#and she goes silent for a minute and says ‘you’re so pure…’

[cetoddle]

i think i am having an existential crisis

[slut4sugu]

𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐃 𝐇𝐂𝐒 (𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.)

a/n: im back my loves! I’ve been rewatching criminal minds and omg I love how soft Spencer is he’s just adorable bro. Also JJ with bangs? (She can get it too honestly) Mentions; of sub!spencer, dry humping, cunnilingus, sweet but nasty Spence <33

isn’t the best with explaining his feelings for you not in a nerdy way but is a poet when it comes to words of affirmation; ever time Spencer sees you look so beautiful, so ethereal he just randomly pouts out a poem that can barely come close to describe the amount of love he has for you in that moment <33

I’m a strong believer in the fact that Reid has a little decor around his apartment for when Halloween rolls around; and is beyond happy when he comes home from a case to find that you’ve went a the extra mile and decorating it a bit more for him <33

Memorizes your cafe orders; so on his off days he’ll wake up before you to surprise you with a muffin and your favorite tea/coffee

is usually the big spoon in bed; however if he’s had a challenging week he’ll just silently curl into your side pressing kisses to you neck as he murmurs a “thank you love.”

whines into kisses & grinds his hips into yours while doing so; Spence is weak for you that much is certain. Your voice is as smooth as silk and your touch never fails to ignite a fire on his skin. But your kisses are pure aphrodisiac, you effortlessly pull moans from him like it’s nothing. “You’re so cute Spence, so you want me to touch you?” “Please angel.”

cannot leave without his goodbye kiss and an I love you; one time you decided to mess with him and kiss him goodbye without saying I love you. After not hearing you say it back he poked his head back in your shared bedroom and loooked at you confused. “I love you?” “Mhm, have a good day sweetheart.” Now he’s pouting, “..did I do something wrong?” Now you have to pepper his face with kisses and tell him you love him multiple times so he can leave.

whenever he’s gone for a couple days for a particular hard case he’ll send you flowers, and sends you text messages; to check the new book you’ve read. Which leads you to find a sweet love letter. Promising his safe return and that he’ll make up for lost time <33

loves baking and cooking with you; know we all know Spencer can’t cook worth a damn, so his job in the kitchen is maintaining the mess you tend to create while making brownies and ofc pressing kisses to your shoulder as you mix the batter

eats you out slowly when he’s sleepy but horny; it’s so hot but so agonizingly slow. Even the way his tongue flicks against your clit feels slow, once he hears your begs and whines he’ll speed up a bit. Slowly starting to get more into it than you are, pulling you by your thighs to get close to his tongue. Lapping up your cunt is an art form to Spence, and all art deserves to be appreciated <33

tells Garcia and Morgan about you; he intends not to rant but once he pictures your sweet smile in his head he’s a goner. Now he talking about your mannerisms and how you always cover your smile with your hand because your self conicous about it, but he finds your smile so beautiful..

when he gets jealous he pouts slightly; he manages it relatively well but the initial time a guy looks at you too long or has that look on his face, Spence does that little confused pouty thing slightly before making it clear your happily taken.

Spence is HELLA touchy; cannot go 2 minutes without touching you. In the car? Hand on your thigh, sitting on the couch together? Your thighs gotta be on his lap. One way or the other

Happily spends his money on you; spence absolutely loves spoiling you, and every anniversary he makes a habit of buying you a dress. Not overly pricey but just enough in the 200-300 range. each anniversary he goes a little bit higher and higher or if you found a dress you really like hell buy you jewelry. But once you guys hit one year? He goes all out <33

uses your lotions and shampoo on occasion; being away from you for hours on end can be tough at some times so Spencer makes a habit of buying smaller samples of your vanilla or strawberry scented products. Smell of sweet candy and cookies like helps ease his mind when he’s away at work.

Honorable mentions

princess twirl/hugs when he comes back from a long case

loves going on library dates with you

says I love you every time before doing down on you <33

[inkdrinkerworld]

Talk Too Much

Pairing: Remus Lupin x loud but shy!reader

Cw: college!au, fluff, kind of friends to lovers, obliviousness by Remus for a while, drinking (mentioned), smoking (cigarettes), I think that’s it

Wc: 2.2k

You’re a loudmouth. Through and through. Of all your friends, you honestly think you and James would be the ones to never shut up or run out of words.

That is until Remus transfers into the school and infiltrates your friend group and suddenly you find the words can run out.

It’s not on purpose.

It seems to take you over purely by coincidence- the way your throat gets dry and your tongue seems too heavy to form the words you want to get out when Remus seems to be paying attention to only you. His gaze isn’t unwelcome- that’s the entire problem.

You like the feeling of being what he looks at, but it feels too good, too natural.

His honey eyes that are just lightly flecked with green, and his sharp jawline that’s adorned with silvery scar tissue that somehow makes him even more handsome.

He’s also always got a cigarette to fiddle with.

You’ve only seen him smoke twice, and had been mesmerised by the way his cheeks hollow and how he blows the smoke out and it seems to curl around him like it’s unable to obey his exhales in the opposite direction.

He reminds you in a way of Charlie Dalton and Stephen Meeks.

Fctional characters who Remus seems to emulate in his confidence (from Charlie) and a sort of confidence that’s self-assured yet mild at the same time (a mix of the two) and that in itself makes you fall a little more for him.

It’s overwhelming- this attraction to him. It confuses you and has you tripping over words in your head, far less for if you voiced them and all that was heard were clunky excuses for sentences.

What makes your sudden bouts of silence obvious is the fact that your friends have caught onto you.

It’s not like it’s exceptionally hard to decipher either- you’re not really good at being subtle.

You suspect James and Sirius are taking bets on when it’ll all be too obvious for everyone to walk around it and you desperately hope that it takes months while simultaneously hoping it takes only weeks.

Remus notices the way your body freezes when you realise you’ve caught his attention in your storytelling. In his mind, it’s because you don’t like him.

The way you shrink down and suddenly go silent the moment his eyes set upon you, the way you remain quiet even though he sees the way the corners of your mouth twitch with something to say.

He thinks he’s put you off somehow, especially when the second he’s gone a little ways away to get a drink or get his lunch, you seem to perk right back up and dive into storytelling once more.

It bothers him so much he asks Sirius about it- a mistake in itself, because Sirius only pokes fun at his friend.

“If you can’t realise why she goes silent the moment you stare at her Lupin, I can’t help you.” Sirius walks off leaving Remus even more perplexed, moreso when he hears Sirius says, “How’s he so thick for someone doing so many higher classes?”

It bewilders Remus for weeks, your always sudden vows of silence and then your equally sudden broken vows.

You’re all at a house party when it comes to an almost end.

You’re dressed pretty like always, a skirt that hugs all the places Remus longs to touch and a top that shows a sliver of your stomach and Remus catches a glimpse of jewellery hanging in your navel.

Your ears have a pair of hanging bat earrings, and your necklace is your standard one- he’s sure he’s never seen you without it.

You’re smiling and laughing with Marlene and Mary as you walk in. Remus wants to figure out why you dislike him so, he desperately wants to change your sour opinion of him. He’s going to at least try to do so tonight, if you can stomach looking at him.

“C’mon losers,” James’ loud voice is unmistakable, “We’re playing seven minutes in heaven.”

Remus is only approaching when he hears your teasing,

“Are we taking a blast back to Year 9 Jamie?”

James nods, “Yeah we are, and would you look at that you and Lupin are up first.” You’re sure there’s an evil little grin on James’ face when you look up and find Remus standing there in his soft brown sweater and jeans.

You can smell a little of the cigarette he’d smoked before coming in, but mostly you smell his citrus, pepper and amber cologne.

It’s heady and you swear your brain gets a little drunk on it.

“Get going you two,” Sirius teases and you sigh standing.

Remus’ mind is reeling, wondering how he’s going to get back at Sirius and James and the rest of your friends that he knows are in on this too.

Out of ear shot of your friends as you both go to the nearest room, Remus says lowly, “You don’t have to come in. I’ll just tell them we talked.”

You look up at him, eyes wide and Remus takes your surprise as a moment to admire you up close. He counts three beauty marks near your right eye, another on your neck just under your chin, and one on your nose. He’s distracted by you for a good long while that he doesn’t register you’ve spoken till he sees you walk into the room and gesture for him to follow.

It’s tense, a silence neither of you are sure how to break.

You think Remus is the most gorgeous man to be placed on the Earth, and Remus thinks you find him repulsive.

You watch Remus climb onto the bed, his long legs crossed at the ankles as his back presses against the headboard.

His casualness makes him look even more attractive and while you’re aware that you’re staring at him, you can’t make yourself stop.

‘Now or never,’ he thinks to himself before asking, “Have I offended you somehow?”

There it is, laid open and bare. The question hangs in the air, like the most tantalising yet foreign fruit you’ve ever seen.

“No?” It comes out like a question. One Remus takes as a chance to explain.

“It’s just that you’re always talking or telling a story with the others, and as soon as I’m near earshot you go silent and you can’t meet my eyes. So I’ve been thinking that maybe I’ve offended you, and I just wanted to say sorry for if I did- directly or indirectly.”

Remus’ attractiveness has been upped by a thousand- you’re sure all the love deities are having a laugh at your hopelessness.

You can’t meet his eyes now, even as you sit on the bed, so close to him that your biceps brush each other’s. “You haven’t offended me.”

Your voice is much softer than he’s ever heard it. Remus thinks this must be the softest you’ve ever spoken in your whole life.

“I haven’t?” he asks and you shake your head. Hazarding a glance at him, you find Remus leaning his shoulder down, his chin tucked as his eyes roam your frame.

“N-no,” your stutter gives you away slowly. “You’re just different from the others.” It’s not a clearer explanation, but the gears are turning in Remus’ head all the same and you can tell.

“Different how?” Remus doesn’t want to assume anything and that’s what causes the gears to come to a screeching halt.

You sigh, fiddling with the hem of your skirt. Remus has never seen you this unsure. Everything you do is with confidence and ease, like you were just made to walk, talk and move the way that you do. Like it was as easy as breathing.

Maybe it’s the way you take your time to consider your words, or the way you fiddle with your clothes or even the way your breathing changes as he leans just a bit closer that makes Remus smile a little.

“Will you look at me for a second, darling gwerthfawr?” The softness of his tone and the way his accent changes to something a little more melodic makes you more jelly-like than you usually are in his presence.

“Hm?” you hum and Remus smirks. Silvery slithers of scar tissue moving with his mouth and making him look wicked in a way that has you falling a little more in love with him.

“Why don’t you like looking or speaking to me?”

Remus doesn’t let you turn away, doesn’t let you tuck your cheek to your shoulder as you deliberate what you want to say. No, instead, the menace holds your chin and stares at you, holding your gaze and making your brain cloud even more as his cologne and attention wash over you.

“I like looking at you,” you admit shyly, the confession coming from your lips with hesitation. Like Remus will be repulsed by the fact that you like looking at him. “But you make me nervous.”

The words are suspended in the quiet of the room. All there is the muffled sounds of the party going on in the living room, and then yours and Remus’ breathing.

“I make you nervous?”

Sirius and James burst through the door, wide smiles that turn into shocked smirks at your positions.

“Well love birds, sorry but your seven minutes are up.” Remus staggers in letting your chin go, but when his fingers slacken, you leave the room, belly in knots in the almost wordy confession.

“So, how’d that go?” James asks him as you bend the corner- he’s sure that Lily and the other girls will be doing the same with you.

Remus flops on the bed, “Nothing that concerns you two gits.” His mind is racing with possibilities of finishing this conversation.

Sirius boos, “After all that planning to get you two in here and snogging each other’s faces off, that’s the thanks we get?” Walking out with James who’s shaking his head.

-

“But you make me nervous,” repeats in his head for days. He’s not dense by a mile, but Remus has a hard time figuring out what about him makes you nervous.

Sure he’s tall and a little serious, but he’s not as intimidating as he’d first thought Sirius was. Remus doesn’t want to turn to his friends, sure they’d tease him endlessly for being ‘thick,’ and then more than likely tell you and that would just make you even more nervous to look or speak to him at the very least.

What Remus does do, is consult the best person he knows that will give him impartial advice; books.

There’s always a book for any occasion, so he delves deep. Behavioural analysis books, books on people with social anxiety (which he doesn’t think you have because it’s just him that gets the selective mutism) and even at the end of it, he turns to romance novels. Something must stand out.

It comes to a head when Remus comes to the library when you’re busy typing away at your essay. You feel the presence, the warmth of his pepper and amber cologne as he pulls the seat out beside you.

Remus doesn’t say a word as he sits down. Instead, he pulls out his laptop and begins typing at the same essay prompt you’re working on.

You’re hyper aware of everything he’s doing- every breath, every sigh, every harsh backspace and enter.

Remus doesn’t seem to be half as affected as you are and it has you whispering, “What are you doing here, Remus?”

