#also I have four followers so RIP any possibility of engagement on this post

[vicwrites-and-acts]

Writblr Introduction

I've been on Tumblr for a bit now; mainly lurking on my other blog, until I decided i'd make a new one to actively engage in the community, and share what I am most passionate about. So here's my official introduction!

About me:

My name is Victoria, but most call me Vic, so I am fine with whatever you'd like as long as its not derogatory. I'm 24 and very unsure of where the future is going for me. She/her pronouns for me preferably, but I'd also answer to dude or bro, because it's a love language.

I'm a mom of three, so writing or engaging is sometimes limited to my free time. I'm American (I know, I know, how boring.) Kidding. Mostly. I'm also Neurodivergent, but that's probably pretty obvious.

I've been writing since I was eleven, and it's always been a major passion; there's just something so raw and real about storytelling, and I've always been a pretty immersive reader. The book just transforms on the page and I'm swept away into different worlds. Until recently, my writing has mainly been fanfiction. I found it so much easier than being confident in my own abilities as a writer, because the foundation was already laid before me.

I can almost never focus on one thing at a time. So you'll probably see me flip flopping around like a fish out of water.

I'm also an aspiring actress as well as an author. So you'll probably see some things related to that – I hope you don't mind. Some other interests include: Soap making, candle making, sewing, knitting, and Psychology!

Asks and tag list/tag games friendly!

Side note: I am not at all familiar with writblr/tag games at all so any tips is 100% appreciated. Always open to new friends as well!

I will more than likely use this blog for posting about my OC'S, my WIP's, aesthetics, moodboards, Playlists, poetry, and reblogging helpful writing tips, as well as reblogging and helping the writblr community.

ABOUT MY WRITING:

I enjoy reading/writing sci fi, dystopia, fantasy, and horror on occasion. My works will almost always have a romantic subplot because I am a smol hopeless romantic in a big, big world.

HUGE fan of redemption arcs. Yes, please. Give me the morally grey character who does awful things but in the end makes a huge turnaround and is just so chefs kiss

Some of my works will have triggering content, and it will be marked with trigger warnings when applicable.

Some fandoms I engage in and do writing in on my main blog @johnmurphysgirl is as follows:

LOST

The 100

Stranger Things

BBC Merlin

Jurrasic Park/World

There's probably more but my mind goes blank. Rip

My WIP:

Title: Tempus (subject to change/filler name)

Genre: Sci fi, dystopian, romance

(think Lost in Space meets Hunger Games: Catching Fire)

Current status: hahahaha panic induced screeching; chapter two is halfway finished, but I've been struggling with severe writers block for months.

POV: third person, eventual switching, multiple povs.

Plot: Scientists have always meddled in things they couldn't begin to understand; mixing viruses and making bio weapons in the same containment area as cures for all manner of ills. The scientist in question lets out a dangerous disease, a vampiric mutation called the NightWalker Virus.

Only a select few were chosen to go to the Odyssey; a space station that would lead them to safety on a newly discovered planet.

Eris Matthews is an unauthorized stowaway on the Exodus with her best friend Cashmere Moni, and the owner's son, Rhys Grey. The ship's capacity was only meant for four people, not six. They crash land onto their new home, far from the civilization they'd hoped to find.

They'd fled to the stars in hopes of salvation, only to find their new home riddled with demons and unanswered questions, betrayals, and it is not at all what it seems.

[weedsinavacantlot]

Say that!

[mr-m-murdock]

to play the fool pt 1

| natasha x fem!reader | request by @strangegardentaco | part two, three, four

summary: You’re not an Avenger. Not even close. But sometimes, damn, you really wish you were so everyone would stop getting on your ass.

warnings: blood, violence, spidey-baiting, r is an idiot

a/n: this was the greatest request I’ve ever received. I wrote way too much and I’m sorry. Probably will have a part 2, maybe a part 3. Also I’M ONE FOLLOWER AWAY FROM 150! i know that’s probably not a lot to most people BUT IT IS TO ME so I posted this because people always follow me after I post my fics :)

It’s not often that you look out your break room window and see the Avengers getting their super-asses kicked by an army of robots in the street below. Right by your favourite convenience store, too. How inconsiderate.

You’re not exactly the avenging, famous, skintight-suit hero type. Which is exactly what’s going through your mind as you tug your mask on and slip out the window onto the fire escape. You’re a vigilante, and not one with a fantastic set of morals.

“This is stupid, this is stupid, this is stupid,” you mutter, stomping up the fire escape stairs with a set of sonorous clangs. Fifty metres below you, Captain America goes sprawling, ripping up chunks of road and slamming headfirst into a car, denting the hood substantially. You grimace. He doesn’t get up.

Somewhere above you as you climb onto the roof, in a cloud of ozone and dust, you can hear Iron Man getting thrown about like a toy in a dog’s mouth, clangs of metal, the blast of repulsors. 

“I’m gonna die,” you say, as you draw your baton from your belt. You take a deep breath. Surely this is Spider-Man’s job, right? There’s a clump of robots converging on Captain America’s prone body, moving fast with their gross little legs skittering over the uneven ground. “This is stupid,” you breathe once more, under your breath.

You feel the static in the air around you, the faint dregs of electricity leftover from a thunderstorm a couple of nights ago. You draw on it and sparks gather at your fingertips, in your hair beneath your hood, racing down your legs to your feet. You channel it until you can feel the heat and crackle racing down your arms, until you can feel your feet leave the surface of the roof and your baton begin to flash. You’ve done this a million times before.

Except for this time, there’s only a couple of feet between those robots and Captain America’s head, and you’re tired because you couldn’t sleep last night and a hundred other things��� You narrow your eyes, fling your arms forward, and fire a stream of electricity right towards the crowd of robots. The energy hits the ground in front of them and the impact sends them all flying backwards. You shield your eyes from the bright flash and when you can see again, they’re all lying crispy and fried on the floor, some legs weakly twitching in the air. You step to the edge of the building and hover there for a second, scanning the ground for Captain America.

He’s gone.

An idiot panic grips your throat for a second as you wheel through possibilities – you vaporised him. Oh, God, you vaporised Captain America – nope. He’s right there, starfished out on the hood of the car. Your blast must have thrown him up.

You drop off the edge of the building and fall, hands by your sides, the air stripping past your masked face. You catch yourself with a cloud of energy a foot from the concrete sidewalk, almost tipping forwards onto your face. You catch yourself with one hand against the ground and get to your feet.

You advance on the car, checking left and right for any more robots. As you pass the puddle of crackling, overworked robots, you step carefully around them.

You’re almost to the car when Captain America raises his head. You stop dead. Well, alright then. Job done.

He raises a bloodied hand to his ear, eyes narrowing as he takes you in.

“We have a hostile in the field,” he says. “Enhanced. Engage on sight.” You open your mouth to correct him, but of course, he can’t see it beneath the mask: and that’s when he launches his shield full force at your face.

You’re not nearly fast enough. It hits you just as you turn to the side and crashes right into your cheekbone.

You’re not sure what happens next. You’re sure of a blinding, colossal pain in your face, of the ruined concrete road harsh against your side and your temple. Not much else. For a second, you panic vaguely, utterly sure that you’ve lost all sight in your left eye, your vision black and grey.

You can hear yourself making little terrified grunts through heaving breaths. Your head would be delightfully, dizzily light and airy were it not for that immense pain. There’s something warm and damp beneath your nose.

Footsteps are hitting the ground, slow, almost drunken. Unsteady and hard, and you can feel them through your face. Oh, God, your face. Oh, Jesus, it hurts.

The footsteps are getting closer, closer. You’ve got to get up: there’s a certainty that you have to move, making itself known in the back of your mind. But you’d like to just lay here forever - if you move, the pain will intensify until it’s too much to bear.

No. No, you have to get up. You curl one hand into a fist and punch it into the ground, levering yourself up, your head hanging down.

“Ow, ow, ow,” you whimper to yourself. “That was so not fair.” Your face gives a particularly painful twinge and you groan. You get to your knees, to one knee. 

Captain America looms out of nowhere and you have nothing, no baton in your hand, no energy to throw. You launch yourself sideways with a yell as his fist comes soaring towards you. He misses. You crash to the ground and roll away like a fish on a boat deck.

You swallow blood: wouldn’t do to have to wash your mask for the billionth time. You were only trying to help, dammit. Maybe if you fry a couple more robots, he’ll stop trying to kill you. 

You struggle to your feet, hands on your thighs. You can see him staggering towards you out of the corner of your eye, in his stupid dusty blue suit that’s probably bulletproof, with his shield slung back onto his arm. You hold up your hands, palms up.

“I come…in peace,” you wheeze. Your face stings with the words. “Didn’t mean to electrify you.”

“Kinda gave me the wrong impression,” Captain America says. His hands curl into fists.

“Please don’t kill me.”

“Converge on 2nd Avenue,” Captain America says, into his wrist.

“I’m trying to help,” you say desperately. You can hear the click of robot legs, the whir of robot wings.

“Got ‘em,” someone says, directly above you, a mechanical voice. A shadow sluices over you. You fling yourself into a sideways roll just as Iron Man slams right into the spot you’d just been standing. You skid along the gritty ground, palms skidding on the concrete. Oh, you’re gonna feel that later. “Not got ‘em,” says Iron Man, standing up and brushing himself off with a scrape of metal on metal. He turns to you and starts to walk. You hear his repulsors build up. “C’mere, let me finish you off.”

“No thanks,” you say, getting to your feet. You try to walk, dizzy, your feet out of time, ankles crossing over each other. You almost trip and right yourself. “Jesus Christ, you guys pack a big punch, huh?” You back away as Iron Man advances, the sunlight gleaming off his dusty metal shoulders. Maybe you should run now. You should definitely run now.

“Tony, robot!” Captain America says, and you turn to see one of those damn metal bastards leaping for your face. Without thinking, you drop into a crouch and it flies over your head right into Iron Man’s chest. He grabs it by a leg and flings it at you like a frisbee: you raise both hands and blast it, hard as you can. 

When the light fades, Captain America has his hands over his eyes and the robot is nothing more than a sad, crispy bit of circuit board on the floor.

You turn and bolt before they have time to get their shit together. You leap over a ripped-up section of concrete, the ground tilting nauseatingly beneath you, and it’s a second before you’re aware that your feet haven’t touched the floor. Your jacket is pinched around your ribs, tight, and you look up to see one of those goddamn robots gripping you by the back of your suit, bearing you up into the sky like a bird of prey.

You choke on curses and swipe at it, wishing for your baton. It’s too dangerous to try pulling a gun on this thing, swinging precariously up in the air. The two of you fly higher and higher, windows and balconies flashing past. It’s probably going to get you high enough that when it drops you, you’ll hit the ground dead. What a lovely way to go. You take another swing at it, fingers crackling with energy, and the electricity must throw off its circuits or something because it lists dramatically to the left, throwing you hard against the edge of the roof of your building. The air rushes out of you like you’ve taken a punch to the sternum: you fold, hands flying out to grab at the rooftop. 

The robot, drunken and swaying, releases you and tumbles down onto the rooftop, its little legs whirring beneath it. You start to slide backwards, off the edge of the roof, and you grab at the ledge, your feet slithering against the wall, trying to find purchase.

Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

You look down and suck in a painful breath, squeeze your eyes shut. The ground is very very very far away, Captain America impossibly tiny beneath your hanging feet. You’ve been on so many rooftops: maybe it’s the broken face and possible broken ribs and definitely sprained shoulder that makes it a little scarier.

You haul yourself up, inch by torturous inch, teeth gritted so hard they creak like they might crack. Wouldn’t make much of a difference. You’re pretty sure that shield took half of them out anyway. You get your belly on the ledge and shove yourself harshly forwards, squirming onto the roof with your knees and bleeding palms. 

Bad day. Just a bad day.

You don’t think Daredevil ever got punched by Captain America. You flop onto your back, breathing shallow to alleviate the pain in your ribs. “Is it the mask?” you ask the sky. “Should I add some colour?”

“Not sure you should be lamenting your design choices right now,” someone says, and you scramble upwards into a sitting position. More blood pools in your mouth. There’s an arrow aimed at your face: an arrow, for Christ’s sake. Someone needs to get these superheroes some better tech. Hawkeye raises an eyebrow at you.

“Nice tights,” you say. The side of Hawkeye’s mouth twitches up. “You can shoot me if you want. Not sure I’ve got it in me to kick your ass, too.” You sway to the side: the robot is upside down, an arrow sticking out from its belly. It’s not moving. “Damn,” you say. “Kinda liked that little guy.”

“Get facedown,” he says. “Arms out to the sides, cross your ankles over.”

“I’m not really in the mood to get arrested,” you say. You can feel the blood on your lips now. You crack your knuckles, and Hawkeye’s draw arm twitches threateningly. “Bye,” you say, and you fling your arms out in front of you, drawing energy from your last reserves. The stream catches Hawkeye right in the chest and blasts both of you backwards. You cut it off before he tumbles over the edge of the roof, but then your foot catches on the ledge and you trip, staggering backwards into nothing.

● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

You drag yourself into your apartment through the window, the one above a sheer drop of wall that you leave unlocked so that your neighbours don’t see you staggering in through your front door dressed like a shitty Comic-Con version of Batman.

It’s always a challenge, but with broken ribs and the way your power is sputtering in your palms, it’s even worse – you have to haul yourself up to the windowsill with your fingertips. You’re going to get a lot of questions at work tomorrow.

You pull your boots off sitting on the windowsill, and brush the mud out of the grooves in the sole, holding them over the street below. Then you set your feet down on the floor inside and pull the sash down. Finally, home.

“You look rough,” says the dark interior of your tiny living room. Unthinking, instinctively, you draw your gun and point it in the vague direction of the voice. Your heart thunders in your ears. God, not today. Not right now.

“What the fuck do you want?” you ask. You fumble for the light switch and flick it on, and the room floods a dim yellow. There’s a woman in your armchair.

Normally, you’d be thrilled.

She’s got one leg crossed over the other, hands flat on the armrests, and she’s dressed down a little. Jacket over a hoodie. Jeans and combat boots. She looks tired, and you wonder where you’ve seen her before. Red hair, back in a braid. She gives you the slightest of smiles.

“For fuck’s sake,” you say. You didn’t mean to. Just slipped out. It’s been a long day, and suddenly it’s getting even longer. You weren’t exactly expecting to come home and find the Black Widow of all people sitting in your armchair. You don’t lower the gun, but you do correct yourself. “Sorry.” Your mother would kick your ass if she heard you speak like that. “What do you want? Did I kill your best friend? Totally an accident.”

“I don’t have a best friend,” she replies. “And if you did kill him, you’d already be dead.”

“We’re talking about the same person, right?” you ask, incredulously. “Hawkeye?”

“Regrettably. He’s fine. Complains of a concussion, but that’s nothing new.”

“Okay,” you say. You hadn’t exactly asked for his medical history. “So is there a reason you were lurking in my apartment in the dark? The dramatic flair? You scared the sh- you scared me.”

“You’re the one holding me at gunpoint. Where’d you even get that?” She sounds annoyingly patronising. It’s also super weird that she’s talking to you like you’ve met before. But you’ve heard stories about her – you know she likes to play with her food. Your grip tightens on the gun. If it comes down to it, and you fight, she’ll win: the only reason you’re still alive after eight months of blasting muggers into next week is that you can shoot electricity from your hands and you can run pretty fast. 

“A Target in South Carolina,” you say. “Don’t worry, I have a permit. You’re not a cop, right?” 

If you didn’t know better, you’d say she was holding back a smile. To be honest, you don’t really know better, in any sense of the words.

“No.” She shifts in her seat and raises an eyebrow at you. “But I am about to hurt you if you don’t stop wisecracking and start talking.” Her tone has flipped from teasing to ice-cold in half a second. You swallow the iron taste of blood.

“I was trying to help,” you say. “Not my fault you’re all so damn reactive.”

“You almost killed Captain America.”

“Did not,” you snort. “He’s fine. He was about to be eaten by those robots, or whatever the hell they were trying to accomplish. I fried them into next week.” You pause. She doesn’t look particularly impressed. “You’re welcome.”

“Well,” she says. “You’re certainly not the criminal mastermind type.” You stiffen with indignance at the stress she puts on those words, then wince in pain.

“I could be,” you say. She gives a gentle, aggravating little snort.

“How’d you break your ribs?”

“A robot hit me with a building,” you say. “Also some guy punched me in the stomach like…an hour ago.”

She tilts her head. “Why?”

“I tried to pull him off this girl. I think he was trying to stab her. Messy dynamics,” you say earnestly. 

“How heroic of you,” says the Black Widow, her voice utterly dry.

“I do my best,” you say. “Anyway, not to be rude or anything, but you’ve kinda overstayed your welcome.” Your gaze drifts downwards. “Also, this is a no-shoes apartment.” She looks down at her feet, then back up at you.

“My bad,” she says, not sounding particularly sorry. “Why’d you…” she gives a vague wave of her hand, “...step in? With the robots.”

“You guys were getting your asses handed to you.”

“You didn’t exactly help much.”

“Yeah, I figure it’s more Spider-Man’s area of expertise, but apparently he’s on vacation. Maybe he went to lay some eggs, I don’t know. Never can tell with superheroes.” You shrug.

“Says the girl who can shoot electricity out of her hands,” Black Widow says. 

“Um,” you say, searching for a clever response and finding none. You scowl at her accusingly, knowing she can’t see it. “How’d you find out where I live? You have a habit of breaking and entering?”

“It’s my job,” she says coolly. “To answer both your questions.”

“Does that mean you know everything about me?”

“Can you please put the gun down?” she asks, wearily, as if she’s talking to an idiot. You hadn’t even realised you were still holding it, and your arms are beginning to ache. You lower it, but you don’t holster it.

“Wasn’t planning on putting holes in my furniture anyways,” you reply. You pause. “God, are you still here?”

“I’m not done evaluating the threat,” she says, in such a casual tone. A chill hovers guardedly at the back of your neck and for a second you wonder if you shut the window properly.

“D’you want to hurry up about it?” you ask. You shift a little too suddenly and your ribs twinge. Your hand shoots up to cradle your side. Black Widow’s eyes follow it.

“Why? You want to go lick your wounds?” She licks her bottom lip, and it’s distracting. Annoyingly. “You don’t look too good.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” you reply, sourly. “I got hit in the face with twelve pounds of vibranium, what d’you expect?”

“What do you expect when you go charging in on a fight that has nothing to do with you?” she answers. Her voice has returned to that cool, vicious tone. “Have you ever even had any training?”

“I do kickboxing,” you say, attempting to keep the injured tone from your voice.

“You’re out of your league,” she replies. Her gaze is sharp, her words cutting.

“Could you have got to that point ten minutes ago?” you snap back. You shove the gun back into its holster and stalk away from her, into the kitchen. Maybe not the smartest move, turning your back on the Black Widow, but you’re pissed now. You don’t break into someone’s apartment, threaten them with violence and then lecture them for no good reason after they’ve just saved Captain America’s life.

You yank open the fridge door and grab a bottle without bothering to look at the label. You flick the cap off on the scratched-up counter, lift your mask to shove the bottle under and take a long, cool sip. Beer, bitter and stale, floods your mouth. It tastes like shit, but it’s something, at least. Maybe paired with aspirin it’ll help.

“Are you in a frat?” Black Widow asks, and you spin around to see her leaning against your kitchen counter, a thin smile on her face as she surveys your empty fridge shelves.

“No,” you say. You kick the fridge door shut. “I’m just broke. Stop following me.” You long to take your mask off and breathe heavy breaths and chug the entire bottle in one go, but that’s not happening in front of her. Even if she already knows where you live. 

How the hell did she find out where you live? You were so careful.

“You know,” she says, after a short period of silence wherein you gulp your single sip of beer down and glare at her over the lip of the bottle, “I’m letting you off easy right now.”

You snort with derisive laughter: you can’t help it. “Saintly of you,” you say. She raises one eyebrow.

“I’m being serious. You want me to knock you out and drag you down to Manhattan? That’s what I’m supposed to be doing here.”

“Oh, so you’re putting your neck on the line for me?” you drawl. “That’s so sweet. I don’t care.”

“You’re aggravating,” she says, utterly calmly.

“You’re the one who broke into my apartment!” you reply. You manage to keep your voice down, but only just. She just tilts her head again, a tiny frown appearing between her eyebrows.

“I did not break anything,” she replies. She nods to your ribs. “You should really see a doctor.”

“A doctor?” you exclaim. “What is this, Sweden?”

She plants her palms on the counter and leans forwards, her face falling to seriousness. “They’re not happy, kid. Rogers especially. They think you’re some new villain on the scene, and you bet your ass you don’t want them coming after you.” 

You wish she’d stop jumping topics. Her constant switch of tone is giving you emotional whiplash: maybe that’s one of her tactics. Her Black Widow Tactics.

You honestly can’t believe this is happening. How did this happen to you, of all people? “I’m not a kid,” you tell her. “I’m twenty-five.”

“I’m eighty-eight,” she replies, with not even a hint of sarcasm. “I don’t care how old you are, you’re nothing compared to me. And you’d better hope you’re listening to me right now because this is the only grace you’re going to get.” Her voice is tight and angry now. You wonder if you’ve actually pissed her off, and you blink at her, wide-eyed.

“That’s pretty old,” you manage, weakly.

“Hm.”

“What’s your skincare routine like–” She moves faster than you can see and has you by the throat in a second, shoving you hard up against the counter. You make a choked sound as your ribs stitch with pain, one palm sliding against the edge of the sink, the other hand gripping the neck of your bottle so tight you think the glass might crack. “Ow,” you gasp.

Her face is close to yours, carved with anger, half-flooded with light from your living room, half in shadow. “Do not test me more than this,” she says. Her voice is utterly, terrifyingly calm, like a frozen moment in a hurricane. You feel her breath on your neck, hot and slow. Her fingers dig into your pulse point, and you know she can feel your heartbeat thundering under your skin.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m…sorry. Please let me go.”

She releases you. You fall back against the counter, gasping, blinking hard as your vision swims.

“Jesus Christ,” you splutter, wiping your lips free of saliva.

“I’ll get them off your back this time,” Black Widow says. She wipes her hand on her jacket, and you’re indignant until you see that some of your blood has rubbed off onto her skin. “But you’d better stay in your lane from now on. Friendly neighbourhood–” she gestures vaguely at you– “whatever. Alright?”

“Uh-huh,” you say, massaging your bruised throat. “Thanks for dropping by. Really appreciate it.” For a moment, she looks like she wants to throttle you again. Then she turns her back on you and leaves.

You hear your front door open and close, and you sag against the sink, tug your mask off and press the cool, damp beer bottle to your aching face.

What a day.

● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

You’ve been different ever since you got your powers. Everything seems to thrum with colour and vibrancy. You’re stronger, not much, but noticeably. You heal faster, you can hear high tones wavering in frequencies normal people can’t reach, and your bruises fade quickly. 

So your rib bones knit back together in mere days once you’ve set them properly, and the ache in your face recedes with time. Luckily, you hadn’t lost any teeth, and the road rash all down your side is gone soon enough. 

You suppose it’s a blessing: no awkward questions or gentle, understanding tones in aside conversations, but at the same time, there’s no recognition either. No one realises you’re out every night attempting to bust the drug trade or wipe the floor with drunk idiots who can’t keep their hands to themselves. No one will ever know you saved Captain America’s life.

It’s better this way. 

You run through that thought in your head over and over as you squat at the edge of a roof in the dark, a twenty-four story building stuffed full of offices. Below you, red tail lights swim through the blackened imprint of the road, storefront neons flicker and shut off, and sparse pedestrians make their way home, shoulders hunched beneath coats. 

