#anything if it means I get to draw with nothing but a mechanical pencil

[bombusbombus]

Clark deserves to have lots of little hearts around his head. Bruce deserves little clawses.

[jeanbie]

porco as a teen hcs<3?? tysm!

MODERN! PORCO HEADCANONS #1 ★ masterlist.

⏤ hii! sorry for a late response, here are my porco as a teenager headcanons! i'm assuming u mean modern hc...because i think canon!porco is too busy with warrior training to actually enjoy being a teenager so i think they'd be boring, but i can think of some if u still want canon-related porco hcs!! other than that, enjoy!! &lt;;33

for most of his teen years, i think porco is just figuring himself out

he probably feels a lot of pressure to live up to his brother (who went to an amazing uni and is doing an amazing degree and is just so amazing, yeah yeah he’s heard it all before)

porco doesn’t really know what he likes and what he doesn’t

he definitely follows a lot of crowds, trying to one day figure it all out

porco puts on a front when he’s in public, as if he doesn’t care about anything or anyone or anybody else’s opinions on his life

but i think in private porco is kinda sensitive and easily bothered by stuff

which is why his day to day life might shock people

porco’s room is a hand-me-down from his big brother but it has a lot of character

porco likes art and draws a lot in his spare time

(he could never do anything with it, he doesn’t love it that much, but it’s an escape for him) 

so his desk is full of sketch papers and pencils and he’s that person who has drawers just filled with books and papers and some can’t even close properly

porco also likes to read and has a pile of random books down by his bed

when porco’s like 14 he starts to get really invested in planes and the mechanics and the whole aesthetic of pilots is kinda what his style is revolving around at the moment

he likes the top-gun movies soooo much

he owns one of those aviator jackets and wears it religiously

porco is also a lifeguard as a part time job, again he doesn’t really care much about it but it gives him some money and he gets to use the gym they have for free

personality wise, i think porco is really funny and honest which can sometimes cause conflict and it’s been the reason why he has no friends

then when he hits 16 and transfers schools when his parents decide they wanna be closer to the city that marcel moved to for uni, he meets a new group of friends

porco likes to start drama and then remove himself from the equation

actually he just likes to start shit with people for fun…which is why his mum thinks that he might be a good lawyer, he’s good at debating and arguing with people and doesn’t crack under the pressure of thinking of a comeback or a point or even a source

he probably does use reddit a lot….a flaw..

he’s also an avid porn watcher….like a lot of teenage boys, but sometimes he watches it even when he isn’t horny, just when he’s bored

he swears a lot and always has pencils in his pockets but he refuses to use a new one until it’s so small that he can no longer hold it

porco would kinda like to go into design engineering if he goes to uni (:

⏤ teen porco’s bedroom: a map

it’s small so there’s not a lot going on

porco doesn’t like to cling to his past self so anything slightly related to his childhood is in a box in the loft, he doesn’t want to look at stuffed animals now that he’s grumpy and a teen

his corkboard is full of cinema tickets, he definitely likes to keep the cinema tickets to all movies he goes to

sometimes porco can get lazy with his laundry and just has stuff everywhere but eventually he cleans it up

porco can be very clean when he’s feeling stressed, and he likes to deep clean the house (his mum likes that) when he’s feeling the stress get to him

he has a lot of movie posters in his room

and as i said, the drawings all over the desk

i think porco probably doesn’t have a tv in his room because he doesn’t watch a lot of tv, so his games console is downstairs because he shares with his dad

there’s nothing that makes his room stand out from anyone else’s room because porco doesn’t LOVE being in his room

if he can help it, he likes to sit in the living room in his house with his family or he’s out with his mates

if he’s in his room its to study, draw or sleep

⏤ porco in a friend group

unassuming at first 

but he’s the cause of chaos in his group

currently his friend group consists of the warriors (zeke, colt, reiner, bertie, annie, pieck, yelena…the marley team yk) and sometimes ymir when she can be ripped away from her girlfriends’ clutches

at first i feel like porco is feeling his way around the group and then he starts to come out of his shell

his personality is quite “Chaddy” and sarcastic and he often jokes around for fun, never really meaning any harm by his flirty jokes or relentless borderline bullying

he also smokes with the guys a lot and figured out that marcel smoked and did every drug he could name at uni just for the experience, so he has something to bond with him about when he comes back for a bit 

he thought his friends would find his hobbies weird but he comes to realise that these guys don’t give a single flying fuck what porco likes as long as it’s not revolting and yk, wrong

bertie, in fact, likes to draw and annie reveals she drew creepy anime characters when she was a pre-teen

porco and his friends like to doss in public places, like at skate parks or in the treehouse that zeke has in his backyard that his dad built for his half brother but since eren’s younger, zeke can take it by force (eren doesn’t care because he’s too busy trying to flip his skateboard on the patio with his own friends)

porco is also a bit of an underage alcoholic but he absolutely cannot drink wine or else he will be drunk too fast and be sick anywhere

he is that kind of freak who likes the Godfather pitcher at spoons and all of his friends think that’s disgusting 

porco likes to tease and mess around but he is quite supportive of his friends, even when his words don’t align with that fact

⏤ porco in a relationship

himbo alert

he can find it confusing trying to be himself two times at once

because who he is with his friends is who he is on the inside, but who he is with his partner is also him but with alterations

he is quite laid back and toooo chill, which can sometimes be a problem with his s/o

his partner would need to also be low-maintenance because i just think porco would have a hard time finding the willpower to be over the top

he definitely puts his all into a relationship but it would be shown in ways other than extravagant flowers

he’d draw or doodle his s/o in class or something and probably likes writing love letters like an old man

but he does not believe in valentines day, that man thinks it’s a commercial scam and he’d rather just kiss his partner and give them a cute letter or drawing…cause he’s not spending £8 on some chocolates for one day, he loves his partner but that’s crazy

that stupid boyfriend who isn’t aware of how stupid he is sometimes

but you just need to learn to love it if you want to be tied down to him

(probably said and believes in “bros before hoes” so take that into consideration too)

he’s not a RED flag but he’s turning amber yk

[cleocatrablossy]

How Jim got that name: valley girl edition

About 1k words so pretty short, just shenanigans. It’s under the cut. I feel the need to mention they all have different names but it’s pretty obvious who’s who

Jules tapped her pencil against her desk. They were supposed to be filling out forms to see what jobs they’d be good at, in order to begin specializing in highschool. It had some questions that made sense- did you like working with people, how well do you do with understanding mechanical functions, do you enjoy menial, unending, soul-sucking tasks? It also had ones that didn’t, including things on self described personality, what other people thought of you, where of four options would you like to live, do you value connections or advancements, enjoyment of music, seeing beauty in things- as if that was ever in doubt for her- vocabulary, persuasiveness, and a whole host of other things that simply would not be necessary. So she was sat staring at the paper, deciding whether or not to take it seriously.

She leaned back into her chair, looking up into the lights. There were thirty odd minutes left in class, then she had PE so this was her one bit of respite.

She heard tapping on her desk after a few moments and jolted back upright, to be met with Scarlet looking back at her paper with interest before looking back up at her. Jules tilted her head in question. Scarlet quickly scanned the room, seeing their teacher at her desk on the other side focusing on something or other, before turning back.

“You never said you had a middle name!” She whispered, grinning. Jules nodded slightly.

“Well you can’t call me it like we do for Jessica, because I don’t think I could live if I was sharing a name with some old movie character.” She whispered back, much to Scarlet’s amusement.

“Your initials are a name though.” Scarlet replied, and even if she couldn’t see her smile it was evident in her voice.

“Jim?” She asked, resting her head on her hand.

“Yeah! Fun right?” Scarlet said.

“I… that sounds like it’s short for something. Like, just as a name ‘Jim’ sounds like it’s short for something. What would even be short for though, like there are no names I can think of that don’t also sound like they’re short for something.” She half-heartedly complained. Scarlet tapped her nails on her desk in thought.

“I can’t think of any either. Uhh, hold on. I’m gonna get an expert opinion.” Scarlet said, quickly turning around and leaning over to tap Ariana on the shoulder.

“Psst, hey. Jessica, G, hey. G. Jess. Griande. Ari. G. Hey.” Scarlet whispered. Ariana turned around and glared at her.

“What?” She asked, drawing the word out with the usual slight crackle of her voice.

“Any clue what ‘Jim’ is short for?” Scarlet asked, beaming. Jules watched as Ariana seemed to age a thousand years in a second and set her head in her hands groaning.

“Why do you need to know this?” She asked.

“Look, we just do. I’ll explain at lunch. Just, please.” Scarlet said, clasping her hands together and shaking them slightly under her chin as if begging.

“I don’t know… maybe Jimothy? Like Tim’s for Timothy?” Ariana offered after a moment. Scarlet turned back around to her.

“Hear that Jules? Jimothy!” She said. Jules nodded slightly.

“That’s a whole four extra letters though. I’d have to have five last names then.” She muttered.

“Oooh, wait this is about Jules?” Ariana asked, practically crawling out of her desk to try and lean in closer. Frankly it was a miracle their teacher either hadn’t caught on or didn’t care enough to do anything about them.

“Yeah, her initials spell out Jim!” Scarlet said, proud as could be.

“Really? I didn’t know you had a middle name, what is it? Wait, why did she find out first! We went to preschool together, Jules. Preschool. Does that mean nothing to you?” Ariana hissed.

“Well I didn’t tell her, she just saw my paper. And anyways, I’m not telling you.” Jules said.

“She mentioned it being an old movie character’s name and it has to start with an ‘I’.” Scarlet says. She tapped the line Jules had written her name on; ‘Jules I. Miller’.

“Hmm, maybe… The guy in the one princes movie we watched last year who’s really good at sword fighting? I think his name was like… Indigo Montana?” Ariana tried.

“That’s Inigo Montoya! Come on, and he’s from the Princess Bride!” Scarlet corrected, fake offense in her voice.

“Well then miss movie expert, who do you suggest?” Ariana challenged. Scarlet thought for a moment before grinning and turning to her.

“Is it, perhaps, a character from a few Disney movies? Specifically an action packed series?” Scarlet asked.

Ariana’s “Oh come on, it’s not gonna be from Star Wars.” was at the same time met with Jules staying, “I mean, yeah.”

“Okay, okay, okay. I’m guessing, Dr Jones?” Scarlet asked, leaning forward and batting her eyelids before sitting back and giggling like she’d made a reference neither of them got. Jules figured she probably had, being the only one among them to actually watch those old movies on any sort of consistent basis.

“Please, it has to start with an ‘I’ not a ‘j’.” Ariana scoffed.

“No, she got it right.” Jules said, leaning over so she could just barely bat at her.

“Okay, so. Your middle name is Indiana?” Scarlet asked.

“Nope!” Jules said, smiling as smugly as she could as she sat back.

“Indy, then?” Scarlet tried again.

“You got it!” Jules said.

“Aw, well that’s actually a sort of nice middle name. Come on.” Ariana huffed.

“I say we call her Jim from now on, to forever comment-erate-” “commemorate” “-that, this moment.” Scarlet declared.

“Oh, guys. Don’t.” Jules groaned, placing her face on the desk and holding her hand above her head as if in defeat. That got a chuckle out of the other two. That was good, they were all going to have a new joke for however long it lasted.

“Fine then. Tim.” Ariana said, smirking. Jules looked up with as exaggerated a look of despair as she could muster, doing her best not to start giggling as Scarlet had already begun to.

“Nooo.” She whisper-yelled, looking up to the ceiling and shaking her hands.

[artistfingers]

Everything Everyone else hasn't asked yet ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

ᕕ( ᐕ )ᕗ

[Weirdly Specific Artist Ask Game]

3. What ideas come from when you were little

rather than saying any specific ideas came from when i was a kid, i think,... there are tropes that i still love and draw on and can credit to some of the things i read and watched as a kid. one big example is hidden identities - my most trope ever - all has a big basis on some of my earliest Media Memories, like detective conan, danny phantom, ouran high school host club, alex rider, and so on ahsdg

6. Anything that might inspire you subconsciously (i.e. this horse wasn't supposed to look like the Last Unicorn but I see it)

i do not know my own subconscious mind well enough to say 💀

8. What's an old project idea that you've lost interest in

i had a really big mob pscyho fic i wrote 30k on in 2019... don't know if i'll ever circle back to write the rest. there's been countless comic projects that i started and dropped over the years as well...

as for illustrations i have a number of half-started DP illustrations that may or may not ever be finished 🤷‍♂️

9. What are your file name conventions

either things languish in the land of Untitled Document, or they get ... passable attempts at descriptive names like "project title ch2 v1 inks"

10. Favorite piece of clothing to draw

i always like drawing shirts! clothing folds in general are a big area i'd love to sink some more practice into, tho

11. Do you listen to anything while drawing? If so, what

Oh Always. i rotate between music (shuffling my spotify likes or going start-to-end on an album), podcasts (dungeons & daddies or dimension 20 mostly), youtube (IE, gamegrumps, izzzyzzz) and/or reality shows my friends put on :>

12. Easiest part of body to draw

faces/heads? i feel like i put most of my practice there because i love to draw expressions. hands might be what i practice second most

13. A creator who you admire but whose work isn't your thing

another one i say, i dunno. if i follow artists on social media that i admire, i'd count their work as "my thing" even if it's outside the range of what i might create myself 🤔

15. *Where* do you draw (don't drop your ip address this just means do you doodle at a park or smth)

at my desk, on the couch, or in bed mostly! i've been trying to get myself out to draw at the park more

17. Do you eat/drink when drawing? if so, what

i have a really bad habit of eating 10,0000 LifeSaver mints while i draw if i am not being careful 💀

18. An estimate of how much art supplies you've broken

sooooooo many pencils. 20+? in highschool and most of uni i was really picky about using fancy HB, 2H and 4H pencils for all my sketchbook work but at a certain point i started preferring mechanical pencils

20. Something everyone else finds hard to draw but you enjoy

i don't know about Everyone, but comics/sequential art, maybe? pacing can be quite difficult but it's a challenge i really enjoy conveying on the page.

21. Art styles nothing like your own but you like anyways

anything creepy crawly horror EHehehehe also anything papercraft, multi-media-y.... or like, super solid pen-and-ink. fine lines, black and white, that sort of thing

22. What physical exercises do you do before drawing, if any

if i remember i try to stretch my wrists 💀

23. Do you use different layer modes

ye!! whatever's needed at the time. i'm fond of multiply layers with purple ink for shading.

24. Do your references include stock images

oh, yep, stock images are actually one of my favorite sources for references outside of pose-specific reference resources like line-of-action, adorkaStock, etc. but stock photos (specifically sites like Pexels) are great for locations, perspective, animals, inanimate objects, or if i don't know exactly what i'm looking for

26. What's a piece that got a wildly different interpretation from what you intended

i'm not sure this has happened to me to that degree? like there's definitely been minor differences in interpretations when it comes to my comics (dialogue doesn't always land or imply what i intended) but i don't think i've ever had something taken wildly differently

27. Do you warm up before getting to the good stuff? If so, what is it you draw to warm up with

i don't normally, but if i do, it's usually standard sketchbook randomness - heads, hands, shapes, squiggles, objects around the room. the cats...

28. Any art events you have participated in the past (like zines)

i've contributed to a number of zines and things over the years :>

Welcome to Hell - 2014 & 2015

Sakana - Catch of the Day 2017 (I don't think I ever posted the full piece online, actually...?)

one for Danny Phantom coming up in December 👀

i also wrote for the WtH big bang in 2018, beta'd for the Fullmetal Alchemist Big Bang in 2021, and this year illustrated for the Danny Phantom Invisobang!

there will probably be more in the future. Love Me A Project

29. Media you love, but doesn't inspire you artistically

maybe podcasts? i've definitely drawn for podcasts before (gorgug from d20, some TAZ stuff way back in the day...) but i'd say it's rare and that the lack of a visual component separates it from media that inspires me artistically, or at least, does so directly

[pesterloglog]

Jade Harley, Karkat Vantas, Dave Strider

Candy, page 9

JADE: arent you guys happy to get out of the house for once!!!

KARKAT: NO ACTUALLY.

KARKAT: I DON’T GET WHAT’S SO GREAT ABOUT IT. I CAN SEE THE SAME BULLSHIT FROM THE COMFORT OF MY HOUSE.

KARKAT: CHECK IT OUT. A GIANT BILLBOARD OF JAKE ENGLISH COMPLETE WITH A GYRATING MECHANICAL ASS.

KARKAT: WHAT A TOTALLY NECESSARY THING TO SHOVE RIGHT INTO MY GANDER BULBS.

KARKAT: DEFINITELY COULDN’T HAVE LIVED WITHOUT SEEING THAT.

DAVE: dude ok dont pretend you dont spend at least 15% of your day ogling jakes ass on television anyway

DAVE: in fact youre doing it right now

KARKAT: WELL I CAN’T HELP IT, DAVE, IT’S RIGHT FUCKING THERE.

KARKAT: OH MY GOD, ARE THE MECHANICAL GLUTES ON THAT BILLBOARD ACTUALLY PADDED WITH PLUSH TO MAKE THEM MORE LIFELIKE?

DAVE: yeah see crazed fans kept climbing the billboards to cop a feel so dirk designed the second run of them to have an accurate recreation of jakes butt density

KARKAT: HE DID WHAT?

DAVE: its wild dude its like exactly spot on

KARKAT: WAIT

KARKAT: HOLY FUCK, HAVE YOU ACTUALLY TOUCHED JAKE’S ASS???

DAVE: i mean not necessarily on purpose but who hasnt

DAVE: like i wouldnt say its so much that i touched his ass its more like his ass copped a feel of my sweaty palm one time and my poor fingers havent been the same since

DAVE: sometimes i wake up from a fevered sleep and find my reluctant groping hand huddled in the corner of my bed all shaking and shit

DAVE: the mind represses but the body remembers

DAVE: ive thought about taking my hand to a psychologist but i dont think the little guy is ready to talk about it yet

DAVE: anyway have you seriously never touched it

KARKAT: I HAVEN’T!

DAVE: not even by accident like brushing by in a crowded elevator

KARKAT: NO

KARKAT: I DON’T SPEND A LOT OF TIME STANDING IN ELEVATORS WITH JAKE FUCKING ENGLISH, OR FOR THAT MATTER, DOING MUCH OF ANYTHING WITH THE IDIOT, AS YOU WELL KNOW.

DAVE: what im hearing is youve tragically never touched his ass and its a bit of a sore subject with you

DAVE: is that why youre so obsessed with it

KARKAT: ?????

DAVE: do you wanna touch it

DAVE: shit can be arranged my dude

DAVE: here ill text dirk right now i bet he can pencil you in to cop a feel sometime next week

KARKAT: NO I DON’T WANT TO. PUT YOUR PHONE THE FUCK AWAY.

KARKAT: WE ARE NEVER HAVING A PLAYDATE WITH DIRK AND JAKE AGAIN, ESPECIALLY NOT ONE ARRANGED FOR THE EXPRESS PURPOSE OF ASSAULTING ONE OF THEM.