He hums, tapping his forefinger near the touchpad. He finishes his sentence and then turns to you. “Working on that essay due tomorrow.”

You frown, lips pulled downwards as you think of your next words. “You know what I mean, why are you sitting beside me?”

Remus sighs, head hanging off the back of the chair. “I want you to not be nervous around me anymore. I also want to know why I make you nervous.”

You swallow, mouth suddenly dry.

Remus turns to look at you and the amber lighting of the library makes his skin look sunkissed and supple. His honey and sage eyes blink owlishly at you, no sign of rushing you along for an answer.

That was something you had learnt while silently watching Remus. He’s always actually listening- not just listening to respond.

“Because,” you start, eyes darting all over his face in search of any insecurity in it. “You always seem so hyper focused on what it is I’m going to say next and it flusters me.”

Remus’ face morphs into a smile, his lazy expression from before melting away as his eyes warm to your embarrassed whisper.

“So it’s not dislike?” He asks, hands itching to tip your chin up like he had the other night.

“Are you going to make me say it out loud?”

“Poor girl,” he feels much more confident now. Now that he knows for sure that you don’t hate him and that you might actually like him as much as he likes you, he can be a little more flirty.

His hand reaches for your wrist, thumb running back and forth around your pulse.

You scowl, more than a little bashful to have exposed your feelings to Remus. He doesn’t mind.

No, Remus feels over the moon. Enough so that his hand moves from your wrist and his forefinger hooks under your chin so you’re making eye contact again.

“I like you too. Just as much,” it’s his turn for a whispered confession and you hope to all hell that he can’t feel the thundering of your pulse. “Maybe more.”

You feel your body buzz under his attention. Remus leans in closer, “Let me take you out after this? We can go somewhere quiet and have a proper ‘first’ conversation.”

[sunsetsimon]

i’ve been lurking through your page for the past few days and i’m screaming, crying, kicking my feet at simon. ANYWAYS— i’ve had a scary interaction yesterday evening when i parked my car and a guy opened my door when i was gathering my things from the passenger seat.

i screamed, which made him flinch and i was able to close the door and lock myself in. he banged my window and kept on trying to talk to me until he finally left.

i had a full blown panic attack and it took my 20 minutes to gather enough courage to get out and run home.

what’s scarier is that i am four months along w/ my bsf’s baby (USE PROTECTION KIDS, ONE SILLY MISTAKE AND YOU LOSE YOUR BSF AND FEEL LIKE A WHALE) and i don’t have anyone to call/reach so…… now… i can only think of reader experiencing this, but being able to call simon and him just comforting her afterwards and coming to save her <3 ugh i need a simon in my life hahahah

anyways—— sorry if this was weird and a strange word vomit too, feel free to ignore!! stay safe 🫶🏼

— momanon 🧞‍♀️

HOLY FUCKING SHIT. i'm so glad you're okay ugh that's terrifying!!! and i hope you have the happiest and healthiest pregnancy ever <333 mwah!

simon is fucking fuming, he can't think of the last time he was this riled up, ready to split this guy down the middle. your hands are shaking as you call him, struggling to hold your phone up to your ear, voice trembling as you speak. the line goes silent, all you hear is quick shuffling of what you can only assume is simon grabbing his keys to come to you.

“what does he look like? which direction is he walking to? what is he wearing?” firing off question after question, picturing all the ways he can send this man to his maker. of course you’re shaken, thoughts twisted from pure shock and adrenaline.

“don’t fucking move,” he orders you, and you can hear the loud acceleration of his car, driving way over the speed limit, running stop signs, tunnel visioned on getting to you.

he’s there faster than you can really process, his energy completely different. simon’s demeanor is dark, intimidating, enough to pull you out of your shock. his eyes are scanning the parking lot, searching for anyone who fits the description of the man.

“are you okay?” he asks, opening your door to pull you into his arms.

he holds you against his chest, taking deep breaths to coax you into calming down, his chest rising and falling in tempo with yours. his warm hand rests on your tummy, rubbing lightly as if he was soothing the baby.

“yeah that was just… scary,” you say, observing the cars around you once more. it's you and simon, and a woman about your age walking down the rows of cars. keys and purse in hand, she quickly passes you and gets in a blue car parked a few spaces down. though she didn't give you a second glance, simon watched her like a hawk, brown eyes scanning for the man lurking around.

"m'never letting you go anywhere alone again. especially while carryin' my kid with you," he huffs as the woman shuts her car door, quickly backing out and leaving. you're gathering your things, filling your bag with everything that had spilled in your fright, flinging things around while locking the door.

simon guides you out of your car by your hand, holding his other arm out to help stabilize you if you need it. grabbing the bag from you, he kisses your forehead and walks on your heels the entire way. from then on, he keeps his promise of not allowing you to go anywhere alone, always by your side to protect you.

[desceros]

For infinite singularity, I was wondering, after Donnie takes reader out of the office through the portal…

What happens to the..crime scene and our psycho coworker? Especially what did the rest of the brothers do?

(Btw love ur work, ur a total inspiration! ✨💞drink water, steal sum sustenance, take care of yourself 💗)

As soon as you and Donnie are through the portal, Leo gets to work. 

Mikey’s in charge of keeping your coworker from doing anything stupid. A task he enjoys greatly, as it means he gets to sit and giggle on the guy’s chest and pretend he can’t hear him wheezing for breath where Donnie nearly choked him. Meanwhile, Raph is sent off to take care of getting the power back on. He’s no Donnie with tech and never will be, but he’s getting decent at stuff like this. They don’t need it, but it’ll make it easier when the cops finally show up to wipe up the mess.

“So, what exactly was the plan here, huh?” Leo asks your coworker. “You get kicks out of roughing up pretty girls?”

“She’s not some random girl. She’s my soulmate,” your coworker spits, vile descriptions of the things he planned on doing to you cut off when Leo gets a foot on the clown’s broken forearm. 

“Wow, that’s so weird. Here I thought she was my brother’s soulmate,” Leo says, waving his hand in the air and watching the rage purple your coworker’s face. “What with the whole can’t stand to be apart and gazing sappily into each other’s eyes thing they have going on.”

“My pure little dove wouldn’t fuck a monster. He’s forcing her.”

“Buddy, I can promise you, first hand account, she did. Also, kind of ironic considering I’m pretty sure you got caught with your hand in one hell of a cookie jar, don’t you think?”

Raph comes back. “Power’s on,” he says, his word the only indication that’s the case since he left the lights off. Better for them, just in case. 

“Good job. One last thing,” Leo says, putting more of his weight on your coworker’s arm and feeling the bones splinter beneath his heel. “What’s TCRI doing sending out hit squads? Last I checked, business wasn’t supposed to be this cut-throat.”

Between heaving breaths of agony, your coworker groans in wretched agony before he just starts to laugh and laugh and laugh. “You’re a funny guy.”

“Right? Everyone keeps saying it’s my brother, but man, I’m telling you, my lines are killer,” Leo says, a grin that’s all teeth slashing onto his face as he grinds his heel into shattered bone. 

“He ain’t gonna talk,” Raph says after a minute more of your coworker just laughing each time he stops gritting his teeth in pain. 

“I can make him do it,” Mikey says cheerfully, a smile that doesn’t match his eyes pulling into place. 

“…Raph’s right. We’re not going to get anything out of him,” Leo says, pulling his foot off your coworker’s arm. “Knock him out and call it in.”

“I’ll find her again,” your coworker grits through his teeth. “She’ll never be able to hide from me. I’ll haunt her forever. Even if it’s like this, it’ll only ever be me she thinks about. Forever and ever and—”

“Ohh, my god, shut up,” Mikey groans, and with a thwack, your coworker goes silent. He then looks up at Leo, tilting his head. “…I didn’t know you believed in soulmates, too, Leo!”

“…Of course I don’t,” Leo brushes off, turning to inspect the security camera, putting his shell to his brother’s gaze.

“Cops’re on the way,” Raph says, and the two watch as Mikey gets your coworker trussed like a turkey. 

“We’ll have Donnie send them the security footage. Doesn’t look like he tampered with the cameras,” Leo says. Cutting a portal, he jerks his head. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Reappearing in the lair, Leo pulls up his phone.

neon leon (6:11 p.m.) hey hermano. everything okay over there? how she doing

neon leon (6:12 p.m.) bud? you good?

neon leon (6:15 p.m.) nerd says whaaaat

Narrowing his eyes, Leo starts to tap out the next message—dude if you don’t answer in two minutes i’m coming over and—before he freezes in place, thinks for a moment, then groans in disgust. 

“Did you get a hold of Donnie?” Raph asks, tilting his head in confusion when Leo brushes past with a wrinkled beak.

“Let’s give ‘em an hour then try again. Fuckin’ rabbits.”

“…Rabbits?”

Mikey pets Raph’s shell consolingly. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Wh—B—I’m the oldest?!”

[darksigns-exe]

and suddenly, i had a valentine - nicholas ruffilo x laurie (ofc)

warnings: none, pure fluff

word count: 2.2k

note: for @deathblacksmoke who wanted to our boy Nicholas Ryan to be taken out on a cute date <3

set immediately before remember where we started out

dividers: @saradika-graphics

masterlist | series masterlist | taglist sign-up

The call of his name makes Noah perk up. Laurie calls for him again, and this time his body actually kicks into action. He closes the lids of his and Laurie’s water bottles before taking hers with him. 

“Where?” He calls through the mostly silent house. 

“Bedroom.” The reply comes seconds later. 

He climbs the stairs two at a time, maybe a little too eager. 

Noah finds her in front of the mirror, bending to try and reach the zip of her dress. 

“Oh.” He can’t stop the sound from leaving his lips. 

“Like it?”

He places her bottle on the little dresser next to the door before he steps up behind her. 

It’s a tight little number, soft fabric that clings to her body perfectly. 

“You’re gorgeous. This is— I like it a lot.” He stumbles around the words, as if he hadn’t buried his face between her thighs just hours earlier. 

“I’m taking Nicky out on a little date. Thought I’d dress up a little.”

There’s a pang of disappointment in his chest. It dissipates before it gets to form fully, though. 

“Oh, he’ll love it.”

“You think? It’s not too much?”

Noah shakes his head, “I bet he’s gonna do that thing where he gets all flustered and looks like a fish out of water for a moment. You know what I mean.” 

He mimics the expression perfectly. Wide eyes and stilted breathing included. 

Noah wraps his arms around her middle, so that he can rest his chin on her shoulder. 

“He’s gonna love it. Where are you going?”

“That new place that does the Neapolitan pizza. We can all go together sometime if you want?” Laurie fixes him in the mirror. 

“I’d love that.” He presses a soft little kiss to the side of her jaw, “But tonight is not about me. So you go and treat our boy right. I think he’s starting to run tracks into the carpet. Jerry’s getting annoyed with him pacing around like that.”

“Gotta zip me up first.” She says then, “Can’t reach it.”

Noah does as she asks, one gentle hand placed on her waist while he drags the zip up the length of her side. 

“Thank you, dear.” Laurie says with the softest little smile.

He stays and watches while she puts on her perfume and what he assumes to be lipstick. It’s not as colourful as her usual one is, but it makes her look so very kissable. He’s almost tempted to steal a kiss from her before she goes down to wrap her arm around Nicks. But Noah knows that she’ll scold him for messing up the colour, and so he settles for a chaste kiss against her cheek. 

He stays up on the landing, quietly watching Laurie descend the stairs and calling for Nick. He does exactly what Noah had prophesied a few minutes earlier. Noah forces the bitter sting of jealousy back down his throat as he watches Nick gaze at her so lovingly. Nick gives him the same attention, looks at him with that same soft look on his face, but at that moment Noah wants to worm his way between them so desperately. They deserve the night out, though. Nick’s been working a lot and hasn’t had nearly as much time with her as Noah had. They deserve this. 

The two are out of the door a moment later. Nick calls a Bye Noah over his shoulder as they leave. He waves when Laurie turns back to blow a little kiss his way. 

It’s not like they never go out. 

Even when it’s already been a few years since they became a couple, Nick had always made sure that they went out regularly. Sure, Laurie had initiated date nights too. But something about her asking him out like this – flowers included – had made his heart leap with that feeling of falling in love with her again. She’d come by the shop while he’d been locking up. That itself hadn’t been unusual. Laurie would usually come around when they were both working late so that they could head home together. Especially after they’d moved out of her little apartment. 

That day she’d come with flowers and a pair of jam filled donuts somewhat reflecting one of their first dates. 

To see her now all dressed up, wrapped into a pretty satin dress, fills his head with even more fuzz. Sometimes, he can’t quite believe that he gets to call his woman his girlfriend. He does feel a little bad for Noah, although the younger has made it very clear that he’ll be fine. Nick, above all else, wants both of his loves to be happy. 

Tonight is all about them, though. 