The wind is chilly up here. No one can see you.

You sit there the rest of the night, shivering. You break out the hand warmers at about a quarter to two. You know if you go home you won’t sleep: you’ll ruminate about being unwanted and you’ll glare at the dark ceiling blindly until the sun comes up.

Nothing happens. Of course it doesn’t, because you deserve some luck after such a shitty day.

Well. Nothing happens until the first rosy fingers of sunlight are beginning to creep up over the harbour and the first pigeons begin to wake and the first trains begin to go, rattling like earthquakes under the ground. That’s when a truck backs out of a tiny alley off 8th Avenue, with no reversing lights and no beeper. 

You watch it progress with narrowed eyes, scanning for a number plate: none. Suspicious.

You drop to the street level and catch yourself with a crackle of energy just behind a dumpster. One of the truck’s headlights winks and flickers in the shift in electric fields, but the man waving the truck back is too preoccupied to notice and the driver looks utterly bored. You creep along the wall until you’re sliding into the tiny gap between the truck and the dirty brick wall of the building, in a half-crouch. You slip under the carriage, flat on your back, and think about the charges and forces around you. Magnetism’s gotten pretty easy over time. 

With a flick of your wrists, you shift the fields around your fingertips and toes and instantly you shoot upwards, sticking to the undercarriage of the truck with a clang. You wince, but neither of the men appears to hear you.

Suddenly it strikes you just how much of an idiot move this is: where might the truck be going? How long can you hold magnetism for at two in the morning with healing ribs and the road spinning out beneath you? But it’s too late, the truck is doing a one point turn and the big wide concrete street is now below you. You can’t drop now or you’ll be seen. You just have to hang on.

● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

The journey is torturous. Twice now, you’ve accidentally fallen asleep stuck to the undercarriage, and woken in a rush of terror with one hand hanging down and your shoulder and knuckles grazing the fast-moving ground, burning through your suit. 

You see the sun come up on either side of the truck’s shadow, lighting the road a bright golden grey. The wind chills you head to toe, slipping like ice down the back of your neck, and the engine fumes choke you like gas. Your muscles tremble and sear, your mind a vague whirl of survival instincts and keep hold, keep hold, keep hold.

The truck tires grind to a stop over gravel, and the undercarriage jolts to a halt with them. For a second, you can hardly believe it. The driver’s door opens and boots thump onto the grit, past your head. You release one trembling hand from the undercarriage, and you plan to go down limb by limb, but that’s when your powers give out, sensing your body’s exhaustion, and you drop to the ground, spine first. 

The wind rushes out of you and you try not to gasp and splutter, you try to keep as still as possible. The ground cuts into you from all angles. You hear the end gate of the truck swing down and hit the floor with careless force, scattering dust and pebbles. Another set of footsteps.

“That’s what we got,” says the driver. He scuffs the ground with his shoe. There’s a heavy thump as someone steps up into the body of the truck, the carriage shaking with their weight, wheels sinking against the ground. You keep every muscle locked still, listening. 

A heavy shift, like a large wooden box being shuffled to the side.

“Good,” says the person in the truck. “I’ll have them unload it. Then you get back behind the wheel and drive away, understand?”

“I get paid,” the driver corrects. “Then I drive away.” The person in the truck makes a dismissive sound. They jump, and their boots hit the ground with a plume of stones.

What the hell are you going to do? You don’t even know where you are. And you sure as hell can’t survive the journey back to New York, clinging like a spider to the underneath of the truck. The driver will move off and you’ll be left lying there in bright daylight.

You’re going to have to do something.

The second person turns sharply and begins to walk away. You wait until you hear their footsteps fade to nothing and the driver sits down on the edge of the truck gate with a hefty sigh. You might have mere minutes before the second guy returns with back-up.

You roll out from under the truck, wincing as the grit presses into your road rash. You get dizzily to your feet and the driver turns, a frown ready on his face. He sees you, clocks you, suit and mask and all. His eyes widen.

“Fuck–” he says, and you dash forward and punch him right on the jaw. Knockout button. His eyes roll up into his head and he slumps sideways. You catch him before he can hit the ground headfirst, prop him up against the wall of the truck. It’ll look like he’s having a bit of shut-eye from a distance, maybe that will throw them off. You dig quickly through his pockets and extract a wallet, a packet of candy, and the keys to the truck: you tuck it all into your pockets.

You climb into the truck, ducking under the canvas covering: it brushes your head even when you’re bent practically double. The truck is stuffed full of wooden crates with solid walls and nailed-down lids. Their sides are blank, the wood new. You pry a few nails out of one of the crate lids and rip it up, peer inside.

“Well, shit,” you say to yourself, just because you can’t help it. The contents of the crate are glowing, a very familiar purple. It looks like all that alien shit from a couple of years ago, when the sky split open above New York like something out of an H.P. Lovecraft book and started raining lizards. Lizards with glowing purple sticks that blew stuff up. You know because you almost got one to the kisser.

What to do, what to do, what to do? You fumble for your phone, conscious that any second a bunch of probably very large men are going to come climbing into the truck and you’re going to be crouched in the corner looking threatening. You don’t like your odds, and you barely even know them.

Whose number do you have that you can call? You could probably find Tony Stark’s number somewhere on the internet with a laptop and some wifi and half an hour of time. 

The crunch of footsteps outside on the gravel sounds, and you panic, panic, panic. “Hey, the driver’s down!” someone says. Deep voice. 

“There’s someone here,” says another guy. “Look in the truck, quick.” Okay, time to do something incredibly stupid. You back up against the far wall of the truck, squinting at the bright square of daylight open at the end. A big, looming shadow of a guy steps up to the gate, and you push off the wall, launch forwards, and spear-tackle him right in the gut. The two of you go flying and you’re thrown off him, into the ground, your head smacking hard against the gravel. He gets to his feet before you do and pulls a knife from nowhere, a big sharp chunk of metal – this is going badly. You stand and shake yourself off, dizzily. 

“Careful with that,” you say, nodding to the knife as the big guy advances on you. There’s another guy checking the cab of the truck, two more standing by, waiting to get in on the fight. “Might take someone’s eye out–” He stabs at you, faster than you’d expected, and you twist sideways on instinct. Too late. The blade slashes through your suit and into your skin. You feel it scrape your ribs.

He pulls it back and stabs again. This time you move, crumpling to the floor to duck, and the knife whistles over your head. You gasp and clamp your hand to your side, feel blood hot and wet through your glove. It stings, the pain muffled by a cloak of shock. You’re gonna feel it later.

The guy bears down on you again and you lunge for his legs, wrapping both your arms around his knees. In desperation, you feel a wave of electricity surge through your arms and he stiffens as he hits the ground, muscles spasming. You get wearily to your feet again as he writhes in the dust, eyes rolling back in his head.

The other two men back away from you. You turn the energy up, letting it spark and crackle in your hands, making a show of it: you don’t have the reserves to blast them right now. They turn and take off across the gravel parking lot, towards a building in the distance.

You drop your hands, and turn to slam the gate closed. There’s still a guy poking around in the cab, oblivious to the fact that his friends have left him alone. You creep up behind him and slam the door into his head when he turns. He crumples and slides out of the cab. You jump aside as he hits the ground. Nice.

You heave yourself into the driver’s seat, leaving smears of blood all over the covering. Tug the door closed, stick the keys in the ignition, start the engine. It all takes too much effort. Lucky the truck’s an automatic. You put it in drive and stomp on the accelerator.

It takes you five hours to drive back to New York, and by that time the sun is low on the horizon, hot through the windscreen and the driver’s candy has left your mouth dry. You’re still bleeding, finding it hard to stay awake with one hand on the wheel and one pressed to your side. You manage to back the truck into a grimy little parking lot a block away from your apartment, and you tumble out of the cab and lock the door behind you. You lean against the wall of the truck for a good long minute, trying to get back breath that won’t return, gasping and panting. The wound in your side is burning like someone’s taken a match to your flesh, and your entire side and half your thigh is drenched with blood.

You don’t have the capacity to plan out whatever the hell you’re going to do with the truck or think about who might be really really angry that you’ve stolen it. You stumble back to your apartment as the evening comes on, hiding in the dusk and down the backs of tiny streets where people don’t look up from their feet when they walk. You go in through your front door and collapse on the floor just inside. With the last of your energy, you kick the door closed and hear it clicks as it locks. Then you rest your head on the floor and close your eyes. Just a few minutes, you tell yourself.

You wake under a bright light, your vision swimming. You make an incoherent sound of panic, one that was probably meant to be a curse, and you try to sit up only to discover that you’re already propped up against the bathtub. You lean forwards far too quickly and smack heads with someone. Reeling, you slump backwards, blinking hard.

“Ow!” says the person. “Fuck!” Your vision clears from a smear of white and grey. Black Widow is crouched in front of you, a hand over her nose, eyes watering. She scowls at you.

“Hnng,” you say. 

“That really hurt,” she growls. 

“Don’t kill me,” you stammer, wanting to raise your hands in front of you. Your arms don’t respond and you panic further, imagining that she’s done something awful like chopped them off. Then you look down and there they are, limp by your sides. You’re in the bathroom, sitting on the cool tiles in your underwear. In your underwear. In your underwear. Black Widow undressed you in your bathroom. Your mask is still on. The bright fluorescent light is on, blindingly bright and the sky outside the window is a deep navy, lit with the glow of the city.

“I’m not trying to kill you,” Black Widow gripes. “Jesus Christ.”

“What are you– what are you doing?” you gasp. You’re lightheaded, the world rocking like a pendulum as you try to cling to reality.

“Stitching you up,” she says. She rubs her nose one more time, then reaches for something to her left: a square dressing and a roll of tape.

“Huh?” you say cleverly.

“Yeah, you were half-dead when I found you so I figured it was only polite,” she says dryly.

“How’d– why were you in my house?” you ask. She slaps the dressing onto your side and doesn’t look at you. “Have you been following me?” 

“Let’s not make accusations,” she replies, light and casual.

“You have been following me!” you say. “Could you not have been there when that idiot twice my size decided to stab me?”

“You can make better decisions, you know,” she says. She rips a length of tape off with her teeth. “Like calling the police.”

“Spider-Man doesn’t call the police,” you say.

“Is he like your idol or something?” she asks, almost explosively. “You’re not Spider-Man! You’re an idiot with a death wish.”

“That’s rude,” you say. She just huffs. 

She finishes taping your side up and squats back on her heels. “Done,” she says. She stands and flicks the sink faucet on with her elbow, sticks her bloodied hands under the stream. “That’s some road rash you got.” You look down at your shoulder, which is stinging in the cool air. It appears to have been washed. Your knuckles are bruised. 

“It’s nothing,” you say, wary of the sudden calm tone she’s using. “You should see the road.” She snorts at the mirror, then turns back to you and sits on the closed toilet lid. Rests her elbows on her knees.

“Tell me what happened,” she says. You frown at her. She raises one red eyebrow at you, elegantly. 

“I got stabbed,” you say.

“That’s not a stab. It’s barely a scratch.”

“I almost died!”

“You did not. Tell me what happened.” Her voice is straying dangerously into annoyance. You don’t want her to throttle you again, not in this state, anyway.

You sigh, heavily, then regret it when you feel your wound twinge. “There was this truck.”

“Hm,” she says. She sounds unimpressed.

“I hitchhiked. Ended up five hours away in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere. Bunch of alien shit in the back. So I stole it and brought it back.” There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. To avoid looking at what you’re sure is a glare hot enough to melt steel, you poke the dressing on your side and inspect your purple knuckles.

“What were you planning to do?” she asks. It sounds like a rageful rhetorical question.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Hand it over to the Avengers?”

“The same Avengers who believe you tried to kill Captain America not even a week ago? Those Avengers?”

“Pretty sure there’s only one set of Avengers,” you supply helpfully. 

“You’re making this very hard for me,” Black Widow says.

“Okay, so you’d rather some massive maniacs had control of a truck full of alien gear?” you prompt. “I think I did America a favour, actually. And I’m not usually inclined to do that.”

“Where’s the truck?” Black Widow asks shortly. “I’m at the end of my rope here.”

“You’re always at the end of your fucking rope,” you say. “A block over. Parking lot next to the basketball court that no one ever uses.”

“Hm,” she says again, and she gets to her feet. She looks down at you. Nods to your dressing. “Take that off and replace it tomorrow morning,” she says.

“Thanks,” you say, injecting as much sarcasm as you can muster.

“Take an Advil,” she says, and she walks out, leaving you sitting there half-naked on your bathroom floor.

You tug your mask off and glare at the tiled wall.

● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

You don’t really expect to see her again. You don’t even really think about it, besides a half-hearted Google search for her name. But then barely a week later, you’re lying on someone’s balcony with a sprained ankle and a nosebleed from some asshole who’d tried to rob a tiny little convenience store down in Queens, and you’re so far from home and you’re miserable and any moment the owner of the apartment might look out the balcony door–

“You look awful,” she says, stepping into your line of sight. She’s dressed all in black, a hood up over her hair. You can see a tuft of red hair at her collar. Natasha Romanoff.

“Where you going, a goth rave?” you ask, still out of breath. She grins at you, disarmingly.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Yes I need a fucking hand,” you grumble, and you hold out your arm. She considers you for a second. Then she reaches down, yanks you half off the ground and lifts you across her shoulders. You let out an oof as her shoulder sinks into your solar plexus. “What the hell?” you ask, grabbing at her arm, feeling horribly off-balance. “Put me down!”

“You wanna walk?” she asks you, tipping back to look up at the building.

“No,” you snarl, fingers fisted in her jacket.

“Hang on, then,” she says. She raises her hand: there’s a hiss, a clang, and the next thing you know you’re being jerked upwards, the balcony vanishing below you. It’s just half a second of nauseating vertigo, and then Natasha lands on the roof with a thump and a stumble. You groan into her ear. She kneels and sets you down on the roof. It’s damp and the wetness soaks through the ass of your suit.

“Warn a girl,” you say, shaking out your hands, which have cramped from holding on to her so tightly. 

“I wanted to get you out of sight before I assessed the situation,” she says airily. “What happened? Is it dealt with?”

“I tripped,” you say, attempting to keep the sulk out of your voice. Natasha offers you an unsympathetic look.

“How?”

“A guy punched me in the face.”

“I’m not following the chain of events,” she says blankly. You roll your eyes.

“You don’t need to. I knocked him out and called the police, alright?” You cross your arms. It’s hard to be above-it-all when you’re sitting in a dirty puddle and she’s standing above you, chin tilted up so her eyes catch the last of the evening light, hands in fists by her sides. You notice then that her knuckles are smeared in blood. “What’d you do with the truck?” you ask.

“I turned it in to SHIELD,” she says. “They were more than happy to receive it.” She looks down at you. “You know the others would have attacked you if you’d turned up with it.” It sounds almost like an apology.

“Yeah,” you say heavily.

“And if they see you anywhere around…they won’t hesitate to engage.”

“I know,” you say. You pick at a loose thread on your pants in frustration. “I just don’t know what I can do to convince them that I’m…” you trail off vaguely and shrug.

“Save some lives,” Natasha replies. She takes a seat next to you and brushes her palms off on her jacket. “You’re not above that, are you?”

You throw her a look. “Don’t be an asshole. I save lives all the time.”

“Save the President’s life.”

“Don’t like the President,” you say. “And he’s all the way in Washington, anyway.” You tip backwards and lie down, the roof cold through your jacket. “Maybe I should just give up.”

Natasha scoffs. “Right. As if you would.”

“You don’t know me,” you say, to the greying sky.

“I know more than you think I do.”

“Creepy. Are you gonna help me home, or what?” you say. You push yourself up onto your elbows. She’s looking at you intently.

“You can fly,” she says, after a second.

“I’m tired. Don’t you have a car?” You give her your best expression of desperation. When she doesn’t cave, you widen your eyes very gradually until you’re sure you look like a kid denied dessert.

She leans in close, her face impressively blank, and says, “You are a very annoying person.”

“No,” you say, “you’re mistaking annoyance for attraction.”

“Oh, baby, sweetheart, I can’t keep my eyes off you,” she says, her voice completely flat of affect. She’s very close to your face, her hand planted on the roof barely an inch from your thigh.

“Knew it,” you say, grinning up at her. “Give me a hand up.”

She helps you (drags you) down the fire escape on the opposite side of the building and bundles you into a car like she’s staging a kidnapping. You complain the whole way down, so maybe that’s why.

“This is a nice car,” you say. She slams the door closed on you and gets in on the other side. the car starts with a happy growl when she turns the key in the ignition. The seats feel like real leather, the dash inlaid with hundreds of buttons like jewels. “Je-sus,” you say. “I might be getting your seats a little damp.”

“Hmph,” Natasha says, checking her rearview mirror. She puts the car in gear - it’s a fucking manual, of course she drives a manual, she probably likes feeling above everyone else even though she’s already got a car that costs four times your apartment lease and she doesn’t need another goddamn ego boost - and backs out of her parking space. 

She drives you home in silence. At one point, you consider switching on the radio and playing some menial pop song just to piss her off, but she gives you a look like she knows exactly what you’re about to do and so you slump back into your seat with the most innocent expression you can muster. 

“Don’t try and look all cute,” Natasha says. She smoothly turns a corner. “I know you’re the devil incarnate.”

“You can’t even see my face!” you protest. “Asshole. You’re so rude.” She pulls the car into a jerky brake against the kerb, throwing you forwards against the dash.

“Oops,” she says casually, as she kills the engine. “Should’ve put a seatbelt on, hm?”

Credit where credit is due, she does at least help you up the stairs, graciously ignoring the scowls you’re shooting at her over your shoulder. The fact that she’s extraordinarily gentle with one hand on your spine to keep you balanced doesn’t help the fact that you’re attempting to be annoyed with her at all. You unlock your door, balancing on one foot with the other ankle throbbing like mad, and swear loudly when the damn key won’t stick in the damn lock. Eventually, Natasha shunts you aside and opens it herself, with one smooth twist of the key.

The door swings inwards. Your own apartment is betraying you for her.

“Get inside,” Natasha orders, checking up and down your hall. You obey, hopping forward and feeling incredibly pathetic. To your surprise, Natasha follows you inside and pulls the door closed behind her. She throws your keys at you and you catch them one-handed against your chest, and then she’s walking towards you with purpose and you try to stumble backwards, but you forget that you only have the use of one foot and you go floundering down into your couch. She stands above you, eyebrows raised. “Are you scared of me?” she asks, after a long silence. She sounds casual again, as if this is a question she asks every day. As if she expects a casual answer.

“Little bit,” you say, and you congratulate yourself internally on how unbothered you sound.

“Huh,” she snorts, and she sinks to her knees in front of you. Your brain short-circuits. She pulls a roll of tape from her pocket and you feel stupid, instantly. 

You hate how she can pluck your emotions like harp strings. 

“Take your shoe off and put your foot up on this,” she says, grabbing one of your throw cushions and laying flat on the opposite end of the couch. 

“Yes, sir,” you mutter insolently, reaching down to tug at your laces. Your head swims, throbs violently and you tip forward, losing balance. Your hands go out to catch yourself and land on Natasha’s shoulders, pushing her back: you try to let go, but you can barely find the strength to sit back up again, a headache pounding in your ears. She grabs you by the waist and shoves you, depositing you against the back of the couch. “You’re strong,” you say drunkenly, because you’re not thinking, your thoughts are moving like sludge in your head and spilling stupidly out of your mouth.

She smiles very slightly. “You’re useless,” she counters. She tugs at your laces herself and works your boot off your foot. She squints up at you and you frown, wondering what the problem is. “Nice socks,” she says. “They really flatter me.” You tip your head against the back of the couch and groan, and you can hear her start to grin. 

“You’re the worst,” is all you say. Of course today had to be the day that you wore your Avengers socks out on a mission. 

“It’s okay, I’m not judging you.” She is totally judging you. 

She grabs your leg and swings it up onto the pillow, ignoring your wince of pain, then produces her roll of tape and binds your foot to the cushion. You look down at her.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” you ask. “I can’t go to work with a pillow on my foot.”

“Then take a day off,” Natasha replies. She rolls her eyes at you. “It needs rest. If you go running about on it, you’ll never heal.” She gets to her feet with her hands splayed on her thighs, and looks down at you. You glare back up at her, arms crossed. 

“Get me an ice pack,” you say.

“Your fridge is barren,” she replies. “There’s no way you have an ice pack of all things in there.”

You heave a huge sigh. “Please,” you say. “I have a bag of peas in the freezer draw.”

“Hm,” Natasha says. “Fine.” She walks around the back of the couch. The instant she’s out of your line of sight, you feel her swat you on the back of the head. Enraged, you twist and try to hit her, but she’s damn fast and she’s in the kitchen before your hand’s even finished its arc. You settle back against the arm of the couch.

She opens the fridge, pulls open the draw with a crunch of ice, and you wait until she’s surely grabbed the bag of peas before you say, “Oh, by the way, it’s open.” There’s a filthy curseword spat out and the sound of frozen peas rattling across the floor and you grin to yourself. She slams the fridge door shut. “Did you find it okay?”

“You’re going to be finding moldy peas everywhere for the next two years,” she calls back at you. “And you’ll deserve it!” You hoist yourself up on the back of the couch and crane for the open door of the kitchen to see her crouched on the floor, sweeping peas into her hand.

You snort and sit back down again.

She enters holding the bag of peas gingerly in two hands like it’s a bomb about to go off, and dumps it in your lap. Thankfully, she’s tied the top closed. A single pea bounces off your thigh and disappears under the TV stand.

“Thanks,” you say, grinning up at her. Natasha throws herself into your other chair with a discontented grunt.

She makes a lot of those little sounds.

“Aren’t you gonna go home?” you ask, slapping the peas over your ankle. The pain begins to fade almost immediately with the cold and you groan, eyes closing, and rest your head back against the armrest in relief. There’s a short silence before she replies.

“I’m resting. Making sure you don’t pass out and choke on your own vomit.”

“Charming,” you say, cracking one eye open to look at her. She’s observing you intently. “What?”

“What what?” she shoots back, in an instant. You shrug helplessly.

“I don’t know,” you say. “Can you take my other shoe off?”

With a huge sigh, she unfolds herself from the armchair, grabs your uninjured foot, and yanks your boot off without untying the laces. 

You wiggle your toes in her face. “Thanks.” She slaps your foot away from her face and tosses your boot over her shoulder.

“You’re bleeding,” she says astutely, studying you from below. You panic for a second, hands going to your ribs, your legs, checking for wounds. “From your face, idiot. It’s soaking through your mask.” You tug one glove off and press your fingers to the lower half of your mask: it’s only a dollar store masquerade mask over a bandana, but it usually stays on well enough. And soaks up all your blood. The amount of times you’ve had to wash it is honestly insane. 

Sure enough, the fabric is wet, a little crusty with blood. You probe gently at your nose, teeth gritted against the pain. It doesn’t appear to be broken, thank god.

“I’ll get you a tissue,” Natasha says unprompted, and she gets to her feet and moves off. She’s back before long, and she stuffs a length of toilet roll into your hands, before collapsing in the armchair again, facing the window away from you.

You stick the tissue up under your mask, against the flow of blood. “Thangks,” you say, slightly muffled. She looks around at you, and you stick two bloodied thumbs up at her. “I’ll be fine. You can go.”

Natasha looks a little torn for a second, only a second before it’s gone again and she shrugs, climbing out of her seat and brushing her pants off. “You’d better not go comatose,” she says warningly. She stops by the amrest where your head is and looks down at you, her face indecipherable.

“Sure won’t,” you say. You try to pretend like your headache isn’t building with every second, like you don’t wish that she’d put cool hands on your bare forehead and talk you to sleep: you know her voice could send you to sleep if she wanted it to. 

