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lushaletta · 8 months ago

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I have a question??? Could you do Fred Weasley x older sister Potter reader who's he's friends with and like headcanons of their relationship please and thank you

in good hands / fred weasley

pairing: fred weasley x fem!reader

content: mild swearing, older sister potter!reader

summary: being harry potter’s older sister is difficult. you hate watching your little brother get hurt both physically and emotionally, but fred happens to be a great protector.

a/n: MY FRED WEASLEY DEBUT!! george is my fav but fred is so arghghghgh hot. anywayyyy tysm for this request and i’m sorry i didn’t follow it to a t!! i was originally gonna do headcanons as requested but i kinda got in the zone… i do kinda like this pairing though so i may end up doing hcs eventually anyway! also my bad for this taking FOREVER i’ve been madly busy… love u folks

⋆ ࣪. ⁺⑅ ⋰˚ *.ﾟ .˳⁺⁎˚ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ༺ ˖࣪ ˖࣪ ∗

Harry comes running into your room, soaked with both rain water and agitation. His broom is immediately tossed to the side and you can’t help but be concerned— you have a feeling you know what this is going to be about, and it’s not the first time.

“Harry?”

“So sick of it! I only try to help, you know? To make things better and no one ever gives a fuck! No gratitude or even kindness, after everything I’ve done.” Your face softens as he inches towards you, even being careful not to get your bed wet with his clothing.

“They’re still mad at you for losing the game? Are you serious?” You’re completely furious. Harry’s had the world on his shoulders since forever and his entire life is a tragedy. He can’t even play a school sport without being reamed for something that’s hardly his fault.

Peeling his jersey off, he crawls into your side and waits for your affection; the only thing he can count on when the world isn’t on his side.

“I tried to fix things, you know? Told Fletcher I was sorry but they’re still pissed, calling me a freak and saying all this crap about Voldemort.” You shush him and cradle his face in your arms. Your heart is breaking because how could anyone treat your baby brother like this, how could anyone see him as something less than precious?

His eyes shimmer but not with the sparkle of joy. They’re teary. “Fuck ‘em all. They’ll come around, Harry. They do eventually.”

It’s not fair what they do to him. He’ll mess something up and half the time it’s out of his control, and suddenly he’s public enemy number one. You’re usually there to help, and so are his friends like Hermione and Ron, but it can’t always be like this.

He’s okay after a while. You amp up the jokes and ruffle his hair and he’s okay. He has dinner with his group and you with yours. It’s a nice evening and all you can do is hope he’s forgetting everything wrong with the world. It seems like he is, because he’s tossing peanuts in the air and catching them in his mouth while Ron is laughing hysterically and Hermione is resting her hand on a judgemental expression.

“Oi, Weasley!” you say, and Fred whips his head towards you. “I’ve got something to ask. A favour.”

He perks up. You were asking him for a favour. He’s been waiting for his in since forever, but he wouldn’t let you know that. “Yeah?” he replies, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.

A quick breath escapes your lips as you lean on him, lashes fluttering and a little grin settled on your face. He can look at you trying to be all persuasive without blushing. He’s stronger than this.

“How about.. you and George look after Harry? I’ve been worried about him, with the whole dementor thing. And after what happened last game, I can’t just sit from the stands and watch him get injured again knowing I didn’t do anything about it. Everyone’s pissed at him.”

Fred softens. His mind races, trying to come up with the cons of the request. He comes up empty. This was an excuse to talk to you more and, well, he already quite liked Harry, so that was no issue. And with your convincing doe eyes, how could he refuse?

He’s taking too long to respond and he knows it, but he can’t stop staring at your pretty face. You clear your throat, prodding for an answer. “Huh? Oh, yeah. The lad’s gonna be in good hands, m’lady,” he winks.

The roll of your eyes makes him smile. “Better make sure of it, Weasley.”

And to shut you up, he shoves a grape between your lips and you smack him across the arm.