Laurie has been surprisingly secretive about her plans for the evening. He knows that it’s usually so very hard for her to keep secrets from either of them. She’s a horrible liar, and watching her trying to dodge questions about presents is an absolute delight. 

He feels horribly underdressed next to her. Somehow this woman manages to look incredible in everything she wears, but when she gets all dressed up like this she’s entirely out of his league. 

“Take a left here.” 

She still hasn’t told him where they’re going, which is a little impractical when he’s the one driving. 

“Park where you can, we can walk the rest of the way. It’s not far.”

“You’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?”

“You’ll see when we get there. I can’t drive you there, so I’ll have to be secretive about it.” She says with a little giggle, “Won’t have to wait long.”

Laurie drops her hand to his thigh, giving it a gentle, comforting squeeze. 

She holds his hand while they walk to wherever she is taking him. Laurie was right, it’s only a short walk until the red and white striped canopy comes into view. They’d talked about this place before, made plans to go some time, but never really got around to it. 

“You got a table?” he asks, trying to hide the excited edge in his voice. 

Laurie squeezes his hand, “Of course. Thought I’d give some of what you do for me – us – back. Treat you as nice as you always treat me.” 

And she does. Nick feels flustered and on edge with nerves from the moment she holds the door open for him. He’s done it for her so very often, and to suddenly be at the centre of her attention is very new. Laurie’s always been so very sweet and caring with him, but this is new. Her hand presses against the small of his back, mirroring the way he would guide her when they enter a location. And it makes him feel so fuzzy and warm inside. 

They’re seated in a comfy little corner, shielded from most of the commotion. The waiter lights the candles set between them on the table, casting Laurie in gorgeous, warm light. It reflects of her hair, the soft skin of her cheeks. 

Miles out of my league, he thinks. 

Sometimes, he can hardly believe that he gets to call Laurie his – let alone her and Noah. 

Her hand curls around his, manicured nails tracing across his skin just barely. 

“Nicky?” she asks softly, squeezing his hand just so gently.

Nick shakes himself back into focus. 

“What’s on your mind, dear? You look lost in thought.” 

He turns their joined hands over, allowing him to see the little sweetheart tattoo with his initials in the centre of it. They’d been together for a little over a year when it had come up as a joke. A week later, when Laurie had come to pick him up from the studio, he’d shown her sketches he’d made. 

“I think I could fit a second one next to it.” he says idly, not quite looking at her, “There’s space for him there.” 

What he really wants to say is that there’s space for Noah between them, that he fits between them so perfectly. 

“Would be nice. I’d have both of you with me, even when you’re off doing your thing.”

She’s smiling at him when he looks up at her, that gentle little smile that makes his heart race a little. 

Nick feels a little like he did when they had just started going out. He’d taken her out on a date to a little pizza shop. The place had been so small that they’d been seated so close that their knees kept knocking into each other. It feels nice to know that they could afford a little more than that now. That place hadn’t been bad – they still stop by sometimes – but he likes knowing that all of their hard work has paid off. And it’s not as if they’re swimming in it now, but things are going well and this is a well deserved treat. 

Laurie had been adamant that he should let her pay tonight. They’re not very strict about this normally, but he can’t argue with her when she looks at him with that little stern edge. Laurie always says that he takes care of them, but deep down they all know that she is the one who keeps them in order. Laurie’s the one who reminds Nick to drink water, who tells Noah to be a little easier on himself. She’s the one who kisses him so sweetly when she tells him how proud she is of him. 

He tries to give as much of it back as he can, but somehow it always feels more profound when she says it. 

Her attention is entirely on him throughout the evening, and for a brief moment he forgets that Noah is waiting for them at home. 

“Didn’t you say that the other one looked good when we looked at the menu online?” Laurie asks when they discuss what they want to get. 

“Didn’t see how expensive it was.” Nick replies meekly. 

Just because she’s paying doesn’t mean that he wants to empty her pockets entirely. 

“Nicky.”

“This is just as fine. I’m —”

“Do you want the other one?” She reaches out for him again, places her hand atop his so carefully. 

“It does look good.”

“Get it. We got a little bump in our wages and there’s no one I’d rather spend it on.” 

Nick can’t shake this feeling. There’s no denying that Laurie is his person, but so is the boy waiting for them back home. Perhaps they were always meant to be a trio. He can’t imagine himself without either of them, and he hopes that he’ll never have to think about that. 

He stares a little love struck when the waiter wants to hand the check to him, and Laurie tells him very sternly that she asked for the check and that she intends to pay. The wink and smile she shoots his way afterwards sends a shock of warmth through Nick’s body. 

She holds his hand when they walk back to the car, and Nick still has that first date buzz in his belly, even though it’s been years already. 

“They were awfully stuck up.” Laurie comments as they walk, “It’s not that unheard of that the woman pays, right? I mean, come on. I should be able to treat my boyfriend to a good dinner without having to justify it. I don’t know if we should take Noah to that place. If they can’t take me paying for one of you, what’s that waiter going to do if I pay for both of you?”

His heart flutters a little a that. 

“I think Noah’d be fine if we go to that little place we usually go to.” he finally replies, giving a gentle squeeze to her hand that says don’t get too riled up about these idiots. 

“I know.” She says firmly, “But I want to give both of you the treatment you deserve. And I love that little pizza parlour, but I want nothing but the best for my boys.”

The house is quiet when they get home. Nick closes the door behind him as gently as he can, but even then it still gives its horrid squeak. Laurie steadies herself on his shoulder when she moves to take off her shoes. Without the heels, she reaches up to his shoulder. Laurie reaches up, placing her hand against his cheek. Nick feels himself melt into her touch. He meets her in the middle when she guides him down for a kiss. Nick feels the residue of her lipstick linger on his lips when they part. 

“Bed or –” Laurie trails off.

He’s tempted to drape himself over her on the sofa, but he can see the exhaustion on her face, even if she tries to hide it. 

“Bed sounds good?” he offers instead. 

The relief on her face is evident, “I love you, but I was hoping you’d say that.” 

When Nick cracks open the door to their bedroom, he finds Noah curled up in the middle of their bed. The sight makes him feel all soft and gooey inside. Noah has been slowly warming up to his touch, and he’s found his way between them like this more and more often. 

With the way Noah has positioned himself right in the middle of the bed, they’ll have to fit themselves around him somehow. Nick slots himself behind Noah, wraps an arm around his middle. The young moves in his sleeps, presses himself against Nick’s bare chest. Laurie joins them a moment later. She curls herself against Noah’s front and Nick knows that at some point during the night they’ll untangle their limbs from each other, but right now he feels so very comfortable and safe.

taglist: @deathblacksmoke @circle-with-me @sitkowski @ladyveronikawrites @baddestomens

@malice-ov-mercy @chels3a-smile @ferduttini @somebodyels3 @itsafullmoon

@shilohrosechicken

[luna-andra]

Late Night Hotline | Sub!Konig x Reader | Part 1

Summary: Konig finds himself getting off to his Lieutenant's voice over the phone, and he can't get enough of her as he goes back for more.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warning: This fic does contain mention of dub-con/non-con from the result of involvement of alcohol. This is purely fictional, and should remain fictional. I do not condone real actions of taking advantage of someone's intoxication.

And as always, MDNI, 18+!!!

Enjoy~

This was so fucked up on so many levels.

Did it stop Konig from doing it another time? And once more after that? No chance in hell. But how could the powerhouse, the juggernaut Colonel of KorTac fold to the will of his short stack Lieutenant? Tempest… her call sign described her perfectly. The raging storm that took him by force, making the mountain that he is bow before her.

And it was all because of some stupid, drunk call.

His buddies dared him after several rounds of shots. There was always talk about how Tempest had the most enchanting voice in the unit. He overheard some lower rank meatheads say how she could work one of those old-school phone sex hotlines and make someone nut in less than three minutes, flat. Despite how much he agreed, he had those kids run an extra two hours of training that morning. Tempest worked extremely hard to get to where she’s at, and Konig would be damned if he let that kind of harassment fly.

So you can imagine how extremely shitty he felt after slipping away to the bathroom to fist his fucking cock. He thought it was all over for him when people asked Tempest if she got a late night call.

“Well, yeah the Colonel called,” she admitted, her eyebrows furrowing into anger. “I had to talk him through the copious amounts of liquor he was up-chucking, no thanks to you assholes. ”

It tilted Konig’s world, axes shifting, hearing her cover for him. When she had every upper hand on him. He kept his eyes fixated on her as she chewed out each person, all of them standing almost a foot taller than her. But they cowered away from her like she was an angry pit bull. “Get out of my face and go find something better to do.” All of them turned away silently, almost urgently trying to get away from her. Tempest glanced at Konig, her copper eyes laced with the rage she let loose. But he saw beyond it. Seeing the mischief, the kernel of devilry from the night before. She had him completely pussy-whipped.

And she hadn’t even touched him.

“Hope you’re doing better, Colonel.” She gave him a pat on his arm, walking past him without a second look.

“Ja,” Konig managed to say, her brief touch making his stomach flip.

He thought that would be the end of it. An accidental phone call, one that would be swept under the rug as they say. One that made him a begging, whimpering mess in her hands.

He thought he could move on from this, until she called again. It was a few days after the first incident. Konig watched the phone ring in his hand, standing in his personal quarters. “TEMPEST” in bold letters displayed on the screen. His insides turned cold. She never called him at this hour before. Before the last ring, he pressed the green answer button, lifting the phone painfully slow to his ear. “Hallo?”

“You answered~”

Konig’s insides turned to ice. She spoke in that sultry tone that drove him crazy. He conjured whatever strength he had to keep it together. “I did” Perfect, I didn’t falter…

The smile spreading across her face was something he swore he could hear over the phone. She was aware of how malleable the Colonel of KorTac currently is. How pliant and submissive he could be, for her. “What are you doing right now?”

He swallowed, desperately hoping that the microphone didn’t pick up on it. “I’m in my room,” his boots touched the edge of the bed frame, signaling him that it was safe to sit. “On my bed.” Did that sound right? He felt like the safe choice was to give her short, vague answers. “What are you doing?”

“Did you wait long for me?” Tempest ignored his question. “Pacing around your room, debating on whether you should get off to what we did the other night?”

Konig squeezed his eyes shut as he removed his sniper hood and balaclava, his hand ran down his face as he tried to regain the composure that was quickly slipping. “We can’t speak about that. It won’t happen again.” A chill ran down his spine from her sinister giggle, feeling his quickly growing length strangle for room in his pants.

“See, I would believe you, but there’s one thing that doesn’t make sense. Why did you pick up the phone?”

His exhale shuddered. This time she definitely heard it.

“Well, I’ll let you go then, you seem pretty set on nipping this in the bud-” his trembling answer told her everything she needed to know.

“N-no. I mean…” Konig gripped the edge of the bed, it creaked in his strangling hold.

“Colonel, relax.” Tempest cooed. “Don’t you ever get tired of calling all the shots? Carrying the burden of every single operator in the unit? I know the answer, it’s in the way you hold all of that tension in your shoulders. Which, by the way, looked a lot less tense after that one night.

“But when you’re behind closed doors, in the comfort of privacy, I can make you forget. Take all the encumbrance of control, empty your mind, along with your balls-”

“Tempest.”

Fuck, shit. Did he just whine?

There was a pause, so loud it rang in his ears. “Aww, you poor, whimpering thing.” He could hear the rustling of clothes on her end. “Are you still in uniform?”

“Yes.” Why was he still talking to her? Every answer and response he gave Tempest only urged her to keep talking with that sinful, honey-laced lilt. He was so fucked. Every time her voice graced his ears, from here on, would make him want to crumble. In and outside his bedroom. Konig would gladly give her the throne - hell, he would be the throne - she so exceptionally earned. Her siren call snaked like tendrils around his failing will.

“Do you want me to get undressed?” Konig nervously asked, the anticipation within the silence making his heart race erratically.

“Are you asking for permission?” Her voice was stern and sickeningly sweet at the same time.

Konig nodded, then realized she wasn’t gonna get her answer that way. “I am. I need your permission, please.” He passed the point of caring to keep it together, his voice quivered with desperation.

“Granted.”

Wasting no time, he kicked his boots off whilst clawing at the buckle of his belt. The metal clinked as it flew off to the side, Konig’s impatience growing. His heavy pants fell to the ground next to his boots. The kevlar vest was like a vice, restricting his airflow. With one hand still holding the phone to his ear, the other ripped away at the velcro straps, maneuvering it up over his head, landing on the floor with a heavy thump. He laid back into his bed, his breathing labored in the aftermath. Tempest probably enjoyed listening to him struggle in his haste to please her.

“All of it.”

Konig’s eyes widened, wondering how she knew that he left his shirt and boxers on. A wave of vulnerability washed over him, feeling like her eyes were on him. “A-all of my clothes?”