Natasha reaches out and taps your mask on the hard curved bridge of your nose with one finger. “Get some rest,” she says, inexplicably gentle. Then she cocks her head to the side. “And remember, if you stick your nose in where you’re not wanted again-”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes with difficulty. “You don’t have to say that everytime we see each other. I’ve got the message now.”

“Uh-huh,” she says dryly. 

“Leave.” You point sternly to the door. 

“Leaving,” she says, hands raised in mock surrender. She gives you one last smile, and walks out. Through your door this time. How kind of her.

requests | masterlist

taglist:  @when-wolves-howl @fayhar @maggieromanov @transbi-spidey @romanoffscottage @blackxwidowsxwife @lizlil @screechcat @maddess @mellxa @haeva @diaryoflife @natashasilverfox @vicmc624 @strangegardentaco

notes: hehe they’re gonna kiss soon

[karajaynetoday]

i'll be honest, it's better off this way | luke hemmings

image credit 

hello pals! long time no writing! i know it seems a bit weird to post a luke break up fic just after he got engaged but to be fair, I already had this in the works before the news broke yesterday, so soz not soz. It is kind of a happy break up story though... kind of? this one features lyrics from our song by niall and anne marie that are in italics throughout the piece (you know i love a song lyric incorporation lol) and i’m a bit rusty, so any feedback is welcome! a big shoutout to my dearest @notinthesameguey​ for beta-reading this one for me, you’re a gem blanca! enjoy xo

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings:  mentions of a break up and a car accident/hospitalisation (minor/non-graphic)

(This is a fem reader insert)

More writing here | send thoughts/feedback/suggestions here | if you’d like to be on my taglist go here

I'll be honest, I'm alright with me

Sunday mornings, in my own bedsheets

The break up with Luke had been easier than you’d first thought. It’d been months of growing apart, feeling like a stranger in your own home, before you finally worked up the nerve to utter those four words: We need to talk. He’d been spending most days and some nights in the studio, and you’d been working overtime at your job too; you were ships in the night who barely had time to say hello and goodbye, let alone have any sort of proper conversation. You’d spent an entire evening rehearsing a script in your head, and as soon as Luke walked through the door and greeted Petunia, you mustered the courage to stand up and speak your truth. 

It turned out that you weren’t alone in feeling stagnant in your relationship, and although you could feel your heart breaking as you said the words, Luke’s hand on your knee was all the gentle reassurance you needed. Just like always, even when your relationship was falling apart, Luke was there for you. And that’s what he promised, that night in the living room. It didn’t make sense for you two to become strangers overnight after 3 years together, but you also both knew that you needed space to grow and heal, and that space needed to happen sooner rather than later. 

You could tell that part of Luke wanted to fight it, wanted to raise his voice, wanted to convince you to stay. But part of Luke also knew that it was time to walk away, no matter how much his heart was feeling like it was being ripped out of his chest, because he did truly love you, and if he loved you, he’d let you go. 

Even though Luke insisted you could stay in the spare room for as long as you liked, it only took a week or so to find a new place. An apartment in KayKay’s building opened up for rent, and thanks to her help, you secured the lease and started moving in as soon as you could. Ashton accompanied you to Ikea and then helped with assembling a new bed and dining table for you, while KayKay helped unpack some of your boxes. You could tell that they were trying to be sensitive, but at the same time were desperate to know what went down in the break up, and after a few slices of pizza and half a bottle of wine, you felt the emotions rushing to the surface.

“It feels dumb to get upset, after all, I was the one who suggested we should break up.” You sniffled, smiling sadly as Ashton handed you a tissue.

“Just because it was something that needed to happen, doesn’t mean you can’t be sad about it. You two shared a lot in the time you were together, it’s only natural that it’s going to take you a while to untangle yourselves from one another and to get your head and heart back on the path that’s right for you.” KayKay spoke softly, throwing an arm around your shoulders.

You knew she was right, and the healing would come; it was all part of the rollercoaster of walking away from someone you thought was the love of your life, but had turned out not to be. Time to adjust and find some independence, and re-shape the life you found yourself in until it was the life you wanted. 

But every time I think that I can get you out my head, you never, ever let me forget

Once you’d completely moved out Luke’s house, your reasons to contact him became few and far between. A few occasional texts to advise that he’d let his family know about your split, and a link to a new cafe nearby that he thought was your kind of vibe (and it absolutely was). Everyone in your friendship group was trying their best to help you both cope, but it was hard to avoid the awkwardness that came with a break up of close friends.  

You felt like you were walking on eggshells for a while, so you started to say no to invitations out. You threw yourself into a new work project, and barely replied to any group chats. Whenever your friends called, you had the perfect script rehearsed, about how you were going to be up for promotion, and after the next month or so, you’d have plenty more time for catching up with everyone. You were fairly certain that no-one believed your story, but you were sticking to it nonetheless. You’d seen photos online of Luke out and about with various beautiful women amongst the partying crew, and even though you knew better than to torture yourself with doom-scrolling through the internet, you couldn’t help yourself. You had to keep reminding yourself that it was YOU that wanted the breakup, and that it was for the best. Or something like that.

It was coming to the end of your big project, and the entire office decided to head out for celebratory drinks. You only stayed for a couple, because after a month of overtime you were ready for bed. Your boss took you aside to assure you that the promotion was yours and the new contract would be on your desk on Monday, and as you reassured him you were excited to take on the role, a song playing over the bar’s speakers made you stop in your tracks. You’d spent many a Sunday morning dancing around the kitchen making pancakes with Luke and singing these words; something you’d completely forgotten until this moment. As you stepped outside to await your Uber, the first person you wanted to call with the news was Luke. Your fingers hovered over his name for a good few minutes before your Uber driver honked and broke you out of her trance, and you settled for texting the group chat instead to share your exciting update. Lots of confetti and heart eyes emojis started popping up alongside congratulatory messages, and you let out a giggle when you saw that Luke had sent a photo of Petunia with “congrats!” scrawled across it in purple font. It was the last thing you remembered, before the squealing of tyres and your vision going black. 

Just when I think you're gone, Hear our song on the radio

Just like that, takes me back, To the places we used to go

The rhythmic beeping of the hospital monitors was the first thing you noticed as you stirred awake. The second was a dull pain across your skull, and the third was that your arm was in a sling. Fourth was the large, warm hand that was holding your own and gently squeezing; without opening your eyes, you knew it was Luke’s. You felt too weak to say any words, so instead you tried your best to squeeze back as you slowly opened your eyes. You heard a sharp intake of breath, before Luke’s smiling face came into view.

“Hey there, sweetheart. How are you feeling?” Luke asked, reaching up to gently brush some hair out of your eyes.

“Like I was in a car accident.” You managed to croak out, shooting him a wry smile and earning a laugh in return.

“You are correct, you can pass go, and collect $200. A pretty gnarly accident, the car’s a write-off, but thankfully everyone’s injuries are relatively minor. Some dickhead ran a red light.” You could tell Luke was trying to remain calm, but under the surface he was pissed.

“Not ideal, but at least I get a few days off work.” You joked, grimacing as you tried to sit up. Luke stood and gently maneuvered your pillows to support your back and shoulders better, and you felt a zap of electricity as his hands brushed your arms in passing.

As Luke sat back in the chair next to the bed, you suddenly realised that it was just the two of you in the hospital room. 

“No offence, Hemmo, but what are you doing here? Considering we’re no longer significant others, and all…” You said awkwardly, looking down at your arm sling with sudden great interest.

“Very observant, dear. Glad to see the concussion hasn’t affected your short term memory, I was worried you’d forget me entirely. You did, however, forget to update your emergency contact details, so I guess I was first on the list for the hospital to call. Ash, KayKay and I have been taking shifts but they’re out getting food right now - “ The rest of Luke’s explanation was cut off by a gasp and a cheer at the door, signalling Ashton and KayKay’s return and subsequent delight at you being awake.

The days that followed were uncomfortable physically, but kind of heartwarming emotionally. You got home to your apartment thanks to KayKay’s assistance, and found that your friends had stocked your fridge and freezer full of ready-made meals and your favourite snacks. They’d also made a roster so not a day went by without someone popping in to check on you, although you noticed that Luke never came by. 

Your recovery was slow but steady, and soon enough the doctors gave you the all clear. At this point, it was nearly 6 months since you’d broken up with Luke, and you could feel your mindset shifting. He was no longer the first person you wanted to call with good or bad news, or the first memories that popped into your head when you needed cheering up. It almost felt like… relief? Because for the longest time, even though you knew the break up was for the best, detaching yourself from one another seemed almost in possible after so many years of so many memories. 

I've been waking up alone, I haven't thought of him for days

I'll be honest, It's better off this way

The tipping point came at Calum’s birthday party, a month or so later. Ashton had invited you out for coffee and nonchalantly mentioned that maybe, possibly, well actually extremely likely almost definitely Luke was bringing a date to the gathering at Cal’s house; a girl he’d been seeing for a month or so. Everyone wanted you to be comfortable, and everyone, Cal especially, wanted you to be there, but they also understood if you wanted to avoid any potential awkward encounters with Luke and his new love interest. You assured Ashton that it would be fine, that you honestly weren’t bothered, and laughed off his suggestion of setting you up with a super hot blind date to help level the playing field.

The night came along, and you found yourself stumbling along Calum’s front path in the dark as you tried not to drop the gift you’d bought for him (a new cookbook and a collection of various hot sauces).  “Bloody 5sos and the “no good party starts until 11pm rule”, you muttered to yourself as you almost tripped over again, and you heard an indignant shout that sounded very Ashton-like behind you.

“Oi! Don’t be mad at us, you know that rule has never let us down!” Ashton bellowed, as he came forward with his phone flashlight switched on, KayKay not too far behind him.

“Damn girl, you like fiiiiiine!” KayKay said, letting out a low whistle. You rolled your eyes, knowing she was exaggerating. Your outfit was essentially a denim skirt and a t-shirt - maybe you’d sexed it up a little bit with some thigh high boots, tousled hair and a red lip, but all’s fair in love and war, right?

The three of you made it inside, and a very tipsy Calum greeted you with open arms and a lot of excitement at your gift of hot sauce. It felt so nice to be back with all your friends at a house party, like the old days, and you found yourself stepping out onto the back patio for a moment of quiet reflection and to share some pats with Duke.

You’d exchanged a wave with Luke when you’d entered the house, but hadn’t quite worked up the confidence to go up and speak to him, especially when he had his new girl in close proximity. She looked really friendly, though, and you could tell from the spark in both of their eyes that their relationship was blossoming in the best possible way. Part of you thought you’d be upset about it, but all you truly felt was content. Content in your life as it was, surrounded by friends that loved you just as much as you loved them, and actually quite proud of how far you’d come over the past year. You’d learned to stand on your own two feet, and you’d grown into a much more settled, independent human as a result. 

You were lost in your train of thought when you heard the song change on the speakers inside. Duke’s ears perked up and he licked your hand attentively when you stopped patting him as the song registered - it was your song. Or at least, it used to be. You felt a smile creep onto your face when you remembered the Sunday mornings of pancakes and singalongs, and the smile grew wider when you saw Luke’s girlfriend dragging him onto the dancefloor, much to his (fake) protests. You made eye contact with your kind-hearted, softly-smiling, gentle-eyed ex-boyfriend, and for a split second you saw a flash of concern cross his face. In response, you raised your glass in a cheers and shot him a wink, which earned a smile and a small laugh from Luke before he turned his attention back to the beautiful girl in his arms. You took a sip, and smiled to yourself. It truly was better off this way. 

When I hear it, I just can't stop smiling, I remember you're gone

Baby, it's just a song on the radio, That we used to know

Taglist: If there’s a line through your name, I couldn’t tag you, so please message me to let me know your new URL or what the go is!   @suchalonelysunflower @blackbutterfliescal @redrattlers @loveroflrh @spicycal @notinthesameguey @metalandboybands @cheekysos @ashton-trash  @another-lonely-heart @queenalienscherrypie  @becihadshawn  @allthestarsandthemoon  @oyesmendes​ @andrianawinchester @333-xx  @findingliam-o @hoodhoran @rbforsmileycal @myloverboyash @myhappylittleyoutubee @saywhatnow07 @secretsicanthideanymore @ar1analara  @killmywildflower​

[novelconcepts]

Jamie & Dani short prompt- Online Dating au meeting online and being from bad past relationship. Thank u

This is probably a bad idea. It is, isn’t it? Almost certainly.

Why is she here?

Dani Clayton has been playing this particular set of thoughts--bad idea, terrible idea, why would you do this?--on repeat for three days. Ever since setting up that dating profile. Ever since realizing there isn’t much use in setting up a dating profile if you’re not going to use it. 

Oh, it’s all fun and games, building the thing. Find a photo that accentuates all the best parts of your face--Dani, after an hour of careful consideration, wound up going with one that accentuated her hair, more than anything, but she suspects the same idea counts. Then, the profile. What do you like? Teaching, long walks, new experiences, bad coffee. What don’t you like? 

Men, she’d thought, and snorted aloud into her wine before settling on: Deep water, accordion music, expectations, being called Danielle. 

A little more flourish, tipsy keystrokes, a casually-framed short-version of her life. Perfect. And then...well, then you hit the publish button, don’t you? You decide, for better or worse, to jump off this diving board and see just how far you can stand to swim before the energy gives out on you.

The faces appearing before her hadn’t been bad, certainly. Pretty, most of them. Interesting, a few. Still, she hadn’t swiped right on any--once or twice, because she’d forgotten which way meant yes please, but mostly because no one seemed quite...right. Which, she’d thought, was silly. The whole point of an app like this is to cast as many nets as possible and see what comes up. The whole point is to have fun. 

But every time she’d hovered over a promising image, a woman who likes dogs, or plays the violin, or goes rock-climbing in her spare time, she’d thought of him. Eddie. Who had taken one yes to a single date, and tried to make a whole life with her out of it. 

Eddie, who had taken her two decades to pull away from. 

What if the women here were the same? Not Eddie, exactly, but--presumptive. What if they believed a swipe-right was as good as a marriage proposal? What if she got bound up in conversation, and then a date, and then a relationship with someone else who just didn’t fit right?

Left. Left. Left. 

And then: the mistake.

She hadn’t meant to swipe right. Exactly. She hadn’t planned, maybe is the better way of putting it, on swiping right. She’d only wanted to look at the woman’s profile a little longer. Only wanted to inspect the facets this woman had put out on display with almost resigned simplicity. 

Some people, Dani had by now realized, wrote poetry and paragraphs to describe themselves. 

Jamie Taylor had bullet points.

“Gardener. English. Likes: Plants. Stories. Tea. Dislikes: Bullshit.”

The end. That had been quite literally the sum of it. Gardener. English. No bullshit.

But the picture, somehow, Dani hadn’t been able to look away from. Not because of carefully-arranged lighting, not because of a curated model-clean image--but because the woman appeared to have posted the photo almost under duress. It came in profile, as though someone else had done the job, her head turned toward the camera as if interrupted. Her hands were buried in a flower pot. Her clothes were simple--a tank top, a silver chain resting against the jut of collarbones, a pair of worn-looking jeans with holes in the knees. Her eyes--some fascinating color Dani couldn’t quite place--looked somewhere between amused and irritated. 

She looked real. 

Stupid, Dani thinks now--because that was probably the idea, wasn’t it? This woman, Jamie, had planned to look exactly this way. Real. Vexed at the idea of putting herself out there. Reluctantly available. 

It was a ploy, certainly--but one that seems to be working, because not only did Dani accidentally-not-accidentally swipe right, she found herself texting the woman. For hours. She’d expected much less, had figured this Jamie person would be as brief in text as she had been in bio, but...

Jamie had talked to her. Willingly. Teasingly, with more humor than truth, maybe, but with no sign at all that she was sick of Dani’s questions, bad jokes, nervous assessment that I really don’t do this, I honestly don’t get it. 

I don’t, either, Jamie had replied, and that had felt like enough of a reason to keep testing the waters. Enough of a reason to keep the conversation going back and forth, back and forth, until nearly two in the morning.

Shit, she’d said. I need to be at work in four hours. 

Shame, Jamie had replied, her tone already searingly familiar over text. Own your own business, make your own hours. Far wiser approach. 

I’ll make a note of it for when I found an elementary school, Dani had replied, laughing. She hadn’t said she’d already been in bed for an hour, the phone resting on the pillow beside her head so she wouldn’t miss the buzz of a new message. It had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time, with wine-warmed blood and the happy haze of good conversation. Jamie made her laugh. Jamie put her at ease. Jamie might not have been real, but she felt real, and that was good. 

Better than anything she’d felt in years, if she was honest with herself. 

Still, when the next day had come and gone with no message, she’d thought, Fair enough. Jamie had been good virtual company for one night. It was more than she’d expected to get out of this app.

Far more than she’d expected, particularly when Thursday night rolled around and her phone buzzed.

Teacher, yeah? No school on Saturday?

Correct, Dani had replied, as amused by the out-of-left-field text as she was irritated with how her stomach had flipped over upon receiving it. You have figured out the complexity of the American school system. 

I am a genius, Jamie sent back, followed quickly by: Drinks tomorrow night? 

Drinks. A thing that people do. A thing that adult people do for date reasons. 

She isn’t real, she’d thought, even as her thumb was punching back: How’s 8? Miller’s?

A mistake. Definitely a mistake. Because the app had been a lark, and the conversation had been too easy, and the fact that she can’t quite pick out the colors in Jamie’s eyes from a single photo is making her crazier than she’d like to admit. 

A mistake, saying yes. A mistake, suggesting the local pub-like establishment around the corner, whose beer-and-burger specials had kept her fed on too many evenings spent working late. A mistake, because once this goes south--as it’s absolutely bound to, as everything Eddie-shaped always has--she’s going to lose her favorite hangout in the deal, too.

And yet: here she is. Standing at the door, wondering if the outfit chosen for the evening festivities--tight jeans, pink blouse, hoop earrings--is too much or not nearly enough. 

What am I doing here?

Maybe, she thinks with mingled alarm and hope, she won’t even have showed up. Maybe it’s all part of the ruse: look approachable, look human and normal, look a little too beautiful in the most grounded way possible--then, cheerfully, invite a woman to drinks and just don’t show. A fun story for whoever comes next. Can you believe she thought I’d want to meet her after one night of texting?

“Dani?” 

English, Dani thinks with a sudden rush of heat. Right. Somehow, she hadn’t quite been prepared for the accent, which--coming out of this woman, draped with languid ease at a table--is truly a little more than Dani thinks she can handle just now. The accent, combined with the mess of curls dragged back from her face, and a dress sense that manages to be both casual and deeply attractive at the same time, is...

“Jamie,” she says, her voice a little lower, a little more hoarse, than is truly necessary. The woman pushes up from her seat, a small-framed figure in a black button-down, suspenders, ripped jeans. She’s pressing a hand toward Dani, offering a firm shake as though they are business partners, not an off-the-cuff bad idea of a date. “You look--”

“Never been here before,” Jamie says, almost apologetically. She gestures for Dani to sit before dropping back down in a sprawl that implies exactly the opposite of what her mouth is insisting. “Wasn’t sure about the, ah, dress code.”

“You--you did fine,” Dani tells her, wishing suddenly she’d gone for a dress. Or a  different human body altogether. She feels too tightly-strung, too anxious for the easy smile on Jamie’s lips. “Um. You’re very. In person.”

“Very,” Jamie repeats, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. “Is very American for wish I’d gone left, after all?”

“No. No. Absolutely not. That.” Bit too forceful, she suspects, judging by the smile spreading into a grin. “No, it’s just--your picture didn’t--tell me you’d be so...”

“Clean?” Jamie suggests innocently. She raises her hands, wiggling her fingers in a small wave. “Scrub up fine, when I need to. Seemed to call for it.”

“And you...sure did answer,” Dani says stupidly. “The. Call, I mean. I’m sorry, I really don’t do this often.”

Something seems to soften in Jamie, her smile less teasing as she leans across the table. “Hey, no worries here. Same person you were talking to the other night.”

Dani nods, embarrassed, and flags down a server. Drinks ordered, she draws in a deep breath.

“I mean, I haven’t done this in years. Or. Ever, I guess.”

“A first date?” Jamie asks. When Dani doesn’t answer, she adds in a knowing tone, “A date with a woman?”

“Both,” Dani says honestly. “My last relationship was--well, I mean, we were engaged--”

Jamie whistles under her breath, reaching up to scratch her head. “Blimey. What happened?”

“He’s...him.” It’s too much to go into on a first date, too much to explain, even though talking to Jamie over text had been so dangerously easy. “My best friend growing up, but that was...growing up.”

Jamie nods thoughtfully, tilting her chin in thanks when the server deposits two full pint glasses and a basket of fries on the table. “Rough time, sounds like. I can relate. My last relationship also did not go well.”

“Was he also a man who thought you’d be all too happy to quit your job and take care of a bunch of babies?” Dani asks, perhaps a little too bitterly for the occasion. Jamie flashes another grin, sipping her drink.

“She was a woman who thought I’d be all too happy to take the fall when she got busted for possession.”

Dani gapes. “Oh. Oh--I didn’t know--I’m so--”

Jamie shrugs. “She wasn’t wrong. I was nineteen, and deeply stupid. Live and learn, as the poets say.”

“Which poets?” Dani asks, smiling a little. Jamie’s brow furrows.

“John...Lennon, possibly? Hard to say. Anyway, relationships are a chore and a half, but the greatest people in the world tell me thirty is too old to play musical bedframes, so. Here we are.”

No bullshit, thinks Dani approvingly. For what little she’d put into her profile, Jamie evidently hadn’t been lying about that.

“You haven’t been in a relationship since you were nineteen?”

“In my mind, I was still in the relationship at twenty-four, when they let me out. She didn’t agree. Found out she’d been married two years, by then.” Something darkens in Jamie’s eyes for a moment. She sighs. “Like I said. Not my finest. But I am, as they say, a shining beacon of reform these days.”

“Now, when you say they,” Dani teases, grinning. Jamie nods decisively. 

“John Lennon. Definitively.”

There it is, thinks Dani, watching Jamie pop a fry into her mouth. There, the easy roll of conversation from the other night. As though they’ve known each other forever. As though two people who have thus far failed irrevocably at relationships make a perfect match.

Easy, she thinks. Don’t go wild, now. 

“So,” she says, when the comfortable silence between them has grown a bit too comfortable for the setting, “who are the greatest people in the world? The ones who tell you thirty is too old for...did you say musical bedframes?”

Jamie laughs. The ring of it curls gently around Dani’s head like a soft hand, a sound she’ll find herself replaying later with a skipping heart. 

“Not many willing to put up with a grump of my caliber, but Hannah and Owen fight the good fight. So long as I at least pretend to try.”

“Let me guess. They set up the account for you?”

Jamie makes a sort of gesture in the air with the hand not holding her glass. “Threatened to bury me in puns and children, respectively, if I kept putting it off. Owen’s still grumpy about the photo choice.”

“I liked it,” Dani says without thinking. Jamie raises an eyebrow.

“Well, you did swipe as much. Mind if I ask why?”

Walked into this one. Still, she doesn’t mind as much as she probably should, not with the genuine curiosity in Jamie’s eyes. “You looked--don’t laugh.”

“No promises,” Jamie says, but with the gentle tone of one who knows exactly how much to tease before it’ll hurt. The idea warms Dani in a way she’s not quite ready to look at yet.

“You looked real,” Dani says. “Like you weren’t going to play games, or waste anyone’s time. Like you just wanted to be happy in peace.”

