#black hole esque. whatever light comes in never comes out.

[anticutes]

demeanour & mannerisms guide, tagged by @ultfan.

eyes. avoids eye contact when nervous, maintains eye contact when agitated, avoids eye contact due to being neurodivergent, enjoys eye contact as a means to read and convey emotion, looks down when emotional, looks up when emotional, cries openly, wipes tears quickly, suppresses tears, wandering gaze when lost in thought, holds gaze while thinking, seeks out eye contact for reassurance, seeks out eye contact to gauge enthusiasm during conversations, eyes constantly move during conversation, expressive eyes, emotions only evident through eyes, uses eye contact to intimidate, looks up while thinking, looks down while thinking. hands. clasps behind back,  rest in lap, fidgets with clothes,  twiddles thumbs,  chews at nails,  pushes back cuticles,  draws patterns on table/counter surfaces, makes animated gestures while speaking, only gestures to emphasize, utilizes sign language, speaks only through sign,   callouses,  scars,  smooth,  wrinkled,  worn,  soft,  delicate,  boney, slender,  thick,  veiny, touches others while speaking,  reaches out while laughing,  reaches out to comfort others,  reaches out to seek comfort, places face in hands when exasperated,  places palms over eyes to hide when overwhelmed,  rests chin in hands,  taps fingers when impatient, taps fingers when nervous,  taps fingers while thinking,  scratches scalp, strokes chin, rubs back of head, toys with objects around them, runs fingers over surfaces while walking by. mouth. chews lip, chews at inside of cheek, licks lips,  bites tongue,  chews on straws,  resting frown,  resting smile, neutral resting expression,  resting pout,  grinds teeth,  flexes jaw,  covers mouth when laughing,  covers mouth when shocked,  covers mouth when concerned,  hands to lips while thinking, covers mouth when chewing,  chews with mouth closed,  chews with mouth open,  smirks, grins, subtle smiles, wide smiles, sad smiles, intimidating smiles, menacing grins, openly smiles, tries to suppress smiles, bares teeth when angry,  lips quiver when emotional,  stutters,  speaks quickly,  speaks slowly,  good pronunciation,  poor pronunciation, moderate pronunciation, purses lips,  sucks in lips,  holds mouth open when shocked or confused. legs. bounces leg when nervous,  draws knees to chest when sitting, draws knees to chest as a means of comfort,  sits on knees,  sits with legs criss-crossed,  sits with legs spread open in chairs,  crosses legs when sitting in chairs,  sits with one leg folded under the other,  places feet on furniture,  never places feet on furniture,  sits on counters, sits on desks, sits on tables, sits on edge of seat, sits hunched over with forearms on knees,  arches one knee up,  sits on the arm of chairs/couches,  feet on dashboard,  swings legs back and forth when sitting somewhere elevated, wiggles toes when nervous, wiggles toes as a general tick, shuffles feet, kicks foot into ground,  stomps feet,  loud footsteps,  quiet footsteps,  silent footsteps. hair. runs fingers through hair, tugs at hair,  picks at scalp,  chews on hair,  twists locks of hair while thinking or nervous,  smooths out locks of hair while thinking or nervous, prefers hair out of face,  prefers long hair,  prefers short hair,  wears hair back,  keeps hair down,  smooths back hair, plays with other’s hair while talking,  plays with own hair while talking,  strokes hair to comfort others,  likes having hair stroked for their own comfort,  braids others’ hair while talking,  braids own hair while talking,  flips hair out of face,  pushes hair out of face,  leaves hair alone even when falling into face.

[clumsiestgiantess]

The seventh chapter of the Other-world Universe; Alexis tries her best to make amends.

all chapters linked here

[Progress is progress, I guess]

You don’t know how hard I tried to stay away, but the small world in the basement was just too fascinating to leave for long.  It was like fate, or maybe just my brother wanting to play, was drawing me back.  Despite this, I never set foot near anywhere I thought Erica might be.  I wanted to stay true to my word, after all.  

Every once and a while, when I was bored, I would go off and explore, though.  Constantly, I would wander through the mountains where I found the climber, wondering if he’d left or if I just kept missing him.  While walking through the area where I’d first arrived, I came across a beautiful lake, cut off from the rest of the world by the jagged mountains surrounding it.  Another time, after hiking for three days, I finally found a beach.  It wasn’t an ocean beach, like I wanted, but rather a large lake; from my tall height, I could faintly see the other side.  Still, it was a beach, and I didn’t want to hike further than that anyways.  To get all the way out there I’d packed a bag full of food, water, and a sleeping bag, invisibly camping anywhere that was large enough for me.  Thankfully I only needed to walk the way there.  To get back, all I had to do was return to my world, think about the open field, and I'd be there.

During those three days, as I carefully trekked through forests and fields away from civilization, I was blinded by a flash of light from above.  After shielding my eyes from the initial glare, I fought to look up.  I only managed to catch the tail end of the strange phenomenon.  What looked like a bolt of empty black lightning split the air, but instead of fading away like normal lightning, it hovered in the sky for a long moment.  Then, the jagged streak vanished as quickly as it came.  I had no idea what the strange lightning-esque flash had been, but I didn’t give it too much thought.  It could’ve been any number of things.  The dark zigzag could’ve been a blank spot in my vision after the strange bright light.  For all I know, the other-world might actually have a weird type of black lightning.  I ignored it and carried on.

I had a lot more free time to spend in the other-world now that I wasn’t looking after Erica 24-7, so I used the extra hours not only for adventuring, but to map out the city and everything around it.  Eventually, I hoped to have a map of all the buildings that shared a twin in my world, as well as how far the limits of the playtable actually reached.  

See, the buildings on the table in my world weren’t a perfect match to the ones there; the other-world had almost twice as many thanks to all the residential areas that were basically nonexistent in my own world.  All the twin buildings I'd come across so far were always somewhat important places, and I'd slowly been jotting all of them down.  My brother and I hadn't aimed to make a perfect little city, after all.   It made sense that a few of the lesser important details were omitted from our building project.

At first, Liam had wanted to make the playtable a complete mishmash of dinosaurs and cool superhero fortresses, but thankfully I'd managed to talk him out of it.  I wonder how differently my first day would've gone if I'd let Liam stick with his original plan.  How much of the other-world inhabitants' lives would we have altered without even knowing it?  What if we took everything off the table and started over right now with a completely new theme, like an alien planet or a giant amusement park?  Would everyone here just vanish like the city had never existed, or would they be forced to live completely new lives in whatever we'd created?  If they did, would they even remember their old ones?

That train of thought was getting a little too existential for my liking.  I shook myself off, forcing my brain to backtrack to what I was doing prior to the rabbit hole I'd briefly fallen down.  I scanned the paper in my hands for a moment.  Right, I was looking for twin buildings in the city.  My need for a list of similar buildings first came with the slightly obvious realization that the three-pronged skyline in the other-world — which I assumed was the same as the four-pronged one in my world from a weird angle — actually only had three prongs.  I’d walked around the other-world long enough to see the city from numerous angles, and all of them had three tall needles that stuck out from the tops of skyscrapers, not four.  Immediately, I needed a new reason to believe the cities were the same.  They have to be the same.  Why else would I be here?

The twin buildings became my new proof.  Though the cities didn’t look exactly alike, they each had the same grid layout, and facilities like a town hall, an aquarium, a museum, banks and gas stations, those sorts of things.  It was a lot easier said than done, getting to everything.  I couldn’t even get close to the more populated areas unless I was attached to someone.  

Ever since the fight with Erica, I'd sworn off controlling people.  However, I did still use them for intangibility; I just didn’t force them to do anything while I was latched on.  It felt like I was making excuses to continue messing with them, but I didn’t have much of a choice.  I could either continue using the other-world people for intangibility, or go back to accidentally crushing almost everything in my path.  Obviously, I chose the former.

I'd already gotten a decent number of buildings jotted down with the help of a few oblivious puppets, when I felt something tugging at me.  I don't know how else to explain it.  I imagine the feeling's similar to the force between two magnets passing by, skating just close enough to feel the pull of the other half without actually touching it.  Stopping in the middle of writing down another contender for my list, I followed the absurd feeling toward a congested street corner.  I stood there for almost ten minutes looking for the source of my odd state.  

Finally, I caught sight of someone below me looking confusedly around in the exact way I did.  I really should've expected my 'other half' to be Erica.  I’d felt this feeling a few times before while searching for her.  It seemed to be a side effect of her being under my control for far too long.  For a brief moment, I reached out to latch onto her before recoiling away as she spun around with a furious glare that made me think twice.  Oh, she can sense I'm here too.

I could tell Erica readily wanted to berate me by the infuriated way she was glaring at the empty alleyway I stood in.  However, she would look like she'd lost her mind if she started cursing out an empty side street, so she kept quiet.  Erica stood in thought for a moment before inconspicuously gesturing to the park down the street on the opposite side of the road.  I understood; she was still intent on talking to me, just in a more out-of-the-way place.  Begrudgingly, I stepped over to the park in three long strides and waited patiently for Erica to walk the two blocks over there.  

When she finally arrived, Erica sat on a bench to the side of an empty field and caught her breath.  I chuckled despite every ounce of common sense I had.  She jogged over here for six minutes just to catch up with the three steps I'd taken.  "Is something funny to you?" Erica asked annoyedly.  "Sorry," I whispered.  I needed to keep my voice as quiet as possible so no one else would hear me and wonder why they were hearing voices in the air.  "It's nothing.  How have you been?"  I tried to change the subject, but Erica saw right through me.  Literally.  "Oh, I'm doing much better now that I'm not a puppet anymore," she quipped sarcastically, "I sure hope you weren't about to do something incredibly stupid to change that."  I sighed, "I wouldn't've actually made you do anything.  I meant it as.. a tap on the shoulder.  To say hi."  Erica huffed out a half-laugh that somehow radiated the opposite of laughter.

"You told me you were leaving," she said pointedly, "Why bother lying to me?  Can't you just make me forget about you?"  "I didn't lie!  I said I'd leave you alone from now on.  I never said I'd leave your world.”  "So running into me was a coincidence, was it?"  "Yes."  "Liar."  "No, I swear it is!  I've never even seen you in this part of the city.  Why would I come here to control you if I know where you live?"  Do I even know where she lives? I thought to myself.  Last I saw of her she was packing up her things to leave.

Erica sat silently for a moment, "Then, why are you over here?"  "I could ask you the same thing."  "You first."  It was fascinating, really.  For someone so small, Erica had somehow managed to back me into a corner.  I wasn't lying to her, I honestly hadn't intended to find Erica there, but at the same time I couldn't tell her the truth about what I was doing, either.  If I did, I'd have to reveal the unnerving truth about her world being fake.  That moment in the middle of the city probably wasn't the best time to explain everything.  I could see it in her; the way she hid her fear behind a mask of anger and sarcasm.  Erica knew all too well that I could puppeteer her again right then and there if I wanted, and she couldn't do anything to stop me.  I could only imagine what might happen if I told her the whole truth of everything I could mess with.  Not just her.

So, instead of tearing down her view of the entire world, I lied in the truest way possible.  "I'm here because I was mapping out the city.  With all my new free time, I've been wandering around searching for neat places and marking them down."  Erica stared into the open space where I sat, still unconvinced.  "Prove it."  I hesitated for a second, then slid the unfinished map out my pocket and unfolded it on the ground.  

Once I was sure no one was nearby, I let the paper go and it slowly faded into view.  I could hear the breath hitch in Erica's throat as a map the size of her old apartment appeared from thin air.  She stepped off the bench and onto the grass to examine my evidence.  "What do these X's mean?" she asked, pointing to a few buildings that had been sketched with two slashes over them.  "Those are the places I want to revisit once I finish the map."  Obviously I wasn't going to tell her they were really marking the twin buildings.  I quickly folded the piece of paper back up, causing it to vanish again.  I didn't want her looking it over for too long, just in case I'd jotted something down that had to do with her world.

Finally convinced I wasn't out there just to stalk her, Erica gave me a satisfied nod and returned to the park bench to collect her things.  "Hold on," I whispered before she could leave, "It's your turn to tell me what you're doing over here."  "I.." Erica hesitated, slowly turning back to me.  She suddenly looked a lot more tired than she had a minute ago; her angry facade had dropped.  "I'm lost.  I went to a new hairstylist that opened in this side of the city, and now I have no clue where I parked the car.  I know it was across the street from the aquarium, but I've only been there, like, once besides today."  The aquarium was definitely on my map.  In fact, it was one of the buildings that had a twin.  "I know where it is," I ventured, "I could take you there if you like."  

"You want to help me?" Erica asked coldly, "Gee, that sounds like a great idea.  I'll just blindly accept your help like I did last time.  Who knows, if I'm lucky I might end up as your little puppet by the end of the day."  She hadn't even said all that much, but her words still stung regardless.  I backed away guiltily and shifted onto my knees, ready to leave.  "I'm sorry," I mumbled, "Shouldn't have asked."  Erica sighed and I froze, partially standing.  She looked up at me from beneath the leafy green trees that shaded the park.  Though she couldn’t see me, she could still tell fairly well where I was.  Slowly, I knelt back down as her expression clouded with confliction.  Erica’s mouth opened and closed silently for a few minutes.  I expected her to give me some speech about how it was wrong to do what I'd done to her, which I completely understood, but she surprised me.  "Can I see that map one more time, please?"  

If she had asked me to bring her the moon or the stars instead, I would've gladly done it.  Anything to stop the gut wrenching guilt that whispered you're a monster over and over in my head.  I'd been avoiding Erica for this reason as well.  Whenever I saw her, or even thought about her, I felt the need to compensate for everything I'd done.  Apparently, she felt as if I were trying to deceive her again, but that was far from the truth.  I only wanted to prove that I could be better; for Erica, obviously, but for myself too.  The image of her hanging terrified between my fingers over the cliffside refused to leave my head.  Then there was that time I’d caught her in bed, crying.. presumably because of what I’d done to her.

I gladly spread the map out on the grass for Erica to examine.  She mutely traced the path between the park we stood in and the aquarium without a single glance at me.

After an excruciatingly dead silence, she spoke.  "Thank you, for helping me.  I.. I think you're just trying to gain my trust, but-  I'll trust you in my own time, you know?"  I let out a breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding.  "Alright."  Another heavy silence.  "Can I take the map now?"  Erica nodded and I stashed it away.  "If it's alright with you," she interjected before I could leave, "You can get places a lot faster than I can.  Would you mind waiting by my car until I get there?  Just so I don't get lost again?  We have this weird connection of some sort; I was thinking of using it like a compass."  I was so shocked by her offer I forgot to reply.  "It's fine if you don't want to.  I mean, I did just rudely deny your help a moment ago."  "No, I.. I'll meet you there."  

Erica was right; it took me very little time to find the aquarium.  I sat beside it, intangibly peering in at the sea lion show that was taking place when I'd arrived.  Eventually, I could feel the magnet-esque tug that told me Erica was nearby.  She glanced across the busy street at the space she assumed I was sitting in and mouthed thank you before driving off.  I tried to shake away the gloomy guilt and instead thought through the positives.  Miraculously, Erica was making an effort to be nice to me, despite my mistakes.  Honestly, her talking to me at all was an improvement, so long as she wasn't hurting me with bitter words.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I bumped into Erica several times — all purely unintentionally.  We both had things to do in similar places.  Erica had errands to run and her job, and I wanted to map out the city where all those things were located.  We never said much to each other.  In fact, we couldn’t have a conversation of any kind without drawing attention to ourselves.  However, Erica no longer suspected anything horrible of me.  She’d nod knowingly in my direction, and we’d both continue on with our lives.  

We’d only come close to talking once — when I happened to walk by as Erica was getting a parking ticket.  The moment she sensed my presence, she began gesturing for me to deal with the officer every time their back was turned.  I hesitated, wondering if it was a test to see if I would control them.  Honestly, I think that was what she wanted, but I decided to deal with things differently.  Returning to my world for a split second, I grabbed a single plastic bill and willed it to become 100 dollars as I stepped back through.  

Thankfully, there was an empty lot on the other side of the road where I could appear without destroying anything.  Erica looked beyond relieved when she sensed me re-appear.  Cautiously, I reached out over her car and waited until the officer turned to their vehicle for something.  The moment they did, I nudged her arm very lightly with one finger, opening my hand to reveal the fresh bill.

Just as I’d suspected, Erica seemed confused by my offer.  She had wanted me to control them — likely to avoid being given a ticket at all.  A moment later, she nodded at me, realizing that I was only trying to avoid what had made her so angry with me in the first place.  I latched on to intangibility and stepped away, figuring that giving her the money she needed was enough interaction with her for the day.  It was how I’d ended up in that situation in the first place, after all.  I certainly didn’t want to repeat any of my mistakes.

Three weeks after the incident with the map, I officially heard from Erica again.  By that time, I'd completely mapped out the city and had moved on to measuring how far the table in my world extended in this one.  The scale was more than a little bit off, which both confused and frustrated me.  I was passing by Erica's house, trying to determine how far the mountains were from the city with a distance tracker, when I noticed an arrow made from fallen branches in her yard.  The arrow pointed to a large flat rectangle lying on the lawn.  I slowed to examine it.  Erica's car wasn't in the driveway, so I couldn't ask what the thing was, but it had 'to the giant' scrawled on it so I assumed it was for me.  I picked up the rectangle of what seemed to be poster board and turned it over curiously.

It was a note, written out in large letters so I could read them without straining my eyes.

I don't know if you're ever coming back here, but if you find this I want you to know that-

The rest of the letter was written in slightly different penmanship, as though she'd stopped writing for a while before continuing with the rest.

I'm ready for us to meet up again.  Just to be clear, this is NOT me forgiving you.  I want to move on from what happened, and I hope you do too.  After all, you were only trying to help me, albeit in a very backwards way.  If you can find sometime for us to talk, I’m willing to.

It looked like Erica had tried to fit more onto the poster board, but ran out of room writing in a font big enough for me to read.  My heart leapt faster in my chest as I re-read what she'd written.  It had been a while since we'd talked, and even then, we'd never actually had a normal conversation.  Maybe things weren’t as hopeless as I thought!  Remember, I thought to myself, trying to calm down, she hasn't forgiven you, so take it easy.  One step at a time.  You're overwhelming enough as it is.  However small a step the note may be, progress is progress, and I was grateful for it.

[boytouya]

𝙒𝙖𝙞𝙩 𝙖 𝙈𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙩𝙚!

words: 1.2k

warning: profanity

request: “HELLO! <3 how r u !! could I request a mean male reader bullying back bakugou yet flirting w/ him at the same time? arson boy would be so disturbed. 😭your requests say open but PLEASE ignore this if they’re not, for my own dodge of self-embarrassment, LMFAOOO Ɛ/>”

a/n: i’m doing alright, sweetheart! i hope you’ve been doing well. this has been sitting in my inbox since april i’m so sorry!!! i hope i could do this request justice. i’m considering making it longer.. i didn’t wanna make the reader an unlikeable kind of mean so i went with something more tame, that’s why it sounds more like friends going back and forth :)

“Get your filthy paws off me!” Katsuki snarls, the link gums of his mouth exposed as he bares his teeth. If there were one word to describe him, it’d be feral. Sharp canines, an angular jawline and rough scarlet eyes that had a never ending blaze behind them. They were a deep shade of red, almost appearing brown. He was frustratingly handsome, the kind of pretty that only boys could achieve, with unnecessarily long eyelashes and beauty marks. His hair goes in all sorts of directions, each strand somehow meeting perfectly to form the most endearing row of spikes you’ve ever seen. He pushes you aside with his wrist, as if touching you with his entire hand would infect him.