From then on, Fred and George made sure no one got in Harry’s way. Someone messed with him, they messed with them. The twins were 190 and a half centimetres of beater strength and poking the bear was on no one’s to-do list, so Harry was pretty much set. Well, not entirely.

All Harry really wants to do is sit down and catch up on the pile of homework he’s missed for Chosen One duties, but some people take that as being haughty.

“Potter. You and your godforesaken hero complex. You think you’re untouchable? What’ll happen if I sock you in the face, huh? You think magic will—“

“Fuck around and find out.”

Finnick Lewis turns around. He immediately backtracks. “Hey, listen, man, I don’t want any trouble.” Fred didn’t miss the nasty glare that Lewis sent Harry on his way out. He’d take care of that one later.

The boy doesn’t really know what’s just happened or why, but he’ll take whatever he can get and he’ll be grateful for it. He mumbles out a thank you before scrambling to his room.

You’d seen Fred’s effort in protecting your brother. He’d done a damn good job at it too, because Harry hadn’t complained much about students in weeks. You’re glad you at least took that load off his shoulders.

“Tell you what, Weasley,” you say nonchalantly, unwrapping a chocolate.

He hums. It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon and he’s trying to finish up an essay. Lupin likes him just fine, but he’s definitely a tough grader.

“If you can make sure Harry’s perfectly uninjured after the next game, I’ll give you a kiss.”

Who cares about Lupin? Fred looks up at you instantly, suddenly feeling the velvet of the chair on his skin. “I’ll totally bite. How many seconds?”

You snort. “The kiss?” He nods. “3 seconds. 5 if I’m feeling generous.”

The essay is forgotten just like that.

The man moved the moon and sun to ensure Harry’s safety on his watch. Lewis and Fletcher had their tails between their legs after a few careful threats and actions to back them up, and Harry felt good. Safe. That’s all that mattered.

Monday arrives and the Quidditch stands are a sea of red and green with Gryffindor particularly antsy as Harry zooms around the pitch, Golden Snitch right within his view but not quite arms reach.

“Potter’s got his eye on the prize! I’ve got mine on too, Johnson looks impeccable in robes, I’ll tell you that much— Sorry, Professor.”

Fred’s holding his own, watching out for any foul play from the Slytherin Seeker whilst batting Bludgers. George is at his side, throwing them out and scoring right into Flint’s stomach.

“Wonderful play from Weasley! Not quite sure which one, but great nonetheless,” Lee says through the megaphone.

Fred’s just about to hit a Bludger into the opposing Keeper’s side, but he spots Harry in the corner of his eye being tailed by Higgs and there’s a nasty Slytherin Bludger coming right for him and he’s flying there immediately.

Harry’s so pumped with adrenaline and focus on the Snitch, he doesn’t even notice the ball coming straight to his nose. Godric knows that would leave a mark. Fred comes up and bats it away, nearly falling off his broom.

You’re watching from the stands in admiration and excitement and Fred can’t help but find you in the crowd. He sends you a wink from the pitch and a girl beside you seems to think it’s for her. You let it happen. You know who it belonged to.

Gryffindor emerges victorious, winning by two points and Harry’s crowd surfing, a big smile on his face as students chant his name. He doesn’t know how long the fame will last, but he doesn’t really care.

“You did good, Weasley,” you admit as Fred comes up beside you.

“Think I deserve my kiss now?”

In typical you fashion, you roll your eyes and pull him towards your face.

He thinks the kiss will be haste, but you melt into his lips and he does the very same. His arms snake around your waist and bring you impossibly closer and you relish in it. It’s embarrassing how much you’re grinning, but you can feel his smile too.

Catching your breath, “That was like 30 seconds. Now you gotta help Harry with his homework.”