DAVE: dude jake lives for this shit

DAVE: its not assault if his ass is begging for it

DAVE: wait wow that sounded bad

DAVE: lets strike that one from the record

DAVE: anyway its no problem he literally will be delighted to hear you want to spend time with him for some insane reason

KARKAT: STOP TEXTING RIGHT NOW!!!

JADE: hey can we focus here?

JADE: jakes ass isnt the one you two should be talking about right now

KARKAT: OH MY GOD, JADE DO YOU EVER FUCKING STOP.

KARKAT: I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR ASS EITHER.

KARKAT: I’VE SEEN IT ABOUT AS MANY TIMES AS I’VE SEEN JAKE’S. THE NOVELTY HAS WORN OFF, ASSUMING THERE EVEN WAS MUCH TO BEGIN WITH.

JADE: thats NOT what im talking about...

DAVE: jade

DAVE: cmon what are you...

JADE: this is a DATE dummies!

KARKAT: NO, STOP!

DAVE: dude

JADE: no..... let me.... show you....

JADE: you have to... turn it... flipwise!

JADE: see i dont mind at all!

JADE: i would never try to break up what you two have.... im just trying to make it BETTER!

JADE: see isnt this perfect?

JADE: it could be like this all the time you know... the three of us in every combination

JADE: or whatever combinations you two are comfortable with

JADE: heheheheh.... positions too!!!

KARKAT: AUGH! DON’T DO THAT!

KARKAT: YOU KNOW I FUCKING HATE THAT!

JADE: dont worry karkat theres nothing to be scared of...

JADE: well take care of you... right dave?

KARKAT: OKAY THAT IS IT.

KARKAT: I AM DRAWING A FUCKING LINE IN THE SAND RIGHT HERE AND NOW, JADE. YOU WILL CEASE THIS ENDLESS VIOLATION OF MY PERSON WITH YOUR MOUTH, FINGERS, AND OCCASIONALLY, YOUR FUCKING TAIL.

KARKAT: I AM NOT A PIECE OF MEAT THAT YOU CAN BRUTALLY AND VICIOUSLY MOLEST WHENEVER YOU’RE BORED.

JADE: brutally and viciously?????

JADE: :\

KARKAT: ALRIGHT, IT’S POSSIBLE I’M OVERREACTING. BUT THAT’S MY *FUCKING RIGHT* AS A FREE AND AUTONOMOUS PERSON WITH A CERTAIN DEGREE OF FUNDAMENTAL BODILY SOVEREIGNTY ENDOWED TO HIM BY THE GODS OF *MOTHER FUCKING CONSENT*.

DAVE: (mm hm)

JADE: sigh...

KARKAT: BUT I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I’M GETTING AT HERE, WHICH IS THAT I WANT YOU TO STOP DOING SHIT LIKE KISSING ME WITHOUT ASKING PERMISSION FIRST.

JADE: karkat youre absolutely right

JADE: and i couldnt agree more with you on issues of consent as everyone whos gotten to know me well enough is perfectly aware

JADE: BUT

JADE: im not the one who kissed you silly.....

KARKAT: WHA...?

JADE: it was.......DAVE!!!!!

DAVE: i what

JADE: you kissed karkat! finally!!!

DAVE: n

DAVE: no

DAVE: no i didnt

DAVE: why would i...

DAVE: i have no idea what youre talking about

DAVE: i would never

DAVE: youre wack jade im not

JADE: wack????

DAVE: why would i kiss karkat ive never even once thought about kissing karkat

DAVE: how would you even fucking do it

DAVE: hes so

DAVE: petite

KARKAT: I’M WHAT?!

DAVE: youre like

DAVE: ok yeah im gonna admit that was a weird thing to say and has got dick all to do with your kissability

KARKAT: GOD DAMN IT.

KARKAT: CAN WE STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS YET??

DAVE: what i mean is like

DAVE: how could somebody kiss this guy

DAVE: like anybody

DAVE: when his teeth are so

KARKAT: WHEN MY TEETH ARE *FUCKING WHAT*?!

DAVE: dude

DAVE: theyre just

DAVE: like theyre huge and

DAVE: not always in your mouth

DAVE: so like how would a guy get his tongue in there

KARKAT: TONGUE??????????

DAVE: youd have to be really careful to like

DAVE: i mean if you were INTENDING to kiss karkat

DAVE: i mean its not like ive put any thought into this

DAVE: but youd have to be so careful like just so totally gentle in your approach to it because hes so

KARKAT: ENOUGH!

KARKAT: CEASE! I COMMAND YOU!

DAVE: you know

DAVE: like this

DAVE: idk im just spitballing and this is literally the first time the thought has like

DAVE: EVER popped in my head?

DAVE: but upon earnest reflection i dunno if im up to the task

DAVE: um

DAVE: im not

DAVE: i was never

DAVE: were not

DAVE: actually ya know what

DAVE: i dont have time for this

DAVE: peace dudes

JADE: wow RUDE!

JADE: siiigh. i forget sometimes how immature dave can be

JADE: well karkat i guess its just us.... do you still wanna go split a plateau of grub spaghetti at the noodle barn?

KARKAT: AH!! FUCK!!!

KARKAT: JADE!!

KARKAT: WOULD!

KARKAT: YOU!

KARKAT: FUCK! OUCH!

KARKAT: A LITTLE!

KARKAT: HELP?!

KARKAT: MAYBE?

KARKAT: AAUUUUGH!

KARKAT: FOR THE RECORD

KARKAT: JUST SO WE’RE BOTH CLEAR

KARKAT: THIS IS WHY I HATE LEAVING THE *FUCKING HOUSE*!!!!!!!

JADE: well i guess im eating grub spaghetti alone

JADE: *again*!!!

[mindymortondev]

State Machine Hell

Originally written on February 13th, 2023.

Today’s the big day, time to install the animations I’ve been working on into the game!  I’ve created a little demo of all the animations flowing together in my last post. I’m actually writing this after multiple hours of messing around with code and such.  This is likely going to be a difficult task.

The tutorial I’m following has much simpler art assets for it’s game and so the code really doesn’t work for me at all which means I have to research new methods to fully animate my character in-game.

For the first step, I actually had to break down all the animations with multiple steps down into separate files.

Aside from breaking down the animations, I also had to reduce the resolution of the drawings.  This was already the plan from the start but now that it’s finally happened, Mindy does look a little rough around her edges, but it doesn’t bother me too much.  Plus playing the game with the 4k drawing really hurt my computer’s performance.

Having to take the time to do this felt like a bastardisation of my animations, lol.  It really felt so unnatural to see them so dissected in this mechanical overview.  But hopefully it means I will be able to use the full range of my animations in the end!

I’m a little nervous about what this decision could mean in the future for my project.  The game is currently bound to be at a 1920x1080 resolution, which is standard HD, but definitely not as nice as 4k or even Full HD.  I would love to be able to scale the game’s resolution which is a pretty normal feature for computer-based games.  It might be less of a problem if this were for a console release?  Unsure.  However, the main thing I’m wondering is if these scalable options have whole different sets of game assets at different resolutions or if they just take the high-res ones and scale them down.  Apparently, the ladder option can actually impact performance though so I’m really not sure.  Either way, it sounds like it could be a daunting task to work with in the future.  Thankfully it’s not really a worry to me right now.

Also, I realized I never posted about this, but I decided to switch my animation process from Procreate to Rough Animator on my iPad.  I’ll likely still use Procreate for initial pencil roughs since it only requires a single layer and runs a little smoother for me, but for final linework and color, it will be Rough Animator.  Nothing really beats actual animation layer support.  It makes life WAY more flexible.

The next step is figuring out how to make these animations work with the code logic.  Essentially, I really want to avoid using If-Then-Else statements because those slow the computer down if you have too many, so a solution I found in this Reddit post is to use a system called a “Finite State Machine.”  Sounds pretty cool and this video by Shaun Spalding (it’s always him) gives a very brief explanation of the concepts of a state machine.  To make a very quick TL;DR version though, essentially you write code for every possible “state” the player could be in, and then you tell Game Maker Studio to load that state based on what the player does.  If that didn’t make sense, try watching the video instead.  

Anyways this is essentially the most likely way I can get my animations working properly.  Not only that, but it also seems like it could be extremely important in developing other things later on, like climbing ladders, walking on ice, or who knows what.  But basically, anything that could change the way the character moves that isn’t “left, right, and jump” will likely require its own “state” and subsequent code.  Frankly, it’s a headache for me right now, especially since I’m writing this at midnight!  I’ll have to spend a few days on all this, unfortunately.

To make my life easier with state machines and keep me on track with my art output, I’ve decided to invest about $5 in a premade state machine.  This is essentially the wireframe for the code, but I still have to put in the effort to learn and understand it as well as code all the specifics of each state.  Essentially, I bought a bike with no wheels, and I have to teach myself where to get the wheels and how to attach them to the bike.

Game Maker’s official article on Finite State Machines.

I’m a little nervous about what this decision could mean in the future for my project.  The game is currently bound to be at a 1920x1080 resolution, which is standard HD, but definitely not as nice as 4k or even Full HD.  I would love to be able to scale the game’s resolution which is a pretty normal feature for computer-based games.  It might be less of a problem if this were for a console release?  Unsure.  However, the main thing I’m wondering is if these scalable options have whole different sets of game assets at different resolutions or if they just take the high-res ones and scale them down.  Apparently, the ladder option can actually impact performance though so I’m really not sure.  Either way, it sounds like it could be a daunting task to work with in the future.  Thankfully it’s not really a worry to me right now.

Also, I realized I never posted about this, but I decided to switch my animation process from Procreate to Rough Animator on my iPad.  I’ll likely still use Procreate for initial pencil roughs since it only requires a single layer and runs a little smoother for me, but for final linework and color, it will be Rough Animator.  Nothing really beats actual animation layer support.  It makes life WAY more flexible.

But that’s pretty much it.  On a slightly different note, I am worried about other classes also impeding my progress on this project.  I feel like I stormed ahead the first two weeks and now I feel like a snail.  Multiple reading assignments and a couple of different personal projects are getting in my way.  I’m trying to balance my stuff out, but this is definitely why I shouldn’t be my own boss!

I expect the next time I update this; it will be with more information on state systems.  I don’t think I’ve ever posted a video here of the game in action directly, so I’ll link to the one I used from my presentation here--

[madfantasy]

Dear Blogging

Hope ur doing well🍀

When I realise my updates are futher apart in time, it makes me sad. I don't have much new to say, I am in the same trance following no time yet feeling every passing second. In progress that I can't feel because of how much I'm used to pain and nothingness. I am okay, finally had the brain power to make words today, the last months were exceptionally difficult as I mentioned the unrelenting near 50° heat. And for the majority of that time I spent it without any means to cool off, which periodically made me sick and kept me in bed too long. Even more bits of my teeth broke off, rendering me unable to smile or eat without jolts of pain. My unstable network provider topping off the misery.

Since I moved to my "sunny room" I couldn't use the net I waste money on for because of the weak signal, so I had not much sources of distractions or solace. Nothing separating me from the continuous good old times; living in absolute isolation. I don't think I have online connections anymore and wouldn't blame anyone for forgetting me. I'm sorry, I feel absolutely disconnected, I don't know what I want or what to do or how to dare be involved. And in all honesty, I am functioning on 1% energy spent on drawing..

I was trying to have a goal to compete that, to keep my faith up and have hope and project it. Wanting a red and black room was one, but I gave up on it because I didn't have enough work to afford it, and really the experience of buying stuff online only to find the advertised color was a lie, specially if its red was a huge waste of time and money. And my guardians fed up with me asking them to return things, ungraciously. I liked my room eventually

After prolonged periods of depression, I found myself longing for my traditional art, flicking through my old diary. I craved to return able to draw on paper again, and the few times I tried, memories, good and bad gushed through. Relived again how it was to draw in secret and to love things you are constantly told are not for you or called it not natural and be punished severely for.. just made me cry over how culture always just hurt for the sake of hurting and uses religion as a loose cape, mourning them using it to exclude while it was something aimed to be harmonious with all and they never focus on being actual good people over keeping appearances.. for the longest time making me wonder if something was actually wrong with me beyond just being different than them.. now there's plethora of mental things thanks to their abuse. Starting with my inability to look at people without feeling quick to panic discomfort. Making me see this isolation as they say, a "blessing in disguise ". I don't know how to take that as, tbh, I still to this day get nightmares of when I used to live in big houses with multiple families, or the endless schools I went to.

I started drawing on paper bit by bit. The minute I find myself overwhelmed I stop. With time I felt I can enjoy it again, and recalled all what passer through my mind as kid, how I fantasised of owning the chunkiest coloring tin or the thickest drawing paper. So decided to get sketchbooks and notebooks and try everything new, I didn't care

I didn't know where to start, so I got randomly selected sketchbook and one lockable journal, so I can hopefully write diary again like i used to. I show everything i get to them but already Guardians couldn't help themselves and flick though it, I didn't say anything but my inside automatically clinched and turned into an angry imp snatching to have it back, like i used to actually react when they searched my school things for doodles.

I changed the lock c:

I learned of the existence of more mechanical pencil sizes so I got every possible one, carefully not breaking my law of owning only red and black things, hehe. Also some essentials so my guardians won't comment on my spending ways. Like a tooth brush, and the best bonnet ever. I also got myself a backpack for my pen people to live in, for the longest time I wanted a shark backpack but this one just screamed Mani (it was cheaper 😝). As kid I had a red bag with snoopy's face on it, it was my literal safe zone that I carried it everywhere, pretended to travel in cardboard boxes with and had many garbage things stored in it that ment something dear to me, already that blissful feeling is regenerated when i wore it. And hopefully next month I get work to buy colors..

I got my eyes on those atm

(Also something funny, I can promise you I got the talk about devil worship from them for getting horns, and here's the thing; they know about the actual sketchy devil worship practices, its a common knowledge in our surroundings. To me, having red horns it felt Mani like, style euphoria, I love being a polite naughty gentlethem and that spoke of it clearly to me so I didn't care too much)

I also in my careless defiance rush, bought a shoulder- abaya that resembles more of a cloak, to me at least. To help dim my dysphoria even for the tiniest bit and maybe give me one point of courage to want to go out when possible. 'Cause the only thought i have when I'm out is absolute fear, or brain blanking out on me and i freeze in my place

I was stressed for so long that they might fight me on it because they never allowed me to wear but the cover ups of their choice from the dark ages, one I could not walk in or see where I was headed in (i actually wear glasses to see), but I presented it to them and I don't think they noticed.

Maybe now i can feel comfortable in it, throughout the years I never really adjusted to wearing it— having almost no occasion to leave the house 3/4 of my life. It was never something i felt connected to, been only a reminder of pure shame and embarrassment. From the very first day I started to cover my face at middle school, was forced to do that the day before, non of my guardians taught me how to wear it. And the minute it fell from my face thanks to my clumsy attempts at tying it, my face was welcomed with— not the fresh air and 4k sight clarity, but a slap that knocked me back into the car. Followed by an entire hysterical berating, calling me a sl*t and what have you, for everyone who was dropping their kids to see and hear.

I didnt know it at the time, but i was also mocked of how I wore it many times by my peers, while some took petty on me and dressed me themselves. I merely envied those foreign students who wore it just to follow the school rules and offed it the minute they got into their cars to leave. I still have no answer to what I truly want, and thats okay..

I forgot to mention how they can be super pricy, so I got the cheapest I could, resulting it being thick, strings jutting everywhere, way too big on me and all of its buttons fell. So I had to do some long hem shortenings and buttons sewing, I think I started to like it

I now just need someone to hold my hand and never let go, to take me to the hospital and hypothetically be my voice till mine return... manifesting

Oh and i did drew alot of snarry cuz it was my only cure during this time of dissociative routine, ofc endless of sketches that did not make it and 2 did, and still more to come hopefully when I continue to feel better

I wish you all the best in this world my dears, your burdens ease and your heart beats with your desires met , mani loves you ❤️‍🔥🍀🕊🙏

24.6.2022

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

The Last Cigarette (Spencer Reid x Reader) Smut

Summary: Mr Scratch was an unsub with undoubtedly the greatest impact on the team. Even in death, he pushes Spencer beyond the preconception of his limits. 

AN: This was part of a fic swap on @imagining-in-the-margins​‘ server! This Unsub!Spencer!AU is for the outstanding @cardigayn​ <3 I hope you like it! 

Content warning: Character death, abuse of power, physical assault, murder, Unsub!Spencer, mentions of rape and attempted murder, mentions of knife wounds, unhealthy coping mechanisms

Smut content warning: AFAB!Reader, they/them pronouns, facesitting, hair pulling, overstimulation, light choking, riding, biting, praise kink, unprotected sex, dirty talk, a hint of breeding

Gif credit: @imagining-in-the-margins​ // Masterlist

Your name: submit What is this?

No one on the team spoke about what Luke did to Scratch – or rather, what he didn’t do. The BAU were far beyond tired of that man’s torments. His impact upon each member was the greatest of any unsub they had ever encountered and now it was finally time to close the book on his crimes. That included turning their gaze away from the abuse of power that Luke had taken by letting Scratch fall from that building. Not the first time the team had banded together to mask a member’s tracks.

Spencer glanced up from his paperwork. Everyone else in the bullpen was focused on their tasks, as if nothing had happened. Even Emily was at her desk and typing away at her desktop when she had been an inch away from death not two weeks ago.

Spencer’s pen tapped against the desk twice before it was placed down adjacent to his pencil pot. He remembered the details of their cover-up. That wasn’t what paused his paperwork.

His mind was straying to another timeline, in accordance to the multi-verse theory. Luke had made a choice in this universe to not pull Scratch up. In another universe, he decided to save the unsub. What happened next?

After experiencing prison first hand, Spencer could somewhat pinpoint how long Scratch would have lasted in a place like Millburn. The respect for serial killers on the inside, especially those who had tormented law enforcement, would keep him alive.

There was the chance that there was another universe where Scratch would have gotten off scot free. And another timeline where Scratch, without a gun, overpowered Luke or Matt, taking either or both of them down. Kristy had no husband. Jake, David, Chloe, and Lily had no father. Roxy had no owner.

Maybe it was better that Luke didn’t help Scratch off that ledge, that Matt had just stayed back.

Spencer could not decide what he would have done in that situation, and he didn’t have to. But that didn’t mean another version of him didn’t. To be jealous of a version of himself that did not exist in his world was a bad idea. It was out of his hands and in his head – the roof, the unsub, the choice.

 --->--->--->--->--->

“Anyone want a coffee?”

A series of murmurs rose from the team, all negative, and Luke tucked his chair back under his desk before he walked off to the SAPD break room. Spencer watched his reflection in the conference room’s window. There was an itch in his brain that spread through a nerve to his knee – bouncing it just beneath the table.

Suddenly that nerve propelled him to follow Luke. Spencer’s feet weaved him in between officers until he found his teammate switching on the station’s coffee pot.