His explosions were just as bright as his mind, the thought pops up when he nearly casts an explosion straight into your face. It crackles on his fingertips, illuminating an orange glow against the curves of your face. It blends almost perfectly into the apples of your cheeks and beneath your irises. He curses himself for thinking about you in so much detail, but how could he not?

“Ahh, ‘get your filthy paws off me!’” You tack on a nasally voice, obviously over exaggerated to make the boy uncomfortable. It works, seeing as he grunts and tears his gaze away. You can smell something burning, the dense scent of charcoal filling the air. “Stop projecting, and pull up your pants. You look fuckin’ stupid.” The insult comes out with a bit more venom than intended, and it clearly gets under his skin. The comment festers, aggressively at that.

“Keep mentioning being stupid and I’ll beat you till you are!” His pupils dilate, just underneath the light shining through his eyelashes. His tongue, as pink as his lips, swipes under his teeth. It feels like he’s the only other person in the room, a dark vignette blocking you from the rest of your class. Just you and Katsuki. Just you, Katsuki, and the God awful smell of whatever was burning.

“Fuck!” Bakugou yells, patting down his lap. You have to shift to see over his desk, but there’s a burning hole through his baggy pants. The mossy green lacks any sort of smooth transition into charred black. It’s not exactly small, but you wouldn’t say it’s that noticeable either. Around half the size of Katsuki’s calloused palm. He’s usually careful, he never needs to look out for these things because he has one hundred percent perfect control over his quirk. Then there’s you, pushing him off his balance beam for the first time in forever. His feet had already grown unsteady to begin with, but something about your unreasonably handsome face made him stumble.

“Do you have All Might boxers? That’s…kinda cute.” The hole is nowhere near the top end of his thigh, but you like to tease him anyway. There’s heat dwindling on his cheeks, more so than his palm. He doesn’t blush though, instead stomps his heavy foot on yours in retaliation. It could be to distract you from whatever he’s feeling rise to his throat. It definitely distracts you from what you feel in yours.

You’re always the first to check him, pull him back in from his fits of- well, passion. To others, he seemed aggressive and angry, but really, he was just passionate about what he enjoyed. Beating others. His fire was always ignited, the flame sparking the second he developed his quirk, and it only ever grew brighter. You wanted to be his candle, to be able to melt under his flame and bounce back when his wick had burned itself through and through.

“It’s too early for your shit.” Bakugou’s cheek rests against his knuckles, his elbow digging into the edge of his desk. He stares straight ahead, afraid the air would be snatched from his lungs if he makes eye contact with you for any second longer. His cheek, though squished between his hand and excess baby fat, looks incredibly kissable. When he’s not straining his face he appears much more youthful. Of course he was only a teen, the both of you were, but the facial expressions he made reminded you of an old man. The thought of Katsuki hunched over with grey hair, yelling at children brings a smile to your face. He already went to bed early, had a tight ironed schedule and woke up early. Honestly, he was already on his way.

He makes no effort to fully turn his body, let alone actually look at you. Instead, Katsuki tilts his head to the side and stares at you through his peripherals. He hadn’t thought about it till now, but the flirting was actually kind of flattering. Hearing you go on with your day without saying something Denki would fist bump you for left him feeling unsettled, like there was a tsunami in his stomach. He actually kind of liked blowing up your face after you flirt with him.

“I can feel those Granny Smith’s staring straight into my soul,” He ignores the obscure comparison of his eyes to apples, but he’d definitely think about it later. Your backhanded compliments have him tapping his foot against the floor in irritation. The rhythm is somewhat memorising, Katsuki makes a mental note to try it out on his drums in his free time. Not that he’d ever say it was inspired by you. Not in a million years. “Really lets me know where home is, thanks ‘Suki.”

“Don’t call me that, prick!” There are fireworks exploding in his stomach. The fizzle out into sparklers, zapping against his insides and bringing overwhelming thoughts straight to his head. It was an unusual feeling, trapped inside his body and only expelling through bouncing legs. At first, the flirting made him want to punch you in your prince-charming esque face, but hearing the nickname made him feel something else. Warm and floaty inside. With fifty percent humor intended, you reach over the safety of your desk to grasp his hand. In the millisecond you get to hold it, you note it’s faint dampness. A drawback of his quirk, something you’d be sure to tease him about another time. He swats your hand with a loud ‘smack!’ that bounces off the walls of the room. He doesn’t pull away completely, instead brushing his knuckles against your own. His signature nose wrinkle returns, manufactured from the exact opposite of disgust. He hates the way his heart quickens, the way he feels challenged when you speak to him, the way he craves the feeling of your hand on his for just a second longer.

But oddly enough, he loved- no, liked? He wasn’t ready for love yet.- you with every fiber of his being. His knuckles brushing against yours felt like more fiction than it actually was, his heart did somersaults against his ribs when he saw you. Hearing you insult him had always taken him aback, it made a mischievous glint in his eye return just as quick as it vanished. Then you’d laugh, a divine chime that he couldn’t quite describe with words, and say something that stopped the blood flow in his body. You truly were something else, a supernova that only vermillion eyes could see. He was thankful for that. The two of you are rather young, with questioning, impressionable minds that’ll cling to each other for support. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

taglist: @lustclubs @indigowren21 @cannedfoodisbestfood @junkwhoore @kissesdenji @sanderssidesangsttrash @i-d0g @kaito-asmr @jream-23 @princejasno @mel-bigia04 @mhasimp666 @onehellofasimp @corporeal-terrestrial @angelaturservice @shootingstars-and-burningsuns @sleepyslvt @rintarosaku

[dumdumsun]

And Dusk

A/N: Enjoy ❤️

Warnings: blood and violence

Word Count: 1975

—————————————

Chapter 4: Always Next Time

Who the hell were those men?

Shaken up from her encounter with the three gunmen, (Y/N) threw the front doors of her home open and hurried inside with Mr Pennycrumb skittering behind her. “Dad?” She called out as she hurried all around, her voice breaking and echoing throughout the house. “Dad?!”

“(Y/N), hun, what’s going on?” The southern accent sounding from behind her caused her tense posture to relax as she turned to Grace.

“Mom… W-Where’s Dad?”

“He’s at a meeting, sweetheart. I’m not sure where, he didn’t tell me much,” When her daughter nodded with a faraway look, Grace took a step closer. “What happened? Where’s Preston?”

Swallowing, (Y/N) tried her best to crawl out of the hole she dug for herself, but it seemed to just be getting deeper. “Uh… I was attacked by some crazy people a-and Preston decided to take me home.” She rushed out as her feet quickly took her to the staircase that led to the rooms. Grace was immediately on her heels.

“You were what?! Honey, are you okay?! Who was it, what’d they do?!”

“It’s fine, Mom-”

“No, it’s not! You need to be tellin’ us these things, (Y/N). W-What if somethin’ like last time happened?” Grace recalled the day the two met. The girl’s shoulders visibly tensed and her mother wondered if she should have said that.

“Mom… I-”

“It’s alright, darlin’. I’m sorry for saying that.”

“No, no!” (Y/N) quickly turned towards her and brought her into a tight hug. Grace chuckled and returned the affection. “I’m glad you worry… It lets me know I’m loved.”

Grace gently ran her hand through the girl’s hair. “You most definitely are…”

(Y/N) began to get choked up, so she pulled away before the waterworks could make their presence known. She pointed behind herself awkwardly. “I’m gonna… get some sleep. I’m a little exhausted…”

“Of course, sweetheart. How about I make you a snack when you wake up?”

The familiarity of this woman making her food simply because she loved her had the girl’s (e/c) orbs nearly overflowing with tears as she nodded. “I’d love that. Thank you, Mom… I love you.” She grinned before slipping into her bedroom and softly closing the door. As soon as she heard her mother’s footsteps echo down the hall, she quickly wiped her eyes and charged towards her bed, flopping onto her back and closing her eyes.

Inhale for one, two, three, four

One, two, three, four…

One moment, she’s in her bedroom, and in the next, she’s in the park where she left her date. She adjusted her blurry vision by blinking several times. The fogginess washed away to reveal Preston much closer to her than she was comfortable with. His brown eyes were glancing at her lips as his blonde waves, once slicked back, fell in his eyes as he leaned close to her, lips puckered. Before his lips could graze hers, she pressed her index and middle fingers to his mouth. The boy frowned and stopped his movement, eyes fluttering open. “Um… What are you doing?”

“I-I was, uh-”

“I have to go,” She stood to her feet. “I think Mr Pennycrumb ran away.”

“Oh,” Preston’s entire expression fell into a look of irritation that had her blood boiling every time she saw it. “Then, I’ll help you look.”

“No,” She shook her head. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I’m just…”

(Y/N) placed her hand over her eyes and feigned sadness. “I’m so torn up about it… I just wanna be alone…”

“Awe, honey,” Preston stood and moved to stand in front of her. “I told you that you didn’t need that dumb dog. How about I take you to get some ice cream-”

“I just said I wanted to be alone!” She quickly turned away and took long strides to get away from him faster. “We’ll reschedule!”

Groaning into her hands, (Y/N) made her way back to her home, running to the side where the roof cast its shadow, a perfect hiding spot. Sitting down in the grass, she hugged her knees to her chest as close as she could before humming her three-note tune to dismiss her clone. Her eyes rolling to the back of her head, she became dizzy and her vision faded to black. When she opened her eyes, she was in her bedroom again, laying on her back. Exhaling, she let her hand drop onto her chest. “God…”

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

“This is it.” Five announced as he and Diego exited the car stolen by the latter. The two approached their father’s company building with slow, hesitant steps as they surveyed the exterior.

“‘D.S. Umbrella’. This is it.” Diego muttered. The closer they neared the entrance, the slower Five’s pace grew until he stopped walking altogether. Diego turned to his brother in concern. “You okay?”

Five hesitated. “Yeah, fine. Just…” When he reached the front door, he let out a sigh. Diego swiftly took out his knife and began picking the lock on the door.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen the old man?”

“Forty-five years…”

“That’s a trip…”

“No kidding…” The boy sighed yet again. “You know, when I was stuck out there in the apocalypse, there wasn’t a day that went by where I didn’t hear his voice in my head.”

Diego didn’t look away from his task. “What was he saying?” He asked before muttering to himself when he couldn’t get the door to unlock.

“‘I told you so’.”

The quote itself made Diego scoff and shake his head. “Yeah, I’ve witnessed (Y/N) get an earful of that after you left… Dad used to lock her in that damn room all the time…”

“What room?” Five stood straighter, the mention of his love something he would never disregard.

“A small, dark room in a part of the house none of us were allowed to go… I don’t know how she did it, but he kept her in that room with no windows or light or human interaction until she was able to find you,” Diego looked up at his brother. “Almost a week.”

“A week? He kept her there for almost a week?!”

“Yep. And each day she couldn’t reach you, we could hear him shouting about her ‘not wanting to find her true potential’ or whatever bullshit he tried to beat into her mind to make her feel like shit. But something must’ve happened, because on the fifth day, Mom was bringing her to her room. God, she looked…”

Five wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

“She looked dead. Like she had just come from her own grave. She didn’t talk to anyone for a while.”

“Starlight…” The boy shut his eyes and shook his head. His mind immediately thought back on Luther’s words. Perhaps he had been dragging her into every mess he made, and he’d been doing it far longer than he thought.

Diego was silent for a few beats before breaking it with a huff. “But hey, if Dad’s here, he’s never met either of you before, so he can’t say ‘I told you so’.”

“I’m sure the bastard will find a way.” Five growled, the tiniest hint of a sarcastic smile on his face before it fell moments later. Without warning, he blinked inside the building and unlocked the door for his brother, who sat dumbly before him.

“Right… Gotta remember that.” Diego cleared his throat as he stood to his feet and walked inside. After searching around for a bit, the two decided to split up to cover more ground. Five tried several rooms, all with locked doors until he found one in particular.

The decor was disturbing, to say the least. Set up to be a family room, yet the only “people” inhabiting the room were three mannequin-esque figures. Brushing off the chill that ran down his spine, he made his way to another room with a desk on one side of it, going through several papers until he came across an invitation to a gala. Deeming this useful, Five pocketed the invitation just before the sound of something metallic clattering behind him could be heard. Slowly, the boy stalked closer to a part of the room where a child’s play area had been set up. There was a table with puzzles, crayons and paper. Five unknowingly passed a chalkboard with the names “Pogo” and “(Y/N)” written in yellow chalk. The boy’s eyes caught a drawing on the table and picked it up. It had to have been drawn by a child, the monkey on the paper poorly drawn. The character beside it, though, had the gears turning in Five’s head. It was a girl with (h/l) (h/c) hair and (s/c) skin. He was going to look around the area more when he heard another noise coming from in front of him. He dropped the paper and moved forward, his body going still at who stepped out of the shadows.

An ape wearing only pajama pants cautiously crawled out of his hiding spot and Five immediately knew who it was. His soft grunting and squeaking made the boy’s voice and actions become softer as he crouched down in front of the chimp. “Hi… Pogo,” He whispered as the two got closer. “Hey… It’s alright, little buddy.” He softly smiled as both he and Pogo stared at each other in wonder. With a gentleness only shown to his love, Five slowly reached forward. “Pogo… It’s good to see you-”

He was caught off guard when Pogo screeched and struck Five in the side of his neck, causing the boy to cry out and fall over. The chimp quickly moved away from Five and ran through the glass wall, leaving him a panting mess. The boy looked all around as his hand pressed onto his bleeding wound. “Diego! Diego!” He called out as he stumbled to his feet, dashing out of the room. Little did he know, Diego was nowhere near him, having his own share of bloodshed.

Just as Diego was about to have his ass handed to him, he spotted a rebar a little ways away from him. Turning slightly, he kicked the man who had a grip on his arm, setting himself free. The Kraken jumped onto the platform, grabbed the rebar in both his hands, and backflipped off the platform, landing right in front of his shadow-clad opponent. The man dodged nearly every swing Diego took at him, save for the one to the side, and then to the leg that sent him to his knees. Raising the rebar above his head, Diego was just ready to give this man hell. But when he raised his head and revealed himself to be Sir Reginald Hargreeves, Diego hesitated. “Dad…” He whispered before a small knife sunk itself into his abdomen. He wheezed out a breath, his father staring into his eyes as he muttered,

“Ametur.”

Diego could do nothing but fall to the ground as blood seeped out of his wound after the knife was ripped out of him, watching as Reginald continued down the foggy pathway. He clapped his gloved hands twice, alerting a screeching Pogo to drop down from where he had been waiting. Once the chimp was on the ground, he and Reginald joined hands, continuing away from the man bleeding out on the ground.

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

As Grace and (Y/N) painted together, the girl hummed her usual tune, being interrupted when her mother softly gasped. “Y’know what? Reggie wasn’t at a meeting. He was takin’ Pogo to run some tests. That’s why he’s out so late.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” (Y/N) sighed. “I wanted to go this time…”

“There’s always next time, darlin’.”

“Yeah,” The girl returned to her painting. “Next time.”

—————————————

Taglist: @unfortu-nate-ly @sapphicsyn @m00n-sh @starcurrent @alexander-hamilhoe @youcandalekmyballs @wonderlandfandomkingdom @yrdadjstcallsmekatya @sm0kingcrack @a-t-h-r-e-e-n-a @moatsnow @bubblegumflamingos @starstormssymphony @meowiemari @magicalgothpandamaker @simping-4-fictional-men @hehehehannahthings @harrystylescherrie @rhain3 @himikaphoo @zerocanonlywriteshit @xxeiraxx @camerondiaz48104 @isawachickeninatree @theyaremorethanjustfictional @that-can-of-fizz

[whump-a-la-mode]

your latest whumpee movie set prompt. Please fill it? it sounds interesting and different

So this is kinda written weird on purpose? I intended to make this more action-movie-esque so I hope you guys still like it! And thank you for the ask!

I genuinely can no longer find the post I made for this prompt. If anyone can find it please send it to me. I don’t think I deleted it but I just cannot find it. The prompt more or less described the movie Bolt, with an actor!whumpee who believes everything on set is real.

I ended up taking a pet whump direction with this, and took a lot of inspiration from the movie’s opening! (This mostly took so long because I told myself I was just going to watch the opening for ‘research’ and then watched the whole thing. Twice. I cried.

Twice.)

Anyways, without further ado, Actor Whumpee!

CW//Pet whump, plane crashes, smoke inhalation, collars, cages

“Doctor Storm.” Delta hissed. “I should have known you were behind this. No one else could be so... So horrible!”

“And I should have known you would have fallen right into my trap! No one else could be so utterly brainless. And your friend Eta is even worse! Now you’ll never see them, never again.”

“This ends now! Engima?”

The pet’s upper lip curled back into a viscous snarl. This was it. The final showdown. Good and evil, pacifists turned to desperate war. And they would be fighting upon the front lines.

No leash bound them back as they took forth a step, so that nothing stood in their line of vision, nothing between them and their foe.

Doctor Storm.

The very sight of them made Enigma seethe. The bastion of sin, of sheer evil! A short stature, clad in that sweeping lab coat, white accented by blue embroidery along the edges. Black hair, streaked in white, combed by nothing more than a stressed hand ran through its middle stuck upwards.

And their goggles. Those black goggles, green lenses peering forth. Perhaps beneath them, there were eyes. Perhaps, there was nothing at all. Perhaps, Enigma was staring face-to-face with the devil themself.

It did not matter. They would fight the devil and each and every force of hell, if it was needed of them. If it would save him.

If it would save Eta.

Delta gripped hands to fists, brown, tied-back hair shifting beneath the sterile, shimmering airport lights. Their uniform was torn, dirtied. It had been a horrid day for each and every one of them.

“Sic ‘em.”

Engima lurched forth, tearing across the shimmering airport’s tile, shoes clattering. When in range, they leaped- and missed. The doctor dipped out of the way. A great crash sounded as the pet toppled to the floor, skidding to a stop upon their side.

“I don’t know if I’d act so fast, dear Delta.” Storm purred. “Though maybe I don’t have much to worry about, if this is the best your guard dog can do.”

“What are you talking about, you, you swine?” The hero hissed.

“Well, why don’t you see for myself, my dear?”

The roar was enough to shake the foundations of the gargantuan building, sending uncomfortable chairs a-quivering in the gates where they were aligned. Doctor Storm took a deliberate step to the side, revealing behind them a floor-to-ceiling window.

And a runway.

The cargo plane was grey in color, monstrous in size, and horrific in speed.

“You want to save your precious Eta?” The doctor’s words curled. “Then go get them.”

Delta gasped. To their feet, Enigma scrambled, darting to their owner’s side, collar tags jangling with their movement. The plane trundled forth with a rapidly crescendoing speed, landing gear clacking on runway as the first spurts of lift were acquired.

Any further, and it would fly off to- God knows where! And Eta would forever be lost! The thought alone made the pet sicken.

“You wouldn’t.” Delta dared.

“Oh, I would. And now we’ll all get to watch them go bye-bye, forever, together!”

“No. I won’t let you!”

“And how exactly do you plan to stop me?”

The hero’s gaze snapped to their pet.

“Enigma?”

A head, tilted to the side.

“Go fetch.”

The revolving door spun like a pinwheel as the collared pet burst through it, shoes screeching on tarmac as they twisted their trajectory ninety degrees. Exhaust coated the runway in a thin layer of smoke, but it was no matter!

After all, there was a reason they were named as a mystery.

