and pinned your face still, forcing your eyes to look back at his

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

As you looked at him, you felt your anger starting to simmer. This fucking ass hole had just raped you, and he had the gall to be saying you were going to tell him that you were sorry. No chance in hell. You knew you were screwed, literally and figuratively. Whilst he had you captive behind a bolted door, shackled to a bed you had nowhere to go, he knew that you knew that too and you could see it in his face as a smug smirk flickered on his lips. Well fuck this, if you were going down it was with a fight. With a sudden movement, that caught him off guard you moved your head slightly as much as you could in his painful grip, and spat right in his face.

Ransom blinked, his anger morphing to shock, then back to fury once more as he released your face and with a flash of his hand he back handed you straight across the face. The blow to your right cheek snapped your head to the left, sucking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a little dazed.

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

***** Ransom stormed up the steps to the kitchen of the house, slamming the top door behind him and bolting that one shut too. He was furious that little bitch had scratched him and no doubt marked his face. He strode over the marble tiles of the room and walked into the large hallway and across into the den. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a healthy measure of good scotch, slopping a little on the dark wooden counter, before he glanced up at the large mirrored surface of the bar behind the shelves.

He could make out three vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end.

The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** Part 2

#murder he wrote #j's haunted house 2020 #dark ransom #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #reader insert #chris evans #chris evans characters

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ifwebefriends · 2 years ago

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Gravity Falls Rewatch S1E12 A Tale of Two Stans

Honestly I’m so glad they took an entire episode to address all of Stan’s mysteries, especially after what we learned about him last episode

AWWWWWWW I LOVE BABY STANS ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Stan punches a perfect triangle in the wood oooo spooky

There’s a photo in the intro now with Ford putting away Journal 1!

Stan is just so happy to see his brother again :)

FORD SPEAKING WOOOOOOO LETS GET IT

Ayo new fictional crush acquired???

Me hearing Ford’s voice for the first time at age 13: CAVE JOHNSON FROM PORTAL 2?!?!

If I had a nickel for every character voiced by JK Simmons who has a strong association with portals I’d have two (three?) nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice, right?

Damn Ford got some sick moves get it old man

Dipper and Mabel’s grandparent is named Shermie

“I have a niece and nephew?” BRO 🥺🥺🥺🥺

“I like this kid. She’s weird” :))))

Dipper really embodying the fandom with his “you’re the author of the journals” comment

“You’ve read my journals?” Nah he’s just read the one

Mabel being a good sister and comforting Dipper through this almost-throwing up episode :)

We got the Stanley-Stanford name swap reveal folks!!!!!!

Soos canonically writes fanfic about Grunkle Stan

Stan’s mom was a fake psychic, maybe explaining him seeing through Gideon’s lies?

“Ford had a birth defect leading to him being obsessed with sci-fi and mystery” is so fucking based fr

It looks like Ford picked a fashion style as a kid and STUCK with it, good for him

Stan really was like that even as a kid lmao

I love the baby Stan twins’ relationship

It really was a mistake, Stan really loves his brother and didn’t mean to ruin things for him :(

Baby Shermie!

Stan’s dad is kind of a dick

Why was Ford writing in Journal 1? I thought that one was full?

I want to read Ford’s thesis

Octavia the 8-legged cow was in one of Ford’s books!

Okay so Gravity Falls has just always been like thatTM

Looks like one of Wendy’s relatives helped to build the Mystery Shack!

Dipper fanboying over the journals is something I needed in my life

Ford has some great art skills fr

Baby shapeshifter!

“It was finally a place where I felt at home” ayo…….LGBT-coded??

Ford and McGucket were college buddies!!

McGucket could have been Steve Jobs?!?

Looks like we have relatives to the “get him get him” guy

Ford and Stan were both at places at some point in their lives where they “didn’t need anyone”

The Mystery Shack address is 618 Gopher Road (there’s that number 618 again!)

Stan and Ford didn’t talk for over 10 years since Stan got kicked out :(

“Have you come to steal my eyes?!” Is that what the Society of the Blind Eye was doing at first?!?

“Let’s talk this through, okay?” Stan still cares, he always has 🥺🥺🥺🥺

“I’ve been around the world” I want to know how many countries Stan has been to

I want to know how Gideon found Journal 2

Stan’s tattoo is actually a burn mark!!!!

Stanley was sleeping in the Carpet Diem room!!!!

Young Lazy Susan and how her eye got lazy!

Young Blubs!

Young “get him get him” guy!

The cash register reads “6.18”

Early version of Dipper’s hat!

Ford really channeling that Cave Johnson spirit for that scene where he shooed out the feds

Soos and Wendy offscreen friendship!!

Loved Stan and Ford’s last interaction before they got all mean and bitter

Mabel worrying about the future! :(

Great episode!! One of my favorites!

I AM VERY VERY NORMAL ABOUT GRUNKLE FORD OKAY????????

#bubbles rewatches gravity falls #gravity falls #a tale of two stans #grunkle ford

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essaysbyciara · 4 years ago

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It’s Been A Long Time | Nebraska Williams x Black!PlusSize Reader [Part 1/?]