#🎞 by.ivy #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagine #hp imagine #harry potter oneshot #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley fluff #weasley twins fanfiction #fred weasley oneshot #fred weasley imagine #weasley twins

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too-deviant · 8 months ago

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jackie and wilson.

previous | next masterlist.

pairing: luke castellan x unclaimed!reader

summary: you haven't been given a quest, but you have made it your personal mission to make luke castellan smile

word count: 6.2k

content: very juicy chapter. is all im gonnna say.

notes: i cant stay mad at my otps i fear

PART IV — better yet, she wouldn’t care

“If I have to hear one more handjob joke, I’m gonna lose it. So please tell me you have good news.”

Lee Fletcher’s dark blue eyes flitted up to yours, his lashes tickling just under his eyebrow when he did. His hands were fiddling with the bandage that wrapped around your hand, but they slowed when you spoke, “Bare with me, newbie.”

You sighed deeply, fighting the urge to fall back onto the cot that you were sitting on — you’d had the stupid bandage wrapped around your hand and wrist for what felt like eternity, but was really only five days. You should be thankful, really, since the last time you’d broken your wrist you’d been walking around with a thick blue cast on for a month, but you couldn’t help but be a little peeved. Capture the flag was today, and you hadn’t trained nearly as much as the others had due to your injury — when you probably should’ve been training twice as much, only because you were new and unfamiliar with the game.

It was their fault for hyping it up; if they had just shut up about it, you wouldn’t have been as excited about taking part, broken wrist or not. But alas, demigods were barbarians — barbarians who thirsted to beat each other up in a controlled battle. Barbarians who didn’t have any regard for the new camper when they were climbing all over each other to see the freshly posted team setup, and trampled all over their perfectly good wrist.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been standing right in front of the notice board.” Luke had been saying all week.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have asked me to accompany you there, then.” You replied every time.

Lee narrowed his gaze, flipping your hand around carefully in his, kneading at curtain parts of your skin while checking you for reactions. When you showcased nothing but annoyance at your own shit luck, he leaned back with a cheeky smile, “Well, it’s looking good. I don’t think you need this anymore.”

He lifted up the knot of bandage he’d removed from your hand and threw it with perfect precision into the trash can on the other side of the room, before turning and grinning at you. You couldn’t help but grin back, “You’re the best.”

“I’m told.” He shrugged, feigning a humble demeanour. You stood, and he did so with you, looking at you pointedly, “But you should still take it easy today. It’s your first game, and you’ve been here for a week. Nobody is gonna judge you for stepping back today.”

You scoffed, rolling your newly healed wrist around with a small smile, “I’m not stepping back for shit, Fletcher. I’m beating the hell out of Chris Rodriguez.”

“He’s on your team.”

“I don’t care.” You rebutted. Lee rolled his eyes, but ultimately let you off with a wave. “See you later!”

The past five days had been fairly tame. When the team setup was posted on Sunday afternoon, everyone went immediately into prep mode for the game. You knew they took it seriously, but you didn’t realise how seriously they did until you found yourself being pulled out of your sleeping bag at five in the morning so you could get a headstart on training with Luke. Although you didn’t see the relevance — after you’d broken your wrist, the boy hadn’t even let you look at a spear, so you woke up at the asscrack of dawn to…sit around and watch him train.

Thankfully, Hermes had paired up with Ares for once, and Clarisse wasn’t letting you off easily. Whenever she could, she was dragging you to the arena and teaching you how to fight one-handed. So you were more than ready, skipping down the infirmary steps with an easy smile.

“I think I see you here more than I see you anywhere else.”

You paused, looking up and spotting Evan, leaning gently on the porch railing. You rounded the steps and stopped in front of him, “Hey. I’ve only been here twice.”

“In…” He checked his imaginary watch, “One week. That’s gotta be a record.”

You narrowed your eyes jokingly, “Okay. I’m still learning, leave me alone.”

“We’ll see how much you’ve learnt later today.” He quipped, running a hand through his hair. He smirked at you, “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” You slid out, sarcasm evident in your tone. He laughed, and you smiled, rolling your eyes.