As a biplane through a cloud, a hole was torn through the runway’s smoky coating. It was with a great cough that Enigma lurched through, world blurring around as they dipped their face to protect their eyes from the blazing headwinds.

The cargo jet was coming into focus, now, wing flaps shuddering as they struggled for lift. Again, the front landing gear rose, and clacked back down. Takeoff was imminent!

They couldn’t let that happen. They wouldn’t! Eta was in there- a snowball would be carried through Hell before they’d let this plane take off with their friend!

It was only when the wing’s wake threatened to knock them from their feet that they knew there was no more ground to be covered, no more gap to be closed. This was it!

Enigma tensed, and leaped. For far too long, they were flying, gravity and wind in opposition, and them caught in the wind tunnel between.

Then, there was solid ground, once more. As solid as a plane’s wing could possibly be. They had made it!

The landing gear again shuddered, and the vessel made liftoff. Slowing it down was no longer an option-- it needed to drop from the air.

But, the pet had more than one party trick.

As though scaling a mountain in the midst of a blizzard, they held close to the wing, scrambling to where it met the plane’s body. A vulnerable connection point of bolts and rebar.

Enigma placed their hand upon the metal, and closed their eyes.

From the center of their palm, pristine steel hissed, grey turning to red, slowly at first, before shooting outwards. A star of rust, slithering along and around rivulets, sending bolts flying and connections snapping.

They did not remember the moment after the wing fell off. Only the ringing in their ears, and the sight of a plane, tipping over, and exploding to flame, all while they lay, bruised, upon the tarmac.

Enigma blinked heavily.

The plane... The...

Eta!

They scrambled to their feet, tearing forth towards the wreckage. The exit ramp had toppled from its casing. A set of stairs, leading to the plane’s interior.

To Eta. To their friend! They’d done it! They’d saved them!

Their limbs trembled as they tore up the stairs, into the plane-

The... Empty plane. Not void of people, but empty. Torn of seats, torn of walls and features.

An empty cylinder. That was the last thing they saw, before the black bag was pulled over their head. Far-too-large hands gripped them around their chest, tossing them against something hard, and closing off whatever light they had left. When they at last clawed the fabric from their eyes, it was only to see the inside of a carrier.

And, from the director’s chair, an echoing call was made to:

“Cut!”

[doublerainebow]

Open-Door Problem

Katsuki Bakugou x Reader

This reader is the same reader from my Kiss and Cuddles fanfic!

Contains: Implied sexual content at the end

~ Masterlist ~

~ My Hero Academia Masterlist ~

You and Bakugou had an agreement. Well, more like you were miraculously able to force Bakugou to agree. The point was the two of you had a deal in which your rooms would be open to the other at all times, even if the owner wasn’t in their room. After the agreement was made, you promptly went to have Bakugou’s key and your key copied. The only rule was that you had to let the other know that you were going in their room.

The two of you were pretty good at upholding that rule. Frequently you would text your explosive boyfriend that you were going into his room. Bakugou, in turn, would reply with a short, Bakugou-Esque reply about whether he was in or not (or just leave you on read). He would then come home to you snuggled up in his blankets, which he would often gripe with you because you undid his bed. For the times Bakugou would go into your room, he would text you in his own... unique way. You almost always make sure to be prompt in your reply, but the ash-blonde also almost never reads your replies. You would then find your boyfriend sitting on your bed, your room just a little cleaner than what you originally left.

Now, there were times where one of you would forget to text the other, but no significant problems had arisen from this. At least, no problems like this had occurred until now.

Aizawa had really pushed the class to their limit for the upcoming finals today, and considering you stayed up a bit late to study, you were more than tired once you finally got to your room.

Almost immediately, you relieved yourself of your constricting uniform, leaving you in the black spanks you typically wore under your skirt (thanks to an agreement you and the girls decided upon after an unfortunate accident with a particular pervert). You then plopped face down onto your bed, intending to nap to recuperate some energy.

Bakugou, on the other hand, was intent on coming by your room to take back some notes and books he lent to you. After some after school workouts, Bakugou shot you a text saying that he’ll be coming by your room in a bit. However, by that time, you were already well into your nap.

Imagine Bakugo’s surprise when he enters your room to see you napping blissfully in short shorts that wonderfully accentuated your bum and the smooth expanse of your back—which surely meant that your chest would’ve been left uncovered if it weren’t for the fact that you were sleeping on your front. The ash-blonde felt his face light up on fire. Panic also clouded his mind as he heard the Bakusquad enter the hallway. Wanting to protect your innocence from the prying eyes of that perverted Pikachu and not wanting to be caught in this situation, Bakugou did the only thing that made sense to him at the time.

Loudly slam your door shut and lock it.

The commotion caused you to wake up suddenly, the curse of having a sensitive hearing.

“Oh.”

The two of you stared dazedly at one another as you were both trying to figure out what was going on. Then, it was like a lightbulb lit up in your head.

You let out a loud scream.

Bakugou, being very on point with his instincts today, did the next best thing that made sense at the moment.

Lunge at you and cover your mouth.

Having heard your scream, Kirishima, Kaminari, Sero, and Ashido quickly ran to your room in a hurry.

“Are you alright in there?” Kirishima yelled worriedly as he tried to open your door.

“Everything’s fucking peachy!” Bakugou yelled back. “I just scared the fucking idiot!”

There was a sort of hesitance from Kirishima before he relented, figuring that his explosive best friend had everything under control. “A-alright. If you say so, bro.”

“K-Katsuki,” you managed to squeak out from under Bakugo’s heavy body, “you’re crushing me…”

Bakugou quickly got off you, only to remember that you were basically topless. You quickly covered yourself with your pillow.

The ash-blonde looked away from you, a heavy blush on his face as he adjusted his low-riding pants to hide his arousal. “Wh-what the fuck do you think you’re doing sleeping like that, you fucking idiot?” He growled.

You furrowed your eyebrows at that. “It’s my room,” you retorted. “I can do whatever I want in it.”

“Yeah? What if that fucking pervert or Pikachu saw you like that, huh? What then?”

“Katsuki, you’re the only other person who has a copy of my room key,” you deadpanned.

Bakugou bared his teeth at you in a glare. “You better fucking hope that I’m the only person with your room key!”

You sighed as you threw your pillow at your boyfriend, ignoring the angry sparks coming from his palms and the seething look he gave you. “I’m just going to put a shirt on now- AGH!”

You let out a yelp as Bakugou tackled you to the floor, his arousal rubbing up against your thigh.

“Fuck you, fucking naughty idiot,” Bakugou growled huskily in your ear. “Because of you, I have a problem only you could fix.”

You blushed heavily, your breath caught up in your throat at the expression Bakugou was giving you. Heavy lidded eyes, a toothy snarl, and endless black hole irises.

In retrospect, the open-door policy wasn’t a problem for you guys, but it was definitely a problem for your classmates.

[fake-mountains]

Almost

Part Four of the Open/Shut Series

Pairing: Ian Duncan/ Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warning(s): choking, rough sex, unprotected sex

Word Count: 2118

His apartment was the type of barren that almost had one choking up. White, with just enough football memorabilia to be stereotypical. Bachelor-esque, only in that it was clean and furnished. So not a full-on bachelor pad, but there was still the air of one. Did he keep it clean regularly? Did he clean it just for you? His desk back at school was messy, so maybe? A million attempts at deduction in the short time you had glanced around the room before the current predicament, your lips on his, having just demanded he dole out pain as if it were nothing.

And did he like that? Was that the type of woman he wanted, confident, sure of herself? Because you certainly didn’t feel that was the type you were, but that’s how Britta seemed, and he liked Britta. Should you be more like that, tousled curl, heeled black boot sort of self-assured? You were lost in your thoughts, lips slow on his, and maybe he sensed it, because you suddenly felt finger tips along the sides of your neck, thumb on the left and all others on the right. Gasping at the light feel of his palm on your throat, his tongue feathers against slightly parted lips, and on the inhale, you taste no liquor, no wine.

He somehow crowds further into your space and beyond, ushering you back against the wall, white and barren as all the others. Your hands fumble and grasp at a mismatched button-down, and you feel him smile against your mouth, having found it endearing, almost sweet. You second guess and guess, is this too much tongue? Are you over eager? You feel ravenous, knowing this doesn’t have to stop unless you want it to, but knowing that he might also want that, at some point, potentially, has your brain racing with ‘what-ifs’ again. But then, he’s applying pressure, to the sides of your neck like he knows what he’s doing, like he’s done this before, (or read up?) and you’re brought reeling back to center. God, you want him to choke you till your eyelids are fluttering, till your feet can’t touch the floor, and the idea, the way he’s got you cornered like prey has you moaning into his mouth.

Slender fingers apply more pressure, just enough to notice, nothing too intense just yet, but it has your knees buckling all the same, holding onto him for dear life. You feel him pull away in the way his nose grazes against your cheek, and his eyes are dark chocolate and honey warm. Lashes are way longer than they have any right being.

“You okay?” It’s sincere, but also teasing. Just barely, though.

“Now I am, yeah.” Duncan looks poised to press for more, almost concerned, but mirrors the grin that spreads sloppily across your face.

And then his lips are back on yours, hot and soft, almost plush, almost glued to yours, sticking lightly when he moves them, and that makes your heart flip in schoolgirl fashion. (In a way, you are a schoolgirl, aren’t you? In that you’re in school, a community college. And you had never had him as a professor, but God if you did all you would do is stare at stupid long legs and long fingers and all the places they could, should be.)

You could continue on like this forever, just kissing him dizzily, his hand around your neck, but more of you wants well, more, everything and every feeling, the buildup and the fall all at once. And so, fumbling hands find themselves releasing his shirt and moving downwards, and he must sense the change in pace cause he’s kissing your breath away, fervent and eager. And in that way you move to unbuckle his belt, a cheap, worn leather thing, (probably fake leather.) Slack button through the hole, the zipper down, you fish him out and almost whimper at the weight finally in your hand. Duncan’s jaw falls slack for just a moment, lips parting from yours, and in that space it’s your turn to grin wickedly.

You jerk him slowly, savoring it, and the way he looks through your lashes as you peer up at him. Just a moment ago he seemed to tower over you, and now he’s almost caving forward.

“You okay?” You echo his words, more teasing than he could’ve ever thought of being, but he simply grunts in response.

Then hurried, closed mouth kisses, almost like thanking you. He presses tighter on your throat and pushes up, as if trying to bring you to your toes, and you do have to raise on your feet slightly. Almost like he’s trying to gain the upper hand again, and honestly, you don’t mind. Whatever it takes for that adrenaline rush that sends your pupils swelling. You twist your wrist as you pick up the pace, and he bucks into your hand, bites your lip as if to restrain himself, from fucking your fist or from making a sound, you’re unsure which. Duncan’s free hand takes a moment to fist itself in your hair and pull-jerking your head backwards and drawing the most pathetic little sound from you-testing the waters before moving it between the two of you. Unbuttoning your jeans in a mirror of you, his hand slips beneath the fabric in a way that should be familiar, but is still too new to not shock you. Especially when that middle finger rather deftly finds your clit, pressing tight, firm circles on it. It’s almost too much, drawing yet another ragged gasp from you before you moan in a huff.

“Duncan, please-“ back to a last name basis, but you really can’t think of why you’d return to such a formality when he’s got his hand down the front of your pants, when his other hand has got your head swimming so perfectly. He’s biting your lip again, and this time you swear he draws blood, feel that warm stinging that preludes the taste of metal.

“Please, what?” The depth of his voice is wicked and cutting, makes you bite on your busted lip. The command of his tone almost makes you forget he probably hasn’t had sex in who knows how long. Almost.

“Please fuck me,” somehow, it’s always embarrassing to say, to ask for.

There’s a perfectly good couch-complete with an ugly afghan-right there, and surely the man has a bed, but he forgoes those altogether and practically drags you to the floor by his grip on your neck, other hand having slipped from your pants in the process. And with no uncertainty he’s shoving you to the floor, so hard your head bounces on impact, colors flashing before your eyes.

This gives him pause, not enough of a sadist to ignore the choked sound you make.

“No, really this time, are you okay?”

Barring the flashbacks you’re having to the one time you were genuinely concussed, “yes.”

Without hesitation he’s back in it, barely allowing you to help in the undressing. And it is a little difficult, shimmying out of your jeans when the floor is so unforgiving, and he doesn’t even bother undressing all the way, just pushes everything mid-thigh and out of the way. All the time in the world, but still so rushed, tossing everything of yours from the waist down off to the side. Now, even though he’s been knuckle deep once already, you feel well and truly naked, the scratch of thick carpet digging into your ass and lower back. You don’t have too much time to flush and dwell on it though, because he’s yanking you towards him, carpet burned rear propped up on thighs you spent too much time looking at.

He’s looking at you over the rim of his glasses, and you wonder if he can really see anything, before he pushes in. And it really is pushing, because it’s been so long and while not huge, he’s definitely bigger than you were expecting. The grip and pull of him has your head tipping back, your fingers digging at his thighs when he sits perfectly inside you at this angle. Choked, desperate sounds as he sets his pace, dire and borderline relentless, his hips pressing against your clit on the down stroke in ways that had you seeing stars.

“Jesus,” it comes out almost muffled, staggered and shocked. Again, you couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done research beforehand, but felt awful thinking that, like he couldn’t have been skilled already. Like a nerd like him could know what to do at all. Thoughts like that were few and far between, though, swallowed by the sounds he was making, and God, were they delicious. They varied in octave but all almost sounded astonished, in the most flattering ways, of course. Like he was amazed this was happening, here, with you, and you were responding the way you were, so pliant and eager and wanting. Of what he would give, could give, was giving.

“God, you’re so-“ and then he’s kissing you so urgently, so saccharine, you might cry. Like thanking you again, and you want to tell him he doesn’t have to, this isn’t charity, you want this as much as he does. Instead you’re moaning behind lips that try to match his fervor, body tense and nerve endings alight. You open your eyes to catch the furrow of thick brows, the creasing around his eyes from the exertion, from concentrating, because he can tell you’re close and wants to hit all the right spots.

“Duncan, I, please, please,” as you beg he’s shocked, forgetting the kind of dynamic you had been expecting, wondering why you felt you had to ask to cum because God, he’d give you the world to have you shivering and crying out beneath him of all people. And within that line of thinking he remembers himself, one hand placed under your lower back to adjust the angle in a way that makes you sob, the other pressed flat to your sternum in an attempt to pin you in place.

“God, fuck!”

He chuckles against your throat at the volume, at the way you fist almost black hair, the way your thighs clench around his waist, fabric of his shirt crisp but bunched beneath them. Your breath comes in staccato bursts, always a little sound upon them, especially as his teeth sink into the junction between your shoulder and neck, a groan of his own escaping as he feels the first flutters of you around him. Building and building, pulled so taught you feel you’re hurting him in the process. Everything feels so distant besides the wetness and the push pull grind of him between your legs, the pinch of his teeth in your skin. You’re balancing so perfectly, so long it hurts and-

“C’mon, love.”

Snap. You practically shout at the intensity of it, hot and wet in your bones, rolling over you like ocean waves. Shivers follow the waves, little aftershocks as you slacken around him, kiss the side of his face almost in thanks, in reverence.

And Duncan, well, he doesn’t last much longer, though it isn’t immediately after you, like some movie. You coax him through it, not even thinking of where he finishes in this moment, just wanting to make him quake like he had made you. He loses rhythm, grinds against your sensitive clit in ways that make you hiss between your teeth. He mumbles an apology against your temple, but its slurred and gravely. You pull him closer with your legs, thighs aching at the movement but you don’t care. All you can think of is him grunting and clinging, the slap of his hips on yours in sloppy, heavy thrusts, and the need for that messy end that comes from all of this.

Duncan’s practically crushing you at this point, nails digging through your shirt and pinching the thin skin between your breasts. A litany of curses flow from him as you drag him closer and closer to that aforementioned ledge and then finally, thankfully, brutally, he cums. He groans so loud you can feel it rattle your ribs, and the depth of it somehow makes you wetter. He moves in these long slow thrusts that make you shudder, spilling him over your thighs and onto his khakis.

“Fuuuuck,” raspy and languid.

Then he’s collapsing on top of you, breath coming in those same heavy gasps that you were just recovering from. Your hand rubs circles between his shoulder blades affectionately, like he needed comforted after all that, and he chuckles at the gesture.

“You’re cute,” and after all that, somehow, you’re flushing at the compliment.

[headcrabs-the-forbidden-hat]

A Deal With The Devil |G-Man/Gender-Neutral!Reader|

pairing: g-man (half life) x gender-neutral!reader 

(I tried to keep it gender-neutral, but you might get the occasional female pronouns; what can I say? I don’t edit my shit)

words: 2,661

warnings: unedited, mild cursing

summary: [y/n], after not having a good day, encounters a strange non-human man, but they aren’t as afraid as they are annoyed with him.

notes: wanted to jump into the g-man x reader bandwagon, and this idea has been plauging me since. enjoy!

During the nights when they can't sleep, [y/n] sits out on the rooftops and stares at the star-splattered sky. For every star their eyes isolate in the navy sky, they give it a name. Sometimes they give the stars names like Glados and Wheatley. Other times, the names the stars get are words, some unique like ethereal or onism. Most of the time, however, the names are just words depending on their mood.

And what a shitty mood they're in tonight.

Their eyes land on one star near the center of the sky. It's smaller than the surrounding stars, thus giving itself the name Inferior.

Bang!

Jumping in surprise, their eyes snap to the dark streets below. They see nothing—probably was an animal, they think in an attempt to calm their pounding heart—but they move away from the edge just in case. After having a terrible day, adding yet another incident with the Combine is not high on their "most wanted in life" list right now.

Their eyes move back to the white glowing dots in the sky, eyes searching until they stop on another star. This one is dim compared to the others; Unremarkable is the first word to come to mind. Pleased with the name, your eyes search the sky again. The mysterious banging forgotten—

Crash!

Okay, sounds like someone's breaking into a window. [y/n], despite her caution, moves to the edge of the rooftop. The breaking glass sounds close, but what if it's just an echo? Swallowing the rising fear in their throat, they back away from the edge. They make sure to grab their pistol as another "just in case" moment. Just in case someone breaks into shelter while they sleep.

The day was bad enough already, comes the thought, this might as well happen.

Just as they are about to climb down through the hole in the roof, a flash of blue catches their eye. They freeze, heart lurching to their throat. Then they turn around, eyes darting from each dark corner on the roof. Is someone here? they want to ask, which is stupid all on its own.

They stand there, frozen, as they continue to scour their rooftop and the other rooftops. Did Combine wear blue? No, they didn’t—they don’t have a stylish bone in their bodies. And all the commotion from earlier meant human, or a zombie, was doing something. 

But headcrab zombies aren’t blue, and they aren’t fast. And what would a human want with this place, anyway, in Combine Central?

They turn and stare down into the hole, and there it is again—the flash of blue. Well, not a flash, but they can see the blue. They squint their eyes, noticing half the outline of a shoulder with a pale hand holding . . . a briefcase?

Something about the sight seems . . . wrong. Why? 

They aim the pistol down, close enough to scare the person away if they pulled the trigger. “Who’s down there?” They ask, voice echoing throughout the abandoned building. 

They hear a faint moan from a zombie in the building over, but no response from the person. “Get out of there before I shoot you,” they warn. Still no response.

Then the person moved further into the darkness, shoulder and briefcase disappearing. 

[y/n] curses and inches closer to the edge. They knock back the hammer and stare into the gaping, black void of the crumbling building. Not seeing anything, not even a dark silhouette, they inch closer. The wood creaks, breaking the tense silence like a jackhammer against concrete. [y/n] holds their breath, praying the flooring keeps.