“Change your mind?” Luke raised an unsuspicious eyebrow.

“Yes,” Spencer lied, and he collected a mug to wash up. Suds flooded in the sink, rolling out the mug and around the plughole. Spencer fixated on them, a menial hope that he could focus on something else rather than the temptation of asking Luke for details.

He had to be closer of being clean of this whole thing than he thought. Scratch was dead, the case was closed. A few more years, this would be a memory that haunted him every few weeks instead of every day.

Dilaudid was craved by a tiny section of his brain, but he knew that it would not help him at all. He needed something else to help ease the cravings. If only he had inherited his mother’s affinity for cigarettes.

“Can I ask you something?”

Luke shrugged in return, “Sure.” He had opened his palm by his side but did not reach out to Spencer’s clean mug. Spencer appreciated that. A glance at the bullpen, visible through the open door, told him that no one else had followed them. It wasn’t too late. He could come up with a question about the case, about Roxy, about anything.

“What did he look like before he fell?”

Luke’s expression sobered and soured. He too checked the proximity of the police officers outside their bubble. Clearing his throat twice, he poured the coffee into his mug and spun the handle once it was down to fit Spencer’s need.

His voice was low as he said, “He looked desperate.”

Spencer nodded while he poured into his own cup. Perhaps more caffeine would aid him, for he had scratched the itch and it had spread elsewhere. Stirring in some sugar, he took a burning sip before it had dissolved and cringed at the granules in his mouth.

It was when he’d finally swallowed them, instead of spitting out like he wanted to, that Spencer gave into the itch: “Did he say anything to you?”

“He asked me to help him.” Luke blew on his coffee before taking a sip. Even then, he still struggled to swallow it. “He begged.”

“That can’t have been easy. Thanks for telling me.”

But Luke didn’t seem like he concurred. In fact, he looked as though he wanted to make right the claim and say that letting Scratch die was the easiest decision in the world.

Spencer blinked. Luke was gone, already back in the conference room. Perhaps he’d imagined something like that. His attention shifted to Scratch’s face, morphing it until it was a stereotypical expression of fear. Spencer had heard too much of that man’s voice, but it was good for one thing: recreating the words Luke had told him.

“Help me. Please!”

Matt was back with Emily.

And suddenly so was Luke. Spencer had gone it alone after Scratch. It was just the two of them on the roof, and soon it would be one.

Scratch’s clothes were whipped up by the wind, his begging too. It was almost as though he reached up for Spencer. One last cry for help. Then he fell, silent and ragdoll-esque.

Just before the body hit the ground, Scratch was clinging to the building’s side again. When he fell this time, he screamed hysterically. It echoed across the roof until Spencer couldn’t discern it from the wind. A swell of relief spread through his body. He took a sip from his coffee.

“Reid?” Just as he had done a minute prior, Luke was lingering in the doorway. “We should get back to the conference room.”

“Right,” Spencer dropped the teaspoon onto the side. It clattered about the side, then went quiet, then hit the floor. Spencer didn’t turn to see where it landed.

 --->--->--->--->--->

What an absolute smarty pants who could just about learn to use Teams by himself. Spencer leant to the right in his office chair as his partner Y/N showed him the ropes of his new application. How lucky he was to still have them after all they had been through – together and apart.

“And… ta-dah!” Y/N made jazz hands at the monitor.

“Thank you. You’re so good to me,” Spencer straightened up, smiling at the screen, “Can I get you a reward?”

Y/N seemed to ponder on this offer, an act Spencer had seen many times and never grew tired of. Then Y/N tapped their cheek twice and bent forward. With butterflies in his stomach, Spencer tilted his chin up and pressed a lingering kiss there. There was a bashful smile across their face when they drew away. Even after all this time, Spencer was proud he could still affect them so.  

The door to his office shut behind them and Spencer looked over his desktop’s background. His students’ homework was hovering in the background, already being printed off. The printer stuttering out each page had long since been tuned out

He glanced away from it to his left and saw Y/N again. Their arms were wrapped around themselves, their body close and facing Spencer with a clear expression drawing bravery upon them. Spencer’s head then turned to see if Scratch was still dangling by the tips of his fingers. He was.

“What do I do?” Spencer asked, his voice almost torn away by the wind he couldn’t feel against his cheek.

Y/N hardly spared Scratch a glance. They had never seen him before, and they made this one time they did as short as possible. Their hand moved Spencer’s head so that Scratch was in his blind spot. They held his face and looked on him sweetly, even in the darkness around them.

They gave Spencer their answer: “Leave him.”

Scratch’s body trembled as his head rigidly shook, “Please!”

But Y/N took Spencer’s hand in their free one and they held it even as Scratch’s grip failed him. Only then did they look at the unsub and watch unflinchingly together as their tormenter fell to his death. A second later, the pair heard the body hit the ground. Spencer began to move towards the ledge, Y/N tugging him back towards the door of the roof.

“I have to see,” Spencer insisted, “I have to know he’s really gone.”

There was no pity, just empathy, as Y/N nodded their head, “Ok.” Their hands tensed together while they approached the roof’s end.

There he was, his body broken, his head smashed against the dirt. Lifeless. Gone.

Then Scratch was falling again, the last seconds of existence, and Y/N was hiding their face in Spencer’s shoulder. He was holding them tight, so that if they changed their mind about watching, they wouldn’t be able to. But he was watching everything in slow motion.

Every fraction of change in Scratch’s terror was drawn out until it was a pantomime of itself.

“Are you ok?” He asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

Closing his eyes, Spencer kissed Y/N’s head. He basked in his comfort before he opened his eyes again and drew a deep breath from the comfort of his desk chair. Then he collected the printed essays of his students, grabbing a pen to prepare for marking.

  --->--->--->--->--->

 This time Hotch was there, Jack’s face hidden in his father’s chest. Derek too, holding little Hank with all the tenderness a father could.

Spencer waved his hand towards the door, “Get them out of here. I don’t want them to see this.” He waited dutifully for them to leave, both of them sending a nod Spencer’s way.

Once the door bounced against its frame to close, he stood at the edge. He couldn’t feel the cold rushing past him, coaxing him to fall with Scratch, but he could picture hearing it. Almost deafening him to Scratch’s pleas, he turned those words up loud so that he could hear the moment the words stopped, the moment that Spencer pulled out his Smith & Wesson and shot Scratch in the head. His grip faltered instantly and his lifeless body tumbled down.

“No.”

Spencer screwed his eyes shut before looking back at the geographic profile.

“No what?”

He started. He didn’t realise that Tara was still in the room with him.

His words tumbled out quickly, “Just testing a theory, but it’s not right, it doesn’t fit.”

Nodding, Tara made her way beside him and observed the evidence collected so far, “We’ll get there. Just keep that brain going.”

Spencer planned to do just that. This daydream wasn’t as satisfying, like Nicorette mists or chewing gum. Just shooting him in the head? That was more than mercy for Scratch. No, he’d have to come up with something else to use. For the daydream of course.

He was glad that Tara was treating him normally. Not like JJ, who had checked in on him for Dilaudid before take-off. She was hovering around him like a gnat and it was starting to piss him off. Where was this energy when he was actually contemplating the drug’s pros and cons? He was determined to keep it together for the team to function and solve this case, but JJ in his peripherals was making it hard to focus. On work. Not the daydreaming. He loved her to bits, but he just wished she’d leave him to his own devices unless it concerned the case. That was the priority now.

The broken fingers of the victims sat like warped roots of a tree on the board, each knuckle shattered with a hammer. This unsub – a man in his 20s, not 30s – had such an odd post-mortem signature. Like when Ronald Weems did on the prostitutes. The ones Nathan Harris was obsessed with, wrote about, then killed himself before he could re-enact such a crime.

But it was fine. This was different. Spencer wasn’t writing these down. He didn’t need to. That, and he wasn’t about to recreate his daydreams.

“Excuse me.”

“Off for a smoke?” Luke joked half-heartedly.

Shortly after shaking off that effort at a joke, Spencer’s hand froze against the metal pole of the wheelchair access to the police station. His lungs took a deep breath of the cool Christmas air, a worthless hit. He hoped that Derek and Hotch were being the fathers they always wanted to be - that Gideon could have been.

--->--->--->--->--->

Adrenaline was what enabled him to haul Scratch up. Still, Spencer strained with his weight. He was gasping with the unsub when they were both allowed back onto the roof, Scratch’s knees digging into the floor for security and his hands still clasping the edge of the building - from the other side now.

Spencer watched, blood roaring in his ears with each panting breath. He took one deeper and let out a yell as he kicked his foot up into Scratch’s nose. Scratch rolled onto his back with a ragged rasp, blood spouting from his nose to stain everything it made contact with, and his head lolled off the edge of the building. Spencer’s chest burned with unsatisfaction so he kicked again. This time, his foot came down on Scratch’s groin. Ineffective in stopping him from standing, this was personal deliverance of pain.

He was out of breath but completely fine. He had the energy to drag Scratch back with one hand at his ankle, so now his head was beneath a solid enough surface to stomp on three times. Each one sent Scratch’s eyes rolling back further into his head.

Spencer began to use his hands. Getting close into Scratch’s space, he lay punch after punch, no pain on his hands, no. He put it all into Mr Scratch for every second he stole from him and his team until finally he stood up.

Scratch barely had enough energy to cough behind the blood pooling in his mouth. But Spencer could make out the one word he was wheezing in his agony.

“Spencer.”

Then, and only then, did Spencer draw his gun once more and shoot Mr Scratch in the neck.

The jet jolted as its wheels touched the runway. Spencer leant back in his chair, dragged as the jet slowed to a stop. He grunted, his head still catching up to that sudden jolt.

“I want you all to just go home, alright?” Prentiss was already stood at the end of the plane’s gangway, “Get some rest.”

The rest of the trip home was a blur for Spencer; it was committed to his memory but not with any intrigue. Only when he dropped his keys in the front door’s bowl did he start paying attention to his surroundings again. Y/N was powerwalking over to him, instinctively reaching out long before they made it to him.

“Hey baby!” They greeted, and Spencer enfolded them into a tight embrace, “You must be knackered.”

They swayed a little on the spot as Spencer answered, “I was.”

“Was?”

“Not after seeing you.”

His chin brushed over Y/N’s shoulder before he kissed that spot, smiling against the cloth of their shirt. His support rocked as Y/N giggled. Their grip on him tightened for a moment before they ran a hand over his tummy, the little “pouch” as they had affectionately named it. A thought ran past his eyes: that it wouldn’t hurt to start working out if he was going to do more than just shoot Scratch.

“Cheeky,” Y/N touched one of his curls as they pulled away, “Come on, let’s go to bed. Not like that.” They tapped his nose at the raise of his eyebrows.”

“I missed you,” Spencer said, not immediately after that, but when they were both in bed together, “I always do.”

“Me too.”

Y/N was unable to look Spencer in the eye. Spencer loved that they were so overwhelmed with love that they had to seek refuge elsewhere. They were just like him in that sense.

--->--->--->--->---> 

  Gun drawn, Spencer took deliberate steps stalking through the darkened apartment complex. The entire area was due for demolishing the following morning, so there were plenty hiding spaces for this unsub to jump out of. Every deep breath stilled his hands as he moved swiftly around each corner. Matt mumbled something in his earpiece about going down to the poolside.

He made his way to the third floor and followed the glowing green signs towards the fire escape.

Martin Harvey had just turned around to see Spencer. He instantly dropped the pipe he was wielding and thrust his hands into the air.

“Ok, ok, ok, you got me. Don’t shoot.”

His legs crumbled and he fell to his knees. A coward, just like the profile had said. This was too easy. No, it wasn’t actually. Interviewing those parents and friends of the victims, gritting teeth while working through red tape set up by the small town talk and the prejudices constructed long before this case occurred, none of that and none of what came prior was easy.

“Get up there.”

Harvey frowned, his eyes unsteady between Spencer’s face and Spencer’s gun, “What?”

Spencer tilted the barrel of his gun to the fire escape stairs for a second, immediately returning it onto Harvey, “You heard me.”

Shaking, Harvey took the steps as they came. His hands were still on his head. His boots made hollow clanks against the rusting metal, echoing Spencer’s lighter taps, until they came into contact with the concrete of the roof. The wind felt more brutal today. It was colder than Spencer imagined. The February chills shouldn’t dissuade him much though.

The second Harvey made a move to spin around, Spencer smacked his head with the butt of his gun. Harvey tripped forwards but remained upright. So Spencer holstered his weapon, grabbed Harvey’s shoulder, and punched across his nose. Both men let out a cry. Spencer flexed his fingers to subside the pain, but it continued to shoot up and down his bones. Another attempt, he grappled with the scruff of Harvey’s shirt then shoved him off his balance to the ground. The unsub wobbled and cried out as he fell backwards. Spencer kicked again, not as strong as the last time, but he felt the surge of power in him. Adrenaline, real and flooding his every movement. This was beyond what his fantasies had ever brought him, and he was living for it. He didn’t have to hold back anymore.

“Why are you doing this?” Harvey sobbed, trying to hide in his hands. Pathetic. The man who had raped and attempted murder on five different women couldn’t take it when a man stood up to him.

He hit Harvey once more but drew back from the opportunity for a third. Instead, he rolled the body over the edge with just enough tact to allow Harvey to make a grab for the edge.

Once more, Harvey begged for Spencer to stop.

Spencer looked down on this low life, this scum that dared to interfere with innocent lives for fun. The heel of his shoe came down hard on Harvey’s hand. He howled in pain. Spencer stomped down again; this time there was a series of collective crunches. Harvey let go with that hand, but the other was still clinging dearly to the roof.

As he stared into those panicked eyes, Spencer squatted down beside Harvey’s hands. Broken fingers flailed nearby, Harvey not strong enough to pull himself up and reach for Spencer. His thumb slid off the edge, and the pinkie finger too.

The begging faded into the background. The fear in his face, it had to be at least somewhat the same as Scratch’s. The proximity to danger was beyond comfort.

People he lost:

Derek.

Hotch.

Emily, nearly.

People he loved:

Tara.

Matt.

Penelope.

Luke.

JJ.

Him.

Mom.

Y/N.

Spencer brought down the butt off his gun onto the last three fingers holding on. His eyelids forced him to watch as Harvey fell fast to the ground, a crunch of bones reaching his ears when the ground met with him

A delicious shiver ran up Spencer’s spine. He shook his shoulders and breathed it out. There was not the extreme of happy. Felt in his heart was content in the gentle breeze, in the dull pain.

“Prentiss. He’s dead. I’m on the roof.”

“We’re on our way, Reid.”

--->--->--->--->---> 

  Paramedics had pressed the sterilised cotton against his cuts while his eyes were on the bag that was wheeled away towards the other ambulance. Spencer’s thousand-yard stare ended shortly after that; Emily walked into his view and touched his shoulder. Her embrace was welcomed greatly, as was the nap he took on the flight back.

His bag was not as heavy as he remembered it being as he drew up to his apartment. Once his keys were out the door, he dropped everything and was on his way to the bedroom for an early night when he bumped into Y/N – who was all bundled in their pyjamas.

“You’re back! In time for Valentine’s Day!” Y/N’s smile was quick to disappear, “What happened?”

“I found the unsub. He fought back, resisted. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh Spencer.” They hovered an inch over his face before they settled their hands on him.

A quick kiss on his lips, then they took him into the kitchen and set about making a tea for him. But Spencer didn’t really need, or want, one. He slipped up behind them, mumbling into their ear, “I’m meant to be the one taking care of you today.”

“We take care of each other, Spencer, you know that.” Y/N patted his arms that were now around their waist. Spencer kissed the spot below their ear, smirking into\ them as he felt the stutter in their movements. His lips found the side of their neck and kissed again.

“We do,” He agreed.

“You know, I won’t be able to take care of you if you keep doing that.”

“Oh, you will,” Spencer nuzzled his cheek against them, “Just not by making me tea.” To make extra sure his point was getting across, Spencer moved them around and kissed them with two fingers lightly pinching their chin.

“Your hand-”

“Doesn’t hurt. And I have two.”

Already Spencer was unbuttoning Y/N’s shirt, his thin fingers parting it open to place his cool touch against their bare skin. It shuddered beneath him, sending waves to help him map the rest of their body again in his mind. A tingle sat in between his shoulder blades as Y/N tugged at the curls in the nape of his neck.

How they got into bed doesn’t really matter. It was when Spencer’s hands pressed into the mattress that he winced away from Y/N’s lips.

“You are hurting,” They pushed to sit up.

“I’m fine.”

“You need to rest.”

“What I need is for you to sit on my face and not stand up until I say so.”

Spencer heard Y/N’s teeth knock together as they closed their once-agape mouth. “Can you help me with that?”

Y/N nodded, dumbstruck at Spencer’s words and the thumb he was dragging across their bottom lip in an attempt to distract from his injuries.

“Y/N, I’m ok. Really. It’s just a little sting. Let me love you.”

“I’m not stopping you. I’m just worried.”

Throb of each cut on his hand as his fingers fanned across their skin Grasping tight on their thighs

He only had to let go for a moment while Y/N stripped clean of their clothes Seeking refuge, he felt completely content with those thick thighs wrapped around his head. Not a single time did his mind stray to Scratch or any other unsub now that Y/N was safe from them. Calm seeped over him, fuelling his biting and lavishing his tongue upon their inner thighs

His pace enjoyed such a leisurely stroll around their cunt, the tip of his tongue gliding through each of their folds. Eyes still closed, he had the image of it soaking wet with his spit and their juices. He licked his lips once before he pursed them around the clit. His hands, now stiff and sore from stroking their hips, reached up to touch their chest. He fondled at their sensitive nipples with delight at Y/N fisting at his hair. All this, and he licked at Y/N’s clit like it was an ice lolly on a summer’s day.

When Y/N came first, they let out short bursts of breath coupled with their moans. The second time, they had to hold onto the bedframe as their body slumped forward and their clit rubbed up against Spencer’s nose. On the third, they fell off his chin, rolled to their side of the bed. Giggles fell from their satisfied smile as they curled up. Smearing the back of his hand across his mouth, Spencer pushed onto his side so he could reach them for another kiss. Y/N could barely respond and they were still laughing as Spencer pulled them into his lap. His fingers looked so pretty around their neck; he kept them there until silence filled the room again. When they reached that moment, he squeezed lightly and let out a gentle “hmm” at Y/N’s moan.

“You good, darling?” He whispered.

“Just what the doctor ordered.”

Though their lips were together, they parted in pants and smiles.

“You got one more for me?”

“Of course,” Y/N clumsily patted a hand down his cheek, “You haven’t even had one yet.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You must be the only guy to say that and mean it.”

Swallowing the statistic on how many men had said they wanted to orgasm during sex, Spencer watched Y/N struggle to sit on his cock. Their legs were shaking uncontrollably; they didn’t settle, not even in his firm hold.

His hands dragged them down onto him and over their moans he whispered, “Doesn’t mean I don’t want one.”

“I wanna give you what you want.”