“Come on, clumsy. Let’s get to training.” He began to walk off, and you followed, presumably to where the Hermes team were gathering for last minute preparations.

For this game, they’d paired up with Ares and Athena, Apollo taking lead for the blue team with Hephaestus and Aphrodite. Red team also had Demeter, and the boys of cabin twelve were on the blue team. It seemed like a pretty good split; or at least you thought it was, judging by the reactions of everyone when they read the pamphlet. You might have been reading it wrong, though. After all, you were crying out in pain and cradling a shattered wrist when it happened.

Athena was always a good cabin to pair up with, was what Evie had told you when she was taking your measurements for armour. You presumed so, goddess of war and all. But you were a little wary about the Cabin Ten girls — Aphrodite was also a warrior goddess, after all.

Evan led you around the back of the pegasi stables and through a mudded path. The only reason you hadn’t taken off running in fear that he was leading you to your imminent death was because the wood nymphs were out and about, milling around like bodyguards. They eyed you up at first, but a few of them recognised you from your impromptu baseball session with Luke last week and told them to back off.

“Here she is, the woman of the hour!” Clarisse exclaimed when she saw you break through the trees. A few people glanced back and smiled at you politely, a sentiment you returned as Evan led you to the front of the crowd where she stood.

Luke was beside her, and only nodded at you. You nodded back, a glimmer in your eyes that made his hands twitch.

“Okay, now that our whole team is in attendance, we can begin.” The Ares girl said, conviction prominent in her voice. She was made to lead, that much was obvious. “You all know the deal. I won’t repeat it, not with the blue team so close by, but…” She sent a meaningful look around the whole crew, “You know where to go. We’ve been practising this, and in a couple of hours it’ll be time to bring home yet another win.”

“It’s pretty much all in the cards for us.” Luke cropped himself into the speech, “Cabin Nine have their special machinery but we’ve got wit, power and numbers. We’ll be fine.”

“Speaking of cabin nine.” Clarisse hopped down from the wooden crate she was standing on, “I grabbed this from them just before the teams went up. Had to make sure they didn’t sabotage it.”

She pulled a long spear out from behind some other boxes, and let it shimmer in the light. It was beautiful, and you couldn’t keep your eyes away from it. Despite it being made from celestial bronze, the forger had clearly done something to make it shine a mesmerising silver. You could see your reflection in it as it glistened under the sun. It was double ended and if you squinted, you could see tiny spikes coiling around the first ten or so inches of each end. The shaft was smooth and engraved with something you could only make out when she walked over and handed it to you.

“Wait.” You took it out of instinct, weighing it in both hands but giving a shocked look to Clarisse, “This is mine?”

“You’re damn right.” She smirked, “Jake was having a field day making that thing, couldn’t stop talking about it. Especially when he added these,” She poked one of the spikes that coiled around the shaft and rubbed the tips of her fingers together with a wince, “They’re lethal. You’ll be unbeatable out there with this thing.”

“Cool.” You gave it an experimental swing, and everyone in your vicinity took a long step back. You shrugged, smiling anyway, “Whoops.”

You felt very powerful with your new weapon, and now that you had it in your hands, you could marvel at the engravings. They were images, battles fought — a lot of them recognisable. There was Perseus killing Phineus and Polydectes with Medusa’s head, Heracles and the Nemean Lion. There was even an engraving of Tantalus stealing the ambrosia and nectar from Olympus, for some reason. You’d have to ask Jake about that later.

“We have two hours until we need to gather at the pavilion, so we won’t bore you with details.” A young girl who you’d seen around camp before stood up and addressed the crowd. She was very little, but she exuded authority even at her young age. “But if I see you lazing around, I’ll put my dagger through your foot.”

There was a chorus of nods and murmured agreement, so the little girl stepped back and nodded at Luke, who told them all to go get ready. The crowd dispersed, but you stayed firmly put as the boy made his way over to you, the little girl following behind him.