“That is,” Jamie says, holding out a fry for Dani to take, “sort of the idea, yeah.”

There’s an almost puzzled cast to her smile, like she didn’t entirely expect this answer, and is pleased by it at the same time. That same sense from the photo sweeps over Dani now--that this woman is authentic, even if she’s not always shiny, that she’s kind even if not entirely clean. That she doesn’t have any interest in muddled expectation or living a comfortable lie.

“And me?” Dani asks. She doesn’t entirely mean to--but she’s sure, in asking, that Jamie will answer. Jamie is unlike anyone else she’s ever met, the first person she’s ever known to meet each question head-on. 

“Honestly?”

Dani nods. Jamie seems to consider it, turning it over in her head as she twists a fry between her fingers like a cigarette. 

“All of it.”

“That’s,” Dani begins to laugh, “that’s not--”

“No,” Jamie says, and she isn’t smiling, exactly. Her eyes have a sort of shine Dani likes very much, but there is no hint of teasing in them now. “Really. All of it. You’re...very pretty, and that’s--but the way you described yourself. Like you didn’t care to be anyone in particular. You like new experiences, and bad coffee. You hate being called Danielle. I...I wanted to know why.”

“It’s not my name,” Dani says simply. Jamie gives a brief laugh, her hand moving across the table to lightly brush Dani’s fingertips. 

“I wanted to know why all of it. Why do you like bad coffee--”

“It’s the only kind I know how to make,” Dani says automatically. “Just sort of leaned into it.”

“--and teaching--”

“I want to make a difference,” Dani says. 

“--and where you most like to go on those long walks--”

“Anywhere I can breathe,” Dani says. Her fingers are hesitant, tracing the tips of Jamie’s. There’s something electric about this, about barely touching, about barely knowing someone and still wanting to give them neatly-packaged secrets shaped like the mundane. 

Jamie is smiling. “See, that. I like that. All of it.”

It’s nothing, Dani thinks reflexively. A collection of details. A sparse approximation of a life. Eddie knows all of this, and then some, and never matched up to knowing her.

But this woman, leaning across the table with one hand outstretched, looks so different. Watches her with steady interest. Is listening to every word Dani says, though the bar is growing crowded around them, and soon, conversation will become a task instead of a gift.

“Would you,” Dani says, feeling certain that some mistakes are not as bad as they seem, “like to take one of those walks?”

“Tonight?” 

“Yeah. Tonight.” Emboldened by the smile, by the curl falling into Jamie’s eyes, by the knowledge that she still can’t quite make out what color those eyes are, Dani takes her hand. It’s so easy, she thinks she could do it even without looking. “Right now.”

No bullshit, she thinks. No expectations. Just Jamie looking at her like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. Dani can’t blame her. This isn’t at all what she’d thought she was getting, walking in tonight. 

But there’s something about it--something about the feeling that she’s been here before, or should be here forever, or will always find her way back to a woman who looks at her just like this--that almost makes her feel brave. Almost makes her feel wonderful. She rises from the table, laying cash beneath her half-empty glass, and feels a pleasant jolt in her chest when Jamie follows without another word.

If this a mistake, she thinks as they step out into the brisk evening air, it’s one she’s hungry to make. 

[reveriequill-rai]

Shroud: Withered Soul

A/N: Sorry it’s been a while. As of right now I’ve just been uploading stories I’ve written in my newspaper club, and now that I’ve graduated I hope that can now expand to short stories generally. I’m not gonna promise that posts from now on will be more consistent, but I would like to at least speed up my uploads a bit before they actually wind down, as I imagine I will be working on more stories in the future. Everything being uploaded right now is previous work, but nothing too old--probably like, from last year tops. This was completed sometime in May, I believe. 

This is an introduction to a character I created called ‘Shroud,’ an amateur self-proclaimed ‘detective’ who exclusively investigates occult-based crimes and malefic.

Content Warning: death, descriptions of corpses, graphic descriptions of violence and pain, cults 

[My blog will usually contain PG-13 stories, and as of right now I am writing some darker content, but I will tag anything that may be especially disturbing or uncomfortable. I’ll include this warning in my bio, too.]

----------

The corpse in front of me wasn’t all that disturbing by itself. I had seen dead people before–comes with the territory. I had been dead before. Murder rates in Twilight were, naturally, much higher than any other district in New Fable–especially further south of the district where I was–considering how much wild magic was around, and not even the police force sent here from the northern district of Bastion could do anything about it. So the corpse itself didn’t bother me, all things considered.

What did disturb me, though, was a number of other things.

For one, the corpse just being there was a problem. They weren’t stopping, and they were getting far too close to home.

Its eyes were still open, for another thing, and nearly colorless, and looking at me specifically, and I can swear to you that had not happened when I first laid eyes on it. Even worse, like me, the man lying dead in front of me appeared to be wearing a few bandages like I was, perhaps just recovering from an injury.

And for yet another thing, and perhaps the worst part of this, was the connection I felt with this dead man. Something about the state he was in struck a familiar chord that only I and a select unlucky others knew. As if we were kindred spirits–undergoing the same fate, yet with (probably) different outcomes.

I had been at this–whatever you would call tracking down cults as someone with zero prior detective experience with the help of almost no one–for…a few months now? And I’ve made a bit less progress than would be expected from someone who has seen just about everything the darker sides of magic had to offer. I did have one solid lead, though, and hopefully one that would lead me to exactly who I was looking for.

“Everyone move,” I ordered, pushing my way through the crowd.

Ignoring their complaints, I made my way over toward the body and began to examine it, hoping for any hint of who had done this, and more importantly, if it was exactly who I had suspected. There didn’t appear to be much damage, but what first caught my attention was the note tucked into the man’s pocket. I took it out and unfolded it, and immediately flinched.

Demon tongue.

Hellish whispers ran through my head, and I wasn’t sure if they were just in my head or not. It was hard to tell these days.

I honed in on the note, written on some old paper as if torn from an ancient book. The more I stared, the louder the whispers got. I ignored the throbbing in my head as best as I could–humans were not mentally equipped to engage with the infernal language at all, and I much less so. My hands shook as I read the brief message, which I must have read dozens and dozens of times already; I wasn’t counting and didn’t care to.

Some people studied demon tongue despite…well…everything, even the illegality. It probably didn’t matter to them. It didn’t matter to me, either, but someone had spoken to me in demon tongue before–though, in their defense, likely not out of their own volition–and the trembling and rapid heart rate was not worth the ability to communicate with infernals. (Nothing was, honestly.)

For these reasons–and also not wanting to be arrested or have my mage license revoked–I personally didn’t speak or write demon tongue, but I at least knew a little bit and could recognize some of the infernal runes. And those runes were enough for me to know that this was the exact same message that the abyss had been trying to send me in my last moments.

—

Can’t run home, I thought. They’ll follow me.

Just gotta run until I find a phone booth.

I ran until I finally spotted one on the street corner near a bridge. I let out a sigh of relief, taking a quick moment to catch my breath. Then, I quickly crossed the street and ran toward the phone booth, quickly dialing the police station.

“Hello?” I said into the phone as quietly as I could manage. “My name is [……………………………] I’m at the corner of Coral Avenue by the Armada IV Memorial Bridge. I’m being pursued by a group of kids in demon-charmed cloaks and shawls, please I need your help they have knives and they’re trying to kill me-“

The tears stinging at the edge of my eyes began to overflow as a human voice at the end of the line responded in perfect, uncharacteristically calm demon tongue. It was a short sentence, repeated over and over again, but with the little knowledge I *did* have, I could translate it by about the sixth loop:

“You are going to hell.”

I hung up the phone immediately, resisting the urge to yell, “I KNOW” directly into the phone.

Humans can’t speak demon tongue here. It’s illegal.

So how did an officer know demon tongue?

—

Unsurprisingly, the body was still in semi-good condition. After all, little damage was done to the body—only the soul. The only physical marks I could make out were marks around the wrist and neck, likely to restrain the victim. Couple of bruises here and there, too, but nothing was broken.

This…disturbed me, to say the least.

Cults around here were usually known to be violent. After all, a lot of them stood for violent causes–executing the ‘impure,’ plunging everyone into the dreams of a volatile eldritch creature, usurping the throne and forcing everyone to convert, rallying the youth to their bloody cause with claims that they alone possessed special powers…I had heard it all, all of them violent to some degree. But the ones that had gotten me…they seemed to worship oblivion itself. Or maybe whatever was in it. That was beyond even my knowledge.

But…even then, they still had arguably the least violent cause. The deadliest, yes–they seemed to just be destroying souls–but strangely not as bloody. Yet their means of carrying out this objective has historically been, well, bloody.

Or maybe that was just me.

Either way, this victim had certainly not gotten the worst of it. There were no twisted limbs, no bloodied nose, no wounds from blade or bullet, basically no magic-driven attacks aside from the terminating consumption of the soul…only marks of the initial restraint, bruises from the subduing, and the abyss claiming and destroying the soul.

I could almost picture it in my head: they likely jumped him in the middle of the street, kicking him around a bit to possibly weaken him, throw him off balance, but not too much as to rouse resistance, then restraining him–to the floor? A wall? I couldn’t tell, but there were no rope burns so they must have done this by hand–and calling, somehow, for their god, for lack of a better word, to devour its newest victim’s soul.

What did he see as he died? Did their eyes turn as colorless as his would become? Had they shown any sign of enjoying his torment? I doubt it; it didn’t seem like a very ‘fun’ kill. And likely not as personal as it was for me.

They were getting much better at their kills. It probably wasn’t as fun, but more precise.

And a lot less violent than I had gotten.

—

I caught a glimpse of the charm from earlier out of the corner of my eye, but just as I looked it vanished. Just then a cold breeze hit me as the door behind me opened, and I was yanked out onto the street, leaving the phone dangling by the cord. The book dropped from my hands.

The four delinquents appeared in front of me from nowhere, likely having turned off their Moonlight Shroud charms.

“Gotcha,” Ransley said, smiling as he picked up the book.

“Give it BACK!” I roared, lunging for him. Ransley hit me hard across the face with the book, sending me flying a few feet back onto the brick road. Quickly I realized that my safety was not worth keeping that book. I didn’t know where or how Ransley learned to hit that hard but I wasn’t going to stick around to find out. As he and the others examined the book, I began to scurry away as Ransley gave an order to the others:

“Get him.”

An instant later, I heard something click far behind me, and a sharp pain ripped through my knee. I collapsed to the floor, letting out an agonized cry. I examined my knee, and saw a hole much bigger than a bullet hole should be. I looked up at my attackers.

A gun?!

“What the HELL?!” I shouted. “You’ve already got what you want! LEAVE ME ALO-“

Ardent appeared behind me and punched me square in the face. I held my probably-broken nose as a muffled shriek of pain escaped me. Each of them vanished and took turns raining blows and slashes on me as I tried to step back and run. They gave me almost no chance to react. My body ached everywhere; the knife wounds, though shallow, stung just as bad, if not worse, as any bee. I could barely stand. I used my remaining strength to try and push them off of me whenever I felt them, but I stumbled each time I did, giving them room to knock me around further. Finally I collapsed, and Ardent grabbed my shirt and dragged me to the bridge.

“W-wait-“ I cried, still wincing and crying from my bruises and decayed knee. “STOP IT!-”

—

I examined the bandages on my hand and knee. The ones from that night must’ve been amateurs, or at least new to the cult’s way of doing things.

Focus, Shroud.

The victim’s eyes were still open, and almost completely empty.

Almost.

The body must not be entirely empty, then. This wasn’t exactly a kill—whoever this person was, they would not be dead for much longer, or at least depending on your definition of ‘dead.’

How long ago had this attack been, then? I touched the skin—still warm-ish. This had to be recent.

By that logic, if this was meant not as a lethal attack, but as one of induction into their group…

I wasn’t sure how long I had been out, but I at least knew it wasn’t for very long.

So…I didn’t have much longer, then.

I instinctively jerked away from the body. Would he come back? He wouldn’t be under anyone’s control, at least for the first few minutes–how long does it take to kill someone? Would it be long enough for him to kill me?–no, he probably wouldn’t go after me; I had barely any soul left for him to long for…unless he’s just that desperate enough to take scraps from a near-husk.

What would he do when he came back? Would he wander around, lost, confused, until they welcomed him with false promises of salvation and freedom from the ‘burden’ of having a judgement-tied soul? Would he be violent, as they had been to him?

Then again…I came back after one of their attacks, but with a will of my own. Did they want me to come back? Why would they want me of all people to come back?

—

“You know how much trouble you caused us, […….…]?!” Ransley shouted as he kicked me in my injured leg. “Don’t act like you didn’t have this coming, you little weasel.”

“I didn’t-“ I tried to say.

Ransley propped me up on the sidewalk, just by the edge of the bridge, right above the river. He placed his hand on my bruised shoulder, looking at me with a bone-chilling grin.

Again, I got a good look at his eyes. This time, everything except the pupils was entirely white. As I looked I almost felt like I was staring at something beyond; further, even. But the harder I looked the more I could see how much nothing there was. And yet, in spite of that, this nothing seemed to be staring back at me.

The others had the same white eyes too, looking on with a horrible satisfaction.

“What…” I barely managed to say, “…what are y-you…?”

“Free,” Ransley answered, without his usual cruelty and instead with an uncharacteristically sanctimonious tone. “And with our help, so too will you be free.”

With a hard shove, I was pushed off the bridge.

I grabbed onto the edge with my hand, barely having the strength to pull myself up.

“T-this is insane-!” I cried. “Ransley! Please! Y-you can keep the book; I won’t call the police, just help me up-“

Ransley frowned and put his boot on my hand. He leaned in as he brought his foot down harder, crushing my hand. Bone splintered and crumbled under the weight of the shoe, and I let out a shriek as a cold look crossed his face.

“You really should stop holding on so much,” he said. “That’s your problem. That’s why you’re here. Just let go, and face oblivion.”

Ransley took his foot off finally, but my hand had run out of strength. I slipped, and fell into the river.

—

Either way, I had to work fast.

“Hey, kid!” Someone from the crowd called. “What’re you doing? Leave this to the professionals.”

I turned around, and maybe it was the speed at which I had whirled around to face them, or he did just flinch.

Was it my eyes?

“The police won’t find them,” I explained. “I know what I’m doing. I’ve studied demonology for a few years.”

I went back to the body.

“You mean you know who did this?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I answered. “I just wanna be sure…”

I pressed down on the bruises on their shoulder and arms. Hollow. I felt no bone or extra layer of skin or muscle underneath.

Just as I suspected, I thought. Soul devouring.

My only question now was, how much of the soul was left?

—-

The bridge wasn’t particularly tall; just enough for any small cargo ships to run under. But the fall felt much longer than it had any right to.

I never hit the water. I was swallowed by something but it certainly wasn’t the river. It was as cold and sharp but nothing wet ever touched my skin or clothes.

I did not fall into water. I fell into something foreign, something dark, something alive, something evil.

Its eyes were beady and attentive, focused, eager, and it had long rows of sharp fangs. It appeared to smile at me, expecting me, welcoming me. Whispers in demon-tongue surrounded me, and I overwhelmed myself trying to find a single word I could understand. The only thing I could catch was “going to hell” again…was this it? Was this hell? What circle was this?

I was immobile, unable to look away from the creature in front of me, unable to scream as it opened its fang-filled mouth. I couldn’t even let out a scream of protest; no, not against this, as it brought down its jaws and took a large bite out of a deep part of me even I could never access. The pain from my bruises and wounds no longer burned; only ached, as if the pain had been there forever.

I was hollow. If there was anything left, I barely even felt it. My wounds glowed a hot white color and became shallow. I felt nothing but an aching nigh-emptiness that seemed to have no origin I could place; no past; only a present and a long future.

I didn’t know how long I was in that void. But as much as I despised that thing for robbing me of my life, I was grateful that it chose to let me go.

—-


I took out my pen from my pocket and a couple of mini-candles from my satchel. I flicked a lighter and lit the candles, surrounding them at different points around the body. I began to draw an evocation circle around the body. I’m not sure what had stopped this cult from performing forced evocations as opposed to beating everyone into submission until they blacked out enough to face the abyss and have their soul devoured, but I wasn’t about to find any sense in a group of people who literally worship the abyss.

I took my time with the intricate webs of the circle, carefully connecting whatever remained of the soul to the points where I would draw in the runes, and connected those to the candles.

I then drew in symbols in the language of the spirits at the different sub-points that would draw up souls from the afterlife, adding a desperate prayer in each pen stroke that I evoke the right thing and not something unwelcome. I had to steady my hand as I did this, reminding myself that this was merely a human soul who was recently killed, so the chances of him having ended up in hell – was he that kind of person? – were slim; they had to be, of course they were; there was no need to panic so stop panicking. Yet knowing I was drawing the same symbols, the same webs, lighting the same candles as the deadly evokers around town who would break into people’s houses and draw evocation circles under their beds to call up who-knows-what from the pits of hell to torment the living…to think I was drawing the same circle that I checked for every night when I went to sleep…

The pen snapped in my shaking hand against the concrete, getting ink all over my hand. I swore, and rubbed some on my finger tip so I could start to finish the circle.

“What the hell are you doing, kid?!” someone cried, making me jump. “You’re tampering with evidence! That’s illegal!”

“You’re gonna screw up the investigation!” someone else shouted.

I steadied myself from being startled.

“This…this is the investigation,” I replied bluntly.

“Wh–okay…? Are you a detective or something?” the first guy asked.

I shrugged.

“I think so,” I said.

“You think-”

I could hear further shouts from the crowd as I turned the body over to draw the rest of the circle underneath, but I held up my hand to stop them from getting closer.

“Just let me work!” I cried without looking back.

That’s when I noticed some of the rapidly-decaying skin near the shoulder and side of the ankles. The skin had withered and given way to bone, the effect cutting through flesh and muscle. Even the bone had begun to decay.

Well, so much for minimal damage.  

I unzipped the victim’s jacket and pulled back the shirt just slightly to get a better look at the damage. The withering had spread further—the entire shoulder seemed about ready to decay. I took a camera out of my bag and took a picture of the decaying wounds.

With the remaining ink, I drew another sigil on the bandage of my injured hand, a heart-shaped eye-like symbol with two lines running up my index and middle finger. It was a painful process and I was just careful enough to have the pen not tear through the bandage, and I placed my shaking hand on the decaying shoulder and closed my eyes. I saw all of the injuries on the man’s body, including where he had been injured–he had a broken arm that had almost finished recovering, and a fractured foot that was also healing, but wasn’t as near completion as his arms. Either way, both of these had stopped healing, and had actually gotten worse, with the bones beginning to decay in both areas.

What was the point of beating people up, breaking them, letting them decay, and then expecting them to join you after you had broken them? My attackers probably went through the same thing as this man had–as I had, if this cult was larger than them. So why do the same thing to others?

But that was just it, though, wasn’t it?

They knew what it was like to be soulless, and only they knew not only how to recover from the injuries suffered, but how to disguise themselves as living to avoid trouble with the law.

I looked again at the bandages on my hand, and unraveled it slightly, careful not to let the crowd see. There, too, did my flesh begin to decay. This was the primary issue with not having a soul: without the very essence that gives us life, our bodies aren’t capable of self-healing anymore. Any injuries are permanent unless fixed by a doctor, or if we tend our own wounds.

Fortunately my bones—at least in my hand—hadn’t completely withered away. I managed to revive just in time, fortunately.

Just in time.

——

I don’t remember much about the day I woke up. Just the excruciating, aching pain.

What I did know was I had washed up on the shore of the city, and I couldn’t stand up for a very long time. A burning sensation enveloped my entire hand and knee, and I felt a throbbing sensation in both areas. The bruises from the beatdown stuck on me like a leech, but most vividly, my chest felt hollow. And it hurt. The emptiness gnawed at the inside of my chest, and it, too, burned and ached. Like a stomach ache in the wrong place.

With my good hand I crawled my way off of the shore until I found a lamppost. I grabbed onto it, and propped up my good knee. I swung my arm toward the lamppost, grabbing onto it with my bad hand, shocks of pain running through my body. I tried to haul myself up, but the weight of my body caved my knee in, and I collapsed. That’s when I got a good look at my hand.

Bits of skin had completely come off, seeming to have withered away. Pieces of bone underneath had chipped off.

I grew nauseous and I felt the blood drain from my face. I let out some inhuman noise that I reckoned was some attempt at a scream but came out as a cross between that and a moan of agony.

How had this happened?

It was a horrible sound, but at least I had been found. Otherwise, who knows what would’ve happened?

Or who else would’ve found me?

——

Finishing the circle grew tricky as my hand trembled, though I was unsure if it was from the injury or from the reality of the process itself.

“Kid, we don’t even know who you are,” the guy from earlier said. “Are you even a licensed detective?”

I ignored him and wiped some of the ink from my pen on my hand, pressing my hands together to activate the circle. As the soul fire candles flared, what little color was left in their eyes drained slowly, and a small, glowing, deteriorated wisp of a soul rose out of the victim’s body.

This was all that was left…

Somehow this dead man was just the same as I, who could still breath, still walk, still talk, still live—but only just.

What had this man’s soul seen before it was decimated? If, in fact, the same people who killed me are responsible for this, did he, too, see the same grinning face in the abyss that I had? Was he as afraid as I was? Or did he accept this as death?

I took my mage’s license out of my pocket and showed it to the crowd.

“I’m a licensed magic user,” I said, “is that enough?”

“…that’s not a detective license,” the same guy said. “I’m calling the police.”

“Great!” I said. “Tell them the Brotherhood of Abyss Walkers did this.” At this point it was all but confirmed.

“The…what?”

“The cult that keeps tormenting this forsaken town,” I explained. “The one behind all the unexplained murders.”

The guy—along with the rest of the crowd—stifled a laugh. Some of them couldn’t hold it in.

“There’s no cult in New Lumanore,” someone else said. “Our security’s airtight; no way they would’ve been able to form a guild without a license.”

“Just call the authorities, Aaron,” a lady in the crowd said. “This kid isn’t worth persuading.”

“W-wait-“ I said before letting out a resigned sigh. I packed up the candles and pocketed my pen, and took off. I knew who the culprit was. What the police had to say didn’t bother me.

They’ll believe me when I put the culprit behind bars.

—————

In previous investigations I managed to pin down the general area where the Abyss Walkers operate. Prior murders took place at least within a mile’s range of Eclipse Avenue, an area further south of New Lumanore. It was a relatively quiet and empty area; there were quite a bit of shops and buildings of unknown function that no one ever seemed to go into, not even during the day.

The entire place screamed occult activity.

Sure enough, just as I hit the corner of the avenue I caught a glimpse of a Moonlight Shroud charm, pinned to the outwear of a hooded figure. They were walking along the other side of the street, hanging close to the bare wall of a wide building.

Once they were some distance along I crossed the street quickly and began tailing them.

Confrontation wasn’t new to me, just…unfavorable. Is that why I trembled? Either way I knew the procedure: Walk with the same beat. Same path, same pattern of step. Stop when he stops. Walk like this until the shadow is close enough for contact.

Once I did I took out a capsule from my coat. It contained shadow ink, allowing me to either create my own shadow, or to hide within someone else’s. I didn’t have enough of a soul to perform any magical feats on my own–whatever I could do would probably just come out as sparks–so this was the best I could work with. Unfortunately the capsule was nearly empty, and I made a mental note to contact my supplier after I was finished. In the meantime, I used what was left to lather my hand in ink as I silently crept behind the lone cultist, and pressed my hand against his shadow. I latched on and eventually got pulled in. Inside the shadow realm, I had a black-and-white view of the street from inside the wall. I couldn’t breathe, though, and I couldn’t hold my breath for very long so I knew I had to jump him sooner rather than later.