“Mhmm,” she confirmed.

The remainder of his clothes collected in a pile at the foot of the bed. He looked down, seeing his neglected cock pulsing, resting against his stomach. It was near painful with how hard this made him, the shame washing over him as he saw his tip was already leaking. Konig was proud of his physique, and worked his ass off to maintain a rock-solid build. He made up his mind years ago that a man who stood at 6’10” couldn’t be gangly and thin. No one would take him seriously, sure his height alone made people back away from challenging him, but he had to look like - and be able to - crush a man’s chest cavity with his bare hands.

But the mere idea of Tempest having a full view of him, baring everything to her made him feel more determined to please her. He wanted to see the delightful gleam in her eyes, proud of her… what was he to her? Her boy toy? It didn’t matter, he just wanted her to have nothing to turn away from when it came to him.

“Good boy,” she whispered. “So good for me…”

His throat went dry, and his hand gripped around the base of his length, holding it there until he was allowed to proceed. He held the same expectation of following orders the same way he wanted it from his subordinates. What kind of Colonel would he be if he couldn’t lead by example? “It’s so fucking hard.” His voice trembled.

Her moan came through the phone, his eyes rolled back with a sharp inhale. “If only these hands trailing my body were yours instead of mine… they’re so much stronger… and can fill me so much better.”

Fuck, this is real.

He couldn’t believe that he was doing this stone-cold sober, that the first time wasn’t some crazy alcohol-induced dream. He couldn’t believe that she didn’t report him, or oust him as some pervert to the rest of the team. “Please, keep talking, liebling..” Konig groaned.

“I will, don’t you worry.” Tempest purred. “On the condition that I get to hear every pretty noise, every breath and every time you moan my name. And you will not cover your mouth or restrain yourself like last time.” She was firm with her command.

He could do that, right? What did he have to lose at this point?

“Let me know my instructions were clear.” She continued.

His throat felt like he was closing, but he managed to respond. “I understand, Tempest.” 

“Good boy,” she praised. “Let me hear those pretty sounds you make when you touch yourself.”

Oh, god finally. His hand started to stroke his cock, the overstimulating sensation pulled a loud moan from his parted lips. His chest started heaving as he kept up a slower pace, not wanting to work himself up too fast. The wild imagination began to swirl in his mind, imagining her small, soft hands working him instead. She would probably have to use both hands, one sliding its way up and down his shaft, while the other caressed the sensitive tip, spreading his precum all over… “Tempest..” he moaned, her name leaving his lips like a cry for help, calling for her beautiful voice to usher him his release.

He heard the squelch of her own body through the phone, followed by a broken moan. “Such a dirty slut…” she whispers again. “You follow orders so well, just as good as when you’re giving them… ordering your subordinates to train harder…”

“Y-yes, don’t stop…” he threw his head back, his breath becoming shallow and erratic. His accent thickened as he became lost in the desperation of chasing his release, the desperation to please her. With his other hand, he reached down to cup his balls, feeling them tighten from the stimulation. “I’m just-”

“You’re just what?” she egged him on, mimicking his whimpering cries. “A pathetic mess? Longing to plunge that aching cock deep inside-ee , ohh fuck .” It drove him crazy how much she was getting off on this the way he was. 

Konig’s body was at the point of trembling, his hips frantically rutting into his palm. “I’m whatever you want me to be, liebling.. You have me, I’m yours.” Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. “Oh, Tempest.” his incessant babbling continued in German, continued as he chased his Everest, reaching close to that peak.

Her moans grew louder, her breath growing shaky as his. “That’s it… just like that… are you close, too?”

“Y-yes,” Konig whispered. He couldn’t take it any longer, the thought of watching Tempest fingering her sweet pussy on the other line had the blood vessels in his temples bulge from his sweat-beaded skin.

“We’re gonna cum together, you and me.” Her moans reached higher pitches, nearly raising up an octave.

Konig squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his spend work its way up his shaft. “Liebling, oh shit… I’m- ” There was no returning from the shockwave that had him roaring her name. His body quaked as ropes of his release painted his abdomen. “Mein Gott,” his hips kept thrusting into his hand, and the tears broke free as he whimpered from the overstimulation.

He had to rip his hand away, laying there completely fucked out beyond comprehension.

All the while, he was listening to Tempest reach her own peak as he did. The line was filled with the sounds of their heaving breaths, her praises coming through in broken sentences. Konig stared at the pockmarked ceiling, realizing how irrefutably fucked he was, figuratively and quite literally, by the chokehold she had on his cock. 

[mochiimadness]

Please let me finish this food prep training

You stare at the staff bot laying on the ground. It stares back. Somehow, despite lacking a proper expression, pure spite oozed from it's thousand-yard stare.

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, willing yourself to ignore the loud chomping and clanging beside you until it finally goes silent.

"Chica." You start, free hand on your hip. The animatronic chicken giggles- high pitched and nervous. It sounds like clucking almost- cute (or at least it would be if it weren’t for the loud problem at hand). "How am I suppose to finish this training course if you keep bullying my customers?"

You can hear her start fidgeting, metal tapping against metal in short bursts.

"Don't worry about the training, you're doing great!" She says, dodging the question in favor of praising your hard work, and you finally bring your head away from your hand to squint at her.

She smiles and twitches; head jerking to the side slightly- pointedly ignoring the poor staff bot she had just so brutally shoved to the floor.

"That's not the point and you know it." You glare at her, finger jabbing in her direction.

She lifts her hands up in surrender, eyes darting around in hopes of avoiding your frustrated glare.

"Well- I'm just," She's stammering, "I'm just providing you with an accurate customer experience! It's not like the staff bots can eat- they were just going to toss it out anyway."

“Chica!”

“At least I can tell you how good it tastes!”

You bury your face back into the palms of your hands and groan. A deep breath in, a pause, and a long breath out. You repeat this a few more times until you’re able to drag your face up enough over your fingertips to look at the chicken again.

“Chica,” She hugs herself, arms clinking as they wrap around her midsection. “I’ve been here for almost two hours now. It was only supposed to take 45 minutes max.” You rasp, staring her dead in the eyes as an audible ‘gulp’ sounds from her voice box.

“You keep eating all the food.”

She whines at your words, shutting her eyes as her beak juts up ever so slightly- her way of pouting. “I know! And I’m so sorry- it’s just, I haven’t had pizza in so long… and yours smell so so good- they taste even better!”

You know for a fact she had pizza just yesterday- some kids birthday event. Your hands come down to grip the counter, the cool metal doing little to help settle you. At least you had something to grip now.

“Chica I will literally make you the biggest pizza-rito with everything on it if you let me finish this training.” You state, watching as her gaze snaps to yours. She leans forwards, deadly serious

“Everything?” She questions, eyes boring into yours and surely scanning your facial features down to the smallest twitch- to make sure you were telling the truth. Funny, you wish she would get this serious about cleaning up after herself.

“Everything.” You confirm, keeping steady, un-breaking eye contact.

“Deal!” Chica squeals, lunging forwards and nearly giving you a heart attack as does so. She’s animated again, arms wrapping around you and squeezing as she starts thanking you. You squirm a bit before relaxing in her hold and hugging her back.

“You’re welcome, you Pizza Addict.”

She squawks loudly in protest, though soon joins in with your laughter.

Updated and edited as of July 17th, 2024

[gravehags]

this hell (is better with you)

Pairing: Cumulus x Aurora x Cirrus x Sunshine x AFAB!Reader

Rating: Teen

Tags: 100% comfort, your average poly relationship with the ghoulettes, periods fucking suck, etc

Words: 685

Summary: Your period is beating your ass. The ghoulettes take care of you.

a/n: SO SO SO SELF-INDULGENT listen when you're on day 5 of getting the shit kicked out of you by your own uterus you want a little lesbian comfort. just a few nude snuggles with some ghoulettes. you feel me?

divider by @ghuleh-recs

Hell. The pain you’re in is pure hell.

When the ghoulettes file into your shared quarters after a long day, they’re bright and chatty. You, on the other hand, are currently curled up in a fetal position on the far side of your large bed. Cumulus is the first to recognize that something is amiss, gesturing for the others to quiet down.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says as she sits next to you, stroking your back. “What’s wrong?”

“Period,” you say, your voice muffled by the pillow. Sunshine clicks her tongue sympathetically and Cirrus immediately goes to the linen closet in the large bathroom. When Aurora scuttles in the door a minute later, she’s perplexed. Sunshine mouths “period” at her while sitting on the bed taking off her boots. She silently gestures for the others to disrobe as well and they acquiesce, stripping down to their skin. You’ve got your head poked out of the covers now, eyeing their figures with vague interest.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Aurora says with a little grin. You pout slightly but all lecherous thoughts immediately leave your mind as a thumping pain kicks inside your belly and all the way through to your back. When Cirrus finally walks back in, she’s bearing an armful of goodies.

“I know you haven’t taken any pain meds because you always forget,” she says with a sigh, approaching your side of the bed as the others surround you. “Ibuprofen,” she states, handing you the pills while Cumulus urges you up into a sitting position. Dutifully, you swallow the pills with several gulps of water and let out a sigh of your own.

“Come on, you,” Cumulus says, drawing you up and taking the heating patches Cirrus hands her. “Shirt off.”

Your lewd little eyebrow wiggle is cut off by another sharp ache in your pelvis as you pull your t-shirt over your head and throw it to the side. Sunshine and Aurora are preoccupied with rummaging through items on the dresser while Cumulus tenderly applies one heating patch to your lower belly and the other to your lower back. Cirrus is piling pillows behind you and nudges you to scoot up to lie against them. Once you’re settled, the ghoulettes surround you in bed - Cumulus on your right, Cirrus on your left with Sunshine and Aurora settling by your legs, both stroking your stomach and thighs.

Tears well in your eyes as you observe them getting comfortable. You’re so thankful - so thankful for them - and all that they do for you. Your beautiful girls. When you let out a sniffle and wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand all four of their gazes fly to you.

“I love you,” you say through your tears. “All of you. So much.”

“It’s the period talking,” Aurora says with a little laugh as Sunshine nudges at her to be quiet.

“We know,” Cumulus murmurs in your ear, reaching up to stroke your hair. “And we love you, precious. To hell and back.” The others nod in agreement and when you choke out a sob they all rush to console you. You have to flap your hands aggressively to get them all to stop fretting over you and you let out a deep, exhausted sigh after a few more seconds of sniffling.

“Can we, um,” you say weakly, “can we watch a movie or something?”

Sunshine holds the remote up proudly from her spot by your left thigh.

“Way ahead of you, babe. What do you want to watch?”

“Anything,” you say quietly. “One of you pick something.”

This was, in hindsight, probably the worst mistake you could have made. Aurora is now on her knees on the bed, passionately petitioning for Legally Blonde while Sunshine counters with the most fucked up horror movies she can think of. As their bickering continues, you lean back into the pillows, enjoying the warmth of both the patches and the ghoulettes that surround you. When Cirrus nuzzles into your neck you lean into her with a smile.

If this is hell, you truly have no desire to know heaven.

[whatiswhump]

Part 2: They Thought He was the Villain

CONTINUATION :)

Note- Sorry the partner isn't in this one but there is a good amount of mentioned torture, non con manhandling, nonsexual nudity etc... BUT she will return!

Part 1

---

When they took the hood off of him he was in a concrete room. He kept his eyes on his knees on the floor, not daring to bring them any higher. At least the tears had stopped, dried salt on his cheeks now.

“Villain, you stayed hidden for quite some time. I have to say I’m impressed. I didn’t know you were capable of that.”

The boots in front of him were familiar. He knew these boots. He would never forget them. It was foolish of him to think that he could leave them in the past.

A hand reached down and took his chin to lift it. He closed his eyes, clenching them shut.

“Look at me Villain, open your eyes.”

The fingers gripped tighter, verging on painful… a warning.

“Open them.”

So he did. In front of him, better illuminated, was the personification of his nightmares, the Captain.

“You know…. I couldn’t have shocked you back there. But it was good to know you still respond to the threat. Perhaps our training was more effective than I thought.”

He couldn’t have… But the words- the feeling, so visceral. It hadn’t crossed his mind to not obey, nothing had in fact. Just pure fear. And now shame. Coiling deep in him, so pathetic.

And now the collar was back too, the Captain linked a finger through it, Villain winced at the touch, all to aware of how easy it was to set off.

“You’re quieter now. I like that. I wonder if that pretty girl liked that. Does she know what you did? Or more to the point, what I did to you?”

He shook his head minutely, pathetic tears threatening again.

“Should have known that would you ruin more lives while you were out, more than your own… Good thing we’ve got you back home, huh?”

He blinked back the tears, trying not to make a sound but not lifting his hands to wipe them away. Not that he could.

“I asked you a question, what do you say?”

“Yes, sir-“ Villain whispered back with a quivering voice.