As Y/N  rocked into him, Spencer shared the last of their tangy taste that lingered on his tongue. Then he found peace in resting his chin on their shoulder, rising and falling as they did.

“You wanna cum for me?”

Their words hit his ears, “Please, help me.”

A spike of pleasure ripped through his body. In an instant, Spencer flipped them over and drove his hips hard into them. His teeth sunk into the skin of their shoulder before releasing his load into them. His entire being trembled into Y/N, their ankles locked in his lower back lazily as he milked every last drop of exhilaration he could from them.

His cock stayed inside them, keeping his cum safe inside. Y/N barely lifted their head but luckily for them, Spencer’s shoulder was within their reach. They bit him in the same spot he had bitten them, not releasing him until their marks matched.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” They mumbled against him.

Spencer tipped himself back an inch or two, “I’m happy you’re safe too.” He didn’t mind the ache on his skin any more than the others. It was a nice collection he had gathered today.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Spencer.”

--->--->--->--->--->  

 This was it, the last cigarette. He didn’t have to worry about Scratch anymore after this.

A low whistle lead Spencer to pull at his collar sheepishly, and Tara leant against his desk. At first, he ignored her, signing off the last of his paperwork. His mandatory session with the team’s therapist set fresh on his lungs without a single symptom of guilt.

“Well, well, well,” Tara teased, indicating to her neck with two fingers tapping, “Something about a life or death situation that gets you in the mood?”

“Actually, research into the terror management theory has shown that people respond to mortality reminders by bolstering their own cultural view, derogating opposing views, and shoring up their self-esteem. By this account, the effect of death on libido will depend on the meaning that sex has for a person.”

“And what does it mean for you?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“You don’t have to,” Tara grinned, “I would hazard a guess that Y/N’s looking the same.”

Spencer shook his head playfully, “We said we wouldn’t profile each other.”

The ribbing came to a close as Penelope brushed past and announced to the bullpen, “We have a new case, in the conference room.”

Spencer dropped his finished case file into Emily’s empty office on the way to the conference room, his hand only complaining an itch at the motions of holding a pen and a form. It didn’t end as he flicked over the file’s papers while Penelope went over the details of their latest case – gruesome photos of open knife wounds the television screens.

The shrinking juxtaposition between body discoveries indicated a devolving unsub with a disintegrating cooling off period. Basically, it was an unsub not worthy of his daydreams or of his injuries.

Except that’s not what it was at all. This was an unsub to be arrested and face punishment, before more people could be hurt. Spencer didn’t need a cooling off period because he wasn’t going to do that again. He could recall his played-out fantasy in complete and utter detail, never forgetting a thing he saw.

And anyway, this unsub was definitely an impotent and disorganised man lashing out. Couldn’t hold a candle to Scratch. So why waste his time on that? Why would he have another cigarette when he didn’t need one right now?

--->--->--->--->

AN: I do not condone the actions displayed in this fic. I find unsub!AUs of the show interesting developments and the intended recipient of this fic is aware of that. I will not write a part two for this, because I do not have the motivation or idea besides Spencer getting caught and subsequently arrested.

Thank you for reading!

[sprnklersplashes]

songwriter!janis fic (unrequited crush, no-very-happy-ending) 

also on ao3

It all started because she loved Taylor Swift when she was in middle school. Who is she kidding, she still loves Taylor Swift, but that’s where all this began. A middle school girl’s obsession with Taylor Swift. A confused, sad girl with a broken heart and smudged black eyeliner, finding refuge in lyrics about loneliness and anger and revenge. They became anthems for her, mantras to mutter when the warzone of middle school became too much for her.

“Someday, I’ll be living in a big old city, and all you’re ever gonna be is mean.”

“Cause I knew you were trouble when you walked in.”

“I can still see you, this ain’t the best view.”

It amazes her. It’s honestly as if Taylor Swift has managed to look into her life and given her a bundle of songs for whatever she needs. For when Regina has thrown her one too many snide looks, for when she’s standing at the door of North Shore High on her first day, for when she eats lunch alone, for when her mom is the best mom she could have asked for, for when she and Damian are lying on the grass in her backyard, staring up at the sky, laughing at absolutely nothing. The songs become the soundtrack to her life, the chords and those raw, honest lyrics an emotional outlet she so desperately craves. Taylor, and her songs, become a confidant, almost a close friend who always knows what to say.

With all that in mind, perhaps it was only a matter of time before she asks for a guitar for Christmas. She’s fourteen, braces and a slight lisp, and jumps up and down like a mad woman when she sees it under the tree.

She practices for three days straight, until her fingers bleed, but Should’ve Said No is the first song she learns off by heart. She yells the lyrics with maybe a little too much passion, but her parents applaud her nonetheless.

Like she said, that’s how it all started.

Because that same Christmas, she realises that screaming her feelings while playing guitar actually feels pretty cathartic. And that if it worked for Taylor Swift, it could work for her. So she writes stuff down, plays around with chords and strumming until the beat on the guitar matches the one in her head. She grabs a page and a pencil and writes and re-writes her innermost thoughts and feelings on the page until they sound the way she wants them to. She plays around with rhyme schemes and structure and everything she’s been taught about in English class, and a thrill runs through her as she does so. It’s the same breathless high she feels when she paints or draws, the rush that comes from creating something.

Her parents sit on the other side of her bedroom door, no doubt exchanging worried glances as she repeats the same verse, same chorus, with only a word changed. She watches them when they think she can’t see, peering through the crack in her door. The conclusion they seem to come to is ‘well, as coping mechanisms go, it’s pretty good, and she’s happy, so who are we to stop it?’.

It takes her four days to finish her first song. And it sucks. But she keeps it, writes down the lyrics and chords in one of the few empty notebooks she has, and there’s no going back from it now. She writes, and she writes, and she writes, near enough every day. She likes to think she gets better with each one. She learns more chords, buys a cheap ukulele the summer after freshman year, tries her hand at piano during a particularly difficult few weeks. She doesn’t plan on doing anything with them. They’re just her little pieces to hold on to. Her therapy sessions outside the carpeted office.

No-one knows about it. She has a reputation to keep up, after all. The loner-by-choice, too-cool-for-school, aloof art freak. Everyone has their roles to play in the ecosystem that is high school and, much as she hates the entire system, that is hers to play. And she plays it well, if she may say so. The fact that hardly anyone knows her past that facade suits her just fine. After all, if people think she doesn’t care, she can’t get hurt. No-one needs to know that Janis Sarkisian actually has feelings.

Even less need to know that she writes songs about said feelings.

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By the time she reaches her junior year, she’s onto her third notebook. She keeps them tucked away in her sock drawer, expertly hidden so only she can find them. Damian teases her about it, calling her “the protagonist of a Disney Channel Original Movie”. She just rolls her eyes and reminds him that “if either of us is gonna be Disney’s first openly gay character, it’ll be you”. He can’t argue with that.

It should be noted that when Janis said that no-one knows about her songwriting, Damian was the obvious exception. He found out just weeks after she started. There’s no keeping secrets from him.

Between all her notebooks, she’s written around forty songs.

Then she meets Cady Heron one day. The human embodiment of a labrador puppy, complete with wide, lost eyes. She likes her instantly, decides to take her under her wing because Lord knows the girl needs it. Cady’s smile is infectious, her laugh like a summer breeze. She has dimples and caramel-coloured hair and really likes maths.

She meets Cady on a Monday.

By that Saturday, song number 41-titled “Dimples and Curls” is more or less complete.

She plays it for Damian, hands only slightly shaking as she changes chords, the strumming short and upbeat, the melody strangely happy for such a bittersweet song.

He applauds her, but the subject of the song hangs in the air even after she’s played the last chord and the music fades. Unsaid, but not unknown. Just like her songwriting, Janis couldn’t keep a crush from Damian if she tried.

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“Hey, check it out.”

Cady drops onto the seat across from Janis, the whole table shaking as she does so. Like a small meteor just hit Earth. Janis looks up from her lunch, pretending like she had been doing her own thing and not watching the door until Cady came in. Pretending like her stomach doesn’t do little flips at the sight of her crossing the cafeteria. She pulls the flyer towards her and hums in amusement.

“The winter talent show,” she reads before chomping off a carrot stick. “Oh, is it that time of year already?”

“Seems like only yesterday we was welcoming the young’uns into this brave new world during the harvest season,” Damian sighs, putting on a delightfully over the top Southern Belle accent, no doubt influenced by their reading of Streetcar Named Desire in English class. Janis cackles, and nearly chokes on her lunch as she does.

“And now the cold winds of winter are descending upon us,” she replies, her accent equally heavy. She bats her eyes for good measure, because she can and because it makes Cady laugh. “Oh but I pray the children will survive this season, it is often rough for them.”

“I am never showing you two anything winter related ever again,” Cady says.

Janis just shrugs and runs her hand through her hair before her eyes go back to the flyer. Clearly, whatever sophomore they got to design it this year did their best; found the prettiest looking snowflakes on Google Images to put on the cartoon stage, decided to write in some swirling, slanted font rather than the start-studded block lettering they usually went for. It’s still the same as it is every year, meaning just as mockable, but she’ll give them points for tying.

“Well, anyone here going for it?” she asks. She looks from Damian to Cady and back again, a teasing smirk on her lips. “Last year and all that.”

“Not sure I can,” Damian sighs. “I mean, I’m booked up with Spelling Bee rehearsals and spring cabaret auditions happening next semester.” He drums his fingers against his throat. “Gotta give the little vocal chords some rest, you know?”

Janis’ response is to sing the lowest note she possibly can before turning to Cady and giving her a pointed look, the corner of her mouth quirked up.

“Who? Me?” Cady’s cheeks turned crimson and she shakes her head so much that the caramel curls bounced around her shoulders. “No way. Damian can take the stage, I’m fine with my calculators and textbooks.”

“You could always solve equations in front of everyone,” Janis says. “I could call out college-level questions from the audience and you solve them in under 30 seconds.”

“I think I’ll pass,” she giggles. She leans forward slightly, eyes glittering, and Janis does her best not to squirm. The effect Cady Heron’s eyes have on her should be studied by scientists. “What about you, Janis?”

“I don’t know.” She thinks back to when she helped on stage crew last year, as well as helping out (or taking over) with the set design. It had been fun, the kind of challenge she needed to keep her mind off the slowly-going-off-the-rails plan. And she was told it looked good on her college applications, because all people can think about apparently is college, college, college. “Maybe. They might need another genius stage manager.”

“And you’ll step in if they can’t find one?” She digs Damian in the ribs for that comment.

“But not performing?” Cady asks, and Janis freezes. Performing had never even crossed her mind before. She’s used to backstage, hell, she likes backstage. It’s not that she has stage fright or anything, and if she had, her stunt at Ms Norbury’s little healing session would have squished it. She had just never thought about it.

But Cady had, apparently.

“I-No, I-I don’t think so,” she stammers out. “Um, I might do backstage again, but not actually doing something, you know, talent related.” She bites her tongue and clamps her lips shut before anything else can come out.

“Okay then,” Cady replies slowly. She gets up from the table, her little empty water bottle in her hands. “I’m going to go for a refill, save my seat.”

“No problem,” Janis says, but Cady’s already jogging away.

She doesn’t know if it’s good or bad that Cady’s known her too long to think of her as cool, and so this kind of awkward babbling isn’t really surprising to her. Instead of thinking about it, she just sets her head on the table and lets Damian rub her back.

“You were nowhere near as bad as you think you were,” he assures her.

“Title of your sex tape,” comes her murmured reply. Damian chuckles and runs his fingers through her hair, like she’s his pet cat. It helps.

“So you’re definitely not going for the talent show then?” he asks.

Her first instinct is to say no, because of course she isn’t, because she never has before and she sees no point in breaking a three-year streak, but the answer catches in her throat. At the same time, something begins forming in her brain, pieces of a melody she’s already known, words filling in blank spots in her brain, and her fingers twitch involuntarily, playing the chords on an invisible guitar. Without a word, she grabs a notepad and pen from her bag and scribbles the words down before she forgets them, quickly becoming breathless just by sitting there. She forgets, for a moment, everything else, the talent show, Cady, even Damian next to her, and just revels in the task and the quick buzz she gets just from writing. Just like that she has one eye on the clock, itching to get home and put her notes into the rest of the song.

But with those notes came an idea, an idea so completely out of left field she almost laughs at it.

“Janis?” Damian asks, just slightly unnerved by her. If anyone else were at this table, even Cady (especially Cady), she would have had to excuse herself and run to the bathroom, or just hope the words stayed in her head long enough for her to get a quiet moment. “Did the Goddess of Music just possess you again?”

“Maybe,” is her response. He doesn’t know it, but she answered both the questions he asked in the past minute.

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She sits on her bed that night, her homework half-done and strewn across the desk, abandoned in favour of the guitar sitting in her lap and notebook open on her bed. She’s been working on his song for the better part of a week, inspiration and motivation seemingly striking and then fading whenever she gets a free moment. Abandoning it has crossed her mind-she’s no stranger to abandoning things that aren’t working-but for some reason she hasn’t quite been able to shake this particular song off.

Maybe it is Euterpe, the Goddess of Music, descending upon her because this song has to be finished, it has to be, Olympus willing it so.

Or maybe it’s because this song is one of the most personal things she’s ever written, a love letter she’ll never send, and the idea of it sitting unfinished drives her crazy.

She plays another chord and sings the line again, changing the ending slightly, and makes the adjustment in her notes.

She’s crazy. This is already crazy, her secret double life as a wannabe T-Swift, but now she’s gone beyond that. Thinking of actually playing it. On a stage. In front of people. She doesn’t care what people think of her, she stopped caring about that a long, long time ago, but holy shit what will people think of her after she does this? Life isn’t like the movies, she knows that much. It won’t be some pretty, softly-lit moment where the crowd sits with teary eyes, Cady runs onstage and kisses her and she’s offered a deal by some big shot producer, and they all live happily ever after the end. What could happen is people think she’s even more of a weirdo than they do now.

Or she gets tomatoes thrown at her head and she’s booed off the stage. That’s a possibility.

She calls Damian, because that’s the only way she sees out of her little thought cul-de-sac. She puts the phone on speaker and props it up against a pillow, keeping her hands free for her guitar and her pen. He picks up on the third ring, just as she’s strumming out a G chord.

“Oh, is someone prepping for her Grammy?” he asks. “You’re still taking me as your date, right?”

“Only if my dog can’t go,” she replies. She taps her nails against the wood, the rhythm too fast and frantic to just be a habit. Yes, she can tell Damian anything, and being nervous in front of him is laughable, but sometimes her body forgets that. “So, I was thinking about the talent show.”

“Oh? You’re going for stage crew again? Cool.”

“No-not exactly.” She knows he can’t see the smile creeping across her face, but she’d wager he can hear it through the phone. A small swarm of butterflies flutters in her chest, leaving her just slightly out of breath. “I… I. think I’m going to try performing in it.”

A burst of laughter comes through the phone, slightly tinged with static, and Janis wishes he were here so she could slap him. Even if it’s not malicious in intent at all, and she’s laughing right along with him. Slapping is kind of a love language for them.

“Okay, okay cool. What’re you going to do?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” she says, and then she plays the opening chords to her latest experiment. She doesn’t add in the lyrics, not yet. Still, she sits back and basks in his applause when she finishes, cackling into her hand. He might be one person, but he’s got enough enthusiasm to match a packed auditorium. “What do you think?”

“I’m into it,” he tells her. “So… that’s the one you’re doing?”

“Think so.” She tosses the pick between her fingers. Like he could feel her smile, she can feel his raised eyebrow through the phone, the elephant in the room poking her with its trunk. “Yes, I know.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it,” she tells him, and he doesn’t deny it. She looks back over the lyrics she’s written and re-written. Despite some adjustments, it’s still in essence the same. Still about a girl with pretty hair who smells like vanilla and cinnamon, who has a boyfriend and is unknowingly breaking the heart of a girl with black eyeliner and paint stained fingers. Because her boyfriend is pretty and clean and smells like soap and can do math, and how is the poor art girl even meant to compare to that?

“Yes,” she says after a while. “It is about Cady.”

“Aw, my poor lovestruck songstress,” he sighs. He shifts then, and the air shifts with him. “You sure that’s the one you want to sing? I mean you have dozens of other non-Cady related songs. I’m sure Mr Duvall would love to hear Angry Teenage Lesbian Anthem.”

“First off, I gave that one a title, it’s called Shattered,” she reminds him. “And-” She freezes, the rest of her sentence catching in her throat. He’s right. She could perform one of her other songs, that are already finished and therefore removing the pressure to have this one finished, polished and stage-ready. And of course, it would mean she wouldn’t be standing in front of her entire grade and telling them all how badly she’s in love with her best friend. Showing her deepest secret to the people who have already driven her out of school once. It’s a far safer, potentially less traumatic option for her.

But…

“No,” she says. “I know it sounds crazy but I feel like… I feel like I need to do this.” She swallows thickly and picks softly at the guitar strings. “It’s like… like this way at least I’m telling her, you know? Even if she doesn’t know it.”

Of course, Damian gets it.

“That’s beautiful, babe,” he tells her. “So you’re actually doing this?”

“I’m actually doing this,” she replies firmly. “And tomorrow, I need you to make sure I don’t chicken out before I sign up.”

“Got it. I’ll just order you to do it as Senior Co-Chair of the Student Activities Committee.”

“That’s an abuse of power.”

“Then consider yourself abused baby.” He laughs and she laughs with him, and then she hears something on Damian’s end. “I have to go. A certain little sister of mine has a princess costume that needs attending to. See you later.”

“See you later,” she replies before he clicks off the call. She looks down at her paper, then at her guitar, and thinks about what she just committed to. “I’ve got some work to do.”

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The song goes through four rewrites in the weeks leading up to the talent show. The whole first verse is changed, the chorus scrapped and replaced with a new one, then that one is scrapped and she goes back to the old one. She sits hunched on her floor with a pencil in her mouth, wondering if what she’s written is too personal or not personal enough. If it’s too obvious that Cady, smart cookie that she is, will work it out and that’ll lead them down a new, scary path. She cuts some lyrics that give the game away, opting to replace one about love for numbers with love for learning, because that opens up the pool to half their grade. She writes about Cady’s blue eyes rather than specifically those double dimples that make her melt. Maybe she’s compromising her artistic vision, but it might be worth it if it’ll keep her crush a secret. She keeps the old lyrics tucked in the back of her notebook, just to have them.

Meanwhile, she’s also dealing with the fact that people know she has signed up for the talent show. That Miss Too Cool For School Loner Art Freak Janis is actually performing at a school event. And she doesn’t even get extra credit for it. They’re surprised, and curious, and none more so than Cady. The other girl appears at her side almost instantly after first period, skinny little arms wrapped around her bicep and blue eyes alight.

Oh, the things those eyes do to her.

“Janis!” she squeaks. “I saw-on the sign up sheet-your name! Oh my God, is this a joke? Did Damian put you up to it?”

“No, no, I signed up of my own accord,” Janis tells her. That only makes Cady bounce more, ponytail bobbing up and down.