I took a coin out of my pocket and tossed it outside behind the cultist. He stopped and turned around, as expected, and I took the moment to lunge out and grab him by the throat.

—————

The cultist narrowed his eyes, and an amused smirk came on his face.

“Hey…” he said. “I know you.”

I flinched. How?

He kicked me off and stood up.

“You…you’re the kid we got that book from!” He chuckled. “You don’t quit, do you? This is really what you chose to do after death? Vigilante work?”

I felt the blood drained from my face.

“…what are you talking about?” I lied. “What book?”

“The demonology book, stupid,” he said. “The thing damning you to begin with. You forgot already? Or did you lose your memories alongside almost all your soul somehow?”

I clenched my fist, resisting the urge to charge at him again. I couldn’t take him in a head-on fight. I was too weak for that.

“Tell me,” he said. “How’s it feel? Being so close to freedom, so close to ridding yourself of that moral creed weighing you down…no fear of rapture…just your life and your…well, I suppose now broken…body, and your heart and mind.”

“Shut up,” I snapped.

“Good thing you came back, though. We’ve been slacking on our initiations recently…Ardent went a little too hard on too many people. We’re behind on our quota.”

“Wait a sec…” I took a step back. “What do you mean ‘too hard?’ Aren’t they supposed to come back?”

“The idiot decided to use magic to slow the initiates down,” the cultist explained. “As if that wouldn’t damage the soul at all. I’m sure you of all people know. You’ve taken enough beatings form him, right, D–“

I punched him in the face. The second I made contact I realized I had used my bad hand without thinking. Bone snapped, collapsed, and even shifted through the hole in my hand. I let out a far-too-loud shriek of agony as I recoiled and caressed my hand, trying to relocate the bone.

The cultist looked at me and laughed, and I raised a finger on my good hand and threatened him:

“Don’t try that again,” I said. “I’ve still got one—ahh…—perfectly functioning hand.”

“Fine by me,” he replied. “You hit hard for a dead person…”

My hand still ached from the punch. I imagine it probably hurt me way more than it hurt him.

“Do you mean to turn me in, Shroud?” the cultist hissed. “Just try it. I know who you are. They’ll find out you’re undead and investigate you to hell and back. Whatever decimal of a soul you have left won’t save you. Not even close.”

“I can’t trust you with that information even if I let you go,” I said. “But even if you do…I’ll know sooner or later if you’ve said something. You best not try it if you don’t wanna die twice.”

The cultist grinned.

“I’m shaking,” he said, deadpan. “I’ll just come back again.”

“What, are there no revival limits in your little group?”

“Nope. He’ll bring us back again and again as long as he needs us.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Oh, you’ve only been resurrected once, you big baby,” the cultist said. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I’m not joining you.”

“You have no reason not to,” the cultist said. “We can fix your broken body; make you look and seem as alive as the next person. Those remnants of a soul may not matter to the police, who’ll mark you as soulless anyway, but you know who it does matter to?” He pointed at the sky and at the group. “Them. Someone like you, who’s spent hours learning about heaven’s enemies…you think you have any chance of reaching heaven? HA!”

I fell silent. Just when I thought being registered as ‘dead’ to everyone you know meant they wouldn’t bother you about being a (rookie) demonologist anymore. That reminder worked my last nerve, yet every time it was brought up I could never muster up a proper defense.

“…I’m aware,” I mumbled.

“Besides, I’m sure you’re just livid at the police, who never caught who got you. I’m sure you’d like your vengeance against them for failing you…we can help you out with that, if you’d like. After all, why should we fear death, or judgement, from this life or the next? Like I’ve said, we’ve got no soul to weigh us down to heaven or hell. No death, no judgment. Just you, whatever you wanna do, and a welcoming oblivion who’ll spit you back out as many times as needed. As long as you keep it fed, that is.”

“It doesn’t matter if the police know or if they don’t know,” I said. “I know. And I’ll know more than they ever will. Besides, why the hell would I trust you to give me closure about my death–the death YOU caused?!”

The cultist frowned.

“And that’s just the trouble, isn’t it…you’re just about soulless, and the only soulless person New Lumanore who isn’t with us and…for what? You lose nothing by joining us!”

“First of all,” I shouted. “I am not soulless. Your stupid demon didn’t take all of it.”

“Yeah. Still not sure why that happened,” the cultist replied, “but who am I to question the great abyss–”

“Oh, shut up. And second of all–just in case you forgot–YOU KILLED ME! I don’t owe you loyalty, or gratitude, or mercy…I owe you nothing.”

“You may be upset now,” the cultist said, “but you’ll learn to thank us later.”

“I will not.”

His frown turned into a scowl. He took out a small cylinder from his pocket.

“I was gonna use this the day of the attack,” he said, “but I didn’t see any point. Seemed like the others were doing just fine without the staff.”

Sure enough, the cylinder popped open into a metal bo-staff. He walked towards me, twirling it through his fingers.

“You’ve been chasing the wrong thing, Shroud,” he said. “You think you need vengeance, but what you really need is security. We all know what being soulless is like. You’re weaker, you can’t heal your wounds, you can’t do magic, and it’s pretty obvious when you’ve just come back from the dead. I don’t care what three-percent of a soul you do have; it’s nowhere near enough for you to enjoy all the privileges of being fully human. Face it. You’re basically the same as us.”

As I stepped back, he stopped spinning the staff and instead gripped it with both hands.

“So you can either let go of those remnants you have the audacity to still call a soul, then come with us and let us give you the safety you so desperately need,” he said, rearing the staff back, “…or we’ll just break you further and let oblivion do what it wishes with your remains.”

He started to bring the staff down.

“WAIT!” I yelled, bringing my hands to my face.

Surprisingly enough, he actually froze, the staff a couple inches from my face.

“Okay…I get it…” I said. “You’re right. I won’t turn you in. Just…promise me you won’t tell anyone who I am.”

“What’s stopping me?” the cultist asked, cocking his head slightly and raising an eyebrow.

“Look. I didn’t turn you in,” I said. “You owe me.”

“No I don’t. I’m not tied to anything but oblivion.”

I let out an annoyed huff.

“Like I said. I’ll know if you exposed me,” I reminded him. “I don’t care if that scares you or not, just…let me go.”

“Let YOU go?! You jumped ME!”

“And I had—I…thought…I had the right to. Look…I’m backing down. You go about your night. I go about mine. We don’t speak of this.”

The cultist hesitated, then put the staff away.

“Fine,” he said. “But we’ll still come back for you. Whether or not your initiation goes smoothly is entirely on you.”

With that, he pulled out the same charm he had on the day of the attack, and vanished.

“See you around,” he said.

That was the last I heard of him that night.

Once I thought I was safe, I let out a loud groan of annoyance.

I had him. He was literally a few feet away. If I *just* had more shadow ink that would’ve been it for him.

But…he was right. I was at every possible disadvantage. And I couldn’t work like that. I shouldn’t have jumped him. I should’ve just taken note of his appearance and went from there. That was foolish on my part.

But…I did have his appearance now.

But he had my identity.

I still wasn’t at a complete advantage. And I couldn’t work like that. I had to lay low, and rebuild. My hand was wounded and I was lucky I didn’t get my skull bashed in. There was no way I could have recovered from that. But I wouldn’t give up. I had a lead and I wasn’t letting go of it.

I didn’t care about their ‘freedom’ or ‘not being tied down’ or anything like that. Fact of the matter is, they were hurting people, and their demon lord had more control over them than they’d realize.

They were beyond redemption. The demon didn’t bind them through any soul manipulation or contract–it was some weird combination of free will, gratitude, and the threat of permanent death.

These cultists had to go, and quickly. They had to pay, and dearly.

I know I’m weak, but once I’m back up and running I would do as much damage from the shadows as humanly possible.

They weren’t bound by any rules, so why should I have to be?

I didn’t care how many times I would get hurt. They ruined my life, and I was going to pay them back tenfold.

[matrixaffiliate]

Bourne

New Story! FFN and AO3

A gift for the lovely @deadwoodpecker who wanted a Regency Era AU for Hinny. I hope it's all she hoped it would be, and that she loves this little story as much as I do. Also, I've finished this entire story before posting a single chapter, which for you, wonderful reader, means that I will post 6 chapters today, and every Saturday from now to December 12th, with the last 2 chapters going up on December 19th which will finish all 26 chapters of this story. =) Enjoy!

Miss Weasley dreams of seeing the world. Mr. Potter is in need of a new traveling companion now that Ron is about to be engaged to Miss Granger. And while society may say these paths are not suited to each other, love tends to weave and spin until two lives are completely intertwined, whether they care for the arrangement or not. Regency Era AU. Hinny Fluff.

Bourne Chapter 1

Miss Ginevra Weasley forced herself to walk calmly down the cobblestone street. Gentil ladies didn't hurry, that was what her Great-aunt Muriel constantly chided. They also didn't go about unaccompanied but Ginny had needed the space. It had been nice to visit her aunt, to see someplace other than Ottery, to get an idea of what her brothers experienced as they traveled through Britain - and for Ron, Europe as well - but at the same time, Ginny was grateful she'd be returning home in the morning. The first thing she was going to do was run barefoot through the field behind her childhood home and not care what soul saw her.

She continued down the main street in Privet and lifted her eyes heavenward when she saw Mrs. Dursley, standing out in front of one of the shops with her son. She bent her knee to curtsey politely at the pretentious woman and her pig son, a dandy that looked a great deal like he wished to embody the Prince Regent himself. How any man could function being so large was beyond her - and upon having met Mr. Dursley senior at a party her aunt had brought her to, Ginny determined that this family must hold their grandiose ruler as a model for not simply appearance, but for temperament as well.

"Good afternoon, Miss Weasley, I understand you're to return to Ottery on the morrow?"

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Dursley, and yes, my aunt's coach will leave after we've had breakfast together, and my uncle's man will escort me home."

"I have a nephew that I understand will be visiting Ottery," she looked down her nose at Ginny. "I wouldn't suggest you go out of your way to make his acquaintance. My sister married a strange man and I am sure her son follows after his side."

"Thank you, Mrs. Dursley," Ginny dug her fingernails into her hand in order to keep her voice level.

"Are you on your way to Mrs. Prewett's then?"

Mrs. Dursley seemed determined to speak to her for as long as possible. Ginny was reasonably certain it had to do with her aunt's position in the community. Every gentil woman would give a year's income to be invited to dine with Mrs. Muriel Prewett, let alone stay at her home. Ginny had found it difficult to know who in this wretched city was actually interested in befriending her and who was only speaking to her in order to try and receive a calling card from Mrs. Prewett.

"I am. I felt like an afternoon stroll would be pleasant before dinner."

"You must allow us to give you a ride home in our chaise," Mr. Dursley finally spoke, his piggish face not quite as squished as his father's but Ginny was sure it would only take him another year at the most.

"That's quite kind, but I do love to walk, and I've done it so little since coming to stay the summer with my aunt."

"Nonsense!" Mrs. Dursley shook her head and took Ginny's arm. "A lady such as yourself ought not to walk. We will see to it that you make it home properly. Come, let us depart."

Ginny resisted the overpowering urge to rip her arm away from the grasp of Mrs. Dursley, instead choosing to be grateful that the woman hadn't handed her arm off to her son. If Mrs. Dursley had met Ginny in Ottery, she would not have dreamt of speaking one word to her, but here in the care of her Aunt Muriel, Ginny was suddenly a woman of consequence.

Mr. Dursley helped her up into the carriage and Ginny gave him a tight-lipped smile before removing her hand from his just as quickly as she could.

"My wonderful son is ever a proper gentleman," Mrs. Dursley beamed, her yellow-colored hair swept back so severely from her face as to make her look quite a bit older than she probably was.

"My thanks," Ginny gave him the briefest nod before looking out over the passing shops and buildings as the Dursley's chaise carried her through Privet's streets to Prewett Manor.

Mrs. Dursley chattered on and on like an early morning bird and Ginny's responses were tight-lipped through it all until finally, the chaise stopped in front of its destination.

"Thank you again, it was kind of you to offer your carriage to bring me here." Ginny stood and took the hand of the driver before Mr. Dursley could manage to lift his girth from his seat.

"Will Mrs. Prewett not come out to welcome you?" Mrs. Dursley strained her long neck to try and see into the windows.

Ginny would have laughed if she hadn't been so disgusted after these four months of having to step cautiously around not just this family but every bootlicking family that wanted a way to be closer to the Prewett's.

"She customarily does not," Ginny inclined her head. "It's been a pleasure, Mrs. Dursley."

And with that, she turned on her heels and moved swiftly to the door.

[dougmeet]

flynt (13)     hustler (5)     died (4)     trump (4)     million (3)     doing (3)     insurance (3)     larry (3)     seniors (3)     ditching (3)

In 2017, Flynt offered a $10 million reward for evidence that would lead to Trump’s impeachment, and in 2019, Larry Flynt Publications sent a Christmas card to some Republican congressional members that showed Trump lying dead in a pool of blood, with the killer saying: “I just shot Donald Trump on Fifth Avenue and no one assassinated me” — a reference to Trump’s boast that he could commit such a killing and wouldn’t lose votes.

Eggleston Works è una società di cui  avevo sentito parlare molto tempo prima che io abbia mai avuto la  possibilità di assaggiare le loro merci. Situato a Memphis,  nel Tennessee, La loro prima offerta era un oratore che  sembrava un tavolo finale, ma alla fine non ha avuto il successo come  avevano sperato. Alla fine del 1996, l'Andra fu rilasciato.

Dr. Seuss Enterprises Will Shelve 6 Books, Citing 'Hurtful' Portrayals

no more Seuss or WAP for my kid

CSS Grid CSS Grid simplifies existing layout patterns

and

adds new possibilities for graphic design.

It’s a layout framework — without the framework

Fixed or FlexibleYou can create a grid with fixed track sizes or with flexible sizes using percentages or the new

fr fractional unit

Place & Align

You can place items at precise locations on the grid independent of their HTML source order. Alignment features control how items align when placed into a grid area, and also how the whole grid is aligned.

In our urban and suburban houses what should we do without cats? In our sitting or bedrooms, our libraries, in our kitchens and storerooms, our farms, barns, and dockyards, in our docks, our granaries, our ships, and our wharves, in our corn markets, meat markets, and other places too numerous to mention, how useful they are! In our ships, however, the rats oft set them at defiance; still they are of great service. How wonderfully patient is the cat when watching for rats or mice, awaiting their egress from their place of refuge or that which is their home! How well Shakespeare in Pericles, Act iii., describes this keen attention of the cat to its natural pursuit! A slight rustle, and the fugitive comes forth; a quick, sharp, resolute motion, and the cat has proved its usefulness. Let any one have a plague of rats and mice, as I once had, and let them be delivered therefrom by cats, as I was, and they will have a lasting and kind regard for them.

watch  -- 6,780 results ("mrjyn" AND "dougmeet") OR ("dougmeet" AND "BLACKPINK") SEO Results Deliver (images) in something i call (Bracket Racket Cluster SOF SEO) inspired by mr. Kurzweil, who makes your piano tuned No thanks to The Recording Academy for inexplicably overlooking Apple's new album Fetch the Bolt Cutters for an Album of the Year nod at this year's Grammys. @fionaapplerocks

In 2017, Flynt offered a $10 million reward for evidence that would lead to Trump’s impeachment, and in 2019, Larry Flynt Publications sent a Christmas card to some Republican congressional members that showed Trump lying dead in a pool of blood, with the killer saying: “I just shot Donald Trump on Fifth Avenue and no one assassinated me” — a reference to Trump’s boast that he could commit such a killing and wouldn’t lose votes. (65)

flynt (13)

hustler (5)

died (4)

trump (4)

million (3)

doing (3)

insurance (3)

larry (3)

seniors (3)

ditching (3)

Porn purveyor Larry Flynt, who built Hustler magazine into an adult entertainment empire while championing First Amendment rights, died Wednesday.

He was 78.

Flynt had been in frail health and died of heart failure at his Hollywood Hills home, said his nephew, Jimmy Flynt Jr.

Advertisement Skip Ad From his beginnings as an Ohio strip club owner to his reign as founder of one of the most explicit adult-oriented magazines, Flynt constantly challenged the establishment and became a target for the religious right and feminist groups.

Flynt scored a surprising U.S. Supreme Court victory over the Rev.

Jerry Falwell, who had sued him for libel after a 1983 Hustler alcohol ad suggested Falwell had lost his virginity to his mother in an outhouse.

Paid Post What Is This? Seniors Are Ditching Their Auto Insurance and Doing This Instead Seniors Are Ditching Their Auto Insurance and Doing This Instead Seniors Are Ditching Their Auto Insurance and Doing This Instead See More Sponsored Content by Comparisons.org Flynt’s company produced not only Hustler but other niche publications.

He owned a video production company, various websites, a Los Angeles-area casino and 10 Hustler boutiques.

He also licensed the Hustler name to independently owned strip clubs.

His publishing and financial successes were offset in equal measure by controversies and tragedies.

Advertisement 00:48 02:53 Shot by a sniper in 1978, Flynt was paralyzed from the waist down and used a wheelchair the rest of his life.

He fought battles with drug and alcohol addiction, and his fourth wife died of a heroin overdose.

His daughter, Lisa Flynt-Fugate, died in a 2014 car crash in Ohio at age 47.

With a fortune estimated at more than $100 million, Flynt spent his later years in the political arena.

When Gov.

Gray Davis was recalled by California voters in 2003, Flynt was among 135 candidates who ran to replace him.

He called himself “a smut peddler who cares” and gathered more than 15,000 votes.

A self-described progressive, Flynt was no fan of former President Donald Trump.

Before the 2016 election, he offered up to $1 million for video or audio recordings of Trump engaging in illegal or “sexually demeaning or derogatory” activity.

In 2017, Flynt offered a $10 million reward for evidence that would lead to Trump’s impeachment, and in 2019, Larry Flynt Publications sent a Christmas card to some Republican congressional members that showed Trump lying dead in a pool of blood, with the killer saying: “I just shot Donald Trump on Fifth Avenue and no one assassinated me” — a reference to Trump’s boast that he could commit such a killing and wouldn’t lose votes.

Flynt’s life was depicted in the acclaimed 1996 film “The People vs.

Larry Flynt,” which brought Oscar nominations for director Milos Forman and Woody Harrelson, who played Flynt.

—2021年3月3日 (@mrjyn) status: WAP—2021年3月3日 (@mrjyn)

  Twitter [@]  Tweet to: @squarebooks From:  @mrjyn Comm. on:  squarebooks (reply) RE: SB mention by  (author) re. SB her book status: WAP—2021年3月3日 (@mrjyn)

mrjyn comment: quotes Elvis song lyric: 'i don't care' adds:  'I miss #BarryHannah (author), mutual friend to mrjyn (person) and SB, Oxford, MS (bookstore) adding here: RIP Date: 03:13:2021 Time: 8:17 CST

1 of 3 jpg att: 1.  Elvis photo ephemera 'TCB Oath' 2. Photo of cover of Barry Hannah book jacket "Tennis Handsome" Pub: Knopf Ed.: Gordon Lish 3. Jerry Lee Lewis   Cover of Bio Author: Nick Tosches

definitive hypnogogic, Biblical Ovid Southern Gothic Epic hagiography, esprit l'escalier epitaph precursor to whose words will be most tribute to the possible mortality race between the Killer and Keith Richards, KR JLL's Jr. by 15 yrs. check Vegas Book for Odds says Stanley Booth, Author 'Up and Down with the Rolling Stones,' Memphis, TN 'author' -- not Rockcrit, please?

   mrjyn comment: quotes Elvis song lyric: 'i don't care' BarryHannah

This frisky pop confection finds Blackpink teaming up with American singer Selena Gomez. The five girls use a series of ice cream double entendres to send out mating calls and detail how they are different from the other females. I know that my heart can be so cold But I'm sweet for you, come put me in a cone Blackpink and Gomez are encouraging the guys to ignore their icy cool demeanors. Once they take a couple of scoops they will find they are loving and affectionate.

The song's icy metaphors not only have a sensual connotation but also allude to the singers' wealth. Ice on my wrist, yeah, I like it like this Get the bag with the cream The girls are wearing diamond encrusted watches (ice is a slang word for diamonds). "Get the bag with the cream" refers to a bag loaded with cash.

The song is Blackpink's second hookup with a major American pop star in 2020, following their Lady Gaga collaboration, "Sour Candy." Both songs use sexy food analogies to represent the enticing love that the girls are ready to give out.

Frequent Blackpink collaborators, the Korean Teddy Park and the American Bekuh Boom, are the primary writers. Park wrote the main melody while Boom was in Korea. She then wrote the lyrics over his tune, incorporating a series of sexy ice cream-related play on words. The other credited writers are Ariana Grande, her go-to collaborators Victoria Monet, and Tommy Brown, Mr. Franks, Selena Gomez and the Korean producer 24.

The retro-tinged video finds Gomez driving a pink ice cream truck in a pinup sailor outfit. The four Blackpink girls all appear in a candy-coated frozen dessert fantasy land before ending the clip in an ice cream amusement park. Blackpink's scenes were filmed in South Korea, while the scenes featuring Gomez were shot in the US because of the coronavirus pandemic.

The song was birthed at a songwriting camp that producer Teddy Park asked Bekuh Boom to run for Blackpink's debut studio album. Boom asked Tommy Brown and Victoria Monét to come to the sessions at LA's Westlake Studio, and the pair brought Mr. Franks along with them. "Tommy had Franks pull up beats, and eventually Franks played the one that all of us started vibing to and decided to work on together," recalled Boom to Genius. "Victoria brought up the subject 'ice cream' and started humming melodies that we then started writing lyrics to together in the room. From that point on we had a great back and forth of ideas for the first half of the song that was done that night."

  A post shared by mrjyn (@dougmeet)

no more Seuss or WAP for my kid. Dr. Seuss Enterprises Will Shelve 6 Books, Citing 'Hurtful' Portrayals https://t.co/Cc23ru1M6K— mrjyn (@mrjyn) 2021年3月3日

     Eggleston Works " Fontaine II "

           Diffusori a torre    

         SCHEDA

Di            cosa si tratta:

         Diffusori a torre

                         L'importanza              di iscrivervi alla newsletter

Produttore:

         Egglestone Works  Usa

Caratteristiche:

 Due vie Reflex

Costo:

         7500/00 euro anno 2011

         Vasta Gamma di          Nuovo          e              Usato disponibili          Click

     CARATTERISTICHE

           INFO DAL WEB

   L'opportunità per me di ascoltare  un altoparlante EgglestonWorks è arrivata tramite il mio amico e collega,  Marshall Nack. Alcuni di voi lettori a lungo termine  potrebbero ricordare la recensione approfondita di Marshall dei Rosas di  EgglestonWorks.    Marshall e la sua adorabile moglie  Lynn sono una coppia insolita in quanto entrambi sono audiofili. In  realtà, sono l'unica coppia audiofila che conosco personalmente. Sono  certo che il fatto che siano entrambi dei musicisti seri è in gran parte  responsabile della loro capacità di ascoltare le gradazioni e i dettagli  tonali molto fini con tanta facilità. Tra i suoi molti  talenti, Marshall ha un'eccezionale capacità di dare voce a  un sistema. Sembra sempre in grado di trovare la giusta  miscela di componenti e accessori che si traducono in un sistema  eccezionalmente ben bilanciato. Questo è molto più difficile  da realizzare di quanto si possa pensare. Tuttavia, la natura  rivelatrice dei diffusori EgglestonWorks è stata determinante nel  raggiungimento dei suoi obiettivi sonori.    Quando lo Stereophile Show è  arrivato in città questa primavera, la stanza di EgglestonWorks era in  cima alla mia lista delle visite obbligatorie. È stato lì che  ho incontrato EgglestonWorks prez Jim Thomson e ho iniziato il mio primo  ascolto con i Fontaines. So che hai tutti sentito che la  qualità del suono agli spettacoli è generalmente piuttosto brutta. Mentre  trovo che questo sia ampiamente vero, allo stesso tempo, puoi avere  un'idea del potenziale sonoro di un prodotto, o come alla  fine potrebbe funzionare in condizioni di casa. I Fontaines  furono sistemati nella sala dell'home theater di Eggleston. Incluso  con il display era un paio di sub-woofer dedicati.    Secondo la letteratura aziendale,  "il design di ciascun modello di altoparlante nella linea EgglestonWorks  inizia con il midrange". Per le Fontaines, una coppia di 6  "polipropilene, i driver a doppio magnete gestiscono il  midrange e il basso. Ognuno di questi driver ha una bobina da  3 "di diametro, che è stata ripetuta molte volte ma che ripete, come è  vero, se il midrange non è corretto, di tutti gli altri è  infruttuoso. Il tweeter ha una grande camera di smorzamento  aperiodico che imita il caricamento infinito del diaframma. Il  tweeter è collegato al crossover con un cappuccio e due resistori  utilizzati come un L-pad.    Un singolo set di morsetti è  montato in un pannello incassato nella parte posteriore della sezione  driver. Ho chiesto a Jim Thompson di utilizzare un singolo  set di post di rilegatura in contrasto con la tendenza attuale di  utilizzare post doppio. I driver sono direttamente collegati  ai bind. Ovviamente, se un cliente è impostato su biwiring,  questi diffusori possono essere dotati di doppio binding post su un ordine  speciale.