It breaks beneath their weight.

With a scream stuck in their throat, they can’t even think to brace for impact. The wind whips at their face and their eyes water at the intensity. They curl themselves into a fetal position and move their arms to cover their face. Nothing but darkness as they fall down, down . . . down . . . down.

Halting in the middle of a dark void, [y/n] stares agape at the dots moving past them. As if they were in a spaceship and turned on hyperdrive, though in slow motion. They uncurled from themselves. Their feet touch invisible ground and they straighten their spine. They spin around in bewilderment. Is this Heaven or what? 

Their eyes move from the passing specs of white and stare straight ahead, unable to wrap their mind around this . . . predicament. If they could even call it such a thing—they could be dead and now wait to face judgement.

Well then.

Then they notice two unmoving specs. They don’t dare step closer, unsure if the scene will vanish before their eyes again. They stare right into the white specs, unaware of them moving closer until a wrinkled face pops out into the light from an invisible light source. 

The bright white eyes dim into a human blue. The creature before them—that’s not human, it’s not human! her panicked thoughts blare—contorts its human face into a smug smile. Without breaking eye contact, [y/n] notices the blue suit the man-creature wears, though his briefcase is missing. They know, without a doubt, this thing was trying to get her attention earlier.

Why was he trying to get me to follow him?  

They raise their hand in an attempt to aim their pistol at them, but they lost the gun. Lost somewhere in this . . . void. Damn, it was my only one, too. 

Too unnerved to feel an ounce of hot embarrassment, [y/n] steadies their voice as they demand, “Who—what are you?”

“There are things far more important matters to discuss than who—or what—I am,” he says in this voice [y/n] can only describe as Twilight Zone-esque. Not too deep, not too light, but in between, with the odd emphasis on an occasional word. 

Though they’d never admit it in her wildest dreams, they found his voice enchanting. And I know I’m dead because of that thought. 

They keep their wary gaze on the man as he makes his way closer in a leisure, almost predatory pace. Holy Hell, he’s a giant. [y/n] cranes their neck to keep the unbreakable eye contact, heart pounding in their chest from the proximity. 

“Please tell me what’s important so I don’t stray from serious matters,” they ask in a mocking, deadpan tone. 

Before they can turn around, the man disappears. They frown, annoyance beginning to overtake their fear. If there’s one thing [y/n] hated more than the Combine, it was when people played cat-and-mouse games, or left them in suspense.

[y/n] does a full spin to catch the sight of his blue suit, but no luck. The moving dots mess with their head, giving them vertigo. They stumble back into something cold and immovable. A wall? But as they spin on their heel, the tall man stares down at them with glowing white eyes.

To show they’re not intimidated with his overall appearance and abilities, [y/n] sizes him up. They cannot stop the inappropriate thoughts springing in their mind. 

God Almighty, human or not, I’d flock to him like flies to honey—and I’m definitely going to Hell for that thought.

“You impress my employers, [y/n] [l/n].” Hearing those odd words, they raise an eyebrow. The man continues. “However, I am not quite as impressed.”

Their eyes narrow. “I didn’t realize I was working for your approval.” 

The man gives them an odd look, one that makes the hairs on their neck and arms stand in a—dare they admit it—a good way. He then claps his hands behind his back and circles around her in his predatory walk. “I’ve observed your behavior through various situations. Compared to others I’ve worked with, you are inferior. Your work is mediocre, and overall, unremarkable.”

“Tell me how you really feel, and please, don’t hold back.”

The man chuckles; [y/n] hates the tiny flutter in their chest as they hear it. “Not to mention your lackluster humor,” he adds to his ever-growing list of their wrongs.

They open their mouth to say their defense, but he turns around. The words falter on their tongue as a more sincere grin graces his wrinkled features. “But what if we could do better?”

All [y/n] manages out is a faint, “We?”

“You see, [y/n], my employers call on me to . . . nudge things from time to time, to get them moving towards a prospective future,” he says, stopping to face them. “And you are one of those things.”

They think his words over, but there’s a small voice in the back of their mind telling them no. They shake their head and say, “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

The man smirks as if he expected their response. His reaction irked, if not excited them. “What if I told you I can give you something you never thought you wanted before?”

“Then I’d tell you you’re full of shit,” comes their mindless answer.

He gives them a small, amused smile. Then a sudden white flash blinded [y/n]. Protecting their eyes, they cover their face with their arm and grit their teeth. The blinding light dims, then disappears. They remove their arm from their face, blinking through the black dots clotting their vision.

The man replaced the slow-moving black void with the environment of a small garage. Their eyes move across the workbench, cluttered with various tools and devices they don’t recognize, and to the shelves filled with the other unfamiliar gadgets. 

Then the door of the garage opens, and [y/n]’s eyes snap to the spot. They suck the air through their teeth in a silent gasp as their eyes land on themselves. Well, their future selves. [y/n] takes in their future and decides they don’t like what they see. 

Their future self is not . . . okay. Worse off than they are now. Skin as pale as the dead bodies littering the streets, protruding bones to give an ill appearance. And those eyes. There’s something about those eyes that are . . . of kilter, not right. Like someone tried to remake a replica of [y/n] but messed up somewhere in the process, giving a non-human look. 

Much like the man next to them when he disappears in the darkness and his eyes glow.

“I look . . . pretty much the same,” they lie—it seems like the right thing to do, not only for the man but for themselves.

Don’t let him know you see the cracks through this manipulation . . . whatever it is.

They watch the future them head over to the workbench. They pick up a hammer, and without paying attention, hit at their finger. Cursing, they toss the hammer to the corner and then stick their smarting fingers into their mouth in attempt to ease the throbbing pain. 

“And I pretty much act the same,” they add to their ever growing list of faults, frowning.

They turn and face the man. “I thought you were showing me the thing I never thought I wanted.” They say with a scowl, “Well? I’m waiting.”

His smug smile returns as he comments, “An impatient little thing, aren’t you?”

[y/n] snaps their face around so the man doesn’t see the blush creeping up their face.  

They continue watching themselves. Their future self walks away from the workbench with a similar scowl and towards a blank wall. Tilting their head, they watch as their future self flicks their wrist towards the wall. A black, liquid-looking circle appears out of nowhere, widening enough for their future self to fit inside without having to slouch. 

A portal, a goddamn portal!

Without thinking, you run towards your future self. They don’t notice their past self. It’s a vision. Good, comes the strange thought, I can handle all this, but meeting myself is not high on my list. Standing as close as they can get to the portal, they peer inside the yawning circle but see nothing. Their future self passes through them as if they were a ghost—which, technically, they were —and disappears into the portal. A second after, the portal disappears with them.

[y/n] pulls away and stares right at the man, who already watches her with a curious expression. Like a scientist watching an experiment he could not predict yet. They clear any expression they have on their face, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to be an open book when making a deal with the devil. If there is any deal. 

But on a minor note, Hell yeah, I want powers.

“So, you said your employers call you to nudge things to an ideal future. What exactly do I have to do with this future?” They ask, inching closer to the mysterious man.

He doesn’t answer her question. Instead, he holds out his briefcase. “All will be explained in due time, once you take this.”

Something—a small voice in the back of their mind—tells them not to take it. Deal with the devil, remember? Nothing good comes out of that. They stare at the briefcase, biting the inside of their cheek hard enough to taste metallic blood. They reach out to take it, ignoring the leering look of the man looming before them.

But then they stop and drop their hand to their side.

They shake their head as they think of their future self’s appearance. Completely the same, but not quite, erring on the side of a conscious zombie. A puppet for this creature and his “employers”, which all but means masters. [y/n] hates zombies not because they’re flat-out terrifying or annoying to deal with, but because they’re zombies. No free-will, not anymore.

And if there’s one thing [y/n] craves more in the world than anything, it’s free-will and the freedom to do whatever they want with it. Authority and slavery can go fuck itself.

“No,” they tell the man, looking up into his wide eyes, “I’m not taking your briefcase. Take me back home.”

Within a blink of an eye, the briefcase disappears and the man takes [y/n]’s face in his cold hands. He bends his back to get as close to their face as he can. “You’re a fool if you haven’t thought this through,” he says in a low growl. 

Though he lost his calm, collected composure, and his growl was terrifying, [y/n] is more shocked by the tingling feeling in their chest than anything else. They grab a hold of his wrists and in attempt to keep his hands from squishing their head.

“I may be inferior, unremarkable, and mediocre. Even downright lackluster,” they spit out, then grin as they say, “but mama hasn’t raised a fool.” They pull his hands away from their face and demand, “Take me back home. Now.”

The blinding white light flashes with a vengeance. They cover their face with their arm and wait until the light vanishes. 

When they remove their arms, they see they’re back in the building they call a shelter. They turn around and take everything in. Never in their wildest dreams did they think it would be a blessing to be back here, among the rubble and garbage. Then they turn to the area where they’ve made a little makeshift workbench and grins.

They walk over and pick up a small screwdriver fit for electronics. They smack the handle against their palm as they think of their game plan. Make a portal machine, then perfect it into a simple device, like gloves or a gun. Shouldn’t be hard, not with all these aliens and their machines hanging around on Earth.

Before they set down and get to work, they spot a flash of blue in the corner of their eye. They angle their head towards the rooftop and see the man stare down at them. His face is unreadable. They wave to him, and he disappears without a wave bank.

[y/n] smirks. We’ll see who’s a fool, won’t we?   

[shmowlwrites]

Business Man From Origins But He’s He’s Chat Noir

@the-navistar-carol @eve-valution So Eve was watching origins and saw that business man that just walks right on past Fu and was like “what if he helped Fu? He would’ve been Chat Noir!” So here we are. Nothing motivates someone like procrastination and finally, I am out of my writer’s block so maybe I’ll get my prompts done soon. No salt, except Gabriel Agreste hatred, as usual I had no idea what I was really doing until half-way through, there will be a second part to complete Origins, which I also have no idea what I’m gonna be doing with Also, I promise that ending is v much innocent, why are adult-teen friendships hard to write?

Gabriel had places to be. Things to do. Cases to win. Oh, you thought this was Gabriel Agreste? No. This was Gabriel Durand, a powerful lawyer who ruled the court with an iron fist. He knew more details about you than you did. If you faced him in court, you might as well tell the judge that you forfeit, you’re going to lose anyway. 

Now, Gabriel thought of himself as a humble man outside of his ruthless court tactics. He tried to help people on his way to and from work and his research projects for work. So when, even when a little behind schedule than normal, he came across an old man on the sidewalk trembling as he reached for his cane, he stooped down to help pick the man up and set him back to his feet. 

However, before he could ask if he was alright, the screeching of a car drifting right in the middle of the street to pull up on the sidewalk as a young blond began running up the stairs. Two adults got out, one scarily huge and the other Gabriel was familiar with due to her standing in for the recluse that shared his name. So that must be Adrien Agreste… 

Gabriel’s face set. Gabriel- the fashion empire- had always been something that set him off. He switched his phone on to record- they were close enough that recording the altercation from his pocket would do fine. The couple of seconds long interaction found Gabriel with new information. What exactly was going on in the Agreste household?

He turned to the old man who now had a pensive look on his face. “I’m sorry about that- Are you alright, sir? Did you hurt yourself when you fell?” He asked.

“Oh, I’m quite alright,” the old man gave him a sating smile. Gabriel had been around enough snakes to spot a smile meant to placate hiding behind the facade of being genuine.

“Is something troubling you?” Gabriel asked. “I don’t mean to pry, if there is something.”

“Oh no- I just noticed that you tried recording what happened with that young man there. Why?” The old man’s brow furrowed.

“That was Adrien Agreste and two of Gabriel Agreste’s employees. I’ve always thought something was off with that family, but I’ve never had proof of my thoughts. Funny how you employ your son as a model for everything you make and keep him hidden in the house.” Gabriel looked to the school’s stairs, remembering Adrien’s plea. What was the wrath of Gabriel Agreste like? 

“Ah, I understand,” the old man hummed, leaning forward on his cane. “You worry about that young man?”

“Indeed,” Gabriel nodded, turning back to the elder. He checked his watch and nearly choked. “I’m so sorry, sir, but I’m running late for work, I must go!” Gabriel wheeled around and ran for it. 

And then there were the tremors in the earth, the walls nearly caving from the measured shakes. Fearing an earthquake, the court ran. It didn’t matter about the case- they had just finished up. As Gabriel slid under a bench, he noticed something off about his briefcase. It was soft, meaning he could see if there was a lump in the leather. And indeed- there was a lump. Pulling it out, the lump turned out to be a hexagonal black box with an intricate red design on the cover. Now wasn’t really the time to check out strange items in your briefcase, so he stuck it back in. Just at that moment, a police officer barged into the courtroom, allowing for its occupants to hear the screaming outside. Declaring there was a monster outside, the officer required everyone to run for an inner hiding place. 

Gabriel ran for his office. The earthquake wasn’t an earthquake, rather the steps of the stone monster, so while he waited for whatever to happen, he decided to finally check out the contents of the box. He froze when a green light appeared and floated around him. He only blinked when a cat-like bug-thing materialized out of it. 

“Oh, fils de pute.”

“Oh, do you kiss your maman with that mouth?”

Gabriel didn’t like this. Why did he let Plagg convince him to do this? Here he was, standing on a rooftop of all places, dressed in something he would never normally were. A lawyer, Plagg had mused and decided this would be fun. Here he was, in a black suit, black button-up, black bowtie, black loafers he wouldn’t normally wear that had grippy cat paw pads on the bottom. Now if the gothic suit wasn’t enough, he was wearing a masquarde-esque black mask that reminded him too much of the Batman masks, with their pointy “bat ears” sticking up from them. He tried tugging it off. Turns out it was like the mask was superglued to his freaking face.

Now, if Gabriel thought he looked ridiculous, it had nothing on the stupid belt tail and, upon looking in a mirror, his cat eyes. His eyes were normally brown, but now they were a glowing amber. 

Unbelievable. 

No, what was even more unbelievable was that whoever gave him this miraculous, didn’t find another adult. No. They gave it to some young teenage girl. Who stuttered and had confidence issues. He wasn’t a dad! He was bad with kids! How was he supposed to help her?!

“Uh, don’t worry too much,” he tried a smile. She still looked at him with wide, scared eyes. “I mean, I’m also new at this. I don’t even know the first thing of what I’m doing right now. Plagg, my kwami, told me a few things, but he didn’t really give me a confidence booster besides telling me-” he mimicked Plagg’s voice “-it’ll be fun! Loosen up, law-boy!”

It seemed to work, the girl giggled at his impression of Plagg. “A-ah, thank you.”

“So, what does your miraculous do? Perhaps we can plan before shoving ourselves into that situation,” Gabriel asked, grabbing the black-matted chrome bo-staff he had been trying to figure out when the girl ran into him. One of the golden paw-pads slid a screen up, and he finally found out that he could read his powers on there. 

“Uh, Tikki told me it was…” the girl frowned. “If I say it, even in a sentence, will it activate it?”

“Probably,” Gabriel grunted. “It looks like I’m your support though. I can destroy things at a touch, I can also send a ball of destructive energy out, but I’m not too sure about trying that right now.”

“My power is something lucky. I have to tear the item the Akuma is hiding… and…” the girl’s face started to show panic again. “What else was I supposed to do?!”

“Don’t worry right now,” Gabriel crouched so that he was looking up at her. “Let’s prioritize. There is an- what did you call it?” He had heard her, but he wanted to keep her grounded.

“An Akuma,” the girl answered, her fists still clenched tightly. 

“Okay, so we need to find that. We need to break it. In words, it sounds easy. I’m sure with your power, it’ll either give us great luck or give us something helpful to increase our chances. So now, the words sound a little more plausible. If anything goes wrong, we’ll fall back and regroup and plan. Does that round alright?” Gabriel asked.

“Yeah…” the girl nodded. “Um… What do I call you?”

“Hm…” Gabriel hummed. “Well, my miraculous is the black cat, yeah? Call me Chat Noir.” He didn’t ask the girl, and perhaps he should’ve, but he felt she would’ve panicked on finding a name.

They found Stoneheart at the DuPont stadium, chasing a young teen. Gabriel vaulted off the wall, extended his bo-staff to slam down between Stoneheart and the teen. 

“Don’t you know assault and property damage is illegal?” he found himself asking, buying the teen time to run while Stoneheart was focused on him.

Having no clever words, Stoneheart instead decided to try to squish him underhand. Swinging his bo-staff at Stoneheart, he tried to trip him. Instead, the staff bounced off and Stoneheart grew in size.

“Merde, merde, merde,” Gabriel muttered, finding himself flipping away. Where did his sudden athleticism come from? He was a lawyer, for God’s sake! And where was his partner? Please don’t say she bailed on him, he would more than likely kill Stoneheart than “free the Akuma” if he used his power on Stoneheart.

Speaking of which, the monster picked up a soccer goal post and tossed it at him. Unaware of his surroundings, he batted it away, only to then realize there was a person in the way. He tossed his staff, sending it flying after pressing the extend button. Right before the goal post hit her, the staff reached and the civilian was unharmed. However, that left him without a weapon, and Stoneheart grabbed him.

“What are you waiting for, super red bug? The world is watching you!” The civilian called, and Gabriel found solace in that. The girl was still there, but she was perhaps still on the verge of a panic attack. He didn’t think that would help her; in fact, he thought that would only send her further down the rabbit hole. 

However, suddenly the teen slid under Stoneheart’s legs and had a brave smile on her face. “Animal cruelty? How shameful!” And with a mighty tug, Stoneheart was sent onto his back and Gabriel went flying into the goal post on the other end of the field.

“Sorry I took so long, Chat Noir,” the girl fretted.

“It’s alright,” Gabriel grunted as he rolled to his feet. “You were nervous and that is fully understandable. But we’re together now, aren’t we?”

The girl gave him a beaming smile before looking back at Stoneheart with a frown. “Any plans? He gets bigger with every attack… We’ll need to do something other than attack, right?”

“I think it’s time to use your luck,” Gabriel nodded to her.

The girl made a sound of confirmation and tossed her yo-yo into the air. “Lucky Charm!”

A wet suit fell into her hands. 

“What am I supposed to do with this?” She shrieked. “How am I supposed to break anything with this?”

“He’s made of stone…” Gabriel began to analyze their opponent. “His right hand is clenched, he only uses his right. You think he’s holding his Akuma?” Gabriel suggested.

The girl perked, her eyes taking in other things while Gabriel kept his attention on Stoneheart. “Here’s my plan!”

Gabriel spared her a glance. “Anything you need me to do?”

She poked the hose at their feet into the wetsuit and then wrapped her yo-yo around his legs. “I’m sorry- do you mind being bait?”

Absolutely he minded! But, he only gave her a nervous grin before he was tossed towards Stoneheart. Now caught, he turned his attention towards the girl, confused as she called towards the monster. “Catch me if you can!”

And she was also caught, but he noticed the purple wadded ball of something fall to the ground. She turned towards the girl that he had saved earlier. “Alya, the tap!”

Did she know the girl?

But either way, the girl- Alya - turned on the hose and his partner popped out of the giant’s hand. She stomped on the paper ball, and a purple-black butterfly fluttered away. Gabriel fell to the ground with the disappearance of Stoneheart and the appearance of a rather large teen.

“Are you alright, boy?” Gabriel found himself asking, sitting on the ground and folding over his knees.

“I- What happened?” The boy asked.