The grip tightened again. He choked on his congestion trying to speak, “I- am happy to be home -sir.” Tears wouldn’t stop falling.

He sighed and paced the room a few steps away from him, “…But you’re going to have to be punished for what you did- all the time and resources wasted on bringing you back. You know that right? How wasteful you’ve been?”

He closed his eyes again, tears spilling out silently as he nodded.

“Mhm." Then he paused for a few beats, perhaps savoring the moment, "If you don’t fight it, it may be easier, it’s up to you.”

It wouldn’t be easier, he knew that.

“Bring him over to intake. We will begin in the morning once he’s processed.”

Rough hands grabbed him, pulling him up off his knees and dragging him forward. He trained his eyes back downwards, too familiar with what would come next.

___

First they removed the chains. Then his clothes- just a pair of boxers and thin pajama pants anyway. Then he was chained to the shower room wall for the power washing.

…

He wish he didn’t scream.

—-

After:

The institutional lice powder,

Shaving his head- the long inches of freedom sheared away to the floor,

Dental and cavity checks,

... Then the first dose.

—-

“Villian, you know how this goes. Take it.”

The guard was impatient, irritated when Villain didn’t open his mouth for the tablets to be poured in.

But Villain couldn’t open his mouth. It wasn’t a choice so much as a sheer inability to. He wasn’t crying anymore, he was too dehydrated for that. But he wouldn’t, he couldn’t… willingly take it again.

“They said he was already trained.”

A radio screech filled the room, “Medication reinforcement for Prisoner 3620.”

There was no retreating, he was already surrounded.

The steel door buzzed and clicked.

—-

Everything else went quickly after that. He fought, or at least he tried.

They beat him until he was wheezing on the floor and then pried open his mouth, poured the pills in, and closed it for him, holding his nose closed and massaging his throat to force him to swallow.

He wasn’t given clothing yet, that was to be earned.

—-

Then he was alone.

Not that it mattered. He was too disoriented to even know that. But he knew there was a grief.

He was home again.

—-

“Villain, I am surprised you refused your medication yesterday, I thought you liked it, a pathetic thing like you, the sedation must be a relief.”

His left cheek was still on the concrete floor, eyes vaguely unfocused staring ahead at the boots again.

“But then again, I knew a little obedience training would be in order, I work miracles but you did weasel out after all...

Don’t worry though, you’ll never want to do that again.”

He blinked.

A boot caught him in the stomach.

“Are you listening, Prisoner 3620? I am going to make you good again, better than before and I am going to enjoy it… You might not though.” There was a familiar smile. A familiar pleased voice.

“Get him up.”

Two guards shifted him to sitting against the wall of his cell. Again, the hand under his chin, so he made eye contact. Like he was trained.

The man kept speaking but the words warped and muddled in the air, the medication was taking him under again.

Then the beating began. Again.

Then he was wet, soaking and cold. The beating continued. There was blood in the water.

The voices continued. He tried to drag himself away at one point. Then the shocks started. He stopped trying to get away. He thought he remembered how this went. Someone laughed. Then black.

…

Then there were the boots again, he didn’t know how he got there, he couldn’t quite focus.

Shock- He understood this. They wanted him to pay attention.

He was being dragged somewhere. He wouldn’t get into the chair, more shocks. Why did he have to be bad. He didn’t like being bad.

He woke up in a chair, strapped in. How had he gotten there?

There were men in white coats. Another injection.

Another?

“My shifts ending in 20, up for a drink after?”

“Sure, Marie’s at her sisters tonight with the kids.”

“Poor bastard, we’re going to have to hose off the chair after.”

A laugh.

“Get Simmons to do it.”

He was on the ground. Boots.

He was wet. Soaked through.

Blood or water?

“Villian, one last time, will you do as the captain says or would you like more shocks?”

What did the captain say?

He was drowning, he couldn’t breath.

He was on the ground.

Why didn’t he have any clothes on?

Where was F-?

“If he won’t eat, force feed, he doesn’t get out that easy.”

Ground. Something sharp.

Boots.

Electricity.

Water.

Boots.

Crying.

And crying.

“Pathetic piece of shit. How’d he ever manage to get out in the first place?”

“Beats me, but when it happened, the Captain went ballistic, something in him snapped. Obsessed with the bastard… accidentally killed a different prisoner right after.”

“You think he’ll kill this one?”

“No, but the poor bastard would be lucky if he did.”

Shock. Puddle of water.

Someone was stroking his head. Someone was combing his wet blood soaked hair with their fingers.

“That’s it... attaboy, you’re learning again.”

He groaned a small pitiful noise.

“You can be good, you’re showing me that right now. Mhm… Good boy.”

His head wasn’t on the concrete and there were no boots.

His head was on khaki. A leg.

“Ah-ah. Don’t move.”

A hand gripped his hair. It hurt. A warning.

He thought it had been buzzed? When was that?

He stopped. And his breathing stopped too. But the bone deep pain in every inch of his body persisted.

“I bet you wish you were dead right now.” The voice mused playfully.

Did he? It made sense, maybe he did.

The hand went back to stroking, “Too bad you’re mine. And you’re going to stay here forever... Never allowed to die. Never allowed to leave.”

He thinks he remembers this. Something like this before.

He’s home. Isn’t he?

---

TAG LIST:

@idkawhumpatall @mary1raven @whoopsitswhump @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @whump-whump-whump-it-up @endless-whump @whumpitywhumpwhump @whump-world @octopus-reactivated @extemporary-whump @l-antre-des-merveilles @writing-i-like-dump @lovelywhump @hurting-fictional-people @castlehillwhump @bloodinthemud @whatwhump @ziptiesnfries @aliceinwhumperland @i-can-even-burn-salad @adangerousdisquietingthing @world-of-fire-and-flight @j-is-evil-28 @guardedchild @badluck990 @smuwfy-side-blog @suspicious-whumping-egg @starliight-musings @wolfeyedwitch

[seal-writes-stuff]

oh my god i'm drunk with power slamming this ask button again & again -- Seal does Dani do anything to celebrate Halloween? the very thought of her in a cute dorky costume or chickening out of a haunted house/horror movie bc it's too stressful is making me COMBUST. please share your valuable insight, tsym (:

Spooky Season

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: F!Reader, some suggestive stuff (nothing explicit but still), otherwise pure fluff

Summary: Glimpses of the Halloween celebration you and Dani have together.

A/N: Ask and you shall receive >:) Happy belated Halloween, guys! I couldn’t choose between a fic and a list of headcanons for this one, so I’ve decided to try something new and kinda did a blend of both. Hope you enjoy!

“Hey, quit squirming!” you throw your hands in the air, pretending to be exasperated, as Dani struggles not to laugh. “You’re running my hard work. I simply cannot continue in such dire conditions.”

“Dire? Seriously?”

“Well, not that dire,” you wiggle your eyebrows. “But, y’know. I could use some cooperation.”

“Can you blame me, though? It’s been half an hour…”

 “You can’t rush art, miss Ardor. Now sit tight or it’ll be, like, ten more hours and that’s a promise.”

She huffs, pretending to be annoyed, but you know she doesn’t mean it. You can’t imagine Dani ever being seriously angry at you, especially without talking it out.

A few silent minutes pass as you keep drawing shiny scales on her cheekbones. Some face paint here, some glitter there – everything to create a perfect make-up for a mermaid costume. You’ve designed a whole thing yourself too, in just a couple of hours.

Dani’s very inspiring, what can you say.

“Thank you, by the way,” you look up, only to be met with her gentle gaze, shining with bashful adoration. “For this. I know it's silly, but-”

“You make it sound like a favor,” you murmur under your breath, returning to you work. “And not like a blessing it is. So… Can’t take it, sorry.”

“Oh,” Dani’s voice cracks. She blinks a few times. “That’s- That’s really beautiful.”

“That’s just how it is,” you move away, giving Dani’s face a one last look-over. “Speaking of beautiful! Not to brag or anything, but I think this is my magnum opus. If you dragged me to the bottom of the sea, I’d just thank you.”

“That’s a siren, not a mermaid.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not an expert in, uh, mermology,” you revel in a small giggle she gives you. “Then what? You’ve sold your voice to the sea witch to see the human world?”

“Yeah, right. To see a very…” Dani looks away, blush still obvious despite all the makeup. “Um, special part of it.”

Now it’s your turn get flustered. You stare at her lips; a glance not stolen, but gifted freely.

“Well then. Better give you a true love’s kiss really quick.”

“What about ruining your hard work?”

“Eh, who cares? There’s always more glitter.”

***

“Is it over?” Dani peeks at the screen, only to immediately hide her face in the crook of your neck again.

“It didn’t even start! That’s literally just two people talking.”

“Yeah, for now!”

“Oh, come on,” pausing the horror movie the two of you are watching, you let out a soft laugh. You’re not even looking at the screen anymore and you don’t need to– you know how it goes. You’ve seen it way more times than you’d like to admit; it’s cheesy and the special effects didn’t age all that well, but it’s still dear to your heart. Also, it’s not scary at all.

Well, not for everyone, apparently.

“You know,” you whisper in Dani’s ear, feeling her shiver at the proximity of your warm breath. “If you just wanted to cuddle, could’ve just said so.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh, so you didn’t want to cuddle?”

“No, I- That’s not- Ah!” she hides her face in her hands with a groan. You don’t reply, opting for a kiss on a cheek instead. “You’re so annoying, I swear.”

 “And yet here we are,” you murmur, earning a content sigh from Dani. “I love you so much, y’know? Don’t you forget.”

“Don’t think I can.”

An image of a rubbery-looking monster peeking from the shadows lingers on the TV screen for hours, forgotten.

***

“Alright, so trick or treat?”

Dani rolls her eyes, attempting to grab the bowl of leftover candy you’re holding, but you’re quick enough to pull it away. It’s dark outside; the kitchen is illuminated with all the candles you’ve managed to find around the house, the soft orange glow outlining cardboard bats and plastic skeletons. You were aiming for “scary” when you’ve set the decorations up. Still, “romantic” fits better anyway, love shining through the playful horror.

Honestly, you can’t complain.

“Pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“It is now!” you put the bowl in one hand, placing the other on her forearm. “Come on, baby, humor me for a minute. Trick or treat?”

“Alright, alright, uh…trick? I’m scared already.”

“That’s the point of the holi- Hey, not so fast!” you cut your girlfriend’s another attempt to steal candy from you short, grinning. “Tell me. What did a skeleton say to her girlfriend after a date?”

“Can’t even imagine. Wait, don’t you dare say ‘let’s bo-”

“Let’s bone.”

“Oh my God,” Dani buries her head in her hands as you cackle triumphantly. “This is awful. Get out.”

“You’ve chosen it, not me!” reaching into the bowl, you pull out a Twix and hand it to her. “Here. A whole bar, you deserve it.”

“Thank you.”

Without another word, Dani grabs the candy from you and unwraps it, handing you one of the sticks. You put the bowl down; for a moment, the both of you are too busy with your sweets to talk, but you can tell there’s something on her mind. That little frown of hers, made all more adorable by the fact that she has no idea about it.

“Okay, no- I’m curious now,” Dani brushes the crumbs off her mouth with a quick gesture. “What would be a treat?”

“Want a trick and a treat?” you move closer, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Your wish is my command. What did I say to my girlfriend after this date?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Worked so far.”

Dani doesn’t answer. Instead, she leans in and you comply happily, drowning in her soft embrace. Sweeter than any candy, warmer than any candle.

“Y/N, it’s…” Dani whispers, pressing her forehead to yours. “It’s really nice.”

“What is?”

“This. You,” she kisses you, smiling against your lips. “I mean, it’s so- Can we do this next year? Please. I’d really love that.”

“I think that’s how that ‘holiday’ thing wo- Ow!” with a giggle, you steal another kiss, closing your eyes in pure joy. “Of course we can. Happy Halloween, baby.”

[anryuuepic]

It turns out that she’s the lucky one. Or rather, the one who has the steadiest hand when she holds a blade, and the sharpest reflexes for dodging hits and landing blows. 

Lillianne is good at fighting. They figured out that much quickly. Even though she’s half the size of most of the people she spars with, she’s fast and hits hard— and she knows what she needs to do to win. 

After a couple of weeks of attempting to train all three of them, it’s decided that the other two kids will remain in support roles. 

While Lillianne will learn to fight for real. 

Even though she still has only a handful of possessions to her name, even though she still sometimes wonders about the reason why she was given away, Lillianne is content. She’s long since outgrown every piece of clothing she brought from her old home, all of which has been replaced, and something about the tangible reality of leaving those things behind makes her new life feel so much more permanent. 

She’s going somewhere, now. She’s seen more of the country than she ever imagined she would, and met people that feel like what she could become. There’s no more wondering when her next meal will come— she earns her keep in the bandit’s camp and never goes hungry anymore. 

The feeling of taking her life into her own hands is pure freedom. 