I driver dei bassi e dei medi sono  alloggiati in quello che EgglestonWorks descrive come una custodia con una  linea di trasmissione quasi in trasmissione. Ciò si ottiene  impiegando un materiale di imbottitura acustico specializzato noto come " Lastre  di granito italiane legate a loro. Il risultato finale di  questi sforzi è un recinto molto inerte che fornisce una risposta dei  bassi molto migliore rispetto alle dimensioni ridotte dei driver.    Dopo diverse conversazioni con Jim  Thompson, quattro cartoni di dimensioni medie ma piuttosto pesanti  arrivarono da EgglestonWorks. I cartoni contenevano il driver  e le sezioni di base corrispondenti. Dovresti stare molto  attento mentre imposti questi diffusori per non danneggiare la squisita  finitura nera del pianoforte. L'immagine non rende in alcun  modo giustizia a questi oratori. Devi davvero vederli di  persona per capire cosa intendo. I Fontaines possono essere  visti come uno di quei prodotti che rientrano nella categoria "audio come  arte". Sono semplicemente belli. I Fontaines  possono essere visti come uno di quei prodotti che rientrano nella  categoria "audio come arte". Sono semplicemente belli. I  Fontaines possono essere visti come uno di quei prodotti che rientrano  nella categoria "audio come arte". Sono semplicemente belli.    La vestibilità e la finitura sono  proprio lì con il meglio che abbia mai visto.È ovvio per me che  EgglestonWorks ha preso molta cura e ha fatto spese considerevoli nella  progettazione e costruzione di questi contenitori.    Una volta assemblati, gli  altoparlanti danno l'aspetto di un monolitico sul pavimento. Le  basi sono sabbia-fallibili e formeranno un recinto molto sostanziale. Vi  consiglio caldamente di stabilirvi il posizionamento finale prima di  riempire le basi di sabbia. Questi bambini sono abbastanza  pesanti per cominciare; una volta riempito di sabbia, sarebbe  quasi impossibile per la persona media muoversi da sola. Ho  posizionato gli altoparlanti su una trapunta, quindi sui loro lati, per  inserire i quattro bulloni che fissano le basi in posizione. Questo  viene fatto attraverso un pannello di accesso nella parte inferiore della  base. Mentre le punte fornite sono molto robuste, hanno  un filo sottile e possono essere facilmente danneggiati se si è negligenti  durante l'installazione. Il cofano del conducente è molto  inerte quindi consiglierei molto se decidi di eseguire il test delle  articolazioni.

Mi piace particolarmente il modo in  cui hanno scelto di affrontare le griglie. Sono costruiti con  un materiale molto puro montato su una sottile struttura in acciaio. Si  collegano al pannello frontale mediante magneti che sono sepolti sotto il  laminato di superficie. Questa disposizione rende il  fissaggio delle griglie il più semplice possibile e ha funzionato bene per  me.    Mentre l'efficienza è elencata come  quello che potrebbe sembrare un 87db piuttosto basso, non ho avuto  problemi a raggiungere livelli di rottura del lease con l'amplificatore di  potenza Bel Canto EVo. Però,    Quando ricevo nuove attrezzature da  recensire, inviterò spesso diversi amici non audiofili, accenderò il  sistema e osserverò le loro reazioni. In ogni caso, le  reazioni ai Fontaines iniziarono prima che il primo CD fosse nel cassetto  ed erano sempre abbastanza positivi. Tutti sono stati presi  con il loro aspetto sorprendente e il modo in cui si sono mescolati così  facilmente nella stanza. Sono belli come sono discreti. Mentre  è abbastanza ovvio dalle specifiche e dalla qualità dell'hardware  utilizzato che EgglestonWorks costruisce i suoi diffusori con molta cura,

Come suonano?    Dal momento che non ho la  possibilità di eseguire alcuna misurazione sull'attrezzatura che ho per la  revisione, posso solo dirti come si comportano nel mio sistema. Mentre  credo che le misure abbiano il loro posto, difficilmente  danno il quadro complessivo. Ci sono stati molti componenti  che hanno misurato terribilmente, ma erano artisti stellari dal punto di  vista sonoro, e viceversa.    Hanno quella qualità trasparente  che consente ad ogni strumento di occupare il proprio spazio, ma sempre  con un naturale senso di proporzione all'interno del palcoscenico. Nessuna  durezza o nervosismo ha mai accompagnato questa chiarezza. Ho  notato anche una qualità semplice e costante del suono che lasciava che la  musica scorresse in modo molto seducente. Piatti e campane  hanno la giusta quantità di lucentezza e delicatezza e di nuovo, sembrano  avere le giuste dimensioni. I tassi di decadimento per questi  strumenti contribuiscono anche al senso del realismo.    Hanno costantemente svelato i  dettagli di basso livello che tra l'altro davano un senso reale delle  dimensioni del luogo di registrazione. Con Miles Davis,Tipo  di bluHo sempre messo in  discussione il suono registrato del pianoforte, specialmente con molte  delle vecchie registrazioni Blue Note. Proprio l'opposto è il  caso della registrazione XRCD, in particolare con molte delle  vecchie registrazioni Blue Note. Proprio l'opposto è il caso  della registrazione XRCD, in particolare con molte delle  vecchie registrazioni Blue Note. Proprio l'opposto è il caso  della registrazione XRCD,Waltz  for Debby del  Bill Evans Trio [JVC XRCD VICJ-60141]. Qui le qualità tonali  e la complessa struttura armonica del pianoforte sono presentate molto  bene.    Sono rimasto sorpreso dal senso di  profondità con cui questi relatori mi hanno presentato. La  mia stanza non collaborerà molto in quest'area, quindi questa è stata una  sorpresa gradita. In effetti, è il migliore che ho sentito  qui. Il riempimento del centro era azzeccato: i solisti erano  un po 'più avanti di quanto io non fossi abituato, ma era di buon effetto. Nel  complesso, ho trovato le capacità di imaging di questi diffusori di essere  eccezionalmente buone. Per i miei gusti,    Dal momento che il punto -3db è  quotato a 55Hz, non mi aspettavo troppo dalle regioni inferiori, ma sono  rimasto piacevolmente sorpreso da ciò che ho sentito. Ora non  fraintendere, questi non sono gli altoparlanti per gli organi  a canne o i fan del reggae. Per quel tipo di uscita dei bassi  dovresti guardare molto più in alto nella linea EgglestonWorks. Ciò  che è notevole in questo caso è la precisione del basso. Non  è mai cupo; piuttosto, tende ad essere stretto e melodico. Quando  eseguito male, il basso può oscurare gli elementi musicali nella gamma  media inferiore. Il basso dei Fontaines non interferisce o  oscura affatto il midrange. In altre parole, la fioritura  della fascia bassa non viene a scapito della chiarezza del midrange. Per  classica e buona parte del jazz, potresti essere abbastanza  soddisfatto della fascia bassa delle Fontaines. Nel  complesso, l'uscita dei bassi è stata molto meglio di quanto mi  aspettassi.    Lo scorso giugno Tim Shea ha  scritto una magnifica recensione del Musse Audio Reference Two NF  speakers. Li ho a portata di mano e farò una revisione di  follow-up. Tuttavia, poiché sono nella stessa fascia di  prezzo delle Fontaines,    I Reference Twos, come i Fontaines,  sono monitor bidirezionali. In questo caso, fornisci gli  stand. Le differenze sonore colpiscono a causa della forza di  ciascuna bugia alle estremità opposte dello spettro sonoro. Con  un punto -3db di 35Hz e una frequenza di sintonizzazione della porta di  29Hz, non sorprende che i Reference Twos si approfondiscano. La  parte bassa qui è stretta e melodica. Mentre i Fontaines non  vanno così in profondità, Devo dire che il basso è un po 'più  stretto e un po' più melodico dei Reference Twos. Tuttavia, i  Fontaines ottengono sicuramente un cenno del capo per l'estensione del  registro medio e superiore, dolcezza e ottima resa dei  dettagli. Questi sono tratti sonori che sono un appuntamento  fisso nella sala d'ascolto di Perry e in seguito sono venuto ad ascoltarli  per tutto il tempo. In aggiunta a questo, c'è  molta aria intorno agli strumenti con un tasso di decadimento molto buono. Alcuni  potrebbero descrivere questi diffusori come neutri dal punto di vista  tonale, tuttavia si desidera descrivere questa caratteristica. Io,  d'altra parte, trovare la loro tonalità per essere  leggermente sul lato caldo. Mi sta bene. Nel  complesso, semplicemente si tolgono la via della musica.    Etta James, Life,  Love and The Blues [Private  Label 01005-82162-2]: Questo è un CD che è un ottimo esempio del suono  "Mussel Shoals". Ha una linea di basso sostenuta molto  pesante durante molti tagli. Check-out " senza  alcun segno di sovraccarico del conducente o altro pericolo. Dal  basso superiore in su tutto va bene. La voce di Etta James  arriva con la giusta quantità di morso e calore. Dal basso  superiore in su tutto va bene. La voce di Etta James arriva  con la giusta quantità di morso e calore. Dal basso superiore  in su tutto va bene. La voce di Etta James arriva con la  giusta quantità di morso e calore.    Patricia Barber, Companion Il  senso di immediatezza e presenza è tale che è possibile ottenere  un'implicazione delle dimensioni della stanza senza alcun iper-dettaglio  per intromettersi. Sul taglio "Usami" c'è un  assolo di basso verticale che i Fontaines riproducono con tutte le trame e  la ricchezza armonica in tatto. Signorina. La  voce del barbiere ha una trama soffice che è abbastanza piacevole senza  che i dettagli vocali siano mai esagerati. Non ho mai avuto  l'impressione di poter vedere le sue tonsille.    Con opere sinfoniche su larga  scala, questi bambini continuano nella stessa vena. Mentre le  loro capacità limitate di fascia bassa diminuiranno parte dello slam e del  peso che i loro fratelli più grandi sono in grado di gestire,    Per riassumere, la EgglestonWorks  Fontaines può essere descritta come molto musicale. Mentre ti  daranno tutti gli attributi che gli audiofili bramano, non sono mai  eccessivamente analitici. Apprezzo molto le qualità dei medi  che mantengono le mie sessioni di ascolto sul lato lungo. Mi  fanno venire voglia di togliersi la roba da audiofili e semplicemente  sedersi e godersi la musica. Mi trovo a tirare fuori CD dopo  CD che non ho sentito da un po 'di tempo per ascoltare. Se  ritieni di dover semplicemente avere quell'ultimo bit di uscita dei bassi,  ricorda che i sottotitoli corrispondenti sono disponibili. palcoscenico  sonoro totalmente coerente e la massima semplicità della presentazione  musicale. Non ho mai sentito alcuna discontinuità tra basso,  medi o alti. Erano sempre coerenti in questo senso.    Questi diffusori sono di altissima  qualità ed è necessario collegarli a ingranaggi di pari qualità a monte. Ovviamente  lavoreranno con amplificatori economici, ma riveleranno  rapidamente tutte le carenze e le deficienze del suono. Le  Fontaines EgglestonWorks sono l'essenza del lusso. Mentre non  possono essere considerati a buon mercato e sono in un campo affollato a  questo punto di prezzo

     VEDIAMO DIETRO

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A Brief Intro to CSS Grid

[thesunnyshow]

Name: Juliet

Writing Blog URL(s): @wonderlustlucas

Nationality: American

Languages: English, beginner level French, teeny tiny bit of Korean

Star Sign: Virgo

MBTI: ISFJ-T

Favorite color: Pastel yellow

Favorite food: My mom’s Sunday gravy

Favorite movie: Howl’s Moving Castle (The Lion King is a close second though)

Favorite ice cream flavor: Specifically Turkey Hill’s Double Dunker (get it— it’s so good)

Favorite animal: Humpback whale

Go-to karaoke song: She’s Kinda Hot by 5 Seconds of Summer

Dream job (whether you have a job or not): Neurosurgeon! Or a Twitch streamer HAHA

Coffee or tea? What are you ordering?  Ahhh probably coffee, I love tea but I need my coffee </3

If you could have one superpower, what would you choose? Shapeshifting! Clearly the superior superpower I don’t take constructive criticism.

If you could visit a historical era, which would you choose? This is weirdly specific, but I would love to be in Scotland during the 1700’s. Alternatively, the 1980’s.

If you could restart your life, knowing what you do now, would you? 100%. I know everything happens for a reason but getting a redo and being able to fix all the big mistakes I made would be pretty nice.

Would you rather fight 100 chicken-sized horses or one horse-sized chicken? One horse-sized chicken! 100 tiny horses would be crazy tiring.

If you were a trope in a teen high school movie, what would you have been? I would probably be the gay side character that gives good emotional advice but is hella lonely LMAO

Do you believe in aliens/supernatural creatures? Yes, both!

What are some small things that make your day better? Driving with the windows down and music blasting, picking up coffee, playing video games, & talking to my internet friends on Discord.

Fun fact about yourself that not everyone would know? I discovered my love for writing through Warrior Cats roleplay😭

What fandom(s) do you write for? Right now, only Kpop, but I wouldn’t mind writing for 5SOS or some of my other fandoms!

When did you post your first piece? On WattPad, December 2015. On Tumblr, April 2018 :)

Do you write fluff/angst/crack/general/smut, combo, etc? Why? I write everything! Fluff/smut/crack is my favorite and slight angst (usually just slow burn though cus I’m soft).

Do you write OCs, X Readers, Ships...etc? Again, I write anything and everything! Currently, second or third person reader inserts are my main style, but I also do ships and would love to write more OCs.

Why did you decide to write for Tumblr? Before Tumblr, I was on WattPad for different fandoms but eventually fell off. Then, when I got into Kpop in 2017, I found that urge to write again and decided to move to Tumblr since WattPad was becoming… weird. Plus Tumblr was a better fit for me!

What inspires you to write? To be completely honest, it’s the little things throughout the day that inspire me. For example, “Honey” was inspired by me not being able to open my locker in high school. “I Hemoglobin You” was based off my friend giving me a head rub while I was donating blood. Kpop idols just so happen to be my muses that I like to put into random moments of inspiration!

What genres/AUs do you enjoy writing the most? High school or college AUs are my favorite, along with some good ol’ friends to lovers slow burn. Angst isn’t my forte so I usually just stick to fluff, smut, and some crack. I haven’t written any but fantasy AUs are some of my favorites too! (RIP to my League of Legends AU that I started and haven’t touched in months.)

What do you hope your readers take away from your work? Just like other fanfiction authors inspire me, I hope some of my work inspires others. Considering fanfiction is free, there is so much out there to read and when I find a good story that inspires ME to write better, I’d love for my writing to do the same.

What do you do when you hit a rough spot creatively? 3 options: 1) Skip that scene and jump ahead to one I’m excited to write; 2) Erase what part I’m on and completely redo it; or 3) Drop it. The majority of my works usually take a few months to write as I will completely stop working on it until I find the right inspiration again. 

What is your favorite work and why? Your most successful? “Four” is definitely my favorite work. It’s one of my longer pieces and there was a lot of raw emotion in there on my end. I love the relationship between Hyunjin and the reader and especially love the ending. “Greatest Gift” for Chanyeol is my most successful, and one of my other favorites!

Who is your favorite person to write about? Easily Hwang Hyunjin. It’s so easy to place him in any of my works, and sometimes it’s a struggle to NOT write him. It sounds stupid but sometimes I really feel like I “know” him so being able to describe him physically and mentally is easy for me.

Do you think there’s a difference between writing fanfiction vs. completely original prose? Yes and no. Yes, because most of the time, fanfiction is totally original as well and requires just as much thought as a 400,000 word novel. No, because fanfiction uses a specific person as a muse.

What do you think makes a good story? Detail and realistic dialogue! Of course, everyone has their own style of writing, but detail is especially important to me. Sure, you can have a great plot, but having concise, detailed writing to get immersed into makes a story so much better. I also find realistic dialogue to be a big deal— I hate when teenage characters are speaking in deep analogies because, if we’re being honest, my daily language is 95% just “Bruh.” If you’re like me, I’d actually prefer realistic dialogue over anything else.

What is your writing process like? Process… yikes. Sometimes… I have a random thought and then I’m like… hell yeah let’s write that. I actually have no process. I don’t outline, I just start writing and keep writing until I’m finished. Then I’ll read it all over to make edits, then I’ll use the Read Aloud feature to catch any mistakes I missed, then I’ll run it through Grammarly before posting!

Would you ever repurpose a fic into a completely original story? Hm, maybe? In the future, possibly, but as of right now I wouldn’t use any of my fics to do so.

What tropes do you love, and what tropes can’t you stand? Oh, gosh, tropes. Gotta love them. Friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, stuck together (AKA forced to share a bed), and fake relationships are my favorites. They may be corny, but I also love truth or dare or 7 minutes in heaven games in fics cus… they’re just classics. Also love fics with a popular x shy pairing. I can’t say I dislike many tropes, but I definitely have a love/hate relationship with vampire and werewolf tropes because of how romanticized they are.

How much would you say audience feedback/engagement means to you? Hm, to be completely honest, only a little bit? I mainly write for myself, it’s like a guilty pleasure to just get all my thoughts and desires out, and then I just so happen to make it public on Tumblr. Nevertheless, receiving comments and asks actually make my day, and sometimes I still struggle to wrap my mind around people enjoying my writing! So, thank you to everyone who has ever left me a kind message, I truly appreciate it ♥

What has been one of the biggest factors of your success (of any size)? Getting involved! I think one of the best ways to grow is to join networks, which not only gives you the opportunity to share your work on a greater scale, but also allows you to make connections. Like real life, making connections and making friendships with other writers can play a huge role in growing as a writer and growing your account.

Do you think fanfic writers get unfairly judged? Yes :( As someone who’s involved with other fandoms, I’ve heard the way some people think of fanfiction and it’s really sad. People do not know how much goes into writing and just see it as cringey and disgusting when it’s just… not.

Do you think art can be a medium for change? Yes! In all its forms, art is something a creator can use to influence their audience (in a good way, hopefully).

Do you ever feel there are times when you’re writing for others, rather than yourself? Like I said in #40, I mainly write for myself. Even when I’m writing a request, chances are if I like the request enough I’m going to create a story out of it that fits my personal desires the most.

Do you ever feel like people have misunderstood you or your writing at times?  No! However, I’d still consider myself a small account and do not have TOO many works posted. But so far, I don’t think I’ve faced this problem :)

Do your offline friends/loved ones know you write for Tumblr? Only a few! My best friend Maggie is on Tumblr with me and only 2 of my other pals know I write fanfiction.

What is one thing you wish you could tell your followers? How much I love each and every one of them for supporting me and sticking around even when I won’t post for months🥺❤️

Do you have any advice for aspiring writers who might be too scared to put themselves out there? Don’t psych yourself out! In the time I’ve spent on Tumblr, I’ve never received any substantial hate. My main advice is don’t write fanfiction to get popular on the app, write fanfiction because you love to write and love your muses!

Are there any times when you regret joining Tumblr? No, as much as Tumblr can be annoying at times, I love the people I’ve met and the content I’ve found and wouldn’t have wanted to use any other platform.

Do you have any mutuals who have been particularly formative/supportive in your Tumblr journey? @pinktea99 — Mo, you’ve been around since the beginning honestly, and without you I wouldn’t have been able to come out of my shell! Thank you for all your love & support & for being my SF9 buddy❤️

Pick a quote to end your interview with: 

“Like mate, stop procrastinating.” — 3RACHA

BONUS ROUND: K-POP CONFIDENTIAL 

[velvetv0nblack]

An open letter;

(Possible trigger warning)

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this, maybe because this theme of abuse has be something I’ve been experiencing as a third party, the person removing the victim this time, you know the role many of my friends filled within our tumultuous relationship... maybe it’s because my friends abuser is now threatening and harassing me for helpingher leave... maybe it’s because I’ve finally found my therapeutic dosage of lithium, am in a clear mind and are therefore able to reflect properly for the first time in my life... or maybe it’s because this is not an apology, I mean maybe it is if you had only been a serial cheat, but the truth is you fractured my skull and cut me open with a knife, so this is not a fucking apology. Also I’d rather rip my own eyes out of my skull, smash them with a hammer, and then inject the liquid into my ass than actually engage you in any kind of conversation, so knowing that this is the one platform you can still check for me on, I’m going to post this here... Its about time I had my say without putting myself in physical danger.

You would think I wouldn’t have an essay to correct your 3 lines of a nothing apology, but here we are I guess.

This kind of self deprecating “I wasn’t good enough for you” narrative is truly infuriating, and not because you were actually good enough for me but because of the very reasons you proved yourself not be “not good enough”. You weren’t undeserving of me because you didn’t work, I am physically incapable of doing so myself and I didn’t fall in love with you because you came across mad motivated. You weren’t undeserving of me because you took drugs, drank like a fish or smoked like a chimney, we were both purposefully killing our selves in the same way. You weren’t undeserving of me at all, until you fucked my best friend in the bathroom and collectively gaslit me into wondering if I was imagining the whole thing, and slowly but systematically broke down my confidence and support network away from me. I want this to be very clear; the reason you do not deserve me or any other decent human being is because, you are an abuser, you abuse people.

I was barely a whole person when I met you. I was barely an adult. I had lived through so much already, and had been abused in every area of my existence. I was easy pickings to you. The issue was you were not a pawn to me, a player in any game, or any of that. To me you were this fascinating, beautiful soul, to me you were someone who needed my love who needed someone to support you and I couldn’t believe that you chose me to fill that role. I was freshly 18 that month, and I had just had a flat mate steal £3k and kill my kitten.