“You were… I guess the word would be Akumatized,” Gabriel offered. He felt bad for thinking of him as a monster- he was only influenced by the Akuma! Would all so-called monsters just be victims of Akumas? “But it’s alright. My partner and I helped you.”

The sound of his partner’s voice brought the two out of their conversation- she was reading the paper that had held the Akuma.

“Kim wrote it,” the boy sighed. “He’s always making fun of me.”

“You know, you shouldn’t get so bent out of shape about that. There’s no shame in telling someone you love them, Ivan.”

Was this girl a classmate? She knows the name of two teenagers- of which there were probably a million in Paris- and knew a lot more about the situation than he was.

“How do you know my name, miss?”

That sent the girl into a nervous giggle fit. Thankfully, she was saved from answering that. Alya was recording them at an uncomfortably close distance. 

“Uncanny! A-mazing! Spectacular! Are you gonna be protecting Paris from now on? How did you get your powers? Oh, I’ve got a ton of questions to ask you… uh?”

Gabriel looked to his partner. He wasn’t about to promise anything she was too nervous about. The girl met his eyes and nodded. Gabriel stood, helping Ivan to his feet as well.

“Ladybug. Call me Ladybug,” the girl held her head up.

“Chat Noir,” Gabriel dipped his head. “We’ll protect you and find the source of this phenomenon.”

Gabriel found he kind of liked the whole experience, once the threat of death was gone. Ladybug was a nice girl, he hoped she stuck around despite her anxiety.

[writtenbyhappynerds]

Fanfiction 102- Writing Superpowers

          Another week, another lecture. Like supervillains, writing superpowers came up during Fanfiction 101. We see a lot of characters with superpowers, and we have written many many characters with superpowers. Superpowers or gifts or quirks, whatever you call them, can be poorly executed much like characterization; they become vague, mary sue-esque, and they don’t let me as the reader know what’s going on with said character. Defining superpowers is a lot like defining the Rules of the Universe (as discussed in Unit 1 of Fanfiction 101) where defining and setting parameters for superpowers will protect the canon of your characters as well as their validity.

          The most important thing you need to do when writing superpowers is to figure out what those superpowers are and what they can and can’t do. I’m very over vague Elsa ice powers that started with being able to freeze things and ended with visions of the past. Magic is the most difficult superpower to write because it is the most freeform, but you have to define limitations, costs and put a cap on those capabilities that don’t involve the OC collapsing from overuse because that’s such a cliche. A great example is The Fairly Odd Parents. Cosmo and Wanda can’t make money, can’t make true love, and can’t kill or bring someone back from the dead. Their time and agency to cast magic on behalf of someone are limited, and they can’t cast whatever magic they want; it has to be limited to what the child they serve wants. Writing setbacks to magic is a lot like writing character flaws. You need to take the time to give limitations. By giving magic limitations you have an easier time creating plot and adversaries for your characters because it’ll be easier to create a character that would really challenge your OC.

          A common exception to writing flaws in superpowers is DC or Marvel Comics. I have seen many many times the scene where, “an OC’s file gets passed around and we the audience get to read a laundry list of superpowers including but not limited to fire, ice, air, metal, lightning, etc.” I understand that superheroes in DC Comics have an abundance of superpowers. Look at Wonder Woman or Superman. Do not fall down that rabbit hole. You will struggle to write conflict for your character if you give them that many abilities. Hell, Superman’s own writers struggle to write conflict for him. It’s why he’s the most iconic but ultimately most boring character. On top of that, the “passing around a file” scene is another very overused cliche. I understand that it’s an easy way for the audience to see what the OC can do, but I think we as writers can challenge ourselves to be better than that. In addition, don’t take away the choice to share from the OC. If we’ve learned anything from X-Men, it’s that superpowers aren’t always taken well and some would rather die than be seen as a mutant or a freak. We know that these unnatural abilities are strange and confusing and that the people who have them need time to grow. They don’t need their supervisors outing them to God and everyone. Let your characters share their powers on their own terms. Let them have a special moment with the cast where they get to feel wonderful and special and magical. You’ll reveal more about the OC’s personality and develop a deeper relationship with the cast. Here’s an example.

          Let’s say we’re writing Avengers fanfic. Let’s say we give our OC control over light. Here are two scenes that are revealing the same information to Captain America. One is done on the terms of the OC, who we’ll call Astrid, the other is done by Nick Fury.

*****

          Astrid led him back to her room. It was like his own, the same size, and the same basic tidings- bed, dresser, desk, chair. While his had been dark gray, as had the rest of the team’s, Astrid’s was bright white. Steve noticed heavy black curtains tucked back from her window. The black stood out against the white of the rest of her room. She had a smile on her face. Her eyes were alight with excitement, and she pointed up at the ceiling.

          Covering the ceiling of Astrid’s bedroom were over a hundred hanging crystals. They had different shapes, sizes, and lengths and all swung from the ceiling on thin clear strings. Astrid turned off the lights. She pulled the black curtains out and covered her window which plunged them both into darkness.

          “I had to beg Nick for these. I told him it would be good practice.”

          “Practice for what?” A light turned on. It took Steve a moment to realize the light was coming from Astrid’s own hand.

          “No one’s really told you what I can do yet. I wanted to show you myself.” Carefully, she pulled one of the crystals down and let it rest in the palm of her hand.

          Rainbows bounced off the walls. Tiny refractory lights bounced around the room, off each crystal that was a brilliant gem in the darkness. Off the metal of Steve’s shield. Off the brass buckles of Astrid’s shoes. She grinned merrily, a beautiful cascade coming around the both of them.

          “It takes me forever to fall asleep. I never want to stop looking at them.” Steve smiled, studying the way the light danced on her walls.

          “Yeah.” He breathed. “I get it.”

*****

And the other, done by Nick Fury.

*****

          Steve sat at a roundtable with the rest of the team. At least, he thought he did. Looking around, he could see one person missing from the group.

          “Where’s Astrid?” Fury and Coulson exchanged a look. Coulson handed over a file and strode out of the room.

          “Agent Dawes is currently occupied. We thought it best to tell you without her.” Fury slid the file across the table. “Along with being an Agent of SHIELD, Agent Dawes joined up because of her… condition.”

          Steve opened the file. He could see a picture of a much younger Astrid looking back at him. Her date of birth, her parents, everything was laid out before him. When he flipped the page he found page after page of notes.

          “She can do what?”

          “We don’t have a real name for it yet. Just light manipulation.” Steve kept reading. The reports dated back years prior, with medic referral forms, personal statements, and even more photographs of Astrid.

          “Is Astrid a potential threat too, Director?”

          “We all are. Agent Dawes recognized her own risk ahead of time.” Fury took the file back. “She’s been training for years. She has it under control. Stark and Banner already know about her-”

          “I’m the last to know?” Steve said angrily. He looked at Tony and Bruce.

          “Hey, not my fault you got here late.” Tony turned back to his phone.

*****

          Do you see the difference? See how much more personal the first one is? Not only do we get to see Astrid actually use her powers, but we get a moment of bonding and trust between her and Steve, whereas in the second one her personal information is being divulged on her behalf. Not by her. It’s beneficial to make these superpowers personal, in the sense that the OC should be able to tell people on their own. Let them establish that trust with their team, and don’t shove it off to Nick Fury or Coulson or even Batman. It’s their gift, they need to share it on their terms.

          Superpowers and The Rules of the Universe go hand in hand in many ways. What I mean is the Rules of the Universe apply to superpowers as much as they do to timelines and cast desires and canon. When you write superpowers, they have to make sense with the world they live in, and not every OC needs superpowers. If you look at Twilight, you’d most likely have an OC with more subtle, less combat-oriented abilities (see Edward’s mind-reading or Alice’s seer talents). If you give an OC something heavy combat-oriented in this universe it feels a little clunky, and a little more like the Avengers but vampires instead of vampires with talents. On top of that, not every vampire needs to have a talent. It’s totally okay to have a vampire who can’t do anything special. I’m more compelled to read stories with those characters because they seem more realistic. It’s okay to have a character less important to the Volturi than Edward or Alice, or less gifted than Jasper. You can explore their individuality without tying them or limiting what makes them special to “they are a vampire and they have a gift.” Another example is Harry Potter. In that universe, the only extraordinary gifts we know of are Olcummency and Parseltongue. One is something you’re born with, the other takes patience and practice. It would be unrealistic to give a Harry Potter OC additional gifts. It would be rare to give them either of the aforementioned gifts because if something is described as rare in the canon, it shouldn’t include your OC. Your OC is not an exception to something’s scarcity.

          Let’s talk about powers themselves. I have several gripes with superpowers, and we are going to discuss all of them. First and foremost, something that kind of shows your own ass as a writer is using the -kinesis phrase of a superpower beyond the common ones people know (telekinesis, psychokinetic, etc.). It looks like you just googled, ‘list of superpowers’, and found atmokinesis and put it in because you liked the description. Who talks like that? No one knows what those -kinesis phrases actually mean we just use them because we think they sound cool. Don’t tell me that the character has atmokinesis, just tell me they can control the weather. You don’t need to use big words to make your gift sound impressive. It’s what they do with the gift that makes it impressive. Going off of this, not every superpower needs to be combat-oriented. You don’t need to give people super-strength, invulnerability, or fire powers for them to matter or be useful. It’s actually more creative and more unique if you take a superpower that isn’t combat-oriented and find a way to make it mean something. The best example is the Tumblr post that will be linked below, where the OC’s main ability was helping. It was helping out wherever they could and trying to make a difference and making the lives of their friends, who had some of the “strongest” superpowers in the universe, better. It is beautifully written, an incredible short story, and shows the value of being there for others versus trying to save the day. If you are writing a character with superpowers, I would absolutely recommend reading it.

          Finally, make it make sense. With superpowers, it’s kind of like the old saying, “if you describe a hammer hanging on the wall you better use the hammer before the end of the story.” Don’t describe something that you won’t use. So things like controlling taste, smell, temperature, those are things we never see used in the narrative, so there’s no need for the character to have control over them. If you’re struggling to come up with superpowers, the Editor and I have a few methods we’ve developed over the years to get off of and stay off of the superpower list websites:

I like to have my superpowers mirror the character’s backstory. I have a character who was kicked out of their home at 16 and therefore became a “hearth” where they could bind one location to appear at many, and with the turn of a knob bring the group from New York to Seattle to London. I did this to represent the character making their own home once they were exiled. Another example is a character who was almost killed in a tsunami. They can breathe underwater, and swim impossibly fast. You can give characters with a passion for drawing the ability to bring inanimate objects to life, characters who went to Antarctica as a researcher who came back with ice powers, characters who lost their twin that can multiply themselves, or characters who suffered amnesia that can now modify the memories of others. It’s fun to tie the gift to the story, and to me personally, it feels more cohesive when I do that. However, this isn’t for everyone. When you do this, the character’s superpowers shouldn’t become their whole personality. That should never happen in the first place, but especially here.

Another method we’ve used and we like is contrasting superpowers. If your character is blind, give them telekinesis (Scott 2015). If your character is afraid of heights, give them the ability to fly. If they’re afraid of dogs, make them talk to animals. Learning to get over their fears and weaknesses in the grand journey of mastering one’s powers shows growth, and shows character development, and we should never shy away from an opportunity for character development.

A final method that we’ve recently adopted is genetics. Something you see in Avengers fanfics is that the OC was inexplicably kidnapped and experimented on by HYDRA despite them having no shortage of volunteers as we see in Avengers: Age of Ultron, therefore, the existence of these OCs who are usually kidnapped doesn’t make sense. That is only mildly my business. What is my business is these test subjects having powers that don’t really make sense or that we don’t understand how they got them. It would make sense realistically, that a character who HYDRA experimented on would have powers that affect their vulnerability and less “shoots fire out of their hands.” This is because we can only assume that if they’re not using an Infinity Stone, they’re splicing and combining genes from animals to make a perfect soldier. If that’s your cup of tea, using a genetic connection to explain someone’s powers, go for it. The Editor and I have been using recently is the idea of gifts passing through generations. Let’s return to our new hero Astrid. Instead of being experimented on by HYDRA, having a backstory where she was maybe mugged or is afraid of the dark, or a backstory where she loves creepy-crawly dark spaces, we can say the following:

**

          “Wait… How many people can do what you can?” Tony looked up from his phone to Astrid, who had become engrossed in her newest prism. “Hey! Glow-stick!”

          “Mmm?” Tony tossed her his phone. “Oh… you don’t have to friend him.”

          “Why isn’t he here?” Astrid stood up and walked back to Tony, handing him his phone.

          “Why isn’t who here?” asked Steve.

          “My brother Jeremy. He’s like me.” She shrugged her shoulders. “He didn’t want to go. I texted him when Director Fury reached out, and he didn’t want to give up on his Northern Lights project. My cousins said no too.”

          “What do you mean, your cousins?”

          “Didn’t you know? I thought you knew everything Stark. My gift’s genetic. It’s been in my family for generations. I have my brother, and like, 3 other cousins who can do what I can. I’m the only one who responded to Director Fury’s text.” Astrid sighed. “If my cousin Dixie were here, she’d tell me that means I’m the idiot of the group. C’est la vie.”

****

          You can totally make superpowers genetic. It’s something that isn’t done often and is very fun because you can get into subtle mutations or variations of the same power. With Astrid, since we know she controls light, maybe the gene mutates with one of her cousins who can bend light in a way that they appear invisible. Maybe one of Astrid’s children can make the light into solid objects. Try making your superpowers a recessive gene. It could be a fun way to showcase the OC’s support network and give an explanation for their gifts that’s uncommon.

Our final note is that if you are writing a character with superpowers, we want to see the character learn to use those powers. It is so boring to have a character come out of the gate with gifts that they’ve mastered perfectly, OR, have a character initially struggle, but learn and master their gifts in 1 training session. That’s so boring to the reader, because there’s no development, and there’s no struggle. If a character earns their powers and is experiencing the new and wonderful, we want to see that struggle. That way at the end of the story when they have near-perfect control the ending is so much more satisfying because we know what went into that. Look at Avatar: The Last Airbender. The final fight with Ozai and Zuko’s final fight with Azula is the ultimate show of growth and mastery. You clearly see that neither of these boys are the same kids from the beginning of the series. The same is true for Percy Jackson, where all the Olympians have moments where they have powers, but don’t know or can’t use them. Let us see the struggle. It makes the journey more worthwhile. And, speaking of Avatar, no more “can control the four elements.” We’ve all seen the show. We all know the source material. It’s not original and your OC is not the Avatar.

          Next week is a big one! We’re talking about diversity. Not only diversity in race but diversity in LGBT, in experience, and how to capture and make your stories diverse, and where it makes sense to have a story that’s diverse.

Xoxo, Gossip Girl

References:

The Ables. https://www.goodreads.com/work/best_book/41929531-the-ables. Accessed 26 July 2020.

https://idontknowartdump.tumblr.com/post/169046958039/inkskinned-writing-prompt-s-at-18-everyone

[greenninjagal-blog]

I’d love to read whatever you have in a pj au!

WELL, anon, ask and ye shall receive! One unfinished one shot coming right up!

Words: 2548

It was supposed to be DLAMP but like… its a single chapter so the only thing that happens is Virgil’s celebrity crush on Thomas sksksks.

Quick Taglist: @chelsvans @faithfulcat111 @holliberries @jemthebookworm @killerfangirl3 @stricken-with-clairvoyancy @treasureofpriam

Everything was great until Virgil started dreaming of the boy in the purple shirt spontaneously exploding in flames.

Well maybe “great” was too strong of a word. Virgil wasn’t sure anything had ever been “great” in his life. Not that he would admit that to anyone, because every demigod he so much as glanced at would have been offended by the very thought: Didn’t Virgil see how great life here was? How great it was to share a cabin with ten other kids who didn’t know the first thing about personal space, how great it was that he was dragged rudely from his dreams every day for yet another class on the ancient greek heroes that he had been going to since he was five, how great it was that he had mandatory sessions in the arena so he could get his butt handed to him in combat he never had any intention of doing for real, how absolutely, astoundingly great it was that if he stepped even a foot outside the perimeter there was a chance that something big, fast, monstrous, and specifically attuned to a scent that Virgil couldn’t wash off himself, was going to eat him.

But for a minute there, Virgil might have been able to convince himself that his life was “great”; Thomas Sanders, son of Poseidon, had stormed up to Olympus itself and then walked back out with an oath from the gods themselves that they would start claiming their kids earlier. Thomas Sanders, natural born leader, had convinced Chiron to support the addition to the cabins for the minor gods which meant that Virgil no longer had to squeeze his entire life into the two foot corner space of the Hermes cabin. Thomas Sanders, the most attractive demigod alive (objectively), had single handed fixed all the problems that had plagued the camp for much longer than even Virgil had been there for. 

So with a new cabin that smelled like fresh laundered sheets, the dripping of the River Lethe from the branched of the tree in the corner, and nearly too many mattresses and pillows crammed into the room, Virgil thought maybe he could get used to the changes. After all, he could stretch his legs out now, breathe easy, and sleep for as long as he wanted, considering there wasn’t going to be a Hermes kid stealing his things for fun, a Hecate kid lighting him on fire with a misplaced spell, or a Nike kid instigating a fist fight to prove how victorious they were.

And yeah, it had been a little frustrating getting to this point: godly wars weren’t exactly prime teenage experience. Virgil was pretty sure over half the camp needed a good therapist, but where were they going to find one of those? Demigods didn’t live to reach twenty five, much less gain a psychology degree after being kicked out of every school they’ve ever been to for monster attacks and open a practice for an exclusive clientele who really didn’t have the drachma to pay them. 

The gods sometimes had a bit of sympathy for them, but it was never going to be enough. Virgil knew it, but he accepted it. Some things just weren’t going to be fair in this life. One of those things was that his dad was a god who didn’t understand first world mortal problems.

But things had finally– finally– settled down. 

Thomas had made everyone lives better.

Virgil remembered the first day he had seen Thomas: he had been sitting on the Big house porch watching the rainfall in the thunderstorm forcing himself to stay awake because he was waiting for Talyn (a child of Demeter who had been assigned to help him to the medical ward after they had pretty brutally beat him in their sparring class) to finish chatting with Chiron. He remembered how the lighting had struck off in the distance illuminating and he had seen something, someone running along the hill. He remembered suddenly being wide awake and yelling for Talyn, Chiron, anyone, and they came flying at his calls.

He remembered seeing the shaky, weary, battered boy, collapse just feet from Talyn, with an unconscious satyr on his shoulder.

Compared to that Thomas, who had been scared and panicked and unsure, the new Thomas was completely improved. He knew pretty much every demigod in camp, chatted with the naiads in the canoe lake and brought donuts to the pegasi. With Talyn and Joan (his satyr best friend) he had grown to fit the prophecy that he had been destined with. Powerful and loyal.

Bonus points were that unlike everyone else, Thomas saw Virgil. He had never shied away from his dark, gloomy personality, his dismissive tone, his bored gaze. Thomas went out of his way to ask Virgil how he was doing, talk about the dreams that he might have had, offer him canoeing lesson (which Virgil always declined because water and him didn’t really….click).

When he was around everything was as close to great as Virgil had ever thought they were going to get.

Then he had the dream.

Dreams in themselves were nothing new: Virgil was a son of Hypnos, god of Sleep. He spent more time sleeping than he spent being awake. Even as a small kid he had known he was different, his dreams more powerful and he had the ability to change them into different things. It had taken years to hone the skill, and even then he still accidentally gave himself vivid nightmares. (Wild emotions and unresolved arguments caused him to forget the difference between reality and the astral plane he had a back door to.)