“Oh wow, that’s amazing!” she says. She stops then, her mouth freezing in its place and her cheeks turning pink. Slowly, she comes down to Earth, like a balloon that had the air let out of it. Janis can almost hear the wheeze. “I mean um, it’s pretty cool, I guess.”

“It’s pretty grool,” Janis replies, and just like that Cady bounces back up again.

“Oh my gosh, what are you going to do?” she asks. “Or do you want it to be a surprise?”

“You think I have some secret knife-throwing talent?” she grins. She hesitates for a moment, looking down at Cady’s excited face, because even if this isn’t telling her… it’s telling her. “I’m… I’m going to sing.” She pulls on the strap of her backpack and avoids Cady’s eyes. “Something I wrote.”

“Okay,” Cady says. “Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”

“Hey!” she laughs. “I can write stuff. I can be deep.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about it,” Cady says, bumping her arm against Janis’. “But for real, Janis, I can’t wait to see it. I know you’ll be amazing.”

Warmth spreads across her pale cheeks, a pink blush no doubt colouring her face, and she somehow manages to choke out a “thanks” as her brain turns to static. Her only thought is ‘Cady thinks I’m going to be good’, and it’s written in glitter pen across her brain.

“This is going to be great,” she goes on. “Oh, wait until I tell Aaron. He’s got a break in his schedule that week so he’s coming up to see the talent show! Isn’t that great?”

And just like that, Janis’ good mood falls. Her face stays the same, because she’s trained to do it, but everything behind it crumbles.

“Yeah, that’s great,” she replies. Cady squeezes her hand, oblivious, and drags her along the hallway, chatting away about some lion documentary she had watched last night.

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She finishes the song that night. She arrives home with a heavy chest, so full of complicated, messy feelings, and her conversation with Cady still so fresh in her mind, her ears still ringing from the emotional whiplash. Her parents barely get a ‘hello’ as she enters and bolts up to her room, her hands shaking, the thoughts swirling around her brain desperate to be let out.

And let them out she does. She writes so quickly they look more like smudges than words, her fingers flying over rapidly changing chords, her voice broken and panting as she sings. The words almost write themselves, like the song has taken on a life of its own and she’s just along for the ride. She barely remembers to pause, to breathe, so wrapped up in the storm she’s created with just her guitar and pen.

It’s only when she finishes and falls back on her bed that she notices the tears in her eyes. She blinks them away and pulls herself up, her notebook in her hand. It’s done. The perfect blend of her own honest feelings and just enough smokescreen to keep people from knowing who it’s really about.

There’s no backing out now, she thinks. Her stomach drops, like she’s on the top of a roller coaster about to go down. A laugh bubbles up in her throat and leaves her breathless, her head spinning while she’s still laying there.

If holy shit were am adjective, she'd use it to describe how she feels. Because holy shit.

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Being backstage when she’s not on crew is a strange experience. She stands with her guitar slung around her body, in the middle of a current of students moving around her, half with the clunky microphones and walkie-talkies she’s used so many times before. She asks five of them if she can do anything to help-because they’re her people and she needs to do something to occupy her time-until she finally takes the hint and leaves them to it. Stagehands are the most efficient parts of any production, as she told Damian once. They’re a well-oiled machine at this point.

“Yo!” For a second, Janis thinks she imagined the whisper, just one in a jumble of backstage noises, until Damian appears at her side. A tiny ‘shit’ escapes her mouth, her body jerking. Barely anyone bats an eye at her, except him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you.”

“Don’t worry. I think at this point a small breeze could knock into me and I’d crumble.”

“The great Janis Sarkisian gets nervous?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“Only when she’s doing something incredibly personal and scary in front of her entire grade,” she whispers back. She swallows past the lump in her throat. “Aside from that I’m a beacon of confidence and unshakable will.”

“Hey.” He taps his knuckles against hers. “Remember how scared you were at Norbury’s assembly?”

“You mean after I had my picture all over the school with the d-slur written underneath it?” she mutters. “Yeah, I was shitting myself.”

“And yet, look what you did there,” he reminds her. “You were amazing. And you’re going to be amazing here too. Once you get on that stage, all those butterflies are going to make you fly, kid.”

She smiles, her heart warm, and pressed her face into the crook of Damian’s neck.

She doesn’t know how she got so lucky to have him, but she knows better than to tempt fate.

“Janis Sarkisian?” She lifts her head to find a freshman girl with a headset around her neck looking at her. “You’re up next.”

“Okay.” It’s only now she becomes aware that the last minute of Fairytale Of New York is playing, the notes will soon fade out, and that’s her cue. She turns to Damian and lets him straighten her black cardigan and fiddle with the collar of her shirt. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it.” He drops a whisper of a kiss to her nose. “But good luck.”

She holds her half-heart necklace as he goes, the twin to the one around his neck. It’s as close as she can get to having him with her. Her chest tightens as she makes her way to the stage and she tries to breathe through it, because the next thign she knows, Mr Duvall is announcing her name, and she’s being greeted by a blinding spotlight that thankfully obscures most of her peers’ faces.

“Uh, hi,” she says into the microphone placed out for her. It’s just people , she reminds herself. Somewhere in that crowd, second row, seat 14, is Damian, and she breathes easier. And next to him is Cady, the girl this song is about, and for some reason that straightens her spine and irons out the shaking in her voice. She takes the pick out of its holder and tosses her hair back. “This is a song I wrote about being in love with someone who doesn’t love you back.” She blinks and hopes no-one sees the tears in her eyes. “So sing along if you get into it, because we all know it’s a shitty ass feeling.”

She plays the first chord, and then any and all doubts she had about this flee her. As cliche as it sounds, the song takes over her, and she blows through the nerves in the first verse. The experience becomes cathartic instead, like releasing a pressure valve on her soul. Even with the little diversions she threw in, she hasn’t felt this open and god damn free since last year, paraded on her peers’ shoulders with both middle fingers up. Except now she’s not flipping anyone off, or proving a point, she’s just finally telling someone how she feels, and holy shit, it’s amazing. Whatever the aftermath of this is, she won’t care, it’s worth it just for this feeling.

As she sings the last word, and that final note rings in the auditorium, her hands are shaking, her cheeks wet with tears and her hair sticky with sweat. She touches beneath her eye and her fingers come away stained black.  She hasn’t cried in front of people since middle school. She doesn’t care.

The cheers of her classmates ring in her ears, Damian’s whooping the loudest of all, and as she takes her bow, she hopes she’ll remember this moment for a long time.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh my God!” she’s barely into the auditorium when Cady launches herself at her, arms wrapped around her neck and legs circling her waist. Janis nearly topples over, digging her back leg into the ground just in time, and hugs Cady with the same ferocity. “You were amazing!” she yells into her shoulder, the sound muffled by Janis’ hair.

“Really?”

“Absolutely.” She sets Cady down, but the other girl keeps a tight grip on both her arms. Janis wonders if it’s to keep herself from flying away, given the amount of bouncing up and down she’s doing. “I can’t believe you wrote that! It was so good! You need to record it, Jan. Do you have any other songs?”

“Just a few,” she says. “And I don’t know if I’m in the business of making an album any time soon.” She swings her guitar case a little. “This might have been a one-time thing.”

“Well, even if it was, it was awesome,” she says.

“Thank you, Caddy,” Janis replies. “That means a lot.”

Her mouth runs dry as Cady smiles, all baby pink lipgloss and sparkling eyes and full cheeks. If this were a movie, she thinks, this would be the part where they kiss. No need for talking, or an explanation. Because Cady would have just known. The music would turn soft and twinkly, and the lighting would match it and it would look like they’re in a dream and they’d just kiss, and it will fix all of Janis’ problems. Maybe a single tear will run down her cheek. And then they’ll run off into their new lives as the end credits roll.

How sweet that would be.

But her life isn’t a movie. If she wants anything, she has to go for it herself.

And that includes-

“Caddy.” Her name is delicate on her lips, handled with care. Cady looks at her, giving a simple ‘mm-hm’ in response, and Janis’ heart beats out of control. “That song I just sang, it-”

“Hey, guys.”

Also if this was a movie, Cady’s sweet, lovely, nice boyfriend would not be barging in right now. He’d either be a douchebag who she doesn’t feel bad about hurting, or he’d be nonexistent.

Unfortunately, this is not a movie, and Aaron Samuels exists and is the human equivalent of a squishmallow.

“Hey Aaron.” He slings his arm around Cady’s shoulders, and she leans into his touch almost instinctively. “Janis, you were great up there. I didn’t know you wrote songs.”

“It’s a bit of a new hobby,” she says, her voice hoarse. She clears her throat, and finds a bottle of water being handed to-thrown at-her.

“Hydrate those chords,” is Damian’s greeting.

“This is what I get for being friends with a theatre kid,” she sighs before she takes a drink. She hadn’t realised how dry her throat was until now.

“Okay, so we’re all going for pancakes,” Aaron says. “I take it you two are coming?”

“How can I say no to pancakes?” Janis asks. “Uh, you guys go ahead, I have to get my stuff from the green room.”

“Okay, we’ll wait for you,” Cady says. “Aaron brought his car so he can drive us.”

“Grool.” Cady and Aaron turn around together, Aaron spinning his eyes around his finger and Cady lacing her fingers through his, talking about something she can’t hear. It’s like watching them through a sheet of glass.

Not a movie. Not unless it’s one of those really, really sad movies. Sad homophobic movies.

“You okay?” Damian asks. She snorts at the question. Nothing has changed, so of course she’s okay. But then, nothing has changed, so she’s not really okay.

“I did it,” she sighs. “It’s out there. I told her, unofficially. Whether or not she works it out…” She runs her hand through her tangled hair. “That’s something else entirely.” Damian hums in agreement, a sympathetic look on his face that soon morphs into a grin.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks Mom.” They snort, Janis caught between a laugh and a sob, and squeezes Damian’s hand. She’s not optimistic about any romance in her future, at least where Cady is concerned. She and Aaron are still rock-solid and she’s happy for them, whenever she isn’t angsting about it. It’s a weird combination to have.

And at least she’s done this now. Despite a future for her and Cady not being in the cards for now, she’s glad she did it. The secret isn’t out, not entirely. Just written on the walls in invisible ink.

“Come on,” she tells Damian. “I actually do have to get my bag, and you can use this as an opportunity to double check the ghost light is on.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cady and Aaron keep their promise and wait for them, waving off their apologies as they jog across the parking lot. Cady lets Damian take the front seat with Aaron and slides into the back with Janis instead. Janis frowns, confused as to why she isn’t taking her normal seat up front, and Cady rolls her eyes.

“There was a draw on the way here, and we lost,” she explains. “And now Damian has control of the aux chord,” She gestures with her head to the passenger seat, and Janis turns just in time to see him open his Spotify and scroll through his playlists. As the opening notes to Waving Through A Window fill the car, it’s met with three loud groans. Damian only turns it up louder, and adds in his own backing vocals.

“So, that song you sang,” Cady asks, leaning back in the seat. “Was it about anyone in particular?”

Janis looks down, her hands pressed together in her lap. If this is the moment the universe decided to give her, it’s a really terrible moment. Not only is Cady’s whole boyfriend sitting an arm’s length away from her, but she left her nerve back in the auditorium. Clearly, her and fate aren’t on each other’s wavelength.

“You wouldn’t know her,” she says. “She doesn't even go here.”

“Oh,” Cady replies. Her face falls, but she’s not too put out by it. Why would she be? She nudges Janis’ shoulder, a proud smile on her face, and squeezes Janis’ hand. “Well, if she has someone like you into her and she hasn’t taken the chance yet, then she doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

Janis only thanks her, and quickly changes the subject.

Someday she might tell her for real, but for now she'll stick to the songs.

[curious-shadow-cat]

Sleep

Made a Chuck/Papa G fanfic. Lemme know what you think. I don’t really like writing fanfics I mostly enjoy drawing comics. Oh well. Gotta get better at writing though somewhere I guess. I’m putting it under ‘Keep Reading’ ‘cause it’s a little long.

It's been a couple months for Chuck on this planet Earth. He's been living with George, or Papa G, in his house ever since he was thrown off his cowardly ex leader's ship. He thought it was a bad idea at first, especially since he caused them so much trouble, but George wouldn't take 'No' for an answer and immediately started fixing up that spare room he used to use as storage. He found some planets and hung them up from string on the ceiling over his bed. He painted the walls with other planets and some big stars. The nightstand and dresser were painted blue and black. There was a UFO lamp on his nightstand by his bed, it looked like it was abducting a cow. Chuck kinda likes it, he thinks it's a little silly. Where you'd walk in, you'd see the bed across the room by the oval shaped window. The floor was made of wood and there was an oval shaped rug that was black with two yellow rings on the outside and had Earth and the moon on the inside. He even had his own little T.V across from his bed on the dresser with some VHS tapes that Papa G found, or some that he bought from Jo. Most of them being about Action, some of them Horror, others were Romance. When Chuck first saw his new room he nearly cried. He never had his own room. Never looked as nice as this. Chuck wasn't sure how to thank him. He's a strange old man but he was kind and caring. But he later found out that George was struggling with money so he decided to get a job working at Mo's Oasis Cafe. It was a difficult week, new customers coming in, giving him some trouble but Tuna was kind enough to show them the Exit. Some were friendly. Some of them asked him quick questions like: Where he was from, how old was he, and his favorite: Was he single? But others would give him cold glares when he'd go back in the kitchen. He mostly cleaned the dishes but would sometimes take the customer's orders if Jo was running late or sick. Which was barely. After a little while, work got better. There were some problems here and there but not enough to wanna make him quit. Besides, coming home to see Kid running up to him excitedly to tell him everything he did today was nice. Or coming home to see George made him dinner and found something cool while him and Kid were exploring the desert, lookin' for treasure, and wanted to give it to him.

     When they all went out to explore with Jo, Rosa and Tuna to see if anything new popped up in the desert, Papa G decided to bring some paper and pencils and crayons this time. Later he Sat down by a rock and started drawing something. Rosa wasn't interested in art at the moment, she was busy playing Princess and dragons with Chuck, Kid and Jo. Kid was the dragon and Jo was the wizard protecting Knight Rosa and Princess Chuck. Papa G kept glancing up at them and smiling. Eventually Rosa got tired and started picking flowers for Chuck, Jo and Kid. Everyone was eating snacks except George. He was focused on his drawing. As Chuck was eating some ice cream he noticed that George was staring at him. When he looked at him he quickly looked back down at the paper and continued drawing. He blinked. He was he...? No-he thought; he's probably drawing something else. He continued eating.

The sun was setting and it was time to head home. Papa G was carrying sleeping Rosa with one arm while holding his drawings and pens in the other. Jo was carrying sleeping Kid on her back. Papa G helped Chuck get his wheel chair in the back of the truck and helped him in. They all went home. George brought Kid back to the little trailer and tucked him in bed. He gave him a kiss on his head and turned out the light.

Papa G:"Sweet dreams kiddo." He whispered and went to the house. Chuck was in his room lying on his bed and watching T.V. He was finishing up one of the action movies until George came in."Well, G'night Charles. I'm going to bed. If ya need anythin' wake me up."

Chuck:"Good-night George." When he shut the door something fell to the floor from his pocket. Chuck got down and picked it up. It was one of his drawings. He gasped silently when he saw that some of these sketches were him. So he was drawing him! There's one where he seems happy with flowers that Rosa picked on his head, one where he's eating ice cream and another....he's sleeping? He looked confused. He doesn't remember sleeping. He can't actually remember when the last he actually had a good-night sleep. He's always been wide awake when he was on gaurd on the ship. Anytime he'd get tired, he'd force himself awake. It's what you had to do. Either that or be punished. He heard the credits song playing. The movie had ended. He looked back at his bed. He shrugged. Well...he wasn't back on the ship anymore... what harm could sleeping do now? He turned off his lamp and covered up under the blankets. He looked out the window on his right and was watching the stars until sleep finally took over him.

-------------------------------------------

The alarms were going off.

Something was very wrong.

Chuck found himself wide awake in his old bed. He had his legs back and gun in hand. He jumped out and ran out the door.

Chuck:"W....why am I here? I thought I was--"

PEWWW!

He was nearly hit with a ray to the face. He dodged it and it hit another soldier. Killing them instantly. He started running as more shots were fired. Killing or injuring his team. Smoke and screams filled the air.

Chuck:"I need to get out of here!" His heart was beating against his chest. He was so confused and afraid. Was he kidnapped? Was any of this real?! Why was this happening? The walls blew up and he hit the ground with the wall landing on top of him. He struggled to break free. He called for help but the soldiers kept running. They were ignoring his cries for help. He felt something on top of him slowly begin to crush him. He looked up. Glaring down at him was a mechanical monster with large glowing red eyes. It opened it's mouth showing rows and rows of sharp teeth. He tried reaching for his gun across from him but he couldn't grab it. The creature came closer towards his head. He couldn't do anything. He screamed. It was all he could do.

"Chuck!"

He stopped screaming when he heard that familiar voice.

"George?"

"Chuck!"

The voice was coming from behind him. He looked at the monster. No longer did it seem all that terrifying. It was giving him a look of concern...?

"Chuck! Wake up, Chuck! It's all a nightmare!" It spoke in George's voice.

-----------------------------------------------

Chuck opened his eyes finally and found himself on the floor by his bed with the blankets wrapped around him. George was over him with a worried look on his face. He was still in his pajamas and was wearing his glasses. Chuck sighed, he was relieved it was all a dream. George smiled.

George:"Haha....you gave me quite a scare there..." He helped him up back on the bed and fixed the blankets."Alright, no more ice cream and popcorn before bed." He said, he was joking kinda. He could see that Chuck was still shaking."I know, wanna come down stairs and watch T.V with me? I'll make some tea." He spoke softly. Chuck calmed himself down.

Chuck:"Uh, alright then." Instead of taking his wheel chair, Papa G carried him down stairs to the living room and placed him on the couch. He went in the kitchen and made them both tea. He sat back down next to Chuck and they both watched some T.V for a little while. George finally spoke up.

George:"So you finally went back to sleep."

Chuck:"Hm?" They looked at each other.

George:"I've seen you sleep before but it wasn't long 'till Kid woke you up when he and Jo started blasting music. You nearly hit me in the head with that glass cup. Do you remember that?" Chuck tried to remember but nothing came up. He shook his head no. He was frowning. "Anythin' you want to talk about?"

Chuck:"There's nothing really to talk about. I'm pretty sure I've told you about all my adventures in space." He took a drink of his tea.

George:"I can tell you left out some of the worst ones from Kid. You and I both know it's not all fun and games in Space." Chuck looked away from him. "If you don't wanna talk about it, it's fine. If you need someone I'm right here for ya Charles." He smiled and took a drink. Chuck looked back at him. He already knew he could put his trust in George. But hearing him say those words out loud made him feel better.