“Sunny.” He tried not to smile, but you saw his lips twitch. He gestured to the girl beside him, “This is my little sister Annabeth. Newly appointed Counselor of Athena.”

You raised a brow, impressed, before looking down at the girl with a smile, “Hey, Annabeth.” You introduced yourself, trying not to show her how kind of scared you were for her to not like you.

Luckily she nodded, “Hi. You better be good with that spear.”

“I’d like to think I am.” You joked. She didn’t laugh, simply telling Luke she was going to brainstorm and left you both alone in the clearing you’d been gathered in. You raised your brows at him, “I think she gets her stoic indifference from you.”

He cracked a smile then, grabbing your spear from you and weighing it in his own hands, “Yeah. She’s a firecracker.” He looked at you firmly, “Think you’ll be good for this game? It’s not too late to back out.”

You snatched the weapon right back from him, rubbing his finger prints from the shaft with your sleeve and sending him a half-glare, “You just want an excuse to use this instead of me. I’m fine, JoJo.”

He raised a single brow, “Fine. But if you end up back in the infirmary, I’m not gonna kiss your wounds better.”

You smirked, backing away and pointing your free finger at him daringly, “You wouldn’t be able to hold back.”

He laughed, hand on heart, “Right.”

You were quick to retreat to the Arena where you knew Clarisse was waiting for you. A good chance to break in the new armoury and swing a spear around that wasn’t made of styrofoam or rotten wood. You caught yourself a good sweat in an hour and a half, and Clarisse was covered in bloody dots from those spikes. Even if you were injured, they still didn’t stand a chance against those. It was a comforting thought.

You would’ve practised the whole time had it not started raining — something that confused you greatly since the camp had a controlled climate. Clarisse just rolled her eyes, though, claiming that Chiron was upping the dramatics for the game. You were unsure that the centaur could just…make it rain, but you went along with it. You’d only been a demigod for a week after all.

Not wanting to be completely soaked by the time the game started, you retreated back to the Hermes cabin, shortening your spear down with a click and tucking it into your belt loop before you sat down. You were still on the floor, still next to the six year-old who almost always rolled on top of you in the night — you had now perfected your rollover technique to get him off you without waking him up.

You were re-lacing your combat boots when two shadows loomed over either side of you. Without so much as a glance away from your foot, you said plainly, “Stolls. What do you want?”

A twin pair of scoffs sounded and you just rolled your eyes. The one on the left spoke first, and you thought it might have been Travis, “Bold to assume we want anything.”

“I mean, we do.” Connor added from your right, and the indisputable sound of a hard slap came right after. “Ow! Asshole.”

“Cut to it.” You moved onto your other shoe now that the left one was wound tight. You were always pretty speedy at tying laces, a fairly random skill but a skill nonetheless.

“Well…” Connor started.

“Luke put us on second offence.” Travis continued.

“But we sorta hate doing second offence.”

“Yeah, it’s way too much work.”

Connor leaned over your shoulder so his stupid grin was visible in your peripheral vision, “And we heard that you are on side offence. Which has a much lower maiming risk.”

“So you wanna swap spots?” You deducted, looking up from your feet and giving them a blank glance. They nodded, and you sighed, “Ok, first of all, there’s two of you and one of me. You’ll have to find someone else to swap with too.”

“Already done.” Travis nodded, “Sabine loves second offence.”

“Second of all,” You sent them firm looks, “Luke isn’t going to let you change the layout right before the game. Neither is Clarisse and neither is Annabeth.”

“Which is why we aren’t telling them.” Connor said like it was obvious, holding out his hands like he’d presented you with the best idea ever conjured, “Luke and Clarisse are on first offence and Annabeth is on last defence, right by the flag. No one will know.”

“Plus,” Travis sang, wiggling his eyebrows, “This is a perfect opportunity to prove to everyone how badass you are.”