But of all his siblings he had the most control by practice. The only person who could upstadge him was Remy his half sibling with a natural talent for manipulating other people’s dreams. Mostly he used to watch the drama of the other kids in the camp, to weasel subconscious information from them and then feed it to the the appropriate cliques: Remy was responsible for the Aphrodite Cabin’s sudden success of setting up kids together, the streak of foiled pranks from the Hermes cabin, and petition signed by half the camp to put a starbucks in.

Remy could manipulate the astral plane easily but he could only affect those he slept near. He struggled to dance between the strings of dreams the way Virgil did. Virgil could find out what kids in Virginia were dreaming about but he couldn’t do much but watch them or turn his own dreams into nightmare realms.

They balanced each other out. Virgil was okay with that.

And Remy, despite having come to camp two years after him, had wanted to be cabin leader far more than Virgil. They had shook hands on it and called it a day.

When Virgil fell asleep he had every intention of just minding his own business. He rarely enjoyed dream walking–actually he had never once intended to go walking through anyone else’s dreams. Other people dreamed weird, strange things: sometimes nightmares, sometimes nonsense, sometimes in depth private things that Virgil wanted no part in.

His dream had started out normal: Virgil was lying in an empty meadow, staring up at made up constellations, and a soft, pleasant breeze echoing through the air. Virgil knew he was dreaming instantly because he had never been to a place like this ever before in his life and also because he was warm and cozy in his purple sweatshirt– one that had been ripped to shreds a decade ago on his lovely adventure to get to the safe haven that was Camp Half Blood.

Virgil had breathed in deep, always impressed with the details of the astral plane no matter how many times he had seen it. He felt like he was really there, the ground was hard under his body, he could feel the individual fibers of his jacket, taste the slightly earthy flavor of the atmosphere and the smell of rain that suggested a storm was coming soon.

The stars had danced in little patterns that Virgil had always found calming. This was his safe spot, his secret home, his escape from the prison that was camp without actually endangering his life at all. It was how he stayed sane.

He couldn’t quite put his hand on what was so weird about it that night, what had tipped him that something was off. But he had frowned and sat up looking around for the source of the unease that had come over him. 

The ground had quaked, rumbled, and then without a single warning crumpled underneath him. Virgil screamed, his stomach flung into his throat, his arms flailed for something, anything to stop his fall into the unknown black abyss. He grabbed the walls of the hole he was fall in but turned to sand in his hands. Thunder clashed over head, clouds swirling in circular hurricane-esque shapes. Invisible energy built up around his form, ripping and tearing at his body, pressing against his temples, pulsing angrily until Virgil could barely breathe.

He was falling.

And it wasn’t right, Virgil knew it wasn’t right. This was his homespace, his best protected sanctuary. Not even Remy could get in here without Virgil letting him in. But something, someone had gotten in and they were changing things without Virgil’s permission, and they were changing them more forcibly than Virgil could stop them. 

The blackness shuddered, echoing with noises Virgil didn’t recognize at first. Latin and Greek and English phrases from disembodied voices. 

“Thomas!” 

“Thomas?”

“Thomas, where are you?!”

Everything was so dark, Virgil hadn’t been able to see his hands, much less been able to brace himself for the floor that suddenly was under him akin to a bullet train running him over. The air was violently slammed out of him, and his ribs made a crack that he was sure they weren’t supposed to do. 

“HELP!” Thomas– that was definitely Thomas’s voice– screamed, “Someone! Please!”

Virgil tried to get up but his entire body screamed in protest, something warm and sticky coated the floor but Virgil couldn’t see was it was. He could hear Thomas nearby, hear the other boys stumbling footsteps. He tried to say something, anything, that would let him know that he wasn’t alone, but he couldn’t even inhale.

“Someone help me!” Thomas yelled, “Please, I don’t want to die.”

Without warning, flames exploded in the air around Virgil, searing hot and blinding. Virgil flinched away, smoke wrapping his head and strangling what little air he had. Blearily he managed to look up through the flames to see a figure standing over him, coated in the flames– no the making the flames. They rolled off him like waves of unbearable heat.

“Thom…as…” Virgil gasped, but he was wrong.

Virgil remembered him clearly: passive indifference as if he had never felt an emotion ever before in his life, a stiff lip and dull blue eyes, framed by black glasses and his hair neatly combed to the side. Flames licked his toned arms and Virgil caught a glimpse of something tattooed on his shoulder before the fire swallowed it up.

Whoever he was, he stood over Virgil, wearing a seared purple shirt. “Who is Thomas?”

Then smoke flared between the two of them breaking them apart like a curtain. Virgil squeezed his eyes shut trying to brace himself for an attack—

It never came. 

Silence.

Virgil dared peak up, and found himself sitting in his empty meadow, the stars dancing over head without a cloud in the sky. There was no sign of the upturned earth or the darkness, Thomas, or the boy in the flames.

Virgil ripped at the collar of his sweatshirt, forcing a breath out of his teeth. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew that Thomas was in danger, Thomas had been yelling for help, Thomas needed help–

Virgil threw himself up and stumbled on his feet before he forced a doorway open and plunged himself into the astral plane barreling through dreams like there were Hellhounds on his tail. 

“Thomas!” Virgil yelled stumbling into the dream area he knew belonged to the son of Poseidon. His heart was beating so loudly he was sure it was going to explode. What if he was too late? What if Thomas hurt, or dying, or dead? What if Virgil didn’t make it in time–

He tumbled head over heels into Thomas’s dreamscape. Energy buzzed around him, angrily at the intruder, but Virgil couldn’t have cared less about it. He frantically darted forward to find Thomas, find Thomas, find him–

“Virgil?”

Thomas appeared to his left with a confused expression. Virgil let out an explosive sigh of relief, seeing that he was alright. No sign of panic, no sign of even a mild discomfort on him. Just a bit of confusion and worry.

“What are you doing here?” Thomas asked, “I don’t remember–”

Virgil took a calming breath again. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He restrained himself from throwing his arms around Thomas. 

He was a dumbass! It had been a Nightmare! A fiction! Something made up based on his subconscious emotions and he had allowed it to control him. No one had been breaking into his dreamscape, no one had taken over his dream. It had just been him, being a dumbass.

 Thomas was fine, he was safe. And even if he wasn’t, there were people much more qualified to help him than Virgil was. They weren’t even friends!

“Is…is this The Office?” Virgil asked, desperate to get the voices in his head to shut up, “You’re dreaming about The Office?”

“I am?” Thomas looked around as if just realizing what was going on. “Huh, cool!” He turned back to Virgil with a quizzical look, “Everything okay? I mean, you don’t really visit me unless something’s wrong.”

“It’s, uh,” Virgil mumbled. He should have told Thomas. He should’ve said something. But Thomas was the Hero of Olympus, and could definitely take care of himself. Plus Virgil getting all panicked over a dream was like number one on his list of things-not-to-do in front of his celebrity crush.“Nevermind. Sorry for interrupting.” 

Before he could change his mind he turned on heel and threw himself from the dream with a vigur that drowned out Thomas’s yells for him to wait, stop, you don’t have to go! 

Thomas was great.

Virgil wished he had told someone about the dream. Wished that he hadn’t bolted from Thomas’s dream like that, wished that he hadn’t avoided the son of Poseidon for the next two weeks. He told himself it was nothing, and that the strange burn on his forearm had been from the Lava wall the week before. Two weeks turned into three, and then three turned to four without incident.

Thomas still offered him canoeing lessons, no one woke in the middle of the night screaming, no new campers with glasses wandered through the borders and caught fire. It was as painfully dull as living in camp had ever been.

Everything was great.

Then, on the last day of summer, Thomas Sanders went missing without a trace.

[Next Ask for the Percy Jackson au]

[seenashwrite]

Notes From Nash: Season 15, Episode 3

It's ep three, and was third try the charm? Well, we're still in that little town, which is infuriating. But don't lose hope, chickadees. There was some character arc action and some plot advancing, and just drama in general, and it moved at a decently quick clip, all of which is refreshing after last week's ass-disaster of an episode. 

If I were grading this ep, all things considered (including some damn fine acting moments that elevated the material), it's an A-. (Five points were docked immediately because we were still in the little town.) But seriously, this week's writer(s) had a LOT to make up for given the aforementioned last week as well as a largely lackluster premiere, so you know what? Props to them. 

We got a loose end from season past tied up, got rid of some dead weight, and then there was a thing that happened that I’m not entirely sure was necessary at this interval, but I get why it happened. Of course, we had our requisite random hamfisted “solution(s)” and still-unexplained bits that should’ve been clarified ages ago, can’t not have those, it seems. Regardless, this episode was actually fairly interesting to watch. I’m still wary about the state of the season after the first two, but this one had some spark.

Spoilers below the cut, you know the drill.  

This one's in order, I was jotting stuff down as I watched. Past ep breakdowns linked at the bottom. If you’re new, hello, welcome, etc., I don’t do meta shit or reading into the symbolism of the color of a blurry wallpaper just over someone’s shoulder, I look at writing and cohesiveness and structure and flow and all that jazz. I basically just call things as I see ‘em. 

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 

More spooky-scary still seems to be pouring from the hellpit, but at least this crypt is pretty, and Harry Potter tent-esque because the square feet inside is seemingly bigger than the outside.  

Rowena appears to be outfitted in one of my grandmother's housedresses, or a coffin lining, or a 1980s prom dress, whichever you prefer, and none of them have been pressed. I'm trying to say I don't like it. They also continue to do Ruthie's makeup in such a manner that she perpetually looks approximately fifteen years older than she actually is, so in a way I'm thankful this is likely her last episode. On the other hand, I trust these writers and the people who assemble/green light the promos about as far as I can throw them, so we shall see. In any event, Ruthie is quite the good actor and I hope she gets a million gigs after all this is done.  

This Sam-Dean moment with Creased Brow Sam and Gruff Voice Dean is falling so flat, not because of them, but because we're hearing The Same Damn Thing We've Already Heard. Move the plot along, please----- Oh wait here comes Belphagor once again with a solution, this time a nice little plot rescue MacGuffin! Lilith's Crook. Just gotta blow it like a horn. 

Motherbitch, this is stupid.

I got a thought: make it Gabriel's horn, so it calls in all the angels who should've come back with the reverse-y switch-a-roo, and they deal with sealing the hole, but bonus! At end of ep last scene is that it's also called Gabriel back, too. I'd announce to the universe that this show needs to hire me, but, welp.

Oh look, Ketch is in a hospital gown. Oh look, I bet Ketch is about to die in that hospital gown, instead of a badass suit like it should be. It looked like DHJ accidentally spoiled via a tweet that I happened to see----- 

I dodge the promo images and articles and such so I can give a view of someone who doesn't know what is coming in these things. 

-----because he talked about coming back just to leave again, that it was a pleasure, whatever, and y'all will have to fill me in on that because I kinda can't believe he whiffed that hard. I'm not looking it up, is my point. Did he whiff? Actually, don't answer that, I don't care. I mean, don’t go to trouble looking into it on my account.  

Hmmm. Was Ketch’s death entirely necessary? At least, right now? I dunno. Maybe. I’m 50/50 whether this, or have him be double-crossy then get killed later. In any event, well-acted by DHJ. He's quite fantastic. He is wasted in all the Hallmark dreck he's been in, I really hope he gets some good work after this. That's that. Moving on. 

We're 1/4 in, and I'll give it this: we've gotten some action, some drama, but they've GOT to make up for the lack of plot progression in episode 2. Belphagor is shady as shit, which we knew, and this just got reinforced by that demon who has such a hard-on for Belphagor getting axed. 

I do not mind rando badass lady hunter having lines and playing a tangentially-important role in the ep, but this means if we ever see her again, she'll likely get killed, so I'm not getting attached. 

So hell is an angry vagina. SFX, are y'all okay? Is that prick whose tweets occasionally come across my feed still working there? Y'all need some hugs? I know y'all need some better budget, that all the DC shows got it, but oh well, that ship's sailed.  

Well done set dec, I dig the ghoulish statues in that hallway. And hey costume design, I like the ring that dude was wearing, I would wear that in real life. It would also look great as a wrist cuff. I digress. 

We know this demon is not going to succeed in killing Belphagor, so once more we have a pointless halftime cliffhanger. Also, have I mentioned I'm done with Cas being a weak puss? I'm telling you, if stuff got rewound, he should be incrementally getting his mojo back, that tracks logically. See Ep. 1 notes for what I thought should've happened for a legit "Whoa" moment. 

"Do you have any idea what he is?" --- he's a poop demon. Again, see the first episode of @youtotallymadethatup​    /shameless plug

[sighs]

Is this show gonna end with a Jack vs. Jack battle royale? Because fuck that noise. But! Writing-wise, it's okay that ol’ Belph may become the big bad. Nash, why would you say that, you ask. Easy.

IT WILL GET US THE FUCK OUT OF THIS LITTLE TOWN

A. Ny. Thing. to get us the fuck out of this little town. I am so goddamned bored.

Cas, this is a mistake. You should leave. What are you doing. Leave. Don't fall for that. Leave. Go now. Whoosh. Okay, or glow worm and barbeque the body. That was a nice little catch of emotion by Misha at the end. Except are the demons now gonna jump into his body? Better not, we've seen that season. 

Commercials! Cannot believe I've not been inundated with the adverts for the convention here in the spring, that's usually the jam. Imma go get some frozen yogurt. Highly rec strawberry with a little warmed-up Nutella. Try it, then tell me I'm crazy. I'm not. It's heavenly. 

Aaaaand, we're back!

Don't look so distressed Cas, y’all were gonna burn it anyway. But this takes Jack v. Jack off the table. Hopefully this means we'll be headed back to the Empty to get some progress on that hanging thread from last season sooner rather than later. Still, I'm glad we are down a character for awhile, this character in particular was starting to work my nerves and honestly, is just dead weight. I want it back to Sam and Dean for the most part this final season with sprinklings of Cas. Everyone else is secondary.

[claps] Very excellent Ruthie and Jared. One critique: Wish there could've been some sort of line from Rowena, re: "And perhaps I'll get to see my boy again", something of that ilk.

But I want to say this, and say it emphatically:

The nonsensical spells pulled from asses must stop

The soul-catcher thing is an example of a great move because it drew upon the past, then built upon for the present. This heart and angel blood and salt shit, and then this “Oh by the way it needs my dying breath” stuff is just obvious “um um um well how about bleh” writing stumbles, and it shows. The only reason that lameness worked? Ruthie and Jared’s performances. Period. Because y’all gave them absolute garbage to work with, and they made it shine.

Hey! There's the two convention promos with one short local ad in between, followed by the same local ad again! I was beginning to think they'd forgotten! 

WE ARE OUT OF THE LITTLE TOWN, I REPEAT, WE ARE OUT OF THE LITTLE TOWN 

DEAN IS IN A HENLEY, I REPEAT, DEAN IS IN A HENLEY 

Oof, Dean. I mean, I figured this convo would have to happen one day, it's been building, because even though his intentions are good, Cas has been involved in his fair share of shit taking left turns. Hopefully Cas is going to go seek out other angels. Also, re: Cas saying he's getting weaker - because, why? WHY. This has never been addressed in a definitive, satisfactory manner. 

Right, so, like we do each time, let's check in to see if we've had any character development and/or plot progression: 

Do Ketch and Rowena and Belphagor count, since they've progressed to being dead? Dunno, that's more of a finality to their overall arcs. Dean's being an asshole and Sam's being weepy and Cas is being an Eeyore, that's about par. Meh. Okay. So did the plot get advanced? 

YES THANK YOU FLYING SPAGHETTI MONSTER SWEET LORD YES. But, eh... a little weaksauce. Yes, that chapter of the initial onslaught is closed, yet we know it's not over. So I feel like the ep should've ended with, after the bunker door slams, a cut to a little scene that serves as a clue about what lies ahead. I mean, ahead-ahead, season-wise. Like, twenty second blip, not even, then hard cut to black screen, then on to promo which appears to be MotW. 

So that's it, really. More adept writers could've made the material of #1 and #2 into the premiere (minus several things, most specifically minus Kevin, should've saved Osric for something else down the line), then this should've been episode #2 instead of #3. Can't unring that bell, though. Let's hope we hit some speed before Buckleming comes along to run us into a ditch, then (fingers crossed) we have a few eps after that to rebound for the finale.

See you next week.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Past posts, from newest to oldest (and I sometimes do addendums if a response warrants)

Episode 2

Episode 1

[quinlinkin]

take it from me ( i’d be lost without you ) ↳ Q’s twdg writing challenge

character(s): mitch, louis ship(s): louitch ( louis/mitch ) word count: 1749 author’s note: ahhhhh, so i finally fell behind. but hopefully only for these couple of days! either way, this fic is based around a short louitch comic i started making in xnalara a couple of months ago that i never ended up finishing. though i do hope to get it done soon, esp if this ship starts to make some traction?? who knowssss

have a lil preview of that comic anyway!!

[   ao3 link   ]

*credits to the wonderful @stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale​​​​​​​ for creating this challenge! you can view the entire prompt list + further details here. happy writing!!

                                                          ― ☼ ―

                                     day fourteen ; night sky.

“Makes you feel small, huh?”

“Hmm…?”

“Like… the universe. When you really think about it, we’re just so- insignificant. A puny, meaningless speck that doesn’t keep everything else from existing. It wouldn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things if we all disappeared one day.”

Pulling his gaze away from the blanket of stars above them, Mitch quirks an eyebrow at Louis. It’s become somewhat of a routine for them to find themselves right here, seated upon the roof of Mitch’s house as they stargaze and talk endlessly. They’ve occasionally even stayed put long enough for the sun to begin to rise, peeking over the horizon as a startling reminder for Louis that he needs to get home before his parents wake up and realize he isn’t where he’s supposed to be.

A crooked grin starts to tug at his lips, and he can’t help but to lightly tease, “Jesus… Deep, much? Y’know, I think you’d better quit that damn drama class before it’s too late, it’s obviously starting to get to your head.”

Louis rolls his eyes and scoffs, yet the unmistakable signs of his own subtle grin are plainly visible in the moonlight. “I’m just saying. When you put things into perspective, it’s pretty wild to think about.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Mitch shrugs, green eyes flicking back up to the inky black sky. Truth be told, he hasn’t spent a lot of time contemplating their existence like Louis apparently has. It didn’t really matter to him.

Except for aliens, of course. Aliens were real, the government are hiding the truth, and he’ll gladly fight anyone who tries to disagree.

“Well… What do you think, then?” Louis asks after a beat of silence.

Again, Mitch gives an offhanded shrug. “I dunno. Not much, I guess.”

He can feel Louis’ eyes on him without having to look. It makes his skin crawl, his cheeks tingle.

“No opinions on life beyond earth? No theories about our existence? Figured you’d be all about the conspiracy theory life.”

“I ain’t Shane Dawson.”

Louis laughs. “No, you’re definitely not.”

Mitch gives a breathy chuckle of his own, his elbows shifting against the shingles. “Yeah, I mean- conspiracies are fun to think about. But I wouldn’t go as far as… whatever all that was that came outta your mouth just now.”

“What, you didn’t like my awesomely philosophical speech?” Louis retorts. Mitch can hear the smirk present in his airy tone. “I should be offended.”

Mitch is forced to redirect his attention back to Louis’ face, where sure enough, that classic Louise-esque smirk is spread across it. His eyes linger for longer than intended. “I think you’re better off leaving all that shit to Aasim.”