Warnings: language, smut thoughts (my ministry!)

So this has been in my drafts for a *HOT MINUTE* but that photo of Trevante in high school triggered a release. If people dig where it could be going, I will add it to my list of stuff to finish and open up a taglist. I’ll try my best to do so, I promise! lol

“God, I played this album out…” Lil’ Wayne’s seminal album, The Carter, didn’t age at all. Back in 2004, Wayne was a secret about to bubble over to superstardom, just years shy of lollipops and Static Major (rest in peace). Wayne represented the teenage angst of your time, even though you toiled in the suburbs while he wrestled with the streets. But as “On My Own” damn near explodes your factory speakers, a high pitch ping from your phone pauses your trip down memory lane.

Message from Sheena: Let’s catch up before the babies wake up.

You hit the call button on your dash once you stop at a red light.

“Girl, hey. You on your way to work?”

“Ain’t I always, Shi Shi? Damn near almost overslept. Thought I missed my flight.”

Sheena, or Shi Shi, is the epitome of a best-friend-forever. You two met in Ms. Grayson’s civics class, 11th grade. On the first day of school, you rolled into third period wearing a Scream Tour II t-shirt and if you were to describe Sheena in that moment, jealous wasn’t even the word. She stanned hard for Lil’ Bow Wow but her mom wouldn’t let her go to the concert because she got caught with a boy in her room. That boy is now the husband half-way responsible for the twin girls she’s hoping will give her some grace by sleeping a little bit longer.

“Damn. You wanna gift some of that sleep to these twins, God mommy?”

“Only if you gift me some of those post-pregnancy boobs, Mommy Dearest,”

“Can’t do that. Jarell been having too much fun with those!”

“Girl, eww. I don’t need to know all that.”

You kinda did. Sheena’s stories were always live, wild and uncut. And the only fireworks you’ve been adjacent to in months since you broke up with that lame stockbroker, Keith. You curve around the airport parking lot as Sheena starts digging deep into her latest soft-core episode with her husband since the six weeks ain’t up yet. In between interjections of how nasty Jarrell could be and watching planes taxi in the distance, you cruise through Instagram to take inventory of what your day might be like.

Managing social media for the biggest sports publication in the country was not the fulfillment of a dream after high school because, shit, social media didn’t exist when you were in high school. But it’s what has you just hours away from a flight to the NFL Combine in Indianapolis, sitting in a parking lot, listening to your BFF’s slow burn sexcapades. You break up the audio immersion experience once your timeline displays something else to ruminate over.

“Sheena! Shi -- shut up! I can’t believe - you remember Lisa from high school? She got married ...and it ain’t to Brasco.”

“Whaaaa… you can finally stop making u-turns in the hallway and snag your man!”

You didn’t appreciate the lowly dig from your friend about Nebraska “Brasco” Williams, star running back, track champion and boy so fine he made both Omarion and J-Boog look like ogres. Your high school crush had you shook to your pubescent core; pretty teeth, deep skin tone and two tattoos before the age of eighteen. You’d see him in the student parking lot with the rest of the football team and you’d rush to your car as if it would go home without you. He was too hot to handle. You were beyond envious that Lisa could.

“Lisa ain’t do too bad. Her man is crazy fine. I mean, not Brasco fine but still…”

“Man, he had high school going crazy. I wonder what happened to him after that fight? I should stalk him on Facebook while I pump.” You laugh so hard, the couple walking past your car stops their argument to stare at you.

Your laughs break once you realize you might actually miss that flight. You relegate Shi Shi to kiss the twins for you and to send his Facebook profile if she can actually find it. You tried years ago and failed.

“Aight, fave. I will. Love you. Text me when you touch down in Indy.”

As you weave through the terminal, your mind thinks back to the days at New Birth High School. While it brought you joy in a forever friend and the launching point for your forever career in sports journalism, it did bring you one of the most hurtful days of your life that took years to shake.

It was the summer going into your senior year. Lisa’s sweet sixteen pool party. No way in Hell you thought you’d be there but your Mom and Lisa’s stepmom sat on the same deacon board at church and somehow thought you two were friends; Lisa paid you dust in those hallways. You fretted over every part of your outfit, especially the swim shoes you didn’t want but your Dad picked up at Sports Authority. But you were fretting the most over your swimsuit, a red one-piece with a deep open back. It was sexy for a 16-year-old, to be honest, but you secretly tried it on at the mall and fell in love with it -- especially how it made you feel.

You fell in deep love with your body that day. The way the swimsuit clenched your waist, giving your almost-pear shape some definition you’d never seen before. Your hips sat wide, your breast placed taunt, just peeking through the sides, showing off a crescent shaped birthmark right below your collarbone. It was Jet Beauty of the Week-esque and it made you feel on top of the world. Something that society kept telling you a plus-size teenage girl was not to feel. You used the last of your paper route money to buy it and hid your secret weapon in the back of your closet until the day arrived. You were hoping to get some boy’s attention -- especially Brasco. But you’d take anybody’s glare if you could get it.