“Yeah, Luke’s had you on a leash since you hurt your wrist.” Connor raised a teasing brow, “Why not show him what you’re made of?”

You looked between them, and the silence that stretched seemed to serve as an answer because they were smirking at you and pushing themselves up and out of the door before you could utter a word.

The rain hadn’t settled — Chiron and his dramatics, although it appeared Mr D wasn’t too much of a fan. God or not, he still got wet with the rest of them. You stood between Luke and Clarisse, the former shielding both your heads with his black jacket — Annabeth ended up squeezing between the two of you when she couldn’t keep up with her I’m too good to hide from the rain facade. You took it as a win, she was warming up to you!

“Welcome to our first capture the flag of the summer!” Chiron bellowed, pausing for the cheers that resounded. “The usual rules are enforced. Magic weapons are permitted, the flag must be prominently presented with no more than two guards no less than ten yards from the flag! No killing or maiming, and no gagging or bounding of prisoners. Let the games begin!”

There was a loud echo of cheers and battle cries as the first conch sounded — they only had twenty minutes to get into position and then they would be permitted to cross the creek into enemy territory. Annabeth was quick to gather up the flag guards and send them off to their agreed location with nothing but a sharp eye before she was pulling together the defensive lines and sending them off too.

“Hey.” Just before you could walk off, Luke grabbed your attention, levelling his eyes with yours as best as he could from under his helmet. He adjusted yours and patted your shoulders, “You got this, Sunny.”

You nodded, “Damn right I do.”

It was hard to navigate the woods in the rain, which was still pouring almost torrentially over them. The forest floor had grown slippery and wet with the new downpour, but the campers traipsed through it roughly, boots squelching as they moved. You followed the side defence through mud and grass, dodging branches and puddles until you couldn’t hear the chatter of Luke and Clarisse from behind you. Then you stopped, and just ahead of you, Sabine did the same.

It wasn’t long before Connor and Travis were pushing through the trees and greeting the pair of you with wide grins. Sabine rolled her eyes, “Shove off, punks.”

Then she was storming in the direction they came from, and you had no choice but to follow. It was hard to keep up with her long strides, but whenever you lost her in the fog you just followed the sound of her annoyed mutters.

“Stupid kids. Can’t be trusted on last offence let alone second. It’s not fair. I punch one kid for cheating and Luke sends me to side defence. Side! Stupid punk has been out of it for too long, needs a reality check.”

You didn’t bother responding — whether you were going to agree or come to Luke’s defence, you had no idea. You just followed her to the edge where the second offence was lined up just past the edge of the shore. Evie and Evan gave you the same confused look.

“Those Stoll fuckers wanted an easy out.” Sabine spat, pushing a stray curl back under her helmet and heaving her giant club over her shoulder.

The twins didn’t question or fight the decision, simply shrugging and going back to where they were tracing their own tic tac toe game into the wet sand. You stood idly, hands fiddling with your belt buckle before the second conch sounded. Almost immediately did the first and side offences cross the creek and disappear into the woods, while you pulled your spear from the ground and followed the twins and Sabine across the water moments after they were gone.

Then it was a waiting game.

“Fuck Apollo, Marry Athena and Kill Hermes.”

Evie scoffed, shaking her head, “No. No way. Athena would be way controlling as a wife, you gotta bag Apollo.”

Sabine hummed, “No. I think Athena and I would be unstoppable together.”

You looked up from your shoes and between the three that stood before you. It had been two hours and the most action you had was seeing one of your own teammates get flung right back over the creek by some cabin nine contraption that you were not too keen on meeting. Your spear rested across the back of your shoulders, your arms swung around the shaft at either side as you contemplated your own answer.

“No, see —“ You huffed, “I couldn’t marry Athena, but only because she conjures babies with her brain. I could never win an argument, I know that for sure.”