Chuck:"Thank you, George. That means a lot." He never noticed it until now but he was so tired. He never knew he was this tired. But he wanted to stay awake a little longer. They watched T.V all night with blankets wrapped around them. George was leaning on the arm of the couch and Chuck was starting to lean on George. He felt his arm around him, gently pulling him close and held his hand. Chuck squeezed it gently and laid his head on his shoulder. He closed his eyes. He felt his worries slowly disappear and soon fell asleep.

[autumnleaves1991-blog]

Day 1: Heartbeat - Agent Whiskey

November Writing Challenge Day 1

Heartbeat - Agent Whiskey/ F-Reader

 Rating: 18 + 

November Writing Challenge Masterlist 

Autumnleaves1991 Masterlist 

I am so excited to begin the November writing challenge. Please remember to send in any requests to the prompts. I will do my best to honor them. :) 

If you want to be added to a tag list let me know! 

You had finally made it, the newest weapons developer at Statesman. This day was long in the making, ever since your best friend since preschool Ja-Tequila told you he had the perfect place for you to work. You had graduated from college with your PhD and were recruited right away by Champ. Tequila was ecstatic when you told him because he could finally tell you everything. All about his job, his gadgets, and his work friends.

Despite being chronically shy, everyone made you feel at home on your first day and eventually weeks turned to months and it was on that third month of working that you first met him....Whiskey.

He was just like what you would imagine a cowboy in an old western movie would seem, shiny boots, black Stetson, a velvety southern drawl, and one of the biggest...belt buckles you had ever seen. Looking in his chocolate brown eyes, and hearing him call you darlin made your head spin. You were hooked like a worm. Every single time he came into the lab over the next three months you heart felt like it was going to break out of your chest. He was handsome, confident, and he laid the southern charm on thick.

Though you never entertained the thought that he could feel anything for you, and it hurt you to see him flirt with all the other women at Statesman. So you kept your feelings to yourself, the only other person knowing being Tequila and not because you told him only because you weren’t as smooth as you thought. You recalled the conversation when you realized he knew.

“Why don’t you just tell the man how you feel?” Tequila grins widely at you from his chair across the lab.

Your head snapped up to meet his eyes, “What...what are you talking about?” you stutter.

“Apple, I have known you since we were four years old, I have been there for every single crush and you have got it bad for my old buddy Whiskey.”

You are sure you're the color of a tomato when you ask quietly, “is it that obvious?”

Tequila takes pity on you and comes around the table wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you close to his chest. He wraps your arms around his waist and puts your head on his chest. “Don’t worry Apple, your secret is safe with me. But, if you really like him, you should tell him. You might be surprised,” Tequila hugs you tighter and kisses your forehead and you smile letting out a deep breath.

Neither of you notice the figure standing in the doorway of the lab, watching the comfortable exchange with a frown on his face.

It was six months since you had been recruited when Champ called you to the office about a special project. When you entered the room, you were surprised to see Whiskey sitting at the table with a bright smile on his face. He tipped his Stetson, and mouthed hi at you. You couldn’t help the smile that began to turn up at the corners of your mouth.

“Good Morning Apple, how are you doing this fine mornin’? Champ asks, giving you a smile.

“I am doing great Champ, everyone is always so friendly, and I love being able to see my Tequila every day,” I grinned back. You notice out of the corner of your eye Whiskey’s smile drops from his face.

“That’s wonderful to hear, we love having you here. We have been needing someone with your expertise for some time. That’s actually why I called you up here, Whiskey is needing an upgrade on his whip, do you think you are up to the task?” Champ smiles broadly at you.

“I am up for anything,” you smile, “Whiskey would you mind joining me in the lab and we can draw up some plans of what you might be wanting for your whip? I would love to have your input before I get to work.”

“Of course sugar, but can we speak in my office? I drew up a list the other day,” Whiskey rises from his chair and walks over to the door. You follow, smiling in goodbye to Champ.

In the hallway you walk side by side and you can’t help but steal looks at him as you pass. He really is one of the most handsome men you have ever seen. His hand naturally falls to your lower back and you can’t help the slight gasp when you feel his warmth. His eyes dart to yours before they drop down to your mouth before he looks away quickly, clearing his throat.

His office is huge, being a senior agent of Statesman has its perks. In the center of the room is a large mahogany desk and a tall leather chair behind it, on the side is a brown leather couch, with a coffee table in front strewn with papers. You take the seat across from him and cross your legs at the ankle, your pencil skirt riding slightly up your thigh.

“Ok what is it that you are thinking about for the whip?” you jump straight to business.

“Ya know sugar, I don’t think you have ever seen me use the whip have you? I would love to give you a demonstration.”

“No, I haven’t but I understand the mechanics of how a whip works and I have read up on all the current weapons in use at Statesman so I don’t think I really need a demonstration.” You don’t miss how his eyes light up with a challenge.

“Oh but I insist,” he rises from the chair and takes off his jacket. You can’t help but ogle the way his white button up clings to the muscles in his arms and across his broad shoulders. The way his jeans cling to his powerful legs, and when he turns you bite your lip to prevent the moan from slipping out of your mouth. Damn does that man know how to wear a pair of jeans.

He walks over to the large empty space in the room and attached to his belt he pulls his whip. He presses a button on the hilt and the whip rushes from it and towards the ground. He raises one thick finger and gestures towards you to stand up and come to him. You feel possessed like the sailors responding to the sound of a siren. Walking over to him and standing before him, he grabs your hips gently, and turns you so you have your back to his front. You don’t notice anything in the room except for the feel of him behind you strong and warm.

“Breath Apple, nothing is going to happen to you. I got ya,” his honeyed voice feels warm against your ear where he whispers.

You can’t help the shiver that runs down your body. He puts the whip in front of you and puts it in your hand, his own hand coming to wrap around yours and he slowly begins to make it move. The way he handles the whip, like it’s an extension of his own arm amazes you. It feels like it’s over too soon when he retracts the whip into the handle. And even longer until he turns you around to face him.

He’s so close to you, if you lifted up only a little your lips would touch. When he speaks your lips feel the moist warmth against them, “How was that for a demonstration Apple?”

You feel bold and you begin to raise on your feet only slightly, “I feel like I might need to see it again,” your response comes out breathy. What the hell was going on with you?

Whiskey smiles before he reaches the rest of the way down and your lips meet. It’s slow at first, and you feel your body start to heat instantly. When you open your mouth to take a breath he licks inside your mouth and you groan. The kisses heat up and you raise your hands to slide into his hair and he moans into your mouth when you tug lightly. He steps back still holding onto you until his knees hit the leather couch against the wall of his office.

He falls into it with a grunt and pulls you to straddle his lap, bunching your pencil skirt up your thighs as you fall into his lap. You pull back and look at him. His hands are massaging circles into your hips, his eyes blown black, his lips puffy. You raise your hands to his face, and run them over his jaw, his sharp nose, his eyes closing. Your hands find their place resting on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat strong and fast beneath your palm.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for months baby,” he whispers to you. Both of you are afraid to ruin the fragile balance in the air.

You let out a shaky breath, “me too,” you quietly tell him. “I didn’t think you liked me like that. I am not like all those other girls in the lab who are confident and...”

Whiskey scoffs, “do you have any idea how damn beautiful you are? Oh baby, you are the apple of my eye, I have been sweet on you for months ever since Tequila first introduced us. There’s something I have been meaning to ask you, are you and Tequila…”

You shake your head no quickly, “no, no, no he’s been my best friend since preschool. There is no one in my life like that. Only one and right now he’s sitting underneath me and telling me he likes me so I don’t think you have any competition.” Your megawatt smile is only rivaled by his own and he leans forward and kisses you again.

He pulls away when you both break for air, “Would you join me for dinner tonight?” he asks, pressing his forehead against your own.

“Yes,” you pull back and smile at him feeling more confident than you ever have before, “but first I am going to finish dessert.”

It’s all worth it for the smile on his face, “Oh baby, this is just the first course,” Whiskey says before reclaiming your lips with his own. And what a fine meal it was.

 Day 2: Wind - Din Djarin 

[dooodle-bug]

“Basic” Legion of Stationery headcannons so you guys can catch my drift :o) (bruh it’s so looooooong)

Colored Pencils

-he/they pronouns

-I mentioned this in a previous post, but that Jean-Pierre crap is not his real name, it’s something he came up with to be seen as more original and unique idk just look for the post yourself.

-Shortest, weakest, and youngest of the Legion (noo they’re not my faviorite why would you think that?). Now obviously, this is gonna lead to lotsa “haha ur the weakest out of all of us” which takes a big bash on their self-esteem. This obvious weakness is also the reason why they are so heavily dependent on technology and their weird little gadgets to make up for it. With out technology, CP is nothing.

-Is really mean and insults everyone and everything whether unintentional or not. Why? Because he’s bitter and hates the world for his situation of being seen as a loser. Like, he’s disappointed in the world and himself for being treated like trash and thus uses insulting others as a coping mechanism, to vent his anger and frustrations, and as temporary way to feel superior. But that guy is just hiding under layers of denial and takes one look in the mirror and remembers he’s just a big loser.

-Wants to be seen as unique, special, ect. among the legion and just in general to make people like them more. And thus, is a big hipster, seeing anything that’s popular as bad (mostly because they’re frustrated those popular kids seem to have it better than them), and doing generic hipster tropes to be seen as Cooler and Underrated.

-Despite being the MISSILE Maestro, he’s really a peaceful guy and doesn’t like fighting all that much (mostly because it’s physically demanding). He’d much rather harm you with his words that his missiles (btw he’s AWFUL at engineering with all those weapons and stuff. He expects the missiles to do all the work for him, believing they’re “flawless” as he fires aimlessly). Had he not been “born” into Olly’s military, he would’ve spent all his time on drawing.

-Speaking of which, that guy is an avid drawer that is highkey looking for approval on anything they draw. They will ONLY tolerate compliments, any (constructive) criticim will be struck down with a “You are uncultured” or “You wouldn’t get it”. Also they HATE digital art (they think it’s cheating, but is also jealous they can’t do it) as well as fan art (they think it’s not “real” art, despite the fact they draw fan art for Olly constantly)

-Seems to be a stuck up to Olly, constantly drawing art of him in his glory and doing his dirty work with pleasure. He secretly wants Olly to praise and thank him, however Olly seems to have little to no care for him (basically he’s doing thankless tasks in hope of recognition).

-Has an enormous pencil case (looking the same as in game) that functions as a misslie launcher, shelter, and backpack. He has some sorta radio station in his mind, allowing him to fire pencils after locking onto its target. But more often than not, this telekinetic ability is used to lend him a helping hand when drawing.

Rubber Band

-They/them pronouns

-Tallest of the Legion, which is both a blessing and a curse as you can imagine.

-Their outfit (aside from the underclothes) is entirely made of bands. Since this is the case, the bands have caused those red-ring marks to appear on their body as well as restrain their movement. They have the ability to telekinetically control rubber bands, of course this ability is limited, as the bands can only tighten, loosen, and move around on the ground.

-Their hair is also made of bands! It can stretch and everything (it also it used to show expression ie. flop down when sad or tense). Their hair is about shoulder length, it’s just always wrapped and pulled back into a ponytail.  Unfortunately, it can also snap back at their scalp and those longer, looser bands can easily be yanked out.

-Generally perceived as The Girl (tm) of the group due to their generally feminine behavior and appearance. Despite this, they prefer using generally masculine titles, such as “actor”, “star”, “sir”, and “man”.

-Big on moodswings. It doesn’t take much to make them incredibly happy, but it also doesn’t take much to make them incredibly angry. When they’re happy, they’re REALLY happy and when they’re mad, they’re REALLY mad. Advice to keep them happy: sugarcoat everything you say about/to them (they also know of this tactic to make Olly and the others happy) .

-Lives for the drama, and not just the theater related drama, also the gossip of whatever is going on with other people’s lives. They just LOVE to talk dirty about the drama that’s going on (unless it’s about them) and will not hesitate to gossip about you and your personal life.

-Is a big attention seeker (surprise, surprise, they’re a Karen) as well as an extrovert. They want all eyes to be on them and if not, they’ll lowkey get nervous/anxious, being expressed as anger and frustration. Like, they thrive on people noticing them and feel like they NEED attention or else everyone will forget about them and they’ll be all alone, thus they overreact and is REALLY expressive. They seem to jump to conclusions if any minor inconvenience occurs, but it’s ok, they’re good at hiding it.

-Has lots of self confidence and self-esteem, as well as being able to stretch themself (both figurtively as they can shift plans if need be and also literally as their skin is stretchy and they’re also flexible af). Of course, this confidence does not protect them from stress, fear etc., which they simply mask with ego.

-Aside from acting, they also enjoy singing (they make up wordless melodies on the spot), dancing, writing (usually playwrites, their favorites secretly being the gorey, messed up stuff), and gossiping.

Hole Punch

-He/they pronouns

-How he punches holes? With those metal fangs of course! His mouth is basically a compressed hole punching mechanic, filled with metal bars, screws and everything. His stomach area is sorta the lid, being very sensitive and thus needing to be covered with that tank top. He punches in a stylish way of course, doing a cool move that both stuns and punches you (he’s an excellent break/disco dancer, doing all these physically demanding moves).

-The problem with this is that they have a compulsion to bite stuff (only dry, hard stuff), like to them it feels really satisfying to gnaw on cardboard, which can lead to an uncontrollable urge to punch stuff. They’re also always hungry and always wants to eat, complaining about such (because it’s always bothering them and hinders their ability) and annoying the others. Unfortunately, they also hate being full to because it means they can’t punch stuff without overfilling. So, they regurgitates whatever punched holes they have and the cycle continues (oh yeah they have the power to do that and can even cough up particular holes).

-Lazy and always sleepy. He seems to enjoy just lazing about, often taking naps while listening to music. This is partially because he uses a LOT of energy grooving and practically everything for him seems to tire him out (and maybe even because he doesn’t eat enough). But when he’s grooving, he’s REALLY grooving, being super hyper and bouncing around, pulling all these cool stunts. There are only two moods: in the groove and not in the groove.

-Really honestly does NOT know that punching holes is twisted and amoral. They really think that punching faces is a form of punishment, warning, attack, or defense and nothing too serious. They think that you can still function and do what they want as your face in punched out. They’re also unaware of HOW damaging and twisted it is, not knowing just HOW scary it makes them look.

-Is super picky and needy. He usually demands what he wants (this being a mix of “I don’t know how to ask/express what I want” and “I am a spoiled, entitled brat”), and if he doesn’t get exactly what he wants, he sorta throws a tantrum and refuses to cooperate (that or he threatens to punch your face as warning). He’s also super persistent.

-Feels very contradictory. While they WANT to be extroverted and party and all, if they were to actually try, they’d become super anxious and not know what to do. This then leads to them becoming even more insecure and reclusive, complaining about their situation while not making an effort to change it due to being so shy around others. Basically, they dig a pit of insecurity and reclusiveness.

-Has a really big love for retro music and all things retro is frustrated that others can’t see eye to eye with him. Like, he refuses to listen to anything else unless it’s 70s music. Nobody knows why, he just seems to have a really strong connection to it.

Tape

-He/they pronouns

-Is easily offended, even if you’re not trying to be. He assumes and interprets everything you say, whether positive or negative and then bashes you for saying what he thought you meant. He easily jumps to conclusions based on these interpretations and thus judges you harshly. He’s just a big hot-head that is easily angered for no reason or for something you unintentionally did.

-They can speak Italian fluently, no one’s sure why or how (they often use it to curse or speak of battle plans). That New York accent was something they trained to speak (and has now become the norm for them) as a way of seeming tougher, stronger, and more intimidating.

-Hair is literally made of tape. This tape has the ability to stretch and pull, being used as a third hand or feeler as well as a way to convey emotion (such as flopping down when sad), however it is super sensitive, pulling it would be both painful and also cause more tape to replenish until none is leftover. His tongue is also made of tape, it’s coiled and used like a chameleon tongue.

-Is very scheming and cunning. To them, winning is always winning, even if it involves a ton of cheating (they also feel entitled to be competitive and the best in everything). They’re ALWAYS playing dirty and looking for an easy way out, which sometimes involves leeching onto others and switching sides. They’re pretty good when it comes to making a solid, foolproof plan, but when it comes to hand to hand combat, they just wing it, throwing every single dirty move they can to ensure a win.

-Has a burning hatred towards to world. Because he’s tape, which is seen as awfully similar to paper, he is perceived as weaker. Thus, he has a drive to make sure he is seen as intimidating and powerful, often picking fights and insulting others to ensure they know not to mess with him. But just in general, he feels the entire world is against him, always trying to make a fool out of him and thus leading him to have low expectations for people and physically take his anger out.

-Very physical, being both incredibly fast and strong in terms of movement and fighting, of course using that cutter wouldn’t hurt. However, they are often injured (caused by themself or others) and uses their tape as bandages. Speaking of which, they fear most things that paper fears, especially fire and sharp objects used against them.

-Is a heavy smoker, smoking whenever he gets the chance, doing it to seem cooler/more threatening as well as to temporarily calm his nerves. He actively tries to get the others interests, however this behavior mostly frowned upon.

Scissors

-They/them pronouns

-Oldest of the Stationery (not counting Stapler, who is even older), reluctantly taking the role as the Mom Friend by Olly’s wishes (they hate that position, but also doesn’t know HOW to care for others).

-While they ARE a serious, no-nonsense, honorific knight, deep down they are a sadist who just LOVES to cut paper. They hide this side well, feeling ashamed of it until it resurfaces in the heat of battle, where they defeat their opponents in a quick yet brutal slice.

-They are very skilled when wielding their blades (the scissors blades that can attach and disconnect), being both physically strong as well as agile (however their outfit is somewhat restraining). They fight in sorta a fencing style, swinging their blades around. However, the problem with being so skilled is that they have difficulty finding a challenge. So, they actively seek and create unnecessary difficulties for themself to make battle more exciting (although not by much as they still know they will win).

-Is very cunning and manipulative. They know how to use psychology against you as to peer pressure you into battle. They use their cool, unaffected demeanor to its full potential in persuasion or manipuation.

-Secretly, they enjoy “childish” aspects such as singing, dancing, and arts and crafts. They feel ashamed about such as it feels “unprofessional” of them and could cause people to see them as less intimidating. So, they do these activities in secret as well as incorporating it in their work as to be more productive.

-Has a very strong work ethnic. They believe that work does not count unless you pour your soul into it. They absolutely HATE cheating or finding an easy way out as, to them, it doesn’t count as real work. They also have a strong obsession for Olly, willingly pouring hours of their life for him and following his every order (thinking the others should feel/act the same). This love for the king contradicts most of their beliefs, such as utilizing logic over emotion.

-While they DO have emotions, they try to bury them under logic, thinking that feelings make them look weak. They are actively afraid of seeming weak, avoiding normal behaviors such as making friends and friendly communications.They also fear failure, not in battle but in following Olly’s orders, subconsciously worrying whether or not they’re doing their job right. They also secretly fear rocks (you know why) and extreme temperatures (they’re partially made of metal).