With another brief, joined laugh, they both turn their attention back to the sky. It’s not uncommon for them to fall into comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes, Mitch will light up a cigarette that Louis always decline to share. Other times, they’ll take turns with a bottle of alcohol snagged from his father’s liquor cabinet until their heads are warmly fuzzy and boundaries become just a little bit thinner.

Tonight, however, there’s nothing but the two of them, no distractions or obligations to be anywhere other than right here.

It’s also not uncommon for Mitch’s mind to wander during these bouts of silence. He wishes he only held positive thoughts for this odd, indescribable bond that’s formed between him and Louis.

He’s unable to understand why Louis would ever want to show up whenever Mitch decides to text him late at night, why he ever gives him the time of day or humors him when they have just about nothing in common. While it’s no exaggeration that Mitch could produce quite the lengthy list of reasons why Louis is so great and interesting, he’s yet to find a single reason why the opposite would prove to be true.

Mitch glances at Louis while his focus is directed above them. There’s a gentle smile on his face, his expression blissful and carefree. He looks positively at peace, and Mitch doesn’t get why.

He suddenly feels guilty. He’d called him out of bed at nearly two in the morning, after all, and while Mitch never dares to admit whenever there’s an underlying problem that prompts him to want Louis’ company, he suspects that Louis already knows.

Louis makes him feel better, plain and simple. Perhaps it’s his shining personality or his positive way of thinking, though whatever the true reason, Mitch never fails to feel his mood lifting from as early on as seeing Louis typing back a message despite immediately regretting sending his own in the first place.

“You don’t have to be here, y’know,” he suddenly tells him. Out of context, it’s entirely unprompted, yet in Mitch’s mind, they’re words that have to be spoken.

Louis immediately turns his head to look at him, his brows pulled together with a keen mixture of confusion and compassion. It’s more than enough for Mitch to be quickly looking away, that too-sincere expression tugging at his heart in a way that makes him feel queasy.

“I know,” Louis speaks quietly, steadily. Careful, as if saying the wrong thing will cause Mitch to freeze up and bolt. It wouldn’t be the first time. “But… I want to.”

The outward confession instinctively draws Mitch’s eyes back to his face, just for a second, before he’s forcing them away again. His eyebrows furrow, searching for words well beyond his grasp to say.

Naturally, Louis picks up on his uneasy silence. “Do… you not want me here?”

“What?” Mitch’s head snaps back towards him, eyes slightly rounded before he’s firmly shaking his head. “No, I - of course I do.”

While he hadn’t quite expected Louis’ response, he supposes he should have. With his standoffish, blunt nature, he can only imagine that he must come off as disinterested in Louis’ company from time to time. He curses his unapproachable demeanor, wishes it wasn’t so difficult for him to open up.

Apparently, Louis decides to push things a little further. Mitch doesn’t blame him for wanting answers, though once again, he’s no longer able to look at him as his expression grows more sympathetic. His voice is incredibly timid when he speaks up, and Mitch feels even worse.

“Then… why say that?”

Mitch sighs. “Ah… I dunno, I just- most people wouldn’t want to, I guess. Most people… wouldn’t care.”

He can feel Louis shifting closer, trying to crane his neck in order to meet his eye.

It doesn’t work until he speaks again, barely above a whisper. “Well… I do. I care.”

Mitch simply can’t control the troubled look that crosses over his face, displaying his every conflicted emotion and his perplexed thought for Louis to see despite the fact he doesn’t want him to.

There’s nothing he can do to stop himself from asking, “But… why? ”

Louis instantly falls quiet. For a moment, Mitch regrets asking, assumes that there’s nothing that Louis has to offer in response to his question. Of course there isn’t, his mind bitterly taunts. He only said he cares to make you feel better.

He’s proven entirely wrong in the next second.

“Because…” he starts, seeming to choose his words very carefully until they’re spilling freely from his mouth. “You’re worth so much more than you think you are. Yeah, you’re a little devious, and yeah, you’ve got this whole ‘tough guy’ act nailed down. But under all that, you… you have a good heart, Mitch. I can see it all the time. Even if you don’t.”

Mitch blanks. There’s nothing that could ever describe the whirlwind of emotions that instantly overtakes him, no amount of understanding that could hope to make sense of it all. Impossibly, he feels gut-wrenching sadness and heartwarming inspiration at exactly the same time, a melting pot of conflicting feelings coexisting with each other, relentlessly battling for the top spot within his mind.

Ultimately, sheer disbelief wins.

“I… think you give me way too much credit…” he mumbles, a rather pathetic reply to Louis’ meaningful expression of his self worth.

Louis doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe you just don’t give yourself enough.”

Mitch can feel Louis’ eyes practically boring holes into his skin as he grows distressingly silent once again, their shoulders brushing in a way that has him tensing up despite himself. Yet as undeterred as ever, Louis is piping up again before he knows it.

“I see you for who you really are. Whether you like it or not.”

There’s no denying the phrase sums everything up better that Mitch could ever express, himself. Yet he’s unable to think about it for much longer after those words are spoken, for in another, completely unexpected turn of events, Mitch can feel Louis shifting even closer.

A brief pause ensues, before Louis is leaning in the rest of the way. He kisses Mitch’s cheek, and Mitch is blown away how such as simple action can bring forth such an intense response. His heart ricochets inside his chest, his thoughts all but exploding inside his head. He can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe.

Then, he’s turning to gawk at Louis as if he’s grown at least five extra heads. Louis bears a similar expression, seemingly shocked at himself, leaving them both staring at one another like two deer within the glow of the same headlights. 

“I - I’m sorry, I-”

Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe the rapidly multiplying emotions within him take over, blinding him and masking all the rational common sense he already lacks.

Whatever the reason, there’s no stopping himself, no controlling his own actions. He doesn’t care if Louis regrets it, if he’s apologizing because he didn’t mean to.

Mitch closes the distance between them again, and kisses him.

Louis freezes, but for only a second. Mitch thinks that same emotionally fueled instinct must be taking over him, too, for faster than his mind can process, they’re quite literally kissing each other senseless. It feels as if a slowly cracking dam between them has finally broken, and with it, everything comes effectively pouring out.

He doesn’t know how long the kiss lasts. All concept of time becomes lost upon him, and the only thing that eventually separates them is the burning need for oxygen.

And, as they pull away, in some cheesy, embarrassingly cliche passing thought, Mitch swears the stars above Louis’ dazed, smiling face shine brighter than they ever have before.

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 1

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: There’s also Y/N’s best friend, who is a love interest for Roger Taylor; if there’s interest, I could write sections from her POV This will be an on-going fic. I’ll try to update weekly, if not more frequently. Message me with anything. Always willing to chat.

Warnings: swearing, drinking, self-esteem issues(?) fluff for days! Later, it will get steamy AF.

Abstract: Your best friend meets Roger Taylor at a club, and he invites her (and you) to a Queen party.

“You’ll never guess who I met!” Your best friend, Lydia, screeched. Running into your bedroom.

You sat at your piano. You had been under pressure to learn a rather difficult Liszt piece for your senior showcase. Your showcase, you knew, would be one of the most important days of your life; agents and scouts from symphonies, touring companies, theaters, clubs from all around Europe would be there seeking the next big star, the next virtuoso to join their ranks. You were humble, but very gifted in music. And you always had been. Music came as easily to you as dreaming did to others. Music was your life, and Lydia knew it was only a matter of time before you hit it big and became somebody.

You had been practicing like an obsessed shut-in for weeks. Lydia kept trying to pull you away from your “hermit cave,” as she had taken to calling it. She’d rush in and interrupt your work. You loved her and had been friends for years, but your lives were taking you in different directions and you hoped you’d both find a way to maintain your closeness even if you were separated by great distances. She’d erupt into your room, and you’d be absorbed in your music, the rhythms, the sounds; playing scores, you’d teleport to places you’d never been, times you’d never seen, you’d feel everything the musician had put into his or her works. You came alive, you became irresistible, incandescent. However, since you were so caught up in the moment when you played, this was never anything you knew, or experienced or saw for yourself. Your piano your solace away from the world.

“Hello!? Y/N, can you hear me?” Lydia waved a hand in front of your face.

“Sorry, yes. What did you say?” You sounded far away even to yourself. You saw a crease appear in Lydia's forehead, half-concern, half-irritation. You took a breath and painted a smile on your understatedly beautiful face. Taking your glasses off, you said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied lately. I want to make it up to you.” You reached out and touched Lydia's shoulder to hammer the point home. The flowery, flowy shirt under your hands slipped out of your grasp as she took your hand in hers.

“I met someone tonight.” Lydia squeezed your hand to make sure you were really all there.

“Oh?” You had never seen Lydia like this before. Upon closer inspection, you noticed she was flushed, jittery, and unequivocally giddy. “What’s going on?”

“He’s a certain blond rock-god.”

“Get out of here!” You took your hand out of Lydia’s with a laugh, and turned back to your piano. Your friend had pulled this prank many times before. She was into Roger Taylor like most people were into skydiving; everything for her was an extreme sport, she never half-assed anything. It was one of the things you liked most about her; she was all passion and she had the confidence to be loud about it. You wished you had her effortless peacock-esque flare, her showy charm, and, god, she had the best hair of anyone you had ever met: wheat-colored, falling to her waist in easy beach waves. Your own hair was coarse, stubborn, thick and black like the music notes you scanned continuously.

“Y/N! I’m serious! I met Roger Taylor at a club tonight! Queen is back and he invited me to a party tomorrow night! You have to come with me! Please?”

You searched your friend’s face for a sign of duplicity, and to your surprise and delight, found none. “Okay...you’re telling me you ran into Roger Taylor at a club and he invited you to a party tomorrow night?”

“Yes!”

You knew you should stay home and practice this etude, but the allure of a celebrity party called you, and you knew you weren’t powerful enough to ignore the siren call of the most talented musicians rock ‘n roll had to offer.

“Roger. Taylor.” You smirked.

“Roger fucking Taylor.” Lydia grinned at you. You stared at each other, both starting to giggle at the absurdity of it all.

“I’ll go with you,” you smiled up at your friend, “though I have no idea how we are going to pick what to wear with only a day’s notice!”

“I know, right?!”

“What was he like? Roger?” You asked, making your way to the closet.

“Shameless flirt. Great style, though. He had this hat on, ugh I swear! the hat alone made me pregnant.” Lydia’s laugh gonged around the room.

“Was he alone?” You tried to sound as innocently nonchalant as possible, but Lydia knew you well enough to know what you were getting at; she never let you get away with anything. You saw the steely glint in her eyes and knew what was coming.

“Don’t you mean, ‘was a certain bassist there?’”

You instantly blushed a deep crimson, the same color as the t-shirt you were wearing. You hid your head in your hands and groaned loudly. Your head crashed onto the keys of the piano, and a clanging chord rang out sympathetically, as if your piano knew your embarrassment, too. You had a certain weak spot for John Deacon; Lydia always said the best friends had different tastes in potential partners. If you had different tastes, you’d never fight over who got someone, who saw whom first, who had a claim. In this respect, your friendship was sheer perfection.

“He wasn’t there, but Roger did say something like ‘If you come to this party, I’ll be able to show you off to the band--beauty like yours should be shared’ or something like that anyway.” She tried to sound casual.

“Roger Taylor said that to you?” You looked at Lydia, in a blouse and jeans, she was glistening. Not even a stitch of makeup on her face, and the most famous drummer in the world was smitten with her. What hope did you have of being noticed, you wondered? You frowned, looking down at the familiar keys.

Lydia read some of this in your face and sat next to you. “Y/N, you know you’re gorgeous. I know--before you start--I know you think I’m supposed to say that because I’m your friend. But you know I don’t just say things to please anyone. I’m just not made that way, I’m too honest. You’re beautiful. I know you don’t always believe it. I hope you do someday. Or at the very least, that you’d trust your best friend wouldn’t lie to you. We’ve known each other forever. You’re the most talented person I know; you never had to work hard at school, you’ve always been able to do whatever you put your mind to, you can play any instrument you pick up. You are so worth knowing and loving. That, and you’re the sneakiest person I know, with the most uncanny wit.”

“So, I have a great personality? I’m the great personality girl?” You asked, with a sarcastic smile.

“You know what I mean! I’m just a pretty face,” Lydia said, “and that’s all I’ll ever be; you have a pretty face and a brain; you’re lucky.”

This is why you kept Lydia around; she was selflessly loyal, and always knew what to say to trick you out of an emotional black hole. She didn’t think much of her mind, but only someone truly keen could weave together words into self-confidence. “Come on, let’s pick out options for tomorrow night.” You hugged her tight, and you knew she was satisfied.

***

You settled, with help, on an olive-green dress, the same color as your eyes. It wrapped around your body, highlighting your waist, and your hourglass curves. You didn’t yet understand the kind of power your body had over people; you felt out of proportion constantly, too short to have your sweet ass and flashy chest. You’d have to buy shirts that were too large, pants that were too baggy, too long because they just didn’t make close for shorter people that weren’t shaped like teenage boys. And a teenage boy, you weren’t! You had the body to prove it. You always looked a little under-tailored because of it, a little accidentally shabby. This dress, however, was a rare exception in your closet. It created a great V-neck to expose just a pleasant hint of your breasts, and did little to obscure the geography of your round ass. Your arms, you were secure with more than any other part of your body; from hours at the piano, holding your arms up, they were toned and tattooed. The sleeves of the wrap-dress covered the colorful art and words you had painstakingly chosen for yourself. You felt incognito when you hid the tattoos, like you always had a secret up your sleeve, an extra card to play, a slight mystique to add to the atmosphere most people never expected to come from a self-confessed nerd like you. You adjusted your large glasses, and reapplied your lip-gloss. Looking in the mirror you adjusted your bangs, squeezing clumps of your hair to make the natural ringlets sing. You had added to the outfit, at your instance, black spangled tights, and black heeled oxfords. Maybe a little dated, but they made you feel good, and that’s what mattered most. You checked your light makeup, glitter-blush and thin foundation was all you felt inclined to do. Lydia said she’d help you do more, but you refused; if you had to change who you were to impress someone, they weren’t worth it.

Lydia came around the corner and poked her head in the doorway, “You ready?” She was wearing a dark red dress that kissed her body to the floor. She was fully clothed but looked naked at the same time; she was a true diva and you had no idea how she did it. All silk and lush hues, she was ready to stop anyone and everyone dead in their tracks. Her hair was half up on her head in a way that looked planed and like a happy accident simultaneously. Her lips, full of daring, were lacquered cherry-red. She had a gold chain around her neck, dropping to her navel; she could have been a movie star.

You looked at yourself in the mirror again, your dress seemed demure by comparison now, and you were second-guessing everything. Was a high-low wrap dress the way to go to a Queen party? Was the color terrible? Was going at all a mistake? You twisted the large statement ring on your finger.

“Y/N?! You look stunning! Perfectly engineered to destroy any room you step into.”

You sighed, “Okay, you’re right; Let’s do this, or I never will.”

Lydia waved down a taxi. She told the driver the address Roger had given her, and off you went. The taxi sped along the night, and you wished the anticipation of arriving could last forever. The going to a party was almost as exciting as the arriving at the party itself. The feeling of possibility, of not knowing what was to come, and yet knowing anything could happen was intoxicating. You felt a shiver run up your spine. You were happy to be here with your best friend on the edge of limitless opportunities. Eventually, the taxi stopped and you paid the fee.

You and Lydia left the taxi and approached the door, and a man stood outside; he had the unmistakable air of security. He scrutinized you and Lydia. “Names?” He asked, lazily. You noticed he had list with him, and suddenly worried if you’d be allowed in or not.

“Lydia Taylor,” your friend said, not missing a beat.

The guard laughed to himself.

“Hey, wishful thinking pays off, mister.” Lydia flipped her hair, and you knew the guard was under her spell, too. “Lydia Wesmor, and I brought my friend with me. Y/N L/N,” she hooked elbows with you.

“Well, Lydia Taylor and Y/N, enjoy yourselves.” He gave you a slight smile and stepped aside.

As you and Lydia entered the vast townhouse, you saw glimpses of room after room decorated in splendor and--well, if classy ostentation exists, it somehow does in this space. High ceilings, rich window hangings, art adorned the walls, and sculptures, too many to count, and probably priceless in worth, decorated the rooms in view. Balloons and streamers cascaded floor to ceiling over a large, full bar, manned by a pleasant-looking man with a safe-looking disposition and mustache. One wall had a largest in-home aquarium you’d ever seen. One room, had large bookshelves with black and white photos on the walls. Every room you peaked snippets of had healthy plants, clearly lovingly cared for by the owner. And those were only the rooms you could see from the main one you entered into. More rooms were blocked by people, costumed and coiffed to perfection. You felt like you had stepped into a dream, and you never wanted it to end. For a brief moment you had to remind yourself this was real, and happening to you.

One room had a fantastic grand piano, and you felt your heart being pulled towards it, but you didn’t want to lose sight of Lydia, who was heading for the bar. So, you turned, and followed her, pushing past people lightly to keep pace.

“Lydia, have you ever seen a place like this? It’s like Valhalla!”

The man at the bar smiled.

“Can you speak English please, Y/N?” Lydia laughed with you; she wasn’t as well-read as you, but there was just no other way to describe this wonderful party unfolding before your eyes.

“It’s magical. Truly majestic.”

“Now, that I’ll agree to.” Lydia smiled at the man at the bar. “Could we have two appletinis and one Roger Taylor?” She added a wink.

“If I were straight, I wouldn’t even let him near you; I’d whisk you away myself.” The man said matter-of-factly.

“Ooh, you’re definitely a catch! I’m Lydia--the soon-to-be wife of Roger Taylor.”

“Does he know yet?” the man asked, mixing your drinks.

“No, but he will.”

“I’m Jim,” he grinned at Lydia, laughing at her tenacity, and then he looked at you. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N. It’s nice to meet you, Jim.”

“You’re right about the house.” He said, “We will have to give you the full tour later, as host--well, one of the hosts--it’s my duty to make sure someone as appreciative and scrumptious as you gets the full experience.” He passed you your drinks. Normally, this kind of attention made you nervous, but from Jim, it was so well-meaning, so genuine, you found yourself thinking whoever had partnered with him could only be the luckiest man on earth.

“That’d be great!” You liked Jim instantly; he was easy to talk to, kind-eyed, and, after a sip of your drink, knew he could make a killer cocktail.

“So, divide and conquer?” Lydia asked.

You felt comfortable with Jim, and knew if you wanted to pass the entire party here, chatting with him, you’d have an enjoyable time; you nodded at Lydia, “Yeah, you go on; I’ll be fine here, and I’m sure I’ll get braver with this,” you waved your cocktail in your hand like a conductor, “I’ll get brave enough to explore and mingle.”

“Okay; be safe.” Lydia pressed her hand to yours briefly, and slinked away, a woman on a mission.

You watched her go, and before you could turn back to Jim, across the room, you saw him. John Deacon.

You locked eyes with him, and just like that, you forgot how to breathe.

What you didn’t know, was that he forgot how to breathe, too.

[acsversace-news]

One year ago “The Man Who Would Be Vogue” aired

The murder of Gianni Versace turns the eyes of the world onto Miami Beach.