So Lilliane throws herself wholly into learning how to fight. She practices her movements at every spare moment she can find, even when the other two kids roll their eyes and whisper that she’s just a kiss-ass. 

Their opinions mean nothing to her. She’ll give this her all no matter what comes out of their mouths.

“You’re improving quickly,” Mervyn says when comes to check on her.

Lillianne barely pauses in her training to glance over at him. It’s evening, her duties are done for the day, and she has only an hour or so to get in as much practice as possible with the blunted training sword she’ll have until she’s good enough for the real thing. 

“Yeah, I am,” she replies bluntly. “And I’m going to get better.”

Mervyn laughs, short and quiet. “Do your best, then. I’d certainly appreciate another capable hand around here in the next few years.”

This time, she doesn’t answer. Mervyn stays there for a few minutes, silently watching her run through the reps that one of the bandits taught her to follow. His gaze is intense in a way that seems like he’s studying her, like he’s looking for something that will give him an answer. 

Just to give him something to really think about, Lillianne goes for a more advanced move next. Her balance is steady and her turn is one of the fastest she’s ever made— and the dull blade of her practice sword cuts through the air with a quick, sharp swish. The follow-through is perfect. Not an inch of movement wasted. 

She refuses to look at him again. Mervyn walks away soon enough, and Lillianne is left with the slightly bitter ache to prove whatever smug, stupid thing he’s thinking wrong.

[[ first | previous/next ]]

[werdlewrites]

Season of The Witch (Steve Harrington x OC?)

Chapter Six: The Boogeyman

masterlist-about-patreon-ao3

UPDATED 7/21/24

Summary: The rearview mirror held her reflection for only a brief moment, looking drained with heavy eyes. The fire within her skull was growing by the minute, pounding, pressing against the walls like something wanted to break free. The mirror was cast away, looking to the sea of nothingness just behind her. It held a familiar feeling you had as a child, running up the stairs from a dreary basement, crying about “the boogeyman” chasing you, or trying to grab at your ankles. Warnings: Pill usage? (for migraines, shout out to my chronic migraine gang) Word count: 1,998

Time had drifted on, and things were becoming very boring very quickly. Minutes had become hours, and those hours had been spent creating a board for their project, only to mess up and completely re-do it with spare items they thankfully brought with them. As if predicting this would be the end result. 

By the time the sun had set, Vespucci was long forgotten on the floor, and the two friends were scrambling through the Byers’ kitchen for food. Not just banana bread, but dinner. Making macaroni and cheese from the box was a simple task, but somehow they managed to make it difficult by bickering about instructions. The hunger pains had clearly fogged their minds. 

“I’m telling you, Jonathan. Y’need salt." Autumn groans, staring at a pot of still water, heating up at what she would describe as a snail's pace. 

“It doesn’t need anything,” he bites back, digging through cupboards for the one colander they owned. “It just has t’get hot-” 

“Salt raises the boiling point,” she states matter-of-factly, arms crossed and a little annoyed by his arguing. 

Seeing her stance, Jonathan stands looking defeated and simply waves her off, pasta catcher in hand, and his friend jumps to take control of the situation. He watched as dull water quickly began to boil, to which he couldn’t help but say, “It was probably almost ready, anyway.”

The pair are leaned up against the kitchen counters, silently digging into their bowls with pure bliss written across their faces. A day of hard work leading up to this moment was all worth it. Even though Autumn was convinced this would be their last project together for a while, a much-needed break was due. But in the ticking seconds of silence, there was still a lingering heaviness she tried to ignore. A casual dance of eyes roamed between her and the food in his hand, contemplating if he should bring their earlier conversation back to light. But his worries and curiosities get the better of him, and he is unable to stomach his food any longer until he asks. “What’s it like?” 

With the question, the girl at his side pauses, her gaze cast up to him with the spoon hanging from her mouth. She wants to ask what he means, but he doesn’t give her the chance. “I mean,” he starts up, setting the bowl down on the counter behind him to cross his arms. “I know what it’s like. Or, at least I knew,” he says with a small shrug. “But you—you've done a lot. You’re always pushing harder, going further.” 

Silence overcomes them once more; the girl’s bowl now hangs low, her appetite dissipating as she drinks in his words with a small sigh. Teeth chewed at her lip anxiously, tugging away the dead skin. “It’s hard t’explain,” she begins in a soft tone. “I don’t know what it’s like for others, y’know? Books can only do so much. It’s just who I am. It’s what I was meant t’do. Natural,” she ends with a shrug. “Some people just strive t’be surgeons; it’s in their blood,” she mumbles, aimlessly stirring the noodles back and forth, a smile slowly inching forward. 

“I talk t’dead people. It’s just how it is,” Autumn laughs before taking another spoonful, pausing the moment the metal hits her tongue as an icy chill runs along her spine and through her neck, kissing every bone as it goes. It sputters outward through the nerves, fading as it moves through them. Jonathan is already at the sink, emptying and cleaning his bowl, when hazy vision sets in. There’s haste as she excuses herself, nearly dropping her dinner as she makes her way to their bathroom just down the hall.

The door is shut behind her, sloppy hands frantically locking it for extra measure before they grip the edges of the sink, holding her steady as the world ahead sways. Soon, it all turns violent and heavy, like a tidal wave. If it weren’t for the chill of the porcelain against her skin, she wouldn’t be able to tell where her hands even were—drifting in a dizzying void as a familiar pain in her skull made its presence known. Like a screw slowly twisting its way into the wood, already at the brink but being pushed further until the wood splinters. Like a balloon stretched to its capacity with a single drop of water, it’s exploding from pure tension. 

There’s a sting behind her heavy eyes and a ringing in her ears as the pressure builds. Autumn feels warm, rapidly becoming hotter with anxiety, so she lets the cold water run, letting it pool into her hands before splashing it over her face. Chilled hands ran along the back of her neck, digging deep to pull at tensed muscles. And as her hands go back in, there’s a sudden stillness in her chest. No ting in her ear or the sound of running water. Her fingers were aimed downward to collect the water in a sink that had vanished, replaced with a long stretch of nothingness. Looking up, she sees no mirror. Only the ash-filled sky filled with strikes of lightning, just like her nightmare from before.

That same fear finds her. It twists at her insides, leaving her legs weak yet strong enough to inch back with cautious steps, seeking an escape. The back of her knees are quickly met with something solid, and her frozen heart lurches up into her throat. It all happens so quickly. The thought of something made of terror just behind her back has the girl spinning on her heels. 

A shaken hand whipped back to fend off subconscious evil, only to be met with a shower curtain. For a moment, Autumn feels as though she is stuck in a state of shock, unable to process despite the material so easily bending to her touch. There was no darkness. No void. There was no hazy vision to leave her blind—only a thundering heartbeat within her frail ribcage and a migraine, threatening to take her out for the remainder of the night. In the mirror, only frightened eyes look back at her—weary and confused. No ash or sparks of electricity dancing through the sky or some demonic creature bearing its teeth at her. It’s the only relief she has, though she remains unsteady with a sickening feeling in her gut as she exits the bathroom. 

Trembling hands press firmly into the walls for support; weak and worried, she may collapse just as she had in the store. But with the sight of Jonathan racing around the corner, her stature is straightened with a forced smile on her lips, while he seems a little more frazzled. “Hey, uh,” he stammers. “I just got a call from work. They want me t’cover a shift tonight.” 

“Oh!” Autumn’s response seems a little too eager. Too eager to separate. To say goodnight and isolate herself in her bedroom as nightmares slipped through the cracks of her mind. “Yeah, okay. Of course. I was getting tired, anyway,” she waves it off, looking out to their nearly completed homework. “Tomorrow, then?” 

He nods in agreement before the two of them officially part ways for the night. Autumn gathered her things to leave, and Jonathan scrambled through his room to get ready for an unexpected night at work. All too quickly, she was left in anxiety-inducing silence. The only thing to keep her company was the hum of the engine. The wheel was trapped within an iron grip, and the knuckles noticeably paled even without the aid of sunlight. 

The rearview mirror held her reflection for only a brief moment, looking drained with heavy eyes. The fire within her skull was growing by the minute, pounding and pressing against the walls like something wanted to break free. The mirror was cast away, looking at the sea of nothingness just behind her. It held a familiar feeling you had as a child: running up the stairs from a dreary basement, crying about “the boogeyman” chasing you, or trying to grab at your ankles.

Autumn was positive one or more traffic laws had been broken to get home, taking note of the empty driveway as sluggish feet maneuvered the path. There was no father to ask her about the day. To ask her how she was and why she had suddenly left all of her things at the door. There was no father to ask for an explanation of what she was seeing and what she was doing to better herself to stand up against it all. 

Instead, she was left in peace to rummage through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, her unsteady fingers struggling to twist open the cap of an orange bottle and nearly spilling out the little blue pills in her haste. The moment it touches her tongue, there’s a sense of calm in just knowing comfort is on the horizon. A deep breath fills her chest, back pressed to the wall as the medication begins its journey into her system. Autumn is grateful to be alone in these moments. Knowing no one could truly understand what was nestled in the deepest corners of her mind and how it tried to claw its way forward.

And then there are days when she wishes there was more than just an absent father to fully lean on, who spent his time encouraging her to find answers by diving deeper.

Her shoulder slid along the hallway towards the bedroom, the light dim and welcoming. The bed was left unmade as it always was, the bundled-up blankets beckoning the girl back into their comfort. Autumn begins to pull away her layers, letting the chill of the air kiss her warm skin, with piles of fabric falling at her feet, shuffled through as she moves about lazily in the room.

 And through the echoing thunder circling her mind, she can hear something just at her back—something so faint but ear-piercing with the sharp tone of pressure encasing something unknown. Screaming out from force as there was nowhere else for the weight to go—until it caved. Fragile shards scattered across her floor, all from a crystal orb she had set up on her table. The sphere was crushed by the weight of something unseen. It was unrecognizable now. Only pieces of dust and large chunks of glass shimmered and danced under the light, just barely reaching her feet as she stumbled back into the mattress from surprise. The sound rings out in her ears like a melody, pulling her into a trance that gradually weighs down her body with every passing second. She wants to dig herself up and out of the nest that builds around her, but the comforter feels as though it’s slowly engulfing her, ready to strangle a new victim, forcibly pushing Autumn into a state of peace.

Tired eyes stare at the broken pieces. A fogged mind trying to put them back together and make sense of it all. What could have happened? Or if she was simply hallucinating from the sedative swimming through her veins. She could practically envision it—the tablet breaking apart into fragments just like the crystal, simmering into nothingness, and seeping into the walls. 

Autumn can feel herself falling away the more she attempts to fight it off. The girl reaches out, trying to hoist herself from the bed, but she is rapidly growing weaker. A once-racing heart was now becoming distant, slow, and impossible to feel. The girl succumbs to it all. Collapsing into her bed with a hazy gaze cast up towards the ceiling, watching as the subtle patterns stretched into faces and then abstract works of art. Relief was approaching, and her mind was now numb, no longer filled with pain or concern for the mysterious mess on her floor. Soon, heavy eyes fall shut, and painted images dance just behind her eyes as she drifts into a much-needed sleep.

[blametheeditor]

Can we have a child (or human) beat the ever loving crap out of a big animatronic and down an entire saltshaker’s worth of pure salt

This doesn’t have to be serious nor accepted I just need your version of unadulterated chaos

-chaos feddy

What's the saying? I failed successfully?

chaos feddy, I hope my offering appeases you. In my defense, I'm a very organized person, and I swear, there was no planning, or first drafts, or editing! I deserve half-credit!!

NOT MEANT FOR EVERYONE

Contant Warnings: Mentions of body horror. Mentions of murder. Off-screen death, alluding to a death scene. Cursing. Slight gore. Dark themes.

_________________________

It started with a phone call. 

He didn’t know what to expect. Maybe his boss demanding he come in sooner to help clean the restaurant due to someone calling out sick. Maybe a ‘coworker’ chewing him out before realizing they’re yelling at the wrong person and promptly hang up without an apology. 

“Schmidt, Freddy needs your help.” 

Right, he’s Mike this time around. He almost forgot. 

Well don’t leave poor Bonnie hanging.

...wait, that’s Bonnie on the other end? 

It takes Mike a moment to process everything that’s happened in the span of 5 seconds. Starting with a phone call from Fazbear’s, apparently with an animatronic who’s been trying to kill him nightly on the other end, who’s never spoke a single word to him, now asking for his help. 

“Who is this?” 

He knows it’s the towering purple bunny. Because despite never having been spoken to and only subjected to blank stares as he twitches in the hopes of spooking Mike enough to get slopy, Ennard’s correct on placing the familiar voice. 

But just because he has an endoskeleton inside him to help listen in on secret conversations between animatronics doesn’t mean he wants to reveal it. 

“A certain someone who promises an easy night if you help Freddy.” 