-Looks down on paper folk, and thinks them or anything related to them are inferior (disregarding Olly because he’s special). The reason why they made the Cut-out Soldiers was because they felt they would be more reliable than the folded soldiers. The Cut-out soldiers are basically lifeless puppets controlled by Scissors, perfectly acting out their every order. While Scissors SEEMS to care for them, if they can’t succeed in their job, there will always be another one to replace it.

Stapler

-They/them pronouns

-They’re based on a Doberman Pinscher, a dog breed known for their agility and strength as guard dogs. Stapler themself is essentially one, but with a few minor details. For one, their eyes are literally Olly’s insignia, however this does not hinder their ability to see. Their claws and tail are made of metal and the interior of their mouth is the stapler mechanic (their head is just a giant stapler covered with a dog-like appearance) in which they can bend it unusually back.

-Has an undying loyalty towards Olly and would do absolutely anything to please him. If they really wanted to, they would maul the entire legion for Olly. This also unfortunately includes putting themself in harms way for his safety.

-The strongest of the legion, with the body of a powerful dog, they could easily defeat the other members if they wanted to. They are also unusually intelligent, being fully capable of understanding others (but they normally do not act upon this).They can also speak (in their own twisted way), but rarely ever uses this ability.

-Super, super obedient to Olly. When they’re around him, they can be super cuddly and friendly, but around anyone else, they’ll be monstrous. They follow orders to the very syllable. But this only applies to Olly. Nobody else can give them orders as around them, they may act disrespectfully playful and ignore everything you say.

-As Olly’s guard dog, they stayed with him the entire time (aside from when they were tasked with stapling soldiers or used as a final stance), eyeing anyone who dared draw near (they were mildly jealous of origami Peach). Olly seemed to treat them well, pampering them and giving them special privileges, unlike the other stationery.

-They were Olly’s favorite of the legion. Olly hid this poorly. But Olly didn’t love them THAT much. Sure, he mourned their loss for a brief moment before continuing on with his plans as if nothing happened. ToT

-Not only are they a guard dog, but they are also used as a messenger to Olly, informing him on the whereabouts of the streamers and making sure the folded soldiers are following orders.

-While their biting can still do damage, it’s the staples that REALLY pack a punch. While they don’t have opposable thumbs, they still know how to do actions such as opening zippers and such.

Anyhoo, that’s the basics of my Legion! There’s a bunch more, but that’s just the gist of it. Also, thank you to whoever read this whole thing, I really appreciate it!

[s-creations]

In Sickness, In Health Chapter 5 - Broken Arm

Fandom: DuckTales 2017 / The Three Caballeros             Rating: General Audience             Relationships/Pairings:  José Carioca/Donald Duck/Panchito Pistoles     Additional Tags: getting sick, being cared for, mental health, injury, sore throat, common cold, chicken pox, broken bones, whooping cough, taking care of others.

Part of a Series Called: We’re the Three- Sorry, Six Caballeros!

Author’s Note: This chapter is self titled with what's about to happen. But please keep in mind this contains talk of broken bones. If I need to put further tags/warnings on this story, please let me know!

“Dewey, I’m serious, get down!” Huey frantically called.

 “Sorry, can’t hear you. Too high up and doing amazing!” Dewey called back as he reached for the next level of branches. 

 “Dewey!” 

 “Let it go dude,” Louie commented as he scrolled through his phone. Leaning up against the same tree that Dewey was currently climbing. “You’re not getting him down from there. Just let nature take its course.”

 While Huey glared at Louie, Dewey was continuing his trek up the tall tree. Humming his theme song (version 236) while he reached for another branch. His plan for the day was to reach the top of the tallest tree in the backyard so he could see across the bay. To hopefully see across it, maybe even see the entire world and what it had to offer. Maybe he could even find some place interesting enough to visit! Some place close!

 Ah, he was so eager! He couldn’t wait to find out what the rest of the world looked like. Entire body shaking with eagerness, Dewey moved a bit too quickly...

 He lost his footing first. Webbed foot slipped and Dewey quickly reached out to try and grab something for support. Only for his hand to grab at air. The branch just a bit too far out of reach. 

 It was as if time stood still for a moment. Dewey got a brief thought of ‘Huh...maybe this wasn’t the best idea.’ before he began to properly fall. It was strangely exhilarating to hear the wind rushing around him. Sort of like flying. Except the opposite. Because he was, in fact, falling. So this was worse.

 Dewey hit the ground hard, Huey shrieking while Louie let out a cry of ‘Holy Cow!’ as they rushed over. The triplet dressed in blue sat up slowly. Looking around, dazed, but otherwise felt fine. 

 “What were you thinking! You could have been killed!” Huey huffed. Fear being replaced by anger as he glared down at his brother.

 “I was thinking how cool it would be to see the view from the top of that tree. But I guess it wasn’t meant to be for the moment. Oh well, I’ll try again tomorrow-”

 Dewey let out a yelp of pain when he tried to put weight on his arm. Pain shooting through it, the duckling swearing he was about to pass out from it. Taking a deep breath to keep himself awake, Dewey looked down at said arm. Which was clearly broken. Sticking out at a weird angle, but nothing else seemed ‘wrong’.

 “I broke my arm.”

 “WHAT?”

 “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s broken. Check it.” Dewey casually commented holding up the mentioned limb. Louie looked close to vomiting while Huey turned very pale. 

 “Oh… Okay. Um, Louie, can you get Uncle Donald?” The youngest triplet nodded and dashed back towards the house, happy to not see the arm. Huey, on his part, bent down to examine the damage as best he could. “Ah...so… I don’t think I’m supposed to touch it. But it looks so bad!”

 “Dude, it doesn’t hurt. Just breathe and leave it alone.” Truth be told, Dewey wasn’t really sure why he wasn’t panicking. Maybe it was because everyone else was already freaking out. But, it was probably the fact that, since it didn’t hurt, Dewey wasn’t too worried.

 “Dewey!” 

 Ah, someone else to worry about him.

 “Hi Uncle Donald!” Dewey beamed while being faced with a panicked duck. 

 Donald looked prepared to start pulling out his feathers in panic. “Okay, okay, Dewey, how are you feeling?”

 “Pretty good, all things considered.”

 “Okay, can you walk? We need to get you to the car.” 

 “Sure...I’ll just need help getting up.”

 Dewey was more than patient as the rest of the family rushed around him. Helping him into the car, getting the seatbelt on, making sure he was okay before they set off. A quick trip to the emergency room later and Dewey now had a sweet cast and a story to share with his other two uncles. 

 “This is so cool! Benny had one of his arms in a cast too and he got people to sign it. Do you think I could do that too?” Dewey looked up at Donald, freehand knocking on the hardened plaster. 

 “Of course. You can start carrying some sharpies when you’re at school. Just as long as you don't make everything messy and you don’t distract the class.” Donald commented, finally relaxed now that everything was taken care of.

 At first, Dewey was honestly thrilled to have his cast. It was like getting a fancy new piece of armor in a video game. Wanting to constantly show it off. Happily retelling his adventure with so much gusto to whomever would hear him. It was great. 

 Until it wasn’t.

 The first issue was how uncomfortable the cast was becoming. It was heavy and clunky. He couldn’t sleep because the cast was just dead weight. His arm started becoming both itchy and sweaty. Hot and bothersome with no solution as to how it was supposed to be fixed. 

 The second issue was that there was no one else to tell the story to. All his classmates knew. All his neighbors knew. And, even if his uncles would listen to him, Dewey knew they were becoming bored by the story. The once great armor was now dragging him down. 

 The last issue was that he couldn’t do anything. Uncle Donald made it clear that Dewey wasn’t going to do anything with the cast on. Not that the duckling paid that warning too much attention. Until he realized that the cast was preventing Dewey from, quite literally, doing anything. He couldn’t grab anything. Couldn’t put pressure on it in any way. Hold anything. It was basically a useless arm. 

 “At least you have some time to work on your homework.” Huey offered weakly. Which was only met with an unamused glare. 

 Dewey was becoming so bored. 

 He was currently situated on the sofa during one afternoon. Eyes barely open, barely focused, as he ‘watched’ the television. Dewey wasn’t fully taken in what he was looking at. He was also pretty sure there was a string of drool sliding out from the side of his mouth.

 “Well, don’t you look charming.”

 Dewey merely rolled his head to the side to look over towards Donald. “Hello…”

 “Hello to you too.” The older duck walked over, claiming an empty seat next to the blue dressed triplet. “I see you’ve moved your pity party from the bedroom to the living room.”

 “Not pity.” Dewey weakly argued back.

 “No? Then what are you doing?”

 “Bored?”

 “Ah, I see. Nothing like being sad for yourself.”

 “There’s nothing I can to with my stupid arm is it’s stupid cast.” Dewey huffed weakly. 

 “You’ve done nothing but watch t.v. since you’ve gotten that cast. Why don’t you try doing something new?”

 “Broken arm, can’t do anything.”

 Donald rolled his eyes. “You’re not in a full body cast, you can still move. And your dominant hand is still ‘free’. I don’t mean trying to climb something new. Why not find a new hobby? Read a book, go take a walk, something.”

 “All sounds boring.”

 Letting out a slow breath, Donald took a new approach. “Well, I have something you might be interested in.”

 “Doubt it.” Even with a heavy sigh of boredom, Dewey still followed his uncle.

 They entered a small side room at the back of the house. One filled with mainly boxes and other unneeded odds and ends. They passed the stacked boxes, going towards the sole window. Where an artist easel had been set up. Paints and other tools cluttering a small rolling cart that had been pushed against the wall. 

 “What is this?” Dewey asked as he looked over the pile of paint tubes. 

 “My get away, if you will. When I want a break from everything, I come here and just paint. Just...put on some music and paint.”

 “I’ve never seen you paint before…”

 “Well, I did just start,” Donald commented, taking a seat in front of the easel. “I was told it would help me relax.”

 “So, are you telling me to start painting?” Dewey asked. 

 “Sort of.” Reaching into a large bag that was propped up against the wall as well, Donald pulled out two items. A small sketchbook and a mechanical pencil. “You have an active imagination. Why don’t you try giving your words some pictures?”

 Dewey was skeptical at first. When starting, it was frustrating. Nothing was looking right and it was maddening to try and figure out what something was supposed to look like. Seeing it in his head to transfer it onto paper was difficult. 

 Tio José swooped in to save the day. When Dewey crumpled up another failure. The parrot was more than happy to give his expertise on how to start off a drawing. Getting the basic shapes, proportions, how to look at the whole and the parts of an object, how drawing from real life can help draw from the imagination. After that, there was no stopping him.

 Even with the cast on, it didn’t stop him. If anything Dewey started using it as a weight to keep the loose paper still. The rest of the recovery melted away. The blue cladded duckling happily returned to school with a fully healed arm and a number of handcrafted books to share. 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Out of curiosity, do Callie and chris ever run into each other/ confront each other after

CW: Referenced head-banging and resulting injury, brief ableism references, gaslighting, vaguely referenced institutional pet whump

(for context, see This Isn’t Hypothetical For Chris, “Can You Come Get Me?”, No Words, and Drop)

“Um. Hey.”

Chris, in the midst of a careful, incredibly precise drawing of a tiny Easter Island moai while studying for the Non-Western Art History test, looks up, only to freeze, his fingers tensing around his pencil until he presses so hard the lead snaps off, rolling down the notebook.

His hair is pulled back, caught at his nape with a clip Mari let him borrow, but he wishes all at once that it weren’t, so he could shake it over his face, hide behind it. That it wasn’t blue but some color no one saw in a crowd, so she wouldn’t have seen him and known it was him.

He hesitates too long, and she shifts, moving herself into his field of vision again. “Chris, are you-... are you busy?”

“Hey, um, hi... hi, Callie,” Chris mumbles, looking back down again, clicking the end of the mechanical pencil to get more lead, enjoying the sound and the very slight press of the eraser against his thumb. “I’m just, just studying. What, um, what do, do, do-do you... what do you want?”

She seems to take it as an invitation, which it isn’t. When she pulls out the chair across the table, the legs scrape along the floor impossibly loudly, but only Chris seems bothered by it. The sound makes his teeth itch, a feeling he can’t possibly describe in any other way. When he moves the chair, he picks it up, carefully placing it back down, avoiding the sound that shudders through him and digs into the tiniest bones. 

Everyone else just scrapes. 

She tucks some of her own bouncy, wavy brown hair behind one ear. It’s chilly today, it was so foggy this morning Chris could barely see from one side of the bridge to the other when he crossed over the highway to the other side of campus to get some coffee to help him cram before the test. Callie is wearing a heavy cable-knit sweater that drapes just so off one shoulder, showing the silken strap there, and skintight dark jeans. She looks really pretty, but Chris mostly thinks everyone looks pretty. 

Even Dylan in the morning looks pretty, with his hair all messed up. Even though Chris is still kind of mad at him and probably always will be. 

Chris is in his usual thick black compression shirt, helping him hold off the weight of the lights, keeping the prickle of the Student Center from digging too deeply into his skin. Over that, a t-shirt from the Lion King musical that Mari brought back from her last trip home - (”I have like five, now, Chris, I’ve seen it in like six different places you can have this one, if you want? It’s from when I saw it in Chicago.” And of course he did, he is starting a small collection of shirts he had gotten from nearly everyone he knows), and one of Jake’s heavy sweater-coats, borrowed - but really stolen - from the house last weekend. Jake pretends not to know. Chris brings them back eventually.

Between Chris and Kauri, it’s a miracle Jake ever has anything warm to wear at all.

“So, I just-... I wanted to, um. I haven’t seen you around-... oh, did you get hurt?” She cocks her head to the side, and Chris looks away from her, spinning the pencil in his fingers, his foot tapping on the ground now, nervous energy bubbling inside him. 

There’s a bandage, still, on his forehead. He wishes he could say it was from the day in class, but it’s not. It’s from a few days ago, after meeting with the grad student to sign stuff to drop the class. It’s from coming home with all his hurt and fear a spinning top that he could only calm by breaking its rhythm, and he’s, it’s regression, but it’s okay, sometimes you go back and you get back up and go forward again, Dr. Berger says it’s okay sometimes to backslide as long as you know you have people to help you get up-

“I’m fine,” He says, flat and smooth words, barely his own voice at all. “Hit my head on, on, on a cabinet.”

Technically true.

She nods, folding her hands in her lap, watching him with those sort of big sad eyes people get sometimes, when they’re working up to something and want you to know they’re not the bad guy. Her drink has a cloth sleeve on it with tiny little bow ties. He wonders if she made it herself.

She clears her throat. “Okay, um. Good to hear it. So... I just... I heard you dropped.”

“Yep.” Chris keeps his eyes down now, on his pencil. The gentle weight of his feather necklace reminds him that he has other options, too. For now, though, he spins his pencil on top of his open notebook, the drawing of the moai. “Who told you that, um, that-... that I, I dropped?”

“I mean, when you weren’t in class for a couple weeks-... you know at first I thought you just, like, you know... the teacher told you not to come by, but then you kept not coming, and...” She kind of throws her hands up. Hers are painted a cheerful blue-toned red. Chris’s are black, but they’re heavily chipped. He’s been picking at them again. “I asked Esh, finally, and he said-”

“Eshiram.”

“What?” She blinks, confused. 

“Not Esh. His, his, his name’s Eshiram.”

“No, I know, I just-... whatever. Look, so, I get that you’re probably still pretty mad, and... I’ve kind of been trying to hunt you down to say I’m sorry.”

Chris, caught off guard, pauses in spinning his pencil and turns to look at her again. “What?”

“About... I would never, ever have wanted you to feel you had to drop the class, Chris, I swear.” She leans forward, all earnest sincerity, and there’s a look of guilt on her that makes him think she means it. It wasn’t her idea, after all - if she’s even fucking talking to him, she doesn’t know what he is, she didn’t catch it like the grad student did.

After the drawn out moment, his foot starts to tap on the floor again. “It’s, um, it’s, it’s, it’s okay,” He says, wishing he had his own drink, something to hold in his hands and sip. The nerves start to wind up inside him, and he drops one hand down where she can’t see it, starts to tap on the side of his thigh.

“No, it’s not.” Callie sighs, shaking her head. Her hair moves with the motion and he catches a hint of her shampoo, it smells like fruit and honey. “It’s not, Chris. Look, I just-... I took everything you said super personally, and that wasn’t okay. I get that you, you know, you weren’t really talking about me.”

Chris turns to look at her, blinking wide green eyes, thinking, Yes, I was.

He opens his mouth to maybe tell her, but the pause goes on too long and she’s already talking again before he can. “There’s all these reports about abuse, and everything, I swear more than ever, and it just-... puts me on edge, you know? So I heard you saying-... well, you know. You don’t know that things are better at our house. All you know is what you’ve, you know, seen on the news.”

Chris takes in a breath and holds it, tapping hard against the seam of his jeans. He isn’t going to get angry. Getting angry made him have to drop and lose points off his GPA, getting angry gets him noticed by too many people all at once, angry feels heavy and hurting, angry draws attention, attention mean eyes and hands and-

Let the breath out. Exhale. He has to purposefully remind himself to do it.

“I, I, I know more than, um, than that,” He manages to say, but his voice is small. He’s no good at being angry, when it’s not in the moment, when there’s nothing to draw him out of himself. “I don’t, don’t just... build sets all day, Callie, I’m, I’m, I know other, um, other things.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Like, I’m surprised you’re not, like, a math major or something, like in that movie-”

Chris sits back and snorts out bitter laughter. “You, you, you mean, um, The Gift?”

“Yeah! Vincent Shield did such a good job, they said he did a bunch of like, work to really get into character which is so cool since he was only, like, sixteen when he did that one with that, you know, the other guy he did movies with all the time-”

“Owen-... Owen Grant.”

“Yeah! I wonder what happened to him. Anyway-”

“Do you, do... do, do, do you think-... Callie, I suck at, um, at math.” Chris can’t help himself. He starts to laugh at the absurdity, and Callie looks like he’s hit her across the face, wide-eyed, shocked. “This is, um, this, this is, this-... this is a really, really-... really bad apology.”

“Yeah, I know.” Callie kind of laughs along with him, then, but there’s something fake and brittle to her laughter. “But I swear, I just came to say I’m sorry. It was just a misunderstanding, I really didn’t mean for you to have to drop. I swear, Chris, I don’t, like, hate you or think anything bad about you-”

You called me a fucking spastic.

“-or anything like that. I just... can you forgive me for losing my temper? I’m sorry, it’s just, when my family is attacked by people who don’t even know us, I get super defensive, and-... and I should have realized you weren’t really attacking us, just, you know, the system.”

Chris stares down at his shoes. He thinks, you are the system, it doesn’t exist without people like you who buy us, but he doesn’t say anything.

She seems to take this as agreement.

It isn’t.

“So, yeah. I’m just... I’m really sorry, Chris. Will this throw your whole, you know, graduation and everything off, or do you think you’ll still be good?”