I weighed all of 63lbs that night you lost the plot on me because I didn’t want to go to Big Red to watch that actual cunt of a waitress smile at me as she gave you lap dances, it’s not even a dance joint it was a fucking bar. You allowed other people to emotionally abuse me with you for months up until this point and I just didn’t want to go, all I wanted was the keys and I would of gone home alone and gone to bed. Why you feel the need to publicly humiliate me again instead of just leaving it? You couldn’t just go be adulterous without me watching and hurting, so you followed me home, screaming at me the whole time. You told me I was pathetic, you hated me, I should just kill myself- on a bus on a Saturday night, from the bar I worked in, in soho, back to our place near Caledonian Road. I was so unstable anyway, undiagnosed autism, misdiagnosed mental health issues, on the wrong if any medication, deep within the throws of an addiction and eating disorder... you. I couldn’t take you verbally ripping my heart out anymore when I decided that throwing myself from our 3rd story window would hurt less. The fact I could of died isn’t what made you grab me and stop me jumping, no in fact you told me you don’t care if I kill my self as long as it’s not in the flat, you were much more concerned with the amount of drugs in the flat and the prison opposite our window. At that point you threw me full pelt across the other side of the room, all 63lbs of me flew through the air like a paper aeroplane and smashed directly into your guitar. You know your beloved custom Les Paul? The headstock came off, and at that very moment despite the fact you were the one who threw me, my life was the one in danger. You started strangling me and threatening to have men come down to London to gang rape my then 14 year old sister. It gets a little fuzzy, that’s what your brain does when you experience potentially life ending trauma. I do know I ended up with stitches in my lips and hands, that you fractured my right eye socket- that I still suffer issues with to this day- and had black bruising covering my entire body like a bus had hit me.

For a couple of years there my brain completely blocked out important details of that night, and a lot of our relationship. Don’t worry though periodically I have the real type of flashback where I relive these events and I come back to reality remembering more than I ever wanted to. I’m yet to even touch on the fact that whilst I may of been able to escape you in waking life, my dreams are perpetually stuck in this horrific PTSD dream land, a town that is a mash up of all the places I’ve been traumatised in my life, the place you eternally reside inside my head to traumatise me whilst I desperately need to rest. You haven’t really left my life despite the efforts I have made to avoid you (I think I’ve seen you once, from a distance once at Download 2 years ago, my heart fell out my ass, and I dragged Camilla in another direction) I have only 2 dreams in 6 years that haven’t included you chasing me down to finish what you started and kill me or keep me captive. But that’s what trauma does, and oh how you traumatised me.

I really loved you though, that’s why I stayed, and those couple times I tried to leave before I came back. I loved you so unconditionally that it took me realising that everyone else around us was so complicit that they’d help you hide by body. To this very day I cannot believe a man, a male roommate, walked in on you pinning me into a sofa by my neck, with both your planted knees on top of my chest, full weight suffocating me, biting the end of my nose until it was blackened and he had the audacity me I needed to calm down. I have to label the guy the world biggest pussy in my head so I don’t get wound up about it.

I wasn’t perfect, I can never be perfect, I have more imperfections than most. I am severely mentally and physically unwell- I sure as hell am a pain in the ass to love- however I cannot actually think of a damn thing I did to deserve constant unending emotional abuse, threatens and follow through of physical abuse and then after I left stalking and harassment. I am difficult but I am not deserving of abuse and that’s all you gave me in the end... unless of course you “needed your baby girl to suck your dick” - that was the only time you were ever nice to me, and I know because I recently read back a bunch of our texts and you flipped between “I hate you, I’m gonna kill you/kill your self” to “I need my beautiful girl to come and suck my dick I love you so much” is actually fucking insane. - Should I bring up the fact you would bang pathetic girls on the scene and then dicknotise them into stalking and harassing me with you? Because... what I had the audacity to leave a man, of over 6ft tall, who would become violent to my 5ft 63lbs self?

So yeah, you didn’t deserve me, but not because of any self deprecating attention seeking reason but because you’re a sociopath, who seems to take pleasure in fucking with vulnerable women.

Am I happy? Now that’s a fucking difficult one to answer.

I ended up homeless on and off for a year. Despite the homelessness I had suffered before this was worse because of the place I was in mentally.

You caused me to develop complex PTSD.

You caused me to have a 3 year long psychotic break.

You caused me to live in secure supported housing, where I was prayed upon by other residents.

You caused me to fall victim to abuse within the system

Not sure if you know this but our mental health services sucks ass, after leaving you I had a delightful therapist that would text me telling to kill my self and would tell me you were right to abuse me.

But I got one thing from our relationship, I fine tuned my “four Fs” ...I no longer freeze or fight in the face of difficulty... I developed an ability to fawn.

Dead ends are no longer in my eyeline, I will metaphorically straight on walk through someone else’s house to get where I need to be, I will jump the fence, break the locks and out run any guard dog. I may fall down but I’m never out.

When I was diagnosed with multiple chronic illnesses and essentially lived in hospital for 3 years, even when I thought to end my life it was weighed out by the thought of “how do I get to a place we’re I can do even 5% of what I want? What do I have to change, manifest?”.

You see if you could only temporarily break me but not stop me then why the hell would I let my own mind and body do that? That ability to fawn came with an ability to find a middle path, to be diplomatic. That ability to fawn gave me the patience to understand medical text and use that to access the right care. ~ I am actually thinking of starting a medical degree just to prove I can ~ I am now 98lbs and healthy for my size and stature, I now have a home with a housing association who like me so much they have me a lifetime partner agreement, meaning I will never be homeless again. I have been clean 7 whole goddamn years and 2 months. I have the most beautiful empathic cat, 2 foster dogs and an incredibly patient partner, who has known me before you had ever entered my life. I am as healthy as someone in my position can be, I still struggle with the anorexic thoughts but I eat everyday of the fucking week now.

I am not “happy” as happy is an emotion and emotions are fleeting but I am content in living for the simple life I have fought ever so hard for. I am strong, and determined and constantly fucking working on making more for myself. I’m proud of myself.

All I have to say is get therapy. If you’re really sorry work on yourself enough to be able to apologise properly before you fuck my day up by rising your head again for this weakness. I can’t say I don’t have morbid curiosity, because that’s me all over, however I’m much more determined to keep all that I have work for mentally, emotionally, and physically safe. For that reason I would never in my right medicated mind talk it out with you, email you back or seek you out. I’m sorry, it is what it is.

You can not damage someone irreparably both mentally and physically and think “I’m sorry for being a cunt” even close to cuts it. You are mentally unbalanced, in a way not even I can relate to.

[sherlollydramoine]

Welcome to the Tumblr-Dome Bitch! Pt 3

Warnings: smut-ish, mostly implied. Fluff with a cute ending. Also, don’t come for me because online friendships are very real. 

Okay y’all so I had to break this ish up into three parts, because well.. This idea got away from me. This is the conclusion. I realize that some of this is very out of character for Rami but this idea got away from me and it was making me laugh. So I’m sorry. I hope you can enjoy this ridiculous thing for what it is.

(PART ONE) (PART TWO)

Word Count: 1342

You both decided for your sanity to just avoid Tumblr for the rest of the day/evening. 

You showered and got ready for your evening with Rami, while he was texting you on and off the entire rest of the day.

Making dinner turned into something interesting, since you weren’t really sure what to cook.

Settling on one of your faves, you made a pot roast. You already had the roast thawed since you wanted to make it for dinner anyway. The prep went quickly since you just had to pop it in the oven.

He had agreed to come over around four-thirty to five, and you still had a little bit of food to finish. 

You let him into your building and told him your door was unlocked. 

When he showed up he was holding a bag that sounded like glass bottles clinking together. 

“I brought several different kinds of alcohol as an apology for the shit storm I created for you. I really am sorry.”

You just laugh and tell him that it was okay. 

He places a small kiss on your temple while you finished working on the potatoes.

“It smells delicious in here, what did you make?”

“Pot roast. It’s a comfort food of mine and one of my favorite meals ever.”

“Smells heavenly, so alcohol, pick your poison. I’m honestly down for some tequila right now.”

“God, me too!” you exclaim as you pull out a couple of glasses and some ice. 

Why don’t you take your drink and meet me at the table, I’ll be there in just a few minutes. With dinner.”

You gathered up all of the food and slowly brought everything to the table, while he sat there sipping on his drink.

Once you were both seated you ate and chatted. Mostly about the interesting turn of events of the last eighteen hours, upcoming work projects, and life. 

Conversation between you two somehow was easy just like it was when you two met last night. 

After you finished eating, clearing the table, and putting the food away you both settled on the couch. You both had, had a few drinks already and you weren’t sure if he was being funny or not but suggested you do something that is really going to set people into a frenzy.

“Why don’t we take a selfie and post it on my Tumblr blog? I don’t know why. I know this is stupid and could cause a frenzy but maybe I should settle something. Maybe I should just let the world know it’s me. You said there is a way to disable messages right?”

“Oh Lord Rami, this is stupid, but yes it is possible. I can show you, but you might have to do it from a laptop.”

“Well good thing yours is right here YN.”

“Most of my followers don’t even know what I look like anyway so I don’t see how this can hurt, unless you tag me in it.”

He brought out his phone and the two of you settled into a comfortable position on the couch before snapping a selfie. 

He opened the Tumblr app and posted the photo and he tagged you in it. Shortly after hitting the post button he opened the Twitter app and posted the picture of the two of you with the caption “Dinner, drinks, and snuggle time with my new favorite person. Just posted this on my new Tumblr blog ItsMeRami” Your jaw nearly hit the floor.  

You watch as he hits post, and then you open the Tumblr app on your laptop and allow him to log in. You show him how to disable anons, which he does and then closes the laptop.

“Rami, this is going to blow the fuck up and-”

He just smiles at you before capturing your lips in his. 

The panic subsided as his lips began to work yours, tasting a mixture of pot roast and tequila.

All the possible Tumblr drama forgotten as his hands slowly work their way from your hair all the way down your body before settling on your waist. 

The soft moan that escapes you as your body instinctively moves closer to his. 

Your hands end up tangled in his hair, while you straddle his hips, your lips still locked together in a heated kiss. 

You feel yourself grinding down on him through his jeans his little hums of pleasure vibrating through his chest and into yours. 

You almost laugh as he flips you both over and catches your top with his teeth before pulling. 

“In that piece of fan fiction that I read, I must have been strong or the top flimsy because there is no way I am ripping your shirt off with my teeth.”

You laugh for a second, as his hips grind into yours the pressure from his jeans feeling amazing against your center. 

“Oh my God. I don’t care what you do just please…”you whine out unable to form any other words.

His hands quickly work his jeans open as he pulls his cock out of his jeans. Your eyes wide at the gloriousness that is his cock. 

You had forgotten panties with your skirt and you were glad that you had, as his hand finds your core. 

“So wet darling. So wet already.”

“Rami?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck me please?”

And with that he slides himself into you slowly. Your eyes locked as you moan at the sensation of him filling you. 

He doesn’t just fuck you, no, he loves you. Several times that night and almost every night after. 

This is a night that you both remember forever, and that selfie you took that night now sits on the mantle of your house four years later. It was just after Christmas now, not quite New Year’s Eve, your belly rounded with the evidence of the late stages of your pregnancy. 

He comes into the living room, his hair wet from the shower he had just taken as he stops to admire you from afar. 

“Who would have thought that would have turned out to be one of the best nights of our lives?”

Your head turning to look at him as you smile, hands unconsciously rubbing your belly. 

“Yeah I know. And I can’t believe that we both still have our damn Tumblr accounts. The girls say ��hi’ by the way. And Peen is glad you gave permission to post that  photo that I snapped. Always glad for more content, because your dick is glorious even clothed. Those jeans look so good on you. She really is grateful for the ‘exclusive’ content that we give her.”

He just laughs.” I’ll message her and free-rami later about the baby shower ideas they had, they both said that they will be able to be here for it.”

You laugh again. Who would have ever really thought that a chance encounter in a bar and a random foray into Tumblr, would lead to having the best friends and the best husband ever?

“Yeah it took like six months for the Tumbly drama to die down. Man, some of those people came for you hard babe.Glad you mostly just blocked them or deleted them. My publicist also wasn’t super thrilled that I did what I did, but she did find it hilarious. My fans think that my people run my Tumblr blog, but they don’t realize it’s still just mostly you and I that do all of that. And your fanfiction has definitely gotten better, maybe it’s because you write what you know?” he smiles into your hair, you roll your eyes. Even after four years he is still the same.

“Oh my God! You have no idea how many anons I get asking me what your dick is like, since I never really give full descriptions of it. They all want to know how big it is, and if I could upload any photos. People are weird and so is Tumblr. I think your fans are just glad that you engage on social media now, even if it is still very limited.”

“YN, you first told me that Tumblr is a cesspool of the weird and bizarre. Is it any surprise?”

“No.” you laugh again, settling your body back into your husbands.

@the-real-ramimalekpeen @r-ahh-mi @mrhoemazzello @txmel @xmxisxforxmaybe @ramimedley @free-rami @hissom1933​ @spacedustmazzello​ @ramimedley​

[ty-talks-comics]

Best of Marvel: Week of February 5th, 2020

Best of this Week: Miles Morales: Spider-Man #15 (Legacy #255) - Saladin Ahmed, Javier Garrón, David Curiel and Cory Petit 

I had a really difficult time choosing between this and X-Men/Fantastic Four #1.

Both stories were great this week and I was tempted to choose the latter because up to this point, I hadn't really been enjoying this Spider-Man run very much. Of course, here we are though. There was just something about how this issue pulled everything together that made me appreciate the story that Saladin Ahmed set out to tell and how Miles is finally growing into the hero that fans always knew he was. Everything just felt so right amidst this roller coaster of an “Ultimatum” arc.  Even in the face of tremendous adversity Miles overcomes.

Throughout this series, Ahmed has been sprinkling small bits of an arc to readers with Miles constantly being late for class, tired and even being placed on academic probation by his Principal, Mr. Dutcher. Of course it's easy to paint Dutcher as potentially a racist due to how much he's had it in for Miles throughout the story, almost to very ludicrous points in his attempts to kick Miles out of the school. Things seek to finally take a turn when we find out that Dutcher found the notebook that Miles had been writing in with all of his Spider-Man adventure thoughts.

Garrón makes sure to draw Dutcher with the worst, "I've got your ass now" looks I've ever seen with one hand placed in his underarm while he taunts Miles with his journal. Curiel colors things ominously with light shadows going over most of his face as he prepares to ream Miles, but suddenly Brooklyn Visions, Miles' school, is attacked by a horde of new Green Goblins. Garrón makes them look threatening as hell as they terrorize the student body and the teachers with destroyed cars and fire in the background.

Without hesitation, Miles tries to swoop in and save them, but the Goblins find him and Dutcher, rounding them up with the rest of the hostages. The leader Goblin demands that the school hand over Spider-Man while threatening the staff. Garrón and Curiel sell this by portraying the Goblin as a towering beast with one green foot planted on the head of one of the teachers, his grey toenails curling over him. They’re certainly not as intimidating as the Main Green Goblin of the Ultimate Universe, but their numbers and power do cast as at least mildly formidable foes, at least for this issue.

One of the black teachers steps up and offers to remain the only hostage if they let the kids and other teachers go. I really like this character as I think he's the one that assigned the journal project and he's been acting as something of a mentor to Miles throughout. He really cares about his students and colleagues even though he's terrified and he's the first of many to inspire courage in this issue.

Just as the Goblin is about to absolutely RIP the teacher's head off, Dutcher steps up and says that his colleague doesn't know where Spider-Man is and says that he does. Everyone remembers that moment in the first Sam Raimi Spider-Man movie where J. Jonah Jameson risks his life for Peter so that he can escape - well, after giving a telling look to Miles, Dutcher claims that he himself Spider-Man before getting smacked into a wall. This is an amazing turning point for the character as we’ve only seen him be annoying and antagonistic to Miles the entire time that we’ve known him. With one small act of courage, he kinda reverses it all when he could have just given into his worse thoughts.

Garrón and Curiel frame this scene excellently with one shot of Miles looking at Dutcher, with a light shining on his face, almost wondering what the right decision is. He may not like Miles too much, but he couldn't forgive himself if he gave the boy up. We get another shot over Dutcher's shoulder, shadows covering the other side of his face and Miles looking at him, afraid that he could have his identity exposed and die right there. With no dialogue these two panels say more than any word balloons could.

Ganke, Miles' best friend, decides to launch another distraction for Miles to suit up and our hero swings in with an amazing splash page by Garrón and Curiel. The students cheer, the Goblins grit their teeth in anger and Miles takes a dynamic pose as his webs make an excellent line for the our eyes to follow from Miles arms, his heroic symbol and his gymnast legs getting ready to kick the crap out of evil. The black and red suit stands out amongst the mostly greens and browns of the page, putting the focus mainly on him.

For the most part, the rest of the issue is Garrón and Curiel showcasing Spider-Man's Goblin Slaying skill while they try to take him down. He crashes through the wall of the school and Garrón emphasizes the weight and speed of the fight with debris and skid marks as Miles knocks two of the Goblins out, making them revert to human form. There's also a really good shot of the leader Goblin chucking dumbbells and gymnast posts at Spider-Man.

Curiel does an amazing job of coloring the action as things move from the brown of the basketball court, to the blues of the indoor pool in which Garrón draws an amazing few panels of them fighting in the water. As per Curiel's coloring style the water is fluid and beautiful and then gets excellent lighting as Spider-Man Venom Blasts the Goblin in the middle of it all. 

Cory Petit deserves heaps of credit for giving this entire book life with his incredible lettering and even more so this fight sequence. His transparent CRASHes and ZZZZZTs sell both the intensity of Miles and the Goblin going through walls and the power of Spider-Man’s Venom Blasts respectively. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the SPLASH as the Goblin falls into the pool or the transparent SLOSH that curves down the villain’s arm as he tries to punch at Miles in the water. 

The fight reaches its conclusion after Miles repeatedly kicks the Goblin in the face and finishes with an uppercut (Shoryuken!) over a red, pop-art background that could only have been made better with a POW sound effect. The Goblin, knowing he’s been defeated, jumps away and leaves Spider-Man until their next confrontation. Later on Miles and Mr. Dutcher resume their conversation from earlier and it is a far more tense situation, especially after all of the damage that occured to the school.

Surrounded by Curiel’s dim oranges from the fires raging in the background, Miles tries to explain all the things that he says in his Journal, but Mr. Dutcher calmly hands his student his journal back. Dutcher tells Miles that he “should report students engaging in dangerous activities to the administration,” but all that he read was a “fictional story.” For a moment, Dutcher gives Miles a look like he sees the fear on the young man’s face, but he rationalizes that if Miles hadn’t done what he did, there’s no telling if any of them would be alive.

Mr. Dutcher proves himself to be a trustworthy person because of the bravery that Miles showed him. Miles has saved Brooklyn, if not the whole of the world, many a time and he’s actually one of the more well liked Spider-People. Miles serves as an inspiration to the rest of Brooklyn Visions and the borough as a whole, but there’s also the downside of his presence. Somehow the Goblins were able to find out what school Spider-Man attended and that puts everyone in grave danger, so the question is… what will Miles do now? He did save the day and got taken off of academic probation, but the school is mostly in ruin. Much like Peter’s best victories, this one is pyrrhic.

Saladin Ahmed really knocked it out of the park with this issue. He does a really good job at scripting Miles and his supporting cast, making each of them seem courageous and sympathetic. Javier Garron and David Curiel’s art and colors have been some of the best parts of this run and they continue to stun with amazing visuals, making sure readers get really invested in the art and the story it tells along with the script.

I do also wonder if this story will play into the upcoming “Outlawed” event which sees teenaged superheroes getting banned from active operation after something terrible happens to Spider-Man friend, Kamala Khan aka. Ms. Marvel. The destruction of Brooklyn Visions could act as more fuel to the fire following this issue and it would be interesting to see how this could possibly contribute to that event. Maybe we’ll even see Miles unmask to the world? (Nah, it’s probably gonna be her, but who knows?) But I am excited at the very least for the rest of Ahmed’s run if the issues continue being this awesome.

[raeloganthesonic06fangirl]

I have never seen these Joe Books Darkwing Duck Revival character profiles, I’m really interested. Can you please show them all? (Thank you!)

Aw, gosh, there's like three or four profiles per issue and that's like, 8 issues and all that, so I assume you probably are more interested in the Fearsome Five's profiles anyway. I'll toss in Darkwarrior to round out the formating. XD

Since I have them in the form of arc books, and I don't much feel like trying to rip the spines apart to get the pages flat for a good scan, I'll just use a mirror source for those

((Why does it look like Darkwarrior ripped off one of Bushroot's vines and possibly half of QuackerJack's hat..?))

Anyways, as you can see, there is quite a bit of little tidbits and refreshers on the character profiles.

QuackerJack's profile has a surprising amount of information without actually saying much at all, particularly with the little files note card at the bottom with Darkwing's choice of words, which I've actually done a rather extensive analysis on that in an old post somewhere.

The episode numbering reference appears to be following the DVD/Airdate ordering, so this also is a bit of a clusterbump when it comes to it stating Negaduck appears before QuackerJack, despite the episode chosen to represent that is in fact QuackerJack's fourth episode, lol.

Also, a few discrepancies I have here, regarding QuackerJack's profile:

Mr. Banana Brain is not stated to be a hand puppet in the cartoon proper, and has been referred to as a "saw dust filled doll", so the most well known incarnation is actually a retro ragdoll.

The "digitized crocodile" Gator Gal is not a crocodile.

The "first version" of Mr. Banana Brain was not the most well known incarnation. The first version of Mr. Banana Brain was a series of clockwork bombs that resembled a Mr. Potato Head type design, but as a banana with mustache and fake glasses. There was several of them, and QuackerJack had not qualms about using them with reckless abandon. One contained enough explosive capacity to level an entire warehouse as QuackerJack just skipped away. The "second version" of Mr. Banana Brain was more similar to the more familiar model we know most of, but apparently had a grenade installed in it, and it exploded. The one QuackerJack appears to have bonded with is more accurately the "third version", with the "Mecha Mr. Banana Brain" being V4 and "New and Improved Mr. Banana Brain" being V5.

Also, quite sure that he didn't realize the QuackWerks CEO was Taurus Bulba until AFTER he went on a rampage, abducted his old team and was apprehended after engaging Darkwing in a one-sided dog fight in the skies. In fact, I'm very sure he didn't know until after he came down off his blinding rage and realized that he was strapped down to a chair. Again, speculation, but I'm very sure.

Also, I love how passive aggressive this is reading out against any possible connections he had with Megavolt, like, they are really trying to shoehorn in that he apparently not only forcibly included him on the time travel trip, but apparently they're "occasional allies", like, you can tell that someone wasn't paying attention to the subtext at all.

Okay, so we're just going to ignore "Dangerous Currency" altogether? No mention of his revival from the doll form? Naw? Okay, then...

Anyway, I'd take these with a grain of salt, but they do have some nice additional infor and the presentation is nice too. Also, the artwork is stuff I don't immediately recall from any of the other pages specifically, so that's always fun (I have a bit of a pet peeve about the extensive reuse of the same piece of stock art over and over and over and over-)

Also, you gotta love how James Silvani's art gives QuackerJack a certain type of bulkiness that isn't present in the cartoon. Like, I know it's just his art style, but I can't help but think that QuackerJack spent his free time hitting the gym, doing some cardio and bench presses to be able to kick Negaduck's evil tailfeathers if he ever got the chance.

I mean, QuackerJack was able to smash and dismantle a Crimebot with his bare hands while fueled by unstoppable rage upon hearing Negaduck's name. QuackerJack apparently gets a power boost if he taps into his anger, I would not be surprised if he's punched a hole in a drywall slab before.

[lurafita]

Hi! So, I have so far only seen you post stories for the Starker pairing, or Iron Dad. Do you do other pairings, too? If so, would you consider writing something for Spideypool? Please and thank you.