Ah, so they’re playing this game. “Can I at least know what I’m coming into Definitely Not My Boss?” 

The line goes silent. And while Mike would like to imagine what’s happening, he’s a bit in the dark. Especially considering Ennard’s withholding crucial conversation. 

You said you didn’t want to eavesdrop.

“I’m on my way.” 

The voice definitely not belonging to the animatronic named Bonnie now you’re just being petty sputters. “Really? Uh, hurry then! See you soon!” 

Mike quickly throws his uniform for the night shift on. Possibly a little worried about it currently being 9 o’clock. If his job has taught him anything, it’s that time flies. 

He’s heard enough conversations between the animatronics about the whole ‘hunt down the night guard’ being just a game to them. A justified game he can’t bring himself to get upset over despite his life being on the line. But a game means rules, and he’s safe as long as he follows them. 

If he looses track of time, hopefully Bonnie wasn’t lying having an easy night. 

It takes ten minutes to get to the restaurant. And maybe he’s blowing his cover a bit hesitating at the door, afraid of throwing them open with the knowledge murderous animatronics are already free-roaming and well aware he was on his way. But despite the fact Ennard’s proven he’s not killable, it’s still not pleasant. 

The first thing he’s aware of is Foxy wiping his eye with a hook as if he was crying, a small chuckle echoing through his voice box. The second is Bonnie trying his hardest not to allow a smile to slip. The third is Freddy looking distraught as he...dodges a little kid. 

Mike needs the context. 

”You’re doing good, Fred.” 

“I thought you said you called the night guard!” 

“I hope he’s taking his time, I’m kind of enjoying the show.” 

“Too late, Schmidt’s here.”

Said man tenses as Foxy’s words register for all of them. Three sets of eyes focus on him, though Freddy immediately looks down as his attacker shouts a war cry, and Chica finally joins the scene by peering out of the hallway. 

“Was starting to doubt you actually called him, Bonnie,” she smirks. 

“I was hoping he didn’t,” Foxy grins as he watches the brown bear continue to hop around. 

“We mean no harm,” Bonnie begins as his hands are raised in a sign of surrender. Mike pauses as it becomes clear he’s being addressed. The red eyes that always sent shivers down his spine finally holding something like respect rather an animosity. “As you can see, Freddy needs a little help.” 

“Call his parents already!” 

Mike finds a giant smile spreading across his face at the distress in Freddy’s voice. Toward the very person the bear has been trying to kill for about a month now. Unable to help himself because he never thought he’d see this side. At least, not as a night guard. 

Focus, Mike.

Right, right. He’s got a job to do. 

“LET HIM GO!” 

The kid running around Freddy’s feet hadn’t stopped his lunges, swings, or kicks despite someone having walked through the door. The look on the boy’s face who can’t be more than 10 years old shows a level of dedication Mike wishes he had. 

You haven’t forgotten the whole reason you’re here, have you?

“Alright, break it up. Can’t have Freddy in pieces.” 

Mike looks more confident than he feels approaching the kid and animatronic. Because he’s putting himself within grabbing distance of someone who will happily shove him into a suit. Leave Ennard to slowly piece him together and restart completely from square one. 

He knows how much the four adore kids. But who’s to say they won’t see him as a threat and simply shield the boy’s eyes as he’s taken care of. Cover his ears in the hopes it drowns out his pleading screams as he’s dragged backstage, his last moments recorded under Cam 5. 

That’s definitely a way to tell just how terrified he’s been of finally getting caught. 

They called you here. Bonnie promised no harm. 

Mike glances toward the bunny. Remembers the snippets of conversation via telepathy by electronics. Knows the purple animatronic is a well-known asshole. 

I’ll keep you safe.

Now that he can trust. 

“Hey kiddo,” the man begins. He stops a few feet away from the duel, crouching down to be on the same level as the kid not pulling any punches with the way he nearly stumbles after every swing. It takes all of Mike’s self control not to flinch whenever Freddy steps out of the way, worried he might get crushed by the 1,000 plus pound animatronic. “What are you beating poor Fredbear over?” 

Wrooooong name. 

“He has my brother!” makes everything come to a screeching halt, and Mike is trapped in wide, dark green eyes filled with desperation. 

And he’s no longer inside the restaurant afraid for his life. 

He’s standing inside another location. Similar. Different animatronics standing on the stage. 

An animatronic that’s malfunctioning. A tall figure rushing forward. To save- 

You’re not there anymore.

Mike blinks, watches as the scene in front of him melts away, back in front of a little boy currently ranting. 

“-and Jake is never wrong so Freddy has my brother, and I need to get him out!” 

What did he miss? 

”His friend is a Grade A asshole.” 

“He is, but you can’t deny the logic behind it.” 

“Freddy, maybe you should pick the poor kid up.” 

“The lad needs Schmidt, not us.”

He’s still lost. Great. 

...no? Ennard’s not going to help? 

Are you surprised?

Nope. 

“Okay, hold on,” Mike murmurs, his hands up in a motion for the kid to slow down, uncertain as tears threaten to fall as the small chest heaves in near hyperventilation. 

...what does he do? It’s been a while since he’s interacted with children. And the last time he did it did not end well His proof is the fact there’s a sentient machine living inside him. The worst part is how snarky it is. 

You enjoy it.

“So, Jake says the Fazbear ghost story deals with your brother?” 

The boy hesitates. Fists clenching up before his head tilts. “G-Ghost story?” 

“Oh yeah,” Mike continues. Glad he didn’t mess everything up taking a shot in the dark. “There was a rumor that started about spirits haunting the animatronics. Spooky, right? But I promise, that was from foreeeeever ago, before you were born.” 

“Really? So it’s an old story?” 

“Super old. I mean, look at me. I know it because I’m ancient.” 

The kid giggles, the tears from before disappear as a giant smile spreads across his face. “You are old.” 

“Hey!” 

Mike rolls his eyes as he ruffles the tufts of blond hair, potentially silently hoping he doesn’t truly look over 25 years old. Some things he can’t control ever since Ennard became a part of his life, and that’s not looking like a walking corpse. He’ll just say some days are better than others. Thank something he works the night shift. 

“I’m Mike by the way.” 

“Daniel!” 

The man smiles at the complete turn from needing to beat Freddy up, to happily holding a conversation with the only other seemingly human person. “Well met, Daniel. Now, important question, is Freddy out of time-out?” 

The bear goes tense as the kid whirls around to size up the animatronic. “Do you promise to be nice to Mr. Night Guard?” 

Mike feels like he’s missing something. A big something. Especially when blue eyes look over at him as ears flatten. “You have my word, Mr. Smith.” 

”Nice to meet you, Mike!” a young man with strawberry hair smiles. Excited to have a ‘partner’ on the job. “Finally, I can get some sleep.”

...oh. Oh shit. 

Mike-

No. No. Not right now. He just...he needs a moment. 

“How about you wait with them while I call your parents, then?” Mike breathes. Unable to speak above a whisper. He doesn’t even get a confirmation from the boy or the animatronics before he’s all but sprinting for the office. Gasps for air as he holds onto the desk for all that it’s worth. Stares at the crossed out name on the sheet for who works the night shifts. 

Fritz Smith having been ‘fired’ a while ago. 

“That was why you didn’t want to tell me?” 

We both know he’s-

“I swear if you use that bullshit excuse again, I’ll, I’ll...” 

Mike looks up at the spinning fan. Grabs the cupcake sitting beside it and hurls it into the hallway. Doesn’t blink an eye as it causes the unlucky broom closet door to splinter on impact. 

Out of all the kids, why did it have to be Fritz’s brother. 

“Schmidt?” 

“Bonnie, I’m about to turn you into scrap metal.” 

The bunny takes a step back into the hallway to give him some space. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you.” 

Mike looks up in disbelief, not expecting an apology to come from the murderous animatronic who had wanted to kill his coworker. One that sounds genuine. 

And this, this is why he despises his role in all of this. Because he knows why the taller man had gotten killed. He knows why he’s hunted down relentlessly every night for weeks on end. He understands, and he can’t bring himself to hate them for it. 

But Fritz had a brother. Was clearly a good brother to the kid, because he’s been the only one who’s come searching for their lost family member. 

Mike just wasn’t quick enough. He’s always two steps behind. And no matter what he does, he’ll never get ahead at this rate. 

You know how to give him a second chance.

Because every Afton knows how to properly use remnant. 

“I still really want to turn you into scrap metal.” 

Bonnie gives him a look in the attempt to judge his mood. “I kind of doubt it, pipsqueak.” 

Mike flips through the contact info under Smith, quickly reassuring the frantic parents that their son is safe. The animatronics are happy to take their normal places at his request, not protesting as he sits in the main room with Daniel as they wait. And when a car finally pulls into the parking lot, he’s happy to show the kid out to reunite with his family. 

Then the man is walking down the hall. Sits in his chair. Glances once at the tablet once it strikes midnight. 

His mind is far from surviving the night, though. He’s focused on what Fritz thinks of his suggestion.

He says do it.

[tamaharu]

god im sick to death of working on this stupid yoohan wip take this for now idc

It’s like he’s reciting a script when he goes, “This world… I can still–”

“No.” She cuts him off. “You know you can’t. I know you can’t. Haven't you already done it eighteen-hundred and sixty-three times? Yoo Joonghyuk,” Sooyoung says, then stops, because the shape of his name in her mouth sounds almost… distraught.

After a moment, she continues, tone more even, “Yoo Joonghyuk, don’t think that the world will be better if you run it a few more times. It won’t. You’ve tried everything, haven’t you? You know so much of the future? And yet, every time, you’ve failed. Whatever the best world is, you’re not going to find it in the next regression. I’m sorry, but you know it’s true.” Then she tries to smile at him, to project more confidence than she actually feels. “But isn’t it good? You’ll have a reliable companion in this round, if you’ll have me.”

What she doesn’t tell him, but she thinks, is that the reason he’s failed so many times is because of how broken he’s become. Even the most formidable, the most knowledgeable, the most worthy would be worn down by this. He’s a lost cause. Yoo Joonghyuk is grasping for a better for that he is no longer capable of conceiving, and that’s why he will fail, forever. Han Sooyoung doesn’t much like to write stories with a tragic ending, but when the whole of the story feeds into only one possible choice, not even she can prevent it from happening.

“And you think the next best choice is for me to die?"

She doesn’t know if he’s arguing with her, if he’s surprised, or if he’s asking for guidance, but something fragile in her snaps.

“I’m sick of you asking all the questions,” Sooyoung snarls. “I have been nothing but honest with you all week, and even now, you refuse to admit the truth. You want to die. Tell me you want to die.”

He’s silent, and it just– It just makes her so mad.

“Goddamn you!” She screams, and grabs the front of his jacket, bunching the collar up in her fists. “I asked the Outer God. I asked it, ‘Does Yoo Joonghyuk want to die?’ It said yes, yes you do. But everyone with half a fucking brain knows not to trust an outer god to not rip happiness out of your hands–” an almost imperceptible flinch runs through him, and a bizarre prides comes over her at the fact that her guess hit its target, “–so I’m asking you now, you bastard: do you want to die?”

She’s breathing heavy by the time she finishes, not from exertion, but from pure, desperate anger. She stops for a minute and just pants, her fingers still curled in the fabric near his neck.

But, unexpectedly, a hand wraps around her own, gently. When she looks up, Yoo Joonghyuk is staring both at her, and through her. “You can show me the end of this world.” It’s not a question, but she answers it anyway.

“Of course I can, you asshole. Are you doubting me?” The darkness in his eyes, just on the edge of hollow, is absolutely beautiful.

His jaw works, and he goes, “I want to die.”

Han Sooyoung stops and breathes in and out, very slowly. She licks her lips, her throat dry, and brings her hands higher to the side of Yoo Joonghyuk’s face. “Well, okay,” she says after a long moment. “Then you and I have a lot of work to do.”

[budget2245learn]

Life’s Work: An Interview with Dean Koontz

Dean Koontz is one of the world’s most prolific and best-selling writers, with more than 120 novels to his name. During a difficult childhood, books were his refuge, so he has devoted his life—6:30 AM to dinnertime, six days a week, for the past five decades—to creating fictional worlds across a range of genres for his devoted readers.

HBR: Where do you find your creative energy and stamina?

Koontz: It goes back to what books meant to me when I was young. I came from a very poor family. My dad was a violent alcoholic. Books were both an escape and a lesson that other lives were different. They showed me the level of success the world offered. And that was plenty of motivation to change my destiny. I realized that you can make what you want of life, and I don’t think I’ve ever stopped feeling that way. I’ve never stopped being excited about books and the potential of them.

So there’s never been a time when you’ve thought, I can’t keep doing this anymore?