Listen to Vanity Fair’s “Still Watching: Versace” review of episode 1 along with an interview with Ricky Martin

Reviews

A hypnotizing, wordless first act, backed by a rousing string-heavy score, gives a Shakespearean start to the whole endeavor, echoed, of course, in the horror of the murder by gunshot that left Versace bleeding to death at the front gate of his home in 1997. - The Daily Beast

Murphy delights in showing monsters up close, as he does in American Horror Story, but he’s most poignant when he probes how real-life monsters became that way. The Assassination of Gianni Versace allows Murphy to do what he does best: make viewers understand — but not empathize — with the devil. And only Murphy could achieve the delicate balance of vilifying a person without vilifying an entire culture — exactly what kept the case from having the same kind of cultural impact that O.J. had. That long overdue impact can now finally occur in Murphy’s dramatic retelling. - TV Guide

Ryan Murphy’s latest season of his pop procedural anthology, American Crime Story, covers the 1997 shooting of Versace in nine fifty-minute episodes; and yet so un-boring is the pilot that we see the murder seven minutes in. The twinky killer, Andrew Cunanan, is a fantasist played with a cold and twitchily unreal demeanor by the android-perfect Darren Criss. Introduced as an unreliable narrator, then a Ripley-esque savant at social climbing, he creates two big impressions: one in a scene that shows him covering his mouth in a pantomime of horror when he’s really smiling, and another that’s a bona fide showcase for his ass. He’s closeted around his straight friends, gay around his gay friends, and completely unashamed to say out loud that his objective is to “tell people whatever they need to hear”—a primo marker for a sociopath.  - Garage

“The Man Who Would Be Vogue” was quite simply one of the best first-episodes of a show I’ve seen in a while. Relying on sweeping visuals over dialogue, and allowing gaudiness to exist beside sincerity, it gripped me right away. While we know this is not a happy story and it doesn’t end particularly well, it does feel as important and timely as ever, much like its predecessor The People v. O.J. Simpson. It remains to be seen whether this season will catch on with viewers and critics like that one did, but either way it’s hard not to be grateful for something this special. - Yahoo

The performers of The Assassination of Gianni Versace are all acting at the top of their game. Just like how The People v. O.J. showed us actors and actresses in a new and interesting light, Assassination captures the spirit of Versace’s loving sister and business partner, Donatella, through a strong performance by Penelope Cruz. Musician Ricky Martin acted in Argentinian television programs at the start of his career, and his appearance in Assassination is enough to make you think he never left the craft. Darren Criss is versatile in his intense portrayal of serial killer Andrew Cunanan. The first episode shifts between a couple of different moments in time, and Criss’ Cunanan is sometimes enigmatic, sometimes detestable, and always engaging. In one moment he shares with Ramirez’ Versace, I could have sworn he was channeling Christian Bale’s portrayal of Patrick Bateman in American Psycho. And that’s one of the major things that sets Assassination apart from O.J.: it’s clear that Assassination will be spending much more time inside of the suspect’s head. In O.J. there were so many fascinating characters and so many unusual things going on that we often only viewed Cuba Gooding Jr.’s O.J. from other characters’ perspectives. Trust me: Assassination is not lacking in fascinating characters, but it does seem to be taking much more time to dwell on the actions of Cunanan than O.J. ever did with, well, O.J. - Horror News Network

Penelope Cruz, who is apparently a friend of Donatella’s and has her blessing, has a tall order to serve. First, the voice. Anyone who knows anything about Donatella Versace knows that her distinct looks comes with an equally distinct accent. Cruz has to play it believably, without dipping into caricature or being so true to life that the audience can’t understand her. Second, she finds herself playing the day to day villain for much of this. She’s the one who dislikes the boyfriend that we’ve all fallen in love with after the cops are so rude to him. She’s the one who cancels the IPO. She’s the one with a sizeable reputation preceding her. And yet, Cruz’s Donatella comes across as powerful, stricken, at a lost, and completely unwilling to lose an inch of her brother’s legacy. - Den of Geek

Seriously, though, this first episode of Versace is absolutely gorgeous. Just think about all of the lush images that pop out of the screen like an IMAX version of a Vogue issue. There’s the elegant pool of the opera singer’s sequin dress as she belts on stage. There’s Gianni Versace (Edgar Ramírez), delicately sipping his espresso from a black gilded cup, shot from above so his breakfast table is just off center of the Medusa logo that he made famous. There’s the hollow chime of crystal champagne flutes clinking together on the set at the opera. There’s Gianni’s sister Donatella (Penélope Cruz), with that famous platinum hair and doorknocker of a nose standing at the top of a little portico. And let us not forget that perfect peach emoji of an ass as Andrew Cunanan (Darren Criss) strides into his roommate’s husband’s closet to steal a suit. - Vulture

Season two, by contrast, packs a gilded punch. The first episode bounces between the slaying of Versace to his first encounter, in a San Fransisco gay club, with Cunanan. The future killer is a Walter Mitty-like social climber whose life is wallpapered with so many habitual lies it’s unclear whether even he knows truth from fiction. Preppy of manner and soulless of gaze, he gives Murphy something the Simpson case lacked – an unambiguous villain scary even when he isn’t shooting dead international fashion designers. - Telegraph UK

But there’s pain in Andrew, too. Recall how he screams into the ocean water during his pre-slaying swim, how he vomits into a public toilet as he works up the nerve to pull the trigger. When he bullshits his way into Versace’s presence and winds up attending the opera for which he’s the costume designer, the music moves him to tears. After the show, he clearly wants to believe all the kind, supportive things Gianni is saying about him as they hang out on stage together. (And there’s every reason to believe Gianni means every word, him being such a mensch.) Andrew sucks people in with lies and sucks life out of his resulting proximity to wealth, glamour, sex, and power to fill a hole in his heart, yes, but his heart really does exist. He’s a vacuum, not a void. It’s a subtle distinction, but so far it seems to be a crucial one. - Decider

It is, rather, a bold, ambitious, riveting wrestling match between cultural shame and communal pride, in which glittering wedding gowns and glossy magazines, club hits and tank tops, are emblems for which we choose the meaning, just as we might choose to adopt as our own that unutterable word, that unforgivable commonplace, that useful descriptor—that reclamation. As the designer says of the “Versace bride,” preparing for a fashion show, “She won’t be dainty. She won’t be timid. She will be proud and strong.” I realize now, upon finishing what may be Murphy’s riskiest and most radiant gambit to date, that as I grow older, and more comfortable in my own skin, I’m not only able to hear the sentiment, but also to identify with it. - Paste Magazine (warning for slurs)

Other links:

Ricky Martin on ACS: Versace, Coming Out, and ‘Normalizing’ Open Relationships

Yahoo Entertainment’s meme recap

ACS Versace Soundtrack and Score Spotify Playlist

Fandom score: 9.255

Episode rank: #5

Behind the Scenes

[elizasepistolarytravels]

A knife.

1.) I've never cried once when I waxed my legs. 

I can feel it though. 

as I can feel the breeze and the cold

and the salt evaporating from 

the sand caked beach. 

And its taste on scrambled eggs,

and your rain coat on the peg, 

and your stolen eyes 

stealing my body 

as the door screeches 

shut 

in that scream that I dread. 

And I can hear the sound of pop corn, 

and people in the street, 

their red mouths like 

poppies 

and bulls eyes

in a Rolling Stone magazine. 

Telling lies.

And yeah, I like my coffee black. 

S'how I decided to like it 

as I have once in a party 

sworn 

that I was born 

with my tongue flipped backwards,

my taste buds starting at the bitter bit instead.

Said that just to excite them. 

I love movies. 

But never cry in public. 

I'd never cry if it pleased the Republic. 

What I do is, I try to get a grip of their minds

See my vision through a 

screen.

But lets not get too dark, shall we?

I love the sight of wool-

Transformed and processed,

refined, 

Blessed. 

And how it scratches on my back, 

sharply.

And how it goes around and itches my neck, 

hungrily. 

And wraps around my waist and burns me. 

But that is how I choose to dress. 

And yeah I love the feel of rain and stuff,  

and cycling, 

and laughing, 

and falling, and scrambling 

and crying,and crying. 

And the crisp sheets on my childhood bed,

how when you got lost in them by yourself, tearing the sheets apart. 

I felt nothing. 

Not the wool, nor the the coffee, not even the leg waxing. 

As you saw, as you watched my eyes go forever red.

2.) 

The scent of her bluebell

earrings made them mad. 

She swayed a halo of hair at their 

bluebird eyelashes that wished to fly away 

and perch on her shoulders, 

adoring her teacups of cracked silence and 

dry toast. 

The love she held to them was bitter, 

conscious of her power, 

she did not let them see through 

her skin. 

Lotus palms higher chakra fingernails 

on her parchment thighs and a longing of 

consumption of trimmed misery, 

a pattern of stolen space shared in corners. 

They were all so beautiful. 

Their souls were white, I tell you. 

And one by one, she would let them into her room

and thank their lives.

Kissing their shoulders with 

whiskers of leaves. 

They would try to run their hands over 

sudden quivering glimpses of lake blue stillness,

that shattered across her eyes. 

They were making it worse for themselves, 

They were making her remind herself of 

the numbing stitches that lay as maps over her brain. 

2.)

How is it for you, 

as you sit pink eyed? 

Your skin, un-stretched 

from hurtling warship storms

shines golden, 

awesome disney penny golden,

slightly akin to our 

Kath Kidston bread rolls and hours of 

spiky cricket. 

It is easy to fall in love 

with your idea of an anxious 

death of new-boy, 

oxford- sandle- schoolboy. 

Beatings. 

I relish in your fire. 

In your even slightest oxygenation and combustion rust.

When clippings fall off your Thatcher-esque milk-carton teeth. 

But that barely satisfies pits of knotted words. 

And jaws pulled open to emplace chastity belts. 

Onions, 

Wikka crosses. 

Suffocation. 

My body is a battlefield of eyes, 

rashes, scratches, and many many apparent scars. 

I try to walk across your face, 

down expensive liquor suns. 

My life was an orphan. My hands

were open and a ghost took them.

Now I can only scream. 

Your sight makes me cry and you continue to shine,

And you sit down in the sand and - ‘help me’. 

This is snow globe ancient.

It is swoons of acid sooty waves, storms and storms 

of the shipwreck cleaner - the orphan. 

You explain to me life as if it were a mere 

plastic 

globe. 

Eccentric.

Disposable. 

And most probably Toxic. 

One of the reasons I am doing this project is because of trauma. 

Poetry is so wishy-washy and ambiguous so lets get straight to the point. 

Not many people detect this, some may sense pain and things like that, but on the whole, out of all the things this project has turned out to have a connection to, the trauma that also spurs it is not something not talked about a lot. It has paced my life, as good old trauma tends to do. It paces this piece of art. As so, it turns out that this is also an attempt to heal. I am taking courage, taking hold over my life now. I will write and speak and run until I don’t need to, until I feel at last at home in my own crawling skin. I will run to where I feel most protected, where I have felt I can breath at last, the warmth of the earth and the quietness of the fields of Nature. Where I feel I am of the same mud as the rest of this earth. 

Trauma. As it is for many others, trauma is insidious. It is a natural, scientific, real, proven, (blah blah look up the research) whatever you want to call it, phenomenon. It changes your brain. It is when something or someone through your childhood development and right into your adult life, comes in and disrupts the healthy boundaries of your body, your mind and your sense of self. When you are ok, you have a normal bubble where a healthy ego may develop and later on in life, thrive. When not your bubble is more this weird mashed potato. Or many different states of mashed potato. When you have not experienced trauma you know the boundaries of yourself and others and more importantly you know how to maintain them. My bubble, both physically and mentally, was distorted (made mash potato), from an early age. It was not for me one event, it was also a, combination of people and moments. The lines are blurry, and yes, I agree, the line of victim and perpetrator is difficult, and sometimes confusing, there there remains a constant. From an early age my boundaries were laughed at made lesser than, later used and twisted. It is the plight of the perception of women or anyone made lesser, their bodies made objects. Just to repeat: My existence, as for most of us, is a lot of pain. It is at times unbearable. You cannot demean this, or make this any smaller than the immensity I feel in my mind at some points of time. I guess this is speaking truth to survive. So back to the little talk on trauma. The healthy development I was meant to have by now is supplemented by the voices of those who opened me up and ate me raw. Psychologically, it is self-doubt and even hatred, somatically, it is sometimes a bodily fear of others or not knowing boundaries, exuding too much closeness and intimate energy and then at times freezing up out fear when my body suddenly realises the danger it put itself in. Or just fading away, giving in, not feeling. It is also crying and panic, yeah that happens. I can’t imagine what it must be like for people with trauma greater than mine, but this is not the point. I am here to talk about my trauma. Because it is time to take back what people took from me like chocolates, when truthfully, if he really cared for and respected me, he wouldn’t have ever fucking done that. There is no way to reconcile that in my mind. I have tried utter, truthful and surrendering forgiveness, but you know what that just didn’t work for me. So here is my story.

I met an old friend the other day, I didn’t expect him to be there, or ever see him again, although paradoxically I knew we would cross paths. This past month has been a month of giving for me, of building up projects like this one. I fucking stamped out the voices that were being stupid and managed to do the things I needed to do. I have had a precious time, I have met wondrous people. If you recognise yourself here, well done! I love you. I have made some true connections and touched others’ lives because I reached out in my truth, and so did hey. Spoke from the soul. It is something that I am proud of, my present life has taken a turn I really like. I am now again fighting for something that is outside of me, but in the process makes us laugh, connect, and feel at home. I am a fucking warrior. I did what I promised to myself, I fucking fought and got out of my hole of self pity, and I was happy for a while. But the golden light passes, as all will pass, and already, as a woman, I feel the end of the cycle coming, a time for darker thoughts needing to be processed. But also, this time was also powered by unsustainable energy, of escapism by excessively giving, and as I realised on the only day I was really sober, that parts of it were numbing. Some of you picked up on that, because after a while you see the cracks in my self, you see that something is wrong, does not quite align, you don’t know what it is, can’t put your finger on it, but something is very off. And that is when usually I ward you off or distract you with part of a persona I create. Frantically. No, I am not always OK. As many of us are. 

A person of my family, a close friend of mine, grew to take me and what I am  made me separate and lesser, a thing he could use. Anyway, starting off as a weird symbiosis of children it turned into an entitlement to the body of women,  because I don’t know, like our sick culture of disgusting posh all boys boarding schools? Just saying. And because of his parents and the rest of the family gradually built him up to think of himself as the best. That can hurt and damage a person forever. What does all that pride give you, when you are a hollow empty narcissistic vessel by night? Just saying. Anyway, that is my trauma, or whatever, or was my thing, I can make it public because I want to, and because I like the idea of revenge, and because you do not overstep my boundaries. This piece of writing is a knife.

When I met you again, dear friend, you reminded me of this. And yes, the beautiful, and real parts of this project, are a part of it, but they are not everything. The need to reconnect with people of my life is because I have presented a frantic, scared, fractured persona a lot of the time. I have manipulated and quickly attached myself to a few people, a few best friends that would fill up my broken terrified heart. I have a string of best friends, relationships, that I become intensely entwined with to feel safe, out of pure need to survive. And then cut them off without the batting of an eyelid. That is fucking terrible. I don’t know how you could stand me for the time you did. I was a manipulative piece of shit, that could probably not respect your boundaries also. And if you took distance, that was very wise of you, I thank you for that, because the pieces of me that can still feel want you to be happy. I would cut off my friends as soon as they saw this. Next. It was all just survival. I would then hunt for my next prey and hope they would fill in this hole by using them in a weird symbiotic way as a part of me. The letter writing is also to not hide anymore, to get back in contact with you, to say sorry, but also, to truly talk to you and laugh about our past, to feel kindred spirits in this world that is tough. Because this state of frenzy has to stop. This fear has to stop. It is time I take back the knife, and stab back where it hurt the most. Enforced empathy. Making you hurt like I hurt even if you don’t want to. Now you will all know. Now the world will know. That I will not shut up. Now we attack back. 

This girl fights. You seemed to have forgotten that. 

Trauma. We build up this conversation together my dear friend. You who monologues a lot like men do, who forgets that I made this myself too, a part of you may feel good for having helped me, but this is also fucking self-generated. We talked about this together, how trauma is the underlying epidemic to us all. It is the sweeping waves of suicide that we seem to find hard to explain (Duh??). It is the never-ending cycle of creating men (and sometimes steel women) who are not warriors, but machines. Of honouring psychopaths, capable of disguising themselves as heroes, but who are actually machines built up from a world that has taken out a piece of their usual empathetic development. It is not usual male aggression. It is broken boys. Fracturing other peoples sense of self, as traumatising a population becomes the greatest weapon of war. Civilians and women, children, weaker men. Today, battling in Syria and elsewhere, we are not fighting a just war. Our machine men from our psychotic culture are traumatising women and children, sexually abusing other men (remember Abu Ghraib in Iraq? that seemed hard to explain for some reason). The greatest form of destruction is to destroy the minds of a population. Fighting terrorism is a weird Freudian cover up of a will of our population to manipulate and enjoy destroying another. It is the need to keep our women quiet and useable, to satisfy this machine mentality of soldiers off to feel good about killing things. 

You and I were a microcosm. 

You took a part of me, as some have taken a part of you, to fill in the hole that they start to take out of us, to be part of this culture. We inherit the past of our parents. It is the Ouroboros. The never-ending cycle, a snake eating its tail. Until someone in the chain decides to say fuck off and break from it herself. You also had a choice when we started to see it happen. But you just wanted your own satisfaction really. Psycho.

My escape is a necessity. It has now gotten to the point that it is more dangerous for me to stay silent than to reach out and take control. 

This is me yelling. My art is me yelling. Our poetry is us yelling. This is me yelling about the very mantle of trauma that is stitched into the fabric of our society. It is so entrenched, as it has been in society, that it is barely utterable. Like a colour we cannot see, a collective amnesia. And it suddenly started spluttering out: Me too!

And me. 

I am one in three women, 

Lots of men told to kill their feelings.

Trauma comes in degrees, the refugee families and individuals I have met have amongst our laughter, our alchemy and dancing, talked about their trauma. I relate. It is not my trauma, nor my degree. But it is trauma. A category I relate to.

This is us taking back control. I do it for you but know that it is our turn to fight back. It is healthy to re-establish your boundaries of a world that took yours away. Create your knife.

So lets write, paint, sing, yell, make moments happen. Transform the world. Lets gain back control over narcissists that have fucked our world over. You are allowed to be the best you can. To brandish swards. 

So this is my life’s work. 

This is why I am doing this. And will continue to do things like this for all my future. And also, I am now going to have a fucking good time and enjoy life and not get caught up on this moment, or what ‘happened to me’, but it is important that it is out there, that it is not told to be kept silent. And if you every want to consider re-building your mind, or if you want redemption, this will be your life’s work too, or I will make it yours by force. Trust me, I am now the girl with the dragon tattoo, a dragon of my Mexican people that have been fucked over by white men like you (By the way, can you feel the power of Mexico and other countries starting to fight back? Being beautiful? Exciting right?). 

So these are the letters. The start to break silences, to have stabbing conversations. No I am not tame. No my parents. My family. I will not do this nicely and silently. If you want to write a letter that stabs go ahead, if you want to thank all those who truly saw you and your truth go ahead. If you want to honour the world with your words and your beauty, go ahead. Lets cut to the real. 

In a letter, you open the world. You can build and do other things you want from there. So lets start to stitch together connections of real discussions, or raw real open discussions, of the possibility of connecting networks between those who have seen trauma and who understand the pain of the world, and who alchemise it. We are the future. 

And fuck those who tell you to be less real, to tone it down. They are cowards. 

Dare, 

Dare to connect. 

We need truth more than ever.

We need reality more than ever. 

We need beauty more than ever. 

Fuck you Jack. 

Eliza. 

Right, now this is done, lets get back to life and cycling.