Spideypool was my absolute OTP for a long time (though I did have some side pairings I also enjoyed with Peter all the while), I’m a hoe like that.

Anyway, it took me a while to answer this ask, but I do hope you enjoy what I wrote up.

I sometimes like imagining Spideypool as the kind of power couple, where they both are just ridiculously badass.

No-powers AU, established relationship, police detective!Wade, mysterious background!Peter.

—

Edward Collins, suspected for weapons dealing, drug smuggling, and human trafficking, looked far too smug for a man currently sitting in an interrogation room, with his hands cuffed to the table.

Captain Steve Rogers watched the man through the one way mirror with a suspicious frown on his face.

“All our evidence so far is circumstantial. It was enough to bring him in, but it won’t hold up in court. I don’t like that he waved his rights to a lawyer. He must think he has some kind of trump card. We need either a confession, or for him to incriminate himself in any way. Just get him to talk, Wilson.”

Next to the blond captain, the ex-special forces turned New York police detective, grinned sharply.

“No worries Captain America. I’ll have him singing like a bird.”

He ignored the familiar demand of “Stop calling me that!” and strode leisurely into the room.

“Eddie! Pal, Amigo, dirt under my shoes!”

He let himself fall into the chair right across from the man.

“So, what’s a scumbag like you doing in a place like this? Also, you don’t mind if I call you Shirley, right?”

Most of the precinct would describe Major Crimes unit’s detective Wade Wilson anything from ‘slightly eccentric’ to 'bat shit fucking insane’. They would also say, however, that at the end of the day, Wilson always got his shit done. So as much talk there was about his methods (and general being), it was usually accompanied with a measure of respect.

Wade reveled in it. Not just the respect, but also all the gossip about his 'crazy antics’. In fact, he liked to stir up the rumor mill every now and then, exaggerate on some tales, spice up some details.

His long time partner, Nathan Summers, had tried to reign him in during the early stages of their work relationship, but after damn near 7 years of being friends with Wade, he had given up.

It was too bad that good old Nate wasn’t down here with them to see him work his particular brand of magic on their suspect. (Someone did need to do the paperwork, after all. And Nate had lost at rock-paper-scissors)

Wade so loved aggravating his uptight partner.

Anyway, back to business. There was actually (sometimes) a method to his madness.

Sure, Collins had seemed pretty relaxed and put together so far, but how would that facade hold up when he was angry? What would the man let slip if Wade pissed him off enough?

If there was one thing that Wade liked to pride himself with (apart from his excellent taste in food and the love of his life), it was his ability to piss people off.

“You know, on second thought, you look more like that old woman in that horror game, after she was taken over by that parasite or whatever that was, and had all those cockroaches coming out of her crotch. What was her name again… Marguerite! That was it!”

The look on Collins face had darkened significantly, and his fists were clenched tightly on top of the table.

Bingo.

“So, Maggie-moo, let’s talk about last weeks shipment for your company.”

He pretended to rifle through the stack of notes to his side.

“You know, the one that, according to your books, should have been transporting sheep wool from Uruguay. However, it says here the ship hailed from the exotic shores of Columbia, and was carrying about twenty-five million dollars worth of cocaine.”

He affected a shocked look, complete with dramatically slapping his hands to his cheeks.

“Marguerite! What a bad, gross looking, girl you have been!”

Collins face was growing red, eyes pinched, teeth grinding together. Guy was gonna blow any second now. It was almost too easy.

“It’s because you weren’t hugged enough as a kid, isn’t it? I mean, I totally understand that your parents didn’t want to hold what must have been the ugliest baby on the planet, and I’m not blaming them one bit. But maybe it was a little much for them to chain you up outside and tell the neighbors you were just a mangy dog for all those years.”

Just as it looked like the other man would explode into an all condemning rage,  Collins, surprisingly, suddenly calmed. The angry red left his face, his tense shoulders relaxed, the fisted hands intertwined their fingers together, and the man leaned back into the chair with a long exhale. Then he smiled.

“You said your name was Wilson, right? Detective Wade Wilson. I thought the name was familiar. I read about you in the newspaper the other day. An engagement announcement, wasn’t it?”

His smile turned nasty.

“And what a lovely creature your fiance is. Peter Parker, 28 years old, works in Queens 'Little Tykes’ daycare center, doesn’t he?”

Wade’s demeanor changed instantly, as a cold, foreboding feeling spread through his stomach. Collins went on, smirking as he saw the panic building up in the detective.

“It would be such a shame, wouldn’t it, if something were to happen to that pretty little fiance of yours. While you are in here, wasting your and your departments time and resources by accusing a good, honorable citizen of crimes he didn’t commit.”

Wade pressed his hands down on the table before him hard, and leaned over to be as much in the slime-bag’s face as possible, and spat out through clenched teeth.

“What did you do?”

He knew that his captain, who had been watching and listening to everything from the other side of the mirror, was likely sending people to his house right now to check up on Peter, as well as calling him on his mobile. It was the only reason why he remained calm enough to not break Collins bones one by one right then.

But Collins remained seemingly unintimidated.

“Why, Detective Wilson, I didn’t do anything. I have been in this room ever since you and your friends in blue so rudely interrupted my meeting, waving these false arrest charges about. I can hardly be held accountable for any accident that might befall the man you love, because you happen to be bad at your job. Did you know that most accidents happen at home?”

The gears in his head turned as fast as his rage grew.

“You sent someone to my fucking house, didn’t you?! Who did you sent? How many?!”

He was becoming frantic, his muscles shaking with the effort to keep himself from lunging right at the smug mother fucker.

“You wouldn’t have sent a lot, right? You have neither the brains to plan accordingly, nor enough underlings to organize something like this on such short notice. You would have sent only one, right? Two at the most! Two couldn’t cause too much damage, right? Tell me you didn’t send more than two!”

The man was far too satisfied with having rattled the detective so much, it didn’t occur to him to wonder about the strange nature of the questions. He was just about to taunt him more, when a new voice cut into the room.

“Four.”

Both heads whipped around to look at the person standing in the now open door.

Peter Parker’s brown hair was slightly ruffled (but still looked ridiculously fluffy if anyone were to ask Wade), his jeans had a few unidentified stains on them, and the too big flannel shirt (Wade’s) that he wore over his science pun t-shirt, was ripped all the way up his left arm. Other than that, however, the younger man looked completely fine.

If you didn’t count the scowl on his face.

“He sent four guys. They trampled their muddy shoes over the new rug in the living room, bled all over the furniture, and broke the vase Aunt May gave us last Christmas.”

Wade had just straightened up and slapped a mollifying smile on his face. “Baby boy-”

Peter’s pointing finger stopped him right in his tracks.

“Don’t you 'Baby boy’ me! I told you not to buy the white rug, because it’ll be a literal dirt magnet. Did you listen? No. You were also the one who insisted on the hard-to-clean couch, because 'But Petey! It’s so soft.’ “

Behind Peter stood one astonished looking Steve Rogers, and a snickering (SNICKERING! The traitor!) Nathan Summers, who had undoubtedly followed Peter down here.

Then his fiance pinned Wade with another withering glare.

“Since our house is now a 'crime scene’, and I will probably have to wait several hours to get back to reading my book in some semblance of peace, until the CSI has found all of the missing teeth from your suspects amateur cronies, I’ll be spending the rest of my day off at Gwen’s place. And who knows, maybe we will go on a little trip down the street, to the shelter on the next block and get a dog.”

With that, the younger man turned on his heel and left a gaping Wade, his full out laughing partner, and their gobsmacked captain in his wake.

“But Babe! We were supposed to pick out the dog together!”

If Peter heard him, it went ignored.

The captain still didn’t know how to react to what had just transpired, it seemed, as he questioningly turned to face one of his best detectives.

“Say, Wilson, how did you two meet again?”

Summers just laughed harder for some reason, and Wade, instead of answering his captain, turned to (the up to that point forgotten) Collins.

Clearly having not anticipated that the detectives twink-looking fiance would be capable of defending himself against the men he had sent out, Collins’ previous bravado melted away faster than ice cream in a microwave. Add to that the now absolutely murderous expression on Wilson’s face, and he was seconds away from wetting himself.

Wade stalked over slowly to his suspect.

“Do you have any idea, how much sex my baby boy is going to withhold from me for this?”

It took both his partner and the captain to restrain the detective long enough for Collins to confess.

[snazzyo]

In praise of J2M’s handling of the decision to end Supernatural

Supernatural has always been special.  And the way that they managed the news of the shows ending is another example of the care and skill they bring to the Supernatural experience.  This decision could have rolled out in so many different ways or different times that would have been much more devastating. But it’s clear from start to finish, the boys deftly managed this announcement in expert fashion.  Long ass post - skim the bold for the gist.  

Ways that showed careful attention to managing o this decision:

They unambiguously ending it versus the CW or the WB.   This is a victory for the show, for fandom, and for the boys.  And J2M didn’t just randomly make a decision. At some point this past year, they started to believe it was time to end.  But in order to make it a #SPNFamily choice they had to have some things fall in place and they had to time when they let people know in order for this to be a ‘choice’ rather than ‘cancellation’. Specifically:

They had to be renewed.  And renewed for 20 episodes.  This means the CW was prepared to continue at the ratings level they had achieved.  Once that happened, then J2M could take over the narrative.  Timing: renewal followed the traditional timeline of late January - which would give TPTB enough time to rewrite the last 4 episodes into a series finale if they needed to.  This has been a consistent pattern since S4.  The last time they totally flew off the cliff without a net was S3 (bless them!).  

They needed to time when they told Dabb & Singer. I’m pretty sure they told Andrew around the 31st of January - when CW made the renewal announcement. Some have made a case that this decision happened earlier and Andrew’s absence on Nov 16th (300th party) was related to him hearing S15 was ‘the end’ news.   BUT I'm thinking they did not share - or maybe hadn't even cemented the idea yet.  First, it would really dampen the mood.  Second, they wanted renewal.  Any hint of hanging it up at that party would have been hard to keep quiet. Too much press.  Too much alcohol.  So, I can't totally get on board with a final decision at that point.  Even if the boys were seriously talking about the remotely sad -- so they weren’t certain they were going to end at that time. These guys are good actors but not robots.  I think it would have shown.  BUT Andrew had to know how to shape the last 4 episodes of S14 (again end of January).  Which means the boys would have provided him the information that they were going to wrap in S15 and he should target the last 24 episodes as supporting that eventuality about that time.  

Either the CW was prepared to let the boys decide on duration or they waited til relatively the last minute so that the CW didn't restructure a shorter season.  I'm torn on this one.  Pedowitz has been respectful of the boys BUT there's definite bad blood on not picking up Wayward Sisters -- and the fan backlash. If Pedowitz did know early enough to weigh in on duration, he only did it for the boys.  Not the CW and not the fans.  He was visibly pissed at the fans backlash on Wayward Sisters.  And I'm 100% certain that him sticking the knife in the back of any other spin-off (which he did last fall by saying Supernatural is just the boys and he doesn't see another spin-off) is because Warner Brothers financial deal was not what he wanted.  Never underestimate the grudges that develop after failed negotiations (which is what the Wayward Sisters was -- it was all about the money).  So, I'm inclined to believe that Pedowitz knew before the announcement but not as quickly as Dabb and Singer did. The boys were more likely to hedge their bet here. THEY controlled the narrative by how they informed key players.

  They strategically timed the public announcement - literally the DAY of the wrap party. This accomplishes two important things for the crew. 

One, the crew WILL get new jobs but this gives them a full year to line up something new.  Some will jump early, some will jump no later than pilot season.  Others will go sporadically based on their intent. The point is that they have a rich portfolio to show and time to show it off to prospective bosses. 

Second, they gave the cast and crew to have one big happy cry-off/celebration.  The boys both stayed this year - which hasn't been the case in a while.  The party was immediately after the announcement - which meant they could have the bulk of the crew there before they headed off to various summer activities. And some now won't come back (as they leap to other jobs).  So it was a maximum crew party.   If there's one thing I'm confident of, it's that J2 understands they hold the livelihoods of so many in their hands.  You really couldn't have asked for a better handling of the end announcement from a crew perspective.   

  They clearly informed key recurring cast members before they made the announcement. This is a fitting professional courtesy to a trusted few.  Especially the ones that were likely to come back on the show.  So Speight, Benedict, Rhodes, Buckmaster, Connell, Smith.  Those guys knew for sure.  And knew no later than SPNNash.  But maybe not much earlier.  If these people were going to get a pilot during pilot season, their recurring role wouldn't have stopped them. 

Unambiguously, Misha was always part of the discussions IMO right from the jump.  He would have been engaged in the actual debate about what to do with J2 and when.  Because while it may be J2's show, Misha is IN that circle of trust.  He has a large dedicated fandom, he's got a huge international charity. And they just love him dearly.  Seriously, they ran a marathon cause he asked them to.  IMO if Misha needed more time, they would have given it to him.  But that's not Misha. He has zero sense of entitlement.    

But this also lets the recurring cast have a private freak-out because the show IS likely their primary professional income stream.  Veterans like Benedict & Rhodes have already been taking other gigs but the conventions mean big dollars too.  It's a nice testament to their friendship that they told them personally and early.

I think JDM was the exception.  I think Jensen told him that this was a real possibility before he signed onto the 300th.  I don't think they had made the final decision that early (pre-Christmas) but they were leaning that way.  

  The timing and approach of the public announcement ALSO massively helps the the fandom - They truly care about fandom. They understand this is going to be actually life-changing hard for some. But with this timing/approach they optimized it as best they could with a staggered process.

We get four more episodes this year while we are 'actively engaged'.  Versus some announcement during Hellatus when there's less folks on line.  It shifts our view of the last four episodes. 

It's done right before a massive con (SPNLV) where Jensen will sing (always a treat).  So it's really good pacing for us.  We get to react to the news and then hear MORE detail from them.  This is also the con that is broadcast via Stage-It.  Could be coincidence.  Maybe not. 

It keeps Comic Con a celebration not a bummer.  We'll start to 'wind up' versus be crushed. 

The announcement was a 1+1+2 strategy.  I don't know if they realized that. They said one positive (yay! S15), they got immediately to the bad news (it's the end), and then followed up with at least two positive statement (we're excited, this family doesn't go away).  Maybe it's instinct but it's a tried and true method.  (Full disclosure: 2+1+1 is the classic method, but I think they knew the jig would be up as soon as they started talking on the video so they ripped off the Band-Aid quickly).      

  All which leads me to the following speculation:

When they signed the S14/S15 contracts, they were prepared to walk away then.  It wasn't how they would want to end it, but they were going to prioritize family time.  Note: the timing of when they were 'asked back' was much later than I think they were hoping.  Based on things both Jared and Jensen said, I get the impression they were hoping to orchestrate the next two contracts earlier than Nov 17 (when they were 'asked back').  They had been talking 'mini-series' or other event-like content. I think understanding when/how they have leverage was informed by this relatively traditional November 'ask back' and this shaped how they went about the end announcement strategy.  But the 20 episode contracts with clearly more time off was both a necessity and a bit of a test -- would it hold up with that level of involvement?

I think they really expected Wayward Sisters to be picked up.  They thought crossovers with Wayward would help make a two-year transition smooth.  That they didn't get picked up, that Pedowitz crushed any spin-off hopes was significant in how they played the S15 decision.  Without Wayward, a S15 was necessary to give the crew time to land elsewhere IMO.  That also includes writers, producers, and recurring guests.  But the unexpected failure to pick up Wayward DID shift some storylines early in the season.  I think there is literally NOTHING left of Wayward tie-in after mid-season.  Except for a general "they exist in offscreenville' commitment.  As mentioned elsewhere Kathryn Newton was gonzo right away.  Yadira is on an Apple show with Jason Mamoa.  Kim has had guest appearances on other shows.  Briana has music going and probably actively looking for work for the last year.  The other 3 are back in the hopper, looking for acting gigs as far as I can tell. And I honestly think Berens still has a gaping chest wound from the loss of his hopes and dreams. I think Dabb has moved on but also feels the loss.  But without Wayward, the boys lost their structured soft ending for Supernatural. Maybe something pops up later (a special or movie) but that's dependent on how they end the series.  We won't know if it's even viable until 2020.  

They are truly ready to move on.  They've been prepared since Nov 2017.  I think they were open to more (under the 20 episode, less time contract terms) but they sense "now" is the time.  It could be the storylines, it could be the fan reaction to their less involvement (which has been understanding but generally unhappy), and it could be a variety of things.  Unless they say something specifically about the ' why now', I think it's fair to say they didn't see enough momentum to make it extend. Hence the 'go out on a high note'.  I'll be shocked if they ever criticize anyone or any story specifically.    

Bottom Line:  They brilliantly played the hand they were dealt.  It's so nice to be part of a fandom where the stars put such a priority on taking care of others.  It's why I buy in, completely, on the #SPNFamily concept. 

[trifrost17]

YGO Advent Bonus: Gift

Summary:  Yugi and Atem celebrate Christmas with their children.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811635/chapters/41171489#workskin

25: Gift

It was a strange thing, being that they were a Japanese-Egyptian mixed family (well, adding in the technical ethnicities of their children, they were a Japanese-Egyptian-Turkish-Chinese mixed family), but they celebrated Christmas. Not for any religious reason but mostly because it gave their children such joy to decorate a tree and get presents on December 25th, as well as eat fried chicken and Christmas cake. Yugi and Atem had started the tradition around the time they got Ziya, mostly as a way to make him feel more connected with them. It was something new they could all experience together and a way to give them all a day that brought them closer as a family.

Téa had been the one to suggest it since Christmas was such a big deal in America. She said children looked forward to it year round. She thought it would be a big help for Ziya to make him feel more comfortable as a family unit and it turned out, she was right.

Atem smiled, wrapping his arms around Yugi as they watched their children unwrap their gifts. The four had woken up at the crack of dawn, gleefully bursting into Yugi and Atem’s room to wake them up. The two fathers had gotten dressed while their children brushed their teeth and washed their faces, barely beating the eager ones downstairs to the tree. Atem and Yugi had learned from experience that if they weren’t down their first, gifts and stockings were opened whether everyone was ready or not.  

The entire morning, though, had been nothing but gleeful screams and shouts from the children. All four were so happy, tearing into their presents and ripping off wrapping paper with vigor. Atem was almost sad to see all his and Yugi’s hard work at making each package look so pretty with ribbons torn so quickly to shreds. Well, at least it had made a beautiful picture in front of the tree before the kids had dug into them.

Atem was sure they could probably post the photos in the KaibaCorp magazine. It had become something of a tradition for their fans and readers to get a few pages blurb about the Mutou household annual Christmas. Joey said it was constantly talked about on his channel after the magazines came out, while Mokuba and Kaiba both confirmed that the Mutou Christmas issue tended to be one of the bestselling in the entire year. Mokuba said it was like a classy form of celebrity gossip that people could indulge in. Getting a peek into world-class game designer and his gamer husband’s life with their children just made them more relatable to the people.

And, Kaiba had mentioned more than once, Yugi and Atem tended to buy the children the newest KaibaCorp products which were then advertised in the magazine and without fail, those items that had been gifted to the Mutou children would have increased sales for the following month. Needless to say, Kaiba was more than willing to give them discounted prices on Christmas gifts for some of the new toys. Hell, he had even given them unreleased merchandise to give to the kids before in order to feature it in his magazine (the payoff of doing so had quite possibly doubled to tripled the sales of the item compared to the initial projections).  

Atem was snapped out of his musings by his youngest daughter. Mana squealed when she pulled out two Watapon plush dolls.

“Daddy! Papa! Look! Look!” Yugi grinned and nodded. “They twins like me and Bubby!”

“Yes, they are.” Their attention shifted as Ziya gasped, jumping up and down for joy at the new game he received—Ultimate Duel Z. It was the newest KaibaCorp board game on the market, not even released to the general public yet.  

“I love you, Daddy, Papa!! Thank you!!!” He bounced over to hug them both, making Yugi and Atem laugh at his exuberance. “I can’t wait to play it! We’ll all play today after cake, right?” Yugi nodded, gesturing for their son to continue opening gifts. If they didn’t, Ziya would forget all about the rest of his presents just to focus on playing with this one.  

After their son skipped away, Atem returned to his favorite activity: touching Yugi. He nuzzled his husband’s jaw, pressing a soft kiss onto his skin. “They’re really happy. Look; Meimei is still staring at her new Duel Monsters set.”

“And I think Mahad may squeeze those Kuriboh dolls to death.” Yugi reached around, placing a hand on Atem’s butt. “On another note… This sweater? I thought we made it illegal. You do know I’m dying here, right?”

Atem laughed, nipping Yugi’s earlobe. “No, we made wearing pants underneath this sweater illegal. And I should have you know, I am not wearing any pants whatsoever underneath this top. These are stockings that end at my thighs.” He grinned, lowering his voice even further, making sure none of their kids could hear him. “And I may have possibly forgotten to put anything else on underneath, too.”

Yugi’s face flushed red hot. He squeezed Atem’s ass before bringing his hand back to his own body—likely to keep himself from touching Atem any more and giving into temptation. “You’re going to be the death of me. I’m dying. You’re killing me.”

“And you have to live with this knowledge until Mama comes to get the kids today.”

“Thank Ra they want to give us our own gifts. Thank Ra she takes them for at least an hour to wrap them and leaves us here alone. Thank you, Ra.” They celebrated the other half of Christmas Day at the game shop with Yugi’s mother and grandfather. There, the kids received more gifts from their grandmother and great-grandfather, while also giving Yugi and Atem their own gifts. Afterwards, they would all work together to bake the Christmas cake and decorate it, and then get fried chicken to eat for dinner as well as eating the cake for dessert.

Atem laughed, nuzzling Yugi’s neck again. “Just think. I’ll be your gift then. Something for you to unwrap for Christmas, too.”  

Yugi tilted his head back, kissing the underside of Atem’s jaw. “The best gift I could ask for.”

“Well, besides our kids.” Yugi nodded, looking back up at their four children. He relaxed into Atem’s embrace, their previous arousal ignored for the time being as they watched the four finish unwrapping their presents.

It had been a journey to get here, Atem realized. Dying and then coming back to life. Dating Yugi, going through college together, sticking with him as he released Spherium II, then getting engaged. Their marriage, Yugi winning Game of the Year, meeting Yugi’s siblings, Yugi releasing Monster World VR, then Yugi’s little sister showing up at their doorstep pregnant. All of it snowballing to getting Miya, Yugi releasing Millennium World, then them adopting Ziya, the Kaleidoscope project, and finally getting their twins. So much in twenty years.

He was so lucky for all of it. Atem had never imagined when Osiris offered him the gift of life that he would ever have all of this in his world. He never imagined he’d get Yugi in his arms for all eternity, able to wake up and fall asleep beside him night after night. He never imagined he’d be so fortunate to have four wonderful children, two of which were miraculously his blood.

Atem had been given more than he could ever fathom and he hoped to live the rest of his life showing his family and husband how grateful he was for that opportunity.

His partner seemed to read his thoughts and leaned up, kissing him deeply.

“I’m so thankful for you. Thank you for coming back to me.”

“Oh, Yugi. You’re the greatest gift to me. Thank you for being my partner.” Atem opened his mouth to say more but was cut off by a gag from one of his children. Both he and Yugi turned around to see Miya and Ziya making gross faces at them.

“Daddy! Papa! You’re being all gross and mushy again!” Miya complained. Atem and Yugi laughed, pulling apart from each other. After all, soon enough, they’d get their own time to be as gross and mushy with each other without an audience. And besides, they both wanted to focus on watching their children open their gifts. It was always a joy to see their children happy.

That was all he ever wanted, after all. To simply have Yugi and his children happy and with him—that truly was the greatest gift of all.