If I wrote the same book every time, which is what publishers prefer you to do, I would go profoundly nuts. It’s a formula-driven business—if you’ve written one book about a bricklayer, they want you to write 1,000 books about a bricklayer—but I’m constantly changing things up. The advice has been not to do that, not to mix genres, not to try different kinds of storytelling, and I understand that. It’s more difficult to market a book that’s not like the book that everybody bought and enjoyed before. On the other hand, doing anything for as long as I’ve done this can lead to boredom, and change—going for something you haven’t gone for before and that you’re terrified you’re going to fail at—is how I avoid it. When an idea comes to me, and it seems too big to write, too complicated to convey to a reader, that’s when I’m most energized. The challenge is a medicine against boredom. It inoculates you.

How do you gauge the right level of creative risk to take?

I wrote a book many years ago called The Bad Place, with a character, Thomas, who’s a boy with Down syndrome. My agent at the time, after reading the manuscript, called me up and said, “The Thomas character is pure genius. I can’t believe you pulled this off.” And I said, “You know, I loved writing from that character so much I thought about doing an entire novel from the point of view of someone with Down syndrome.” She was silent for about half a minute, then said, “There’s such a thing as too much genius.” But I think you can pull off anything if you put your mind to it. Language is so flexible and beautiful and offers so many techniques to a writer.

You initially wrote under pseudonyms. When did you realize that your name carried currency?

In my early days, every time I did something a little bit different, which was most of the time, agents and publishers would say, “You must have a pen name.” I was naive, so I did. Then gradually I saw that something was happening around the books under my own name. I wasn’t a best-selling author yet, but we were getting 30 or 40 letters a week, instead of three or four. So in the late ’70s or early ’80s, my wife and I decided to buy back the rights to many of my books. We had to stretch ourselves, and other writers thought I was insane. Publishers would sell them back to me, but often at what they’d paid me for them, which meant that I had essentially done the books for nothing. But there were two reasons we did it. One, I had written a number of science fiction novels, and we knew that if they stayed in print, I would forever be a science fiction writer in critics’ minds. Once they label you, it takes years to get past it. So by buying those titles back, we were eliminating that danger. Two, we felt the other books would have ongoing value if I became a bigger seller. I remember one case where we went to the publisher of four of my books that I’d written under a pen name and asked to buy them back. I don’t know whether it was a bad day for him or he was just mean-spirited, but he said, “You can have them for nothing. They’re worthless anyway.” And rather than be insulted, we said, “Well, thank you very much.” And the very first one of those four that we released under my name spent six weeks at number one on the New York Times paperback best-seller list and sold two million copies in the first year. And that showed us that we’d been right. We could tell that enthusiasm was building. It wasn’t delusion. Then it was just slow, incremental sales growth and critical reception that started to be of a different kind.

It took 18 years to get from your first novel, Starquest, to your first best seller. Was that a frustrating wait?

It’s such a thrill to be published in the first place. If you’ve been dreaming about a life of books since you were a child, you can go for years on a modest level of success and feel perfectly comfortable. But it was frustrating later on when I felt that certain books had what it took, but we weren’t getting the support to make it happen—or when we would have a paperback best seller, but my hardcover publisher would say, “Oh, you’ll never have a hardcover best seller.” Eventually I understood that success requires the support of an agent and publishing, and I had to move at various times in my career—not out of agitation or anger but just when it became apparent that change was necessary. Sometimes it’s painful to do, because you’re leaving people you’ve come to like very much. But it’s not them, it’s the system that isn’t working for you anymore.

When you have a hit book, is there huge pressure to do it again?

My first book to reach number one in hardcover was called Midnight. My publisher called me and said, “I have wonderful news.” But before I could say, “Whoopee!” she said, “Now you must understand: You do not write the kind of books that can be number one, and this will never happen again.” And my balloon of excitement was deflated in an instant. We had four number-one books after that, and she said the same thing every single time. So at first I didn’t have pressure to keep it up; instead, I had to keep proving myself. Finally I said, “I have to go somewhere where they think it is going to happen again.”

What is your approach to working with editors?

Working well together is crucial. I had one situation in which I was very excited about a publisher and editor, then discovered I was getting editorial by committee—all kinds of notes that conflicted with one another. An editorial relationship has to be real and between me and somebody I respect, and I’ve been mostly fortunate in that regard. I know there are some writers who don’t want to take any direction. But even though I’m obsessive-compulsive as a writer—I rewrite every page 20 or 30 times before I move to the next one, so I turn in a pretty clean manuscript—I know a good editor can always spot things I haven’t thought of or make little fixes. And there’s no reason not to listen with an open mind: “Yeah, I could do that” or “No, I can’t.” It forces you to explain why you did things a certain way. And if you can’t, if something doesn’t have a thematic reason you can easily lay out, then you did sort of fudge it, and you’ve got to revisit it. If you can answer the question, it makes it clear that you did it for the right reasons. Now, my wife is my toughest and fairest critic. When she reads something and has a problem, I look at it in a very serious way. If she doesn’t have a problem, I feel more confident with it.

Your wife has played such a big role in your professional life. Is it difficult living and working together?

I know people who think it’s the sure road to divorce. But our offices are side by side in the house, so it’s 24/7—and I can’t imagine it any other way. One reason our marriage works so well is that we share the same sense of humor—ranging from dark to silly. We both know that there is almost nothing in life that isn’t funny in retrospect, and if you have that attitude, work and domestic issues don’t get as serious, because you know a month or a year or two from now, it’s all going to look very small. Also, she has a different set of skills and abilities than I do, so we fit together like a puzzle, almost. Her skill is accounting and numbers, and mine is not. I probably haven’t written a check in a year and very few over the past 50, and I never could balance a checkbook. So all of that’s lifted from me, and I get to focus more intently on what I do.

Your books have become more literary over time, but they’re still accessible. How do you find that balance?

I started out in paperbacks, a market in which entertainment comes first. But I think it should anyway. Dickens is enormously entertaining at the same time that he’s literary. I always have been in love with language, but over time it became a more profound love, and my books started changing. Of course, I can’t tell you how many times I was told to write with a lesser vocabulary because I was turning off readers. But in the quality of letters I get and at book signings, I can see that my readers are articulate and engaged, so I know who I’m writing for. When I was a young writer, I thought there were a certain number of tricks to writing, and once you learned all of them, the books would get easier. Actually, the books get harder because there are an infinite number of tricks, and the ones you haven’t learned yet are more difficult. Language is so pliable. There’s so much you can do with it, and it can be frustrating when your ability isn’t yet what you wish it would be. But if something comes out in a paragraph that is just what I wanted to say, just the way I wanted to say it, and I think it will resonate with a lot of readers, that’s the best, most exciting thing. It’s also exciting when you find yourself in a flow state. You can’t make it happen, but one day you’ll be sitting at the keyboard, and the words will come with a solidity and a richness and a texture that you usually struggle for, and suddenly there it is.

Tell me about your process from the initial idea for a story or a character to a published book.

I used to write from outlines. But when I wrote Strangers, which ended up having an enormous cast and being about a quarter of a million words, I decided not to do an outline and just start with the premise and a couple of interesting characters. I decided to wing it, and it was the best decision. I’ve never used an outline since. I start with a bit of an idea, a central theme, a premise, and then I think about it for a little while—not for weeks and months, but days—and then I begin. If the character doesn’t work in the first 20 pages, you might as well quit. If a character comes alive, I let the character move the story along. This is the hardest thing to explain to young writers. You tell yourself that you know exactly who a character is and try to make that character conform. If you give the character free will, the character becomes richer, more layered, more interesting. It’s the oddest thing, but it’s true. Characters can take over, and they will take books to better places than they would have gone if you’d set a template and written everything according to it. I do sometimes know a key thing about the ending or something at the center of the plot or a key scene here or there, but generally I don’t know much. I remember I was working on a book called The Face, and right in the middle of it a line came into my head: “My name is Odd Thomas. I lead an unusual life.” It was like listening to somebody speak, and I recognized it as an opening to a story. I keep a yellow, lined notepad to put down reminders, and I wrote the line down. And even though I never write longhand because I can barely read it, I found myself continuing to write, and hours and hours later when I stopped, I had the first chapter of the book Odd Thomas. And I knew it was going to be a series, even though I’d never written one before. And I sat for the longest time, wondering “Where did this character come from?” To this day I don’t know. But I wrote eight Odd Thomas books.

What does a typical workweek look like for you?

This will sound grueling, but it’s not. I usually get up at five in the morning, get ready for the day, walk the dog, read the Wall Street Journal. By 6:30, I’m at my desk, then I work until dinner. I rarely have lunch, because if I eat, I get furry-minded. I do that six days a week or, if I’m at the end of a book, seven. If it’s the last quarter of a book, where the momentum is with me, I’ve been known to work 100-hour weeks. That’s all normal for me because when I’m sitting at the screen for 10 hours or so, the real world retreats, and I fall away into the novel more completely. Sometimes I’m in some scene and laughing out loud or moved to tears, and people walking by my office door probably think I’m at the edge of losing my mind.

As a perfectionist who constantly revises, how do you ensure that you still make progress?

All I can say is, it works for me. I don’t know that it would for other people. Every time you go through a page, you’ll find ways not just to tighten but to say things better, with more vivid figures of speech. And there’s a momentum to that, too. You’re not necessarily advancing the story 10 pages a day, but you’re advancing its quality. And then, because this slows you down, you can recognize that you’re going to hit a problem 30 or 40 pages on. With my pace, I find that when I get to that moment, I have two or three ways to resolve it even though I wasn’t consciously thinking about them. Writers I know who don’t work this way, when they bump up against a problem, they can’t get around it. They have writer’s block. I never run into that. And I think it all has to do with this way of working.

How have you successfully navigated all the big changes in the publishing business?

I’ve watched things happen that publishers couldn’t possibly control, and I’ve watched things happen that they could have controlled but didn’t think they needed to. One of those was to let the paperback business basically die. There were once I think 500 distributors of paperbacks, and now it’s down to four or five. A lot of publishers never quite grasped the rise of ebooks. Last year, my agents made the argument that I would probably sell more books with Amazon than with anybody else. And one of the key things was its marketing proposal. We looked at eight publishers and some of them came with a one-page plan. Others came with eight or 10 pages. The Amazon plan was around 30, and impressive and thoughtful. So we did a contract for five books. Maybe some of the traditional publishing people think I’m a traitor, but all the ones I know, even independent booksellers, have said it was a great move.

You’ve described yourself as an autodidact. How do you keep up that constant learning?

In high school and even college, I was—and wasn’t—a slacker. The things I wanted to read and do were more important to me than what my teachers wanted me to read and do, so I would often fake a report—either I’d not have read the book or I’d make up the book titles for my bibliography. I never got caught. I just didn’t want to do research. When I was writing science fiction and fantasy, I had to have some basic scientific knowledge, but I could also just make most of it up. In contemporary fiction, though, you have to be sure you’ve got it right. I didn’t want to get letters from readers. So I started doing research, and to my great surprise, I found that learning about something new and being able to make it part of the story, to impart it in an entertaining way, was something I greatly enjoyed. I got interested in some pretty complicated things, like quantum mechanics, and I found that the more I taught myself, the more story ideas would come to me.

I read that you delegate some research, because you don’t want to get stuck down a rabbit hole that takes you away from writing. Is that true?

I don’t go online in my office. If I do, five hours later, I’ll still be on some site. But my assistants are online, so I’ll ask them to find this or that out for me. And then they’ll give me a printout. Or I may go and sit with them. But I always read and vet the research myself.

Have you made any big mistakes in your career?

I had one early agent I could have done without. I was already number one on the paperback best-seller list, and the terms I was getting in contracts struck me as very primitive. She kept telling me that things I was asking for could never be gotten. But I knew a writer lower on the best-seller list who was getting those very things. Either my agent didn’t know this—in other words, didn’t know her job—or was for some reason more interested in pleasing the publisher than the client. I stayed with her many years despite the suspicion that I wasn’t getting good representation, because I thought she was a great person. I allowed my feelings to smother my business instinct. For years, my behavior was that of the adult child of an alcoholic. I always thought, If I rock this boat at all, everything will come crashing down. It was a kind of disbelief that it could be working as well as it was. Before that, I was represented by an agent, who I also loved as a person, but I had to leave him, too, because he started shipping outlines back to me, saying, “I can’t sell this.” When I asked, “Why not?” he said, “Because you’re trying to write a bigger book than you can. You’re a successful midlist author, but you’ll never be a best seller.” And I said, “I’m 28. There has to be growth and hope.” There was a 14-year period when I had no agent, just an entertainment law attorney. But then the business began changing, and I needed some guidance, and I finally made the best connection I could have hoped for at Inkwell Management. So you can just keep trying, and it will work.

Do you foresee ever retiring?

I don’t know what I’d do if I wasn’t writing. It defines me. I love doing it. I do have a spiritual side, and I think that talent is a grace, an unearned gift. And it comes with an obligation to use it as well as you can.