You were in the clear once your Mom dropped you and Sheena both off at Lisa’s back gate. As you walked into the party, the sounds of the local hip-hop and R&B radio station blasted throughout her huge backyard. So much fun was had -- so much splash and dash -- that the faint sounds of “Knuck If You Buck” failed to erupt a party full of teenagers it was made for. The pool seemed tempting in 90-plus heat but most of the temptation came from the jacuzzi next to it. There inside sat Brasco, his lanky on-field wide receiver sidekick Kenny and Jarell, Sheena’s partner-in-bedroom-bust crime looking delicious in their highlighter-color swim trunks. You were still figuring out your body and the reactions conjured up from the sight of water droplets chasing down their backs confused you even more. But the heat of the sun -- and the heat from your body -- got too much to bear. That pool called your name.

You stripped off your t-shirt and denim shorts, leaving your swim shoes back by the picnic table. They clashed. Your nerves splashed together like the water you couldn’t wait to feel, battering against your heart. Were you ready for all this attention? Amongst the rest of the classmates, you disappeared. You weren’t popular. People knew of you but didn’t know you, only associating you with Sheena by proxy of Jarell. “My Goodies” came on the radio, providing you a soundtrack and a sign from God. Before you could answer the call, Sheena jumped into the pool. You tossed your glasses on top of your clothes and did the same.

The water felt golden. Sheena smacked your face with sheets of chlorinated goodness. Too much fun was had by all, even Lisa joined in the fun. Suddenly the entire football team did too except Brasco and Jarell, languishing on the edge of the jacuzzi because like most boys from their side of town, they didn’t know how to swim. Lisa saw her boo in isolation and tapped Sheena on the shoulder.

“Hey, Shi Shi. Let’s get in the jacuzzi.” Sheena grabbed your hand to guide you out of the pool. You weren’t expecting to see your Mom at the other end. Sheena didn’t grab you to join her in the warm bubbles, she got you out at the angry-faced-behest of your mother. You both were going home. The party silenced and stares followed as everyone watched your walk-of-shame to grab your clothes. You got what you wanted in the worst way possible.

Your unholy exodus commenced when Lisa’s mom called yours to report what she saw: this red bathing suit too revealing for a little girl to wear. It wasn’t the green ruffled mess-of-a-bathing-suit from last year. She claimed to witness stares and whispers and “boobs hanging out, butt all out.” Your mom got over there quicker than a church shout. She waited to scold you after she dropped off Sheena.

It was a Sunday School scolding like no other. Tears pooled deep like the one you were just having fun in. You tossed the bathing suit into the trash bin. You were never going to see it again.

The announcement of your flight breaks you out of your day nightmare. Grabbing the handle on your suitcase, you see a text with an attachment from Sheena.

Girllllllllllll. I found Brasco and babyyyyyyyyyyy…

You gasp. Time did a wonder on him in all the right ways. He packed on even more muscle, chiseling out the navy thermal dressing his upper body. Teeth still bright, Moonlight-bright. His Omarion-Pandemonium-era braids were gone, now donning a clean fade with perfect waves. His stance meant business, a lot of it risky. You bite your lower lip to mask the “damn!” urging a release from you, staring at his picture so intensely that you damn near walk into the stewardess checking your boarding pass.

You couldn’t wait to get to your first-class seat. You needed a safe space to drown in your own splash waterfalls. You beg Sheena to send you his profile, looking to make some more of that mess and she obliges. Scrolling through his Facebook, you see nothing. You needed him to match your uncleanliness. Another text from Sheena breaks you out of your spell.

Ain’t shit on here though. I can’t find an Instagram or anything. That’s where the dirt is at lol

You put your social media skills to work. Ain’t an Instagram profile that you can’t find. Nebraska Williams brings up nothing. Such a unique name and nothing to show for it.

Maybe Jarell can follow him, Shi.

Jarell ain’t on this thing. He hates all this stuff. You want me to follow him?

Girl, yes! I need more pictures! I’m trying to find his ‘gram and no diceeeeeee. Ughhhh.

Damn the “no cell phone until after lift off” announcement. You then try “Brasco”, too many names -- rappers, really-- and a dog company to boot. “Brasco Williams” yields no results. You couldn’t wait what could be hours, days, weeks, maybe never, for a response from Brasco to Sheena’s friend request.

You pull up Google as a last ditch effort. The results bring up what only seems to be archives from your now-defunct city newspaper covering one of Nebraska’s record-setting games from 2005. You know to quit while you’re ahead until you see a Youtube video: “Nebraska Williams (RB) New Birth High School (MD). uploaded by Donyell Williams. You remember Donyell as this boy who played too damn much in Geometry class but right now, he’s Brasco’s cousin who's Instagram profile came up on the first search. Thank God his profile wasn’t private. You scroll back far enough to hit the jackpot.

I found it! @donniebrascowill is his Instagram.

Sheena was right about the dirt. His posts were bare but his stories carried enough. Enough shirtless, weightlifting, fresh-out-the-barbershop-got-to-show-you-the-fade dirt. You hit the follow button before the stewardess asked for your drink selection.

End of Part I

#trevante rhodes x reader #trevante rhodes x fanfiction #nebraska williams

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