Does she even really care? Chris swallows and raises his head, to look at her again, fixing his eyes just slightly to the left of her face, where it won’t be obvious he isn’t focused on her. An old trick, one he used to do to stay safe in training, maybe... maybe before that.

Even though he can’t remember a before that anymore.

Because of people who buy people like him.

“I’ll, um, I’ll be good,” He says, and the words taste like dust and feel like gravel on his tongue. “I worked out a, a, a-a plan with, with my, um advisor. So I’ll... I’ll be-”

so good for you

“Fine.”

“Great.” She relaxes, all smiles again, and reaches over putting her hand over his left arm, gripping a little. Chris feels the weight of it like the clap of restraints forcing him down on a table and stiffens, looking right at her the way he’s supposed to.

Years go by, but the training isn’t gone. Not all the way.

“Listen,” She says, voice low. “I really am sorry. But you just-... can’t go around thinking everybody who does something you don’t like is bad, you know?”

His heart races in his throat, he can barely swallow around it. “Yes,” He says, softly. She doesn’t hear the first stirrings of panic. But he feels them. “I... know.”

Good boy.

“I’ll see you around, Chris, okay? I’m glad we talked about this.” She pats his arm, like a handler almost, and then pushes herself to her feet. The chair scrapes back and Chris’s teeth grind together as the sound ricochets around inside him. The dim warm lights overhead lay heavily over the fabric he wears to protect himself from touch like that.

It’s not enough.

He can still feel the hand on his arm as she walks away, heads out the double-doors and is gone.

Chris’s hand slides to the feather and he pushes the silicone plastic between his teeth, letting his tongue press up against the carved vanes, sinking into the familiar sensation, letting it wrap around him, calm his pulse, help him rebuild the thin wall he needs between himself and the world.

He stares blankly off into space, chewing the feather, unnoticed by the few other people in the Student Center this early in the morning. 

She probably feels so much better.

Like so many other people in his life, she made herself feel better by making Chris feel so much worse.

After a while, still chewing on the feather, he picks his pencil back up and starts to draw another moai.

He’s probably going to fail this test.

---

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @slaintetowhump , @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @boxboysandotherwhump , @oops-its-whump @moose-teeth , @cubeswhump , @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary

[hellokelsea]

Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out

                                                                                                                                                         By Richard Siken                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Every morning the maple leaves.                                Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts             from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out                                              You will be alone always and then you will die. So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog          of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation.                    Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party          and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.                                                          You want a better story. Who wouldn’t? A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing.                   Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on. What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon.             Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly                                                                                                flames everywhere. I can tell already you think I’m the dragon,                 that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon. I’m not the princess either.                            Who am I? I’m just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure,                I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow          glass, but that comes later.                                                             And the part where I push you flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks,             shut up I’m getting to it.                                     For a while I thought I was the dragon. I guess I can tell you that now. And, for a while, I thought I was                                                                                                 the princess, cotton candy pink, sitting there in my room, in the tower of the castle,           young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with confidence             but the princess looks into her mirror and only sees the princess, while I’m out here, slogging through the mud, breathing fire,                                                                and getting stabbed to death.                                     Okay, so I’m the dragon. Big deal.           You still get to be the hero. You get magic gloves! A fish that talks! You get eyes like flashlights!                   What more do you want? I make you pancakes, I take you hunting, I talk to you as if you’re             really there. Are you there, sweetheart? Do you know me? Is this microphone live?                                                        Let me do it right for once,              for the record, let me make a thing of cream and stars that becomes, you know the story, simply heaven.                    Inside your head you hear a phone ringing                                                                and when you open your eyes only a clearing with deer in it. Hello deer.                                Inside your head the sound of glass, a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion.              Hello darling, sorry about that.                                                        Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell                                     and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud.             Especially that, but I should have known. You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together             to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.                   I’m not really sure why I do it, but in this version you are not feeding yourself to a bad man                                                    against a black sky prickled with small lights.             I take it back. The wooden halls like caskets. These terms from the lower depths.                                                 I take them back. Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.                                                                                                Crossed out.             Clumsy hands in a dark room. Crossed out. There is something underneath the floorboards.                    Crossed out. And here is the tabernacle                                                                                                 reconstructed. Here is the part where everyone was happy all the time and we were all                forgiven, even though we didn’t deserve it.                                                                     Inside your head you hear a phone ringing, and when you open your eyes you’re washing up             in a stranger’s bathroom, standing by the window in a yellow towel, only twenty minutes away                            from the dirtiest thing you know. All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly                                                                                               darkness,                                                                                      suddenly only darkness. In the living room, in the broken yard,                                   in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport           bathroom’s gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of unnatural light,              my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away. And then the airplane, the window seat over the wing with a view                                                             of the wing and a little foil bag of peanuts. I arrived in the city and you met me at the station,           smiling in a way                     that made me frightened. Down the alley, around the arcade,           up the stairs of the building to the little room with the broken faucets, your drawings, all your things,                                                 I looked out the window and said                                 This doesn’t look that much different from home,             because it didn’t, but then I noticed the black sky and all those lights.                                            We walked through the house to the elevated train.             All these buildings, all that glass and the shiny beautiful                                                                                              mechanical wind. We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too,             smiling and crying in a way that made me even more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I                                                                                       just couldn’t say it out loud. Actually, you said Love, for you,                                  is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s                                                                                                  terrifying. No one                                                                                  will ever want to sleep with you. Okay, if you’re so great, you do it—                         here’s the pencil, make it work . . . If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window             is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing river water.             Build me a city and call it Jerusalem. Build me another and call it                                                                                                                  Jerusalem.                             We have come back from Jerusalem where we found not what we sought, so do it over, give me another version,              a different room, another hallway, the kitchen painted over and over,              another bowl of soup. The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell.              Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time.                                                                                                  Forget the dragon, leave the gun on the table, this has nothing to do with happiness.                                         Let’s jump ahead to the moment of epiphany,              in gold light, as the camera pans to where the action is,              lakeside and backlit, and it all falls into frame, close enough to see                                                 the blue rings of my eyes as I say                                                                                                    something ugly. I never liked that ending either. More love streaming out the wrong way,              and I don’t want to be the kind that says the wrong way. But it doesn’t work, these erasures, this constant refolding of the pleats.                                                             There were some nice parts, sure, all lemondrop and mellonball, laughing in silk pajamas              and the grains of sugar                               on the toast, love love or whatever, take a number. I’m sorry                                                                                   it’s such a lousy story. Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently                      we have had our difficulties and there are many things                                                                                                   I want to ask you. I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again,              years later, in the chlorinated pool.                                       I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have              these luxuries. I have told you where I’m coming from, so put it together.                                                             We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor . . .              When I say this, it should mean laughter, not poison.                   I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes. Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you.                                                   Quit milling around the yard and come inside.

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

Seen ✓ - 2

Pairing: Sam x Fem!Reader Warnings: light anxiety Word Count: 2.2k Series Summary: On her way home, Y/n finds an abandoned, cracked phone on the sidewalk. Anxious about the well-being of its owner, she picks it up and texts the first contact she finds; Sam. A/N: Chapter 2! Our pals are kicking it off already. Can you smell the chemistry? The rOMANCE? LESSGO

Pictures used in this chapter were found on google images :)

Beta: no one.

Catch up! : Part 1 Masterlist

Chapter 2: overthinker.

From: y/n_andrews85 To: D_impala67 Subject: I have your phone. That sounds creepy. I don’t think there’s a non-creepy way of writing this. Whatever.

Dear Dean, is it?

I just wanted to let you know I found your phone at the bus stop the other night. I wasn’t planning on holding on to it, really, but I got worried that you may have been in trouble, and then you never really looked for it either so, I don’t know, I figured better than someone who’ll snatch it and leave, you know?

Anyways, that’s why I’m emailing. I snooped through it a little, sorry, hopefully you’ll understand it was kinda necessary? Maybe we can arrange something so I can get it back to you. This girl, Jamie, keeps sending me (well you technically) topless photos of her. It’s not really what lights my candle. I’m assuming you’d like it back too.

I hope you’re safe. Looking forward to hearing back from you!

Y/n Andrews

-

Do you believe me now?

oh god

you didn’t

Sure did

wow. just wow.

you just handed his ass back to him holy shit!

last time he called, he said he dropped his phone while walking back to his motel, so

he’s okay.

That’s good, I’m glad he’s safe.

I was planning on including something along the lines of “This would’ve been easier if you were an active member of the 21st century and used social media”

But I figured the Jamie thing was motive enough?

yeah. topless Jamie? that’s something else.

Don’t be getting any ideas, dude, I don’t do nudes lmao.

oh god, no i didn’t think that

you did not just type lmao though. how old are you again?

oh god, you’re not 14 or something right? i don’t know what that would make me.

Don’t worry about it, I turned 16 last week.

…

are you serious?

Lmao, no, I’m kidding. I’m twenty-two.

But I think the word you’re looking for is a creep. Oh, and an ageist.

ouch.

Haha, I’m joking.

Lighten up, what are you, ninety?

hi pot meet kettle.

Shit I walked right into that one.

also i’d like to think i don’t text like a ninety-year-old man. could be wrong though

to answer your question i’m twenty-four.                                

Twenty-four huh? I assume you’re done with college, no?

Or- wait, I guess not everyone goes to college.

Yes, this is me fishing for information.

well… i kinda dropped out.

decided to go on a road trip with my brother.

things went a little south I ended up continuing the family business.

Damn, college drop-out ey? Where from?

Also, Family business? What do you do?

Is this too interview-y? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snoop.

you’re good.

stanford. pre-law.

and my brother and i are private investigators. that’s why he’s not in Kansas with me. he’s working a case.

Daaaaamn. Stanford AND a lawyer? And now working as a PI? You’re pretty smart, then.

an ageist and a generalist? i didn’t take you for such y/n.

Fuck, okay, you sound like a lawyer too.

hahahah

so what about you?

What about me?

are you in college?

Oh yeah! Film school. My dream has always been to be a director. It’s rare to find someone who loves movies more than I do.

that’s really cool.

hey i’ve been meaning to ask.

Thinking of me, Sam?

…

Do tell.

how come you were walking home through a park in the middle of the night the other day?

Ooh, I was coming back from work.

I’m a bartender and I had a late shift on Friday.

oh I see. That makes sense yeah.

I’m sorry to cut this conversation short, but I’m legitimately three seconds away from falling asleep. I’m gonna hit the hay.

See you later, Sam :)

See you, y/n :)

A smile creeps on Y/n’s features at the thought of more conversations with Sam. He has given her something to look forward to, something to make her a little more excited during her boring every-day life. As she tucks herself in under her covers, eyelids heavy enough to droop involuntarily, the last thing she thinks of is him, the clever, sassy, twenty-four year old college dropout on the other side of the cracked phone screen. The overwhelming urge to get to know him overtakes her as she succumbs to sleep

--

So

Do you believe in ghosts?

that’s… random.

May be

why do you ask?

Idk, just wanna get to know you better.

that’s what you ask people you want to get to know better?

Yes?

Are you avoiding the question?

no

i do. believe in ghosts.

You?

So do i.

Well, sorta. I guess I believe in souls more than anything.

hm?

Well… I guess I hope (more than believe) that we are more than our corporeal selves.

In the sense that, it’s comforting to me that when we die, and our bodies stop working, we don’t evaporate.

I guess.

yeah I understand.

i don’t know. i guess i wanna believe in science more than anything but i know better.

How do you mean?

call it a hunch.

Oh c’mon, it’s gotta be more than that.

Sam…?

Y/n huffs out a breath, gnawing at her lip. She hopes her anxiety isn’t right, that Sam isn’t sick of her silly questions and existential dread, and is actually doing something. Perhaps his battery ran out.

...Sure.

She was doing something too, before she decided to text him. Eyes falling on all her books and notes, spread around her like ugly, depressing, anxiety-inducing flower petals. There’s a blanket over her legs, chilly fall weather seeping through her bones, and there’s a half empty pizza box in front of her. She’s full and the left overs are kept for her sister, Emily, who’s currently locked up in her room.

Damn it. Y/n is stressed and tired, and now her distraction is refusing to reply. This sucks. She hates the crawling, awful, gooey feeling of cold anxiety gripping every beat of her heart and stupidly convincing her he’s purposefully ghosting her, because he doesn’t like her.

Not knowing what to occupy herself with, she heads to take a shower. In the back of her head, she knows that she’ll probably not study any longer, so she takes it upon herself to sink under the hot water and wash thoroughly, trying to get her mind off Dean’s phone. When her feet step out of the shower and she has towel-dried herself as best as she can, she tosses her wet hair in a haphazard bun, and gets dressed.

Books stack under the rickety, stained coffee table, and she grabs her sketchbook, her favorite pencil, as well as her and Dean’s phone. She shoots Connor a text, arranging a hang out of some kind, and opens her little booklet, when a text vibrates Dean’s phone.

hey i’m sorry i got caught up in something.

It’s alright.

She doesn’t press the ghost subject, because he doesn’t seem into it and she really doesn’t wanna make him dislike her any more than he possibly already does.

The empty page of her sketchbook daunts her. With a tight grip on her mechanical pencil, she urges her creativity pumps to use some gasoline, but they seem limp and dead, and once more unwilling to help her. As her eyes fall on Dean’s phone, like a light bulb out of a cartoon, she gets an idea.

Hey, this might sound creepy, but what do you look like?

She stares at the phone. This feels like a risky question. God, if he wasn’t done with her before, he certainly must be now. But then, he surprises her.

why do you wanna know?

I’m in the mood to sketch some, and my creativity has officially left the building.

Care to help a girl out? Maybe your literary descriptions will spark something in me lmao.

i didn’t know you sketched.

Yeah, sometimes. Nothing great though, I promise. I’m certainly no Picasso.

i mean you don’t have to be picasso to sketch well. and you don’t have to sketch well to sketch at all.

Yeah, may be.

I don’t wanna pressure you into anything, you really don’t have to humor me.

If you do feel like it though, don’t send me a picture. Kinda wanna spark some life into my brain cells.

haha i will. only if you show me the finished product tho.

You’ve got yourself a deal :)

She simply cannot believe he has just agreed to this. Her breath is caught in her throat.

so.

what do you want me to start with?

Just whatever. Idk, tell me about your face.

well

i have brown curly-ish hair that reaches my ears. uh, my eyes are hazel.

Okay, that’s a start.

What’s your nose like?

it’s a bit pointy. thin i think?

Jawline?

sharp? i guess?

this is by far the weirdest thing i’ve done.

Lmao, yeah, this is pretty weird.

Exciting though.

She shouldn’t have said that. Fuck, that is definitely overeager.

yeah it is.

Her stomach feels floaty at his response.

Eyebrows?

uh

normal?

How do you classify “normal” eyebrows, exactly?

i don’t know? they’re simple i guess.

Are you implying complicated eyebrows exist out there?

…

Elaborate, Sam. Are you shy? Do you not have eyebrows? Are they bushy? Or too thin? Or pointy?

i’m telling you they’re average.

Sam

what

You officially suck at this.

oh fuck off how would you describe yours?

Y/n proceeds to write a cohesive sentence that includes adjectives apart from “normal” and “average”. Words like bushy, thin, arched and curvy.

well shit yeah i guess i do suck at this.

i think it’s not a skill i mind not having.

That… is a confusing sentence.

just… draw them however. what difference can eyebrows make?

Oh you have no idea.

Okay, last thing.

Do you have a fringe?

yeah but not for long. i’ll probably let it grow out.

Okay, I can do something with that. Thanks :)

no problem

Her creativity is finally servicing her according to her commands, and Y/n puts pen to paper and scribbles messily. Line after line, they curl and sit on the page, forming a smile with thin lips, a sharp jaw, a pointy nose. She has to guess the eyebrows a bit, and the eyes are more cartoonish and generic than she likes. In the end, she gets anxious at the prospect of having to show him, and gives him a hood, so she won’t fuck up the hair.

Okay, I’m done.

that was quick, actually.

Well I didn’t have much to go on.

Sam doesn’t reply. She worries he might have misinterpreted her teasing tone.

Gimme a sec, I’ll send it over.

Ugh, Dean’s camera is such shit. Do you mind if I send it from my phone?

no go ahead.

[Y/n has sent a picture]

As you said, it didn’t take long. It’s really not the best.

that…

is actually not too far from the truth

it kind of looks like me from two years ago

wow, really?

yeah.

and it’s honestly a pretty good sketch. good job.

Thank you :)

Sam doesn’t say anything after this, and she huffs. Her head falls back on the couch, and she stares at the ceiling. She should go to bed soon, it’s getting late.

isn’t this strange?

Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit oh shit, she thinks. He’s regretting this. He doesn’t like her. He’ll stop talking to her and that’ll be it.

Why does she care so much? It’s a thought that passes through her mind. It hasn’t been long since they started talking and, after the near-kidnapping encounter, they’ve been having nearly daily conversations, but that still doesn’t mean much. She knows barely anything about him.

She guesses, she wants to get to know him better. He seems like the type of guy she’d enjoy hanging out with and she has so far. Stopping any kind of conversation would surely feel like a loss. She’d have to go back to her boring routine. This is the most exciting thing she has allowed herself to do in years.

A part of her feels rather lame for finding such a thrill at something so trivial. She’s talking to a stranger, and that’s all it is, but the prospect that he could be anyone at all, and she’s never even seen his face… well… It feels refreshing, new. Scary in an adrenaline-rush kind of way.

What is?

us. texting.

isn’t it a little odd?

I guess it is a bit.

I mean we’ve only known each other for, what, a week? And a half?

yeah.

should we stop?

I don’t know

Do you want to?

The extra moment his reply takes to arrive makes her want to vomit.

no

Then there’s your answer.

okay then

can I save you in my contacts?

Sure, go ahead.

I just did too.

alright.

Okay :)

I’m sorry, I have to go.

I guess I’ll text you later, Sam.

Go be whoever Sam Something is.

it’s winchester.

Like the shotgun?

yup.

That’s BADASS. Can you even get more badass than this? Pre-law, now a PI, and you’re named after a shotgun? Damn dude.

Well, it’s nice to meet you Sam. I’m Y/n Andrews.

Haha thanks.

nice to meet you, too

goodnight Y/n Andrews.

Night Sam Winchester :)

--- Part 3

A/N: Thoughts? How are you liking the newer version of this? right after I post it, I’m gonna delete the other one.

Taglist:

Old Can You See The Stars taglist: @shutupiminlooove @sammysgirl1997 @kymberlytorres @bambi95-blog @demonic-meatball @thekarliwinchester @littlekay15 @li-m-ii  @thinspo-isuppose @carryonmywaywarddemigodwitch @ellen-reincarnated1967 @moonlitskinwalker @marichromatic @illuminatus42 @lazy-author @mirandaaustin93 @hauntedsiriel @pilaxia @devilgirlsarah @nobodys-baby-now @captiveties @calamitychaos @midiocris @wordswillscream​

Sam taglist @kymberlytorres @theboykingsam @depressed-moose-78 @andi-mendes-barnes @captainmarvelcorps @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away @nellachain