“But we all agree on killing Hermes, right?” Evan butted in with a laugh that was immediately shared by the rest of them. He settled down and squinted for a moment, “Ok. Fuck, Marry, Kill. Iris, Nemesis and…Hypnos.”

There was immediate discourse, everyone speaking up at once with their own opinions. Sabine thought Hypnos would be a terrible lay — He’d fall asleep halfway through! — but Iris would be overbearing as a wife. Evie said Nemesis would be the best wife, she’d never let anyone hurt you, and you were just about to add on that Iris could let you eavesdrop on other people’s conversations whenever you were bored when a loud crack echoed through the trees.

Then it was quiet. You all shared silent looks, baring your weapons and facing the enemy side.

Another crack, a snap of a twig. Then a crash, like something being dropped onto a pile of leaves.

A scream, and a manic son of Aphrodite breaking through the trees and aiming a large Kopis at Evan, who was quick to defend with his dual wielding swords. His teammates followed, and the rest of you jumped into action — you were only slightly panicked when you realised your opponent was a Hephaestus kid who was nearly double your height.

You’d seen him around sometimes, he was only a year or so younger than you. Same age as Clarisse, and definitely the same level of skill in battle. What made him even scarier was that he fought with nunchucks…fucking nunchucks! And he was good with them, too.

But you had been taught well. You were quick to defend your body and use both ends of your spear to deflect each nunchuck from making contact. At one point, he clipped your arm pretty hard, and that was when you realised they were ribbed along the edges making for a harder hit. You bounced back though, swinging every which way and not letting him touch you again.

Briefly, you could hear your peers’ own battles. There weren’t any shouts of pain, or cries for help, so you put all your focus on the boy before you. He had a height advantage, and swung his weapon down on you fairly often, which left your torso open when you held your spear over your head. But your reflexes were like lightning, and no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t land that second hit.

Fuelled by his own frustration, he lunged forward and tried to wrap the chain of his chucks around the shaft of your spear. He attempted to no avail a couple of times, but then he clicked a button on one of the shafts and released a crackle of energy along it. You were shocked momentarily by the reveal of his electric nunchucks that you faltered in your defence and he managed to wrangle your weapon in his own on the third try. You pulled back hard, trying to regain control and prevent his disarm, but he just pressed that damn button again and this time the volts ran through his chain and up the entire length of your spear.

The crack that resounded was huge. Too huge to have come from those tiny nunchucks.

Where you were expecting a sudden and painful shock through your hand and arms you instead felt a massive give. You stumbled back, shocked, but regained your footing before you could fall onto the wet ground. Your spear was in your hands, and the nunchucks were still wrapped tightly around the middle. You looked up from them to see their owner crumbled in a heap on the ground, nursing his painfully red hands while the rainfall soaked his clothes even more.

You’d completely forgotten you weren’t alone until one of his teammates dropped their shield and ran to his aid. You looked up, expecting to meet the dumbstruck eyes of Evie and Evan, only to see their gazes fixed elsewhere. You turned your head.

There in the grass was a giant streak of black, stretching along the shore for nearly five metres. It took a second for you to realise that it was embers — the ground had been burnt completely from where you stood to where it ended. And standing just before it was Luke and Clarisse — the blue team's flag in hand. They weren’t moving, they were staring at the burn in the floor, at you.

Your chin wobbled a little until the echo of the other team reached your ears. You looked at the pair urgently, “Move!”

And they did. Even when the blue team kids you’d been fighting before tried to stop them, they were held back and Luke and Clarisse led your team to an easy victory.

They cheered, and the conch sounded. Chiron emerged through the wood and smiled at them in congratulations — the whole spark debacle was nearly forgotten, campers too busy either cheering or groaning to notice the burn streak on the floor. Chiron did, though, and soon though the short lived celebration quieted down as he asked about it.

Eyes turned to you. You shrugged, “I don’t…I don’t know what happened, it just —“

But then there were gasps. All around you. And suddenly Chiron wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at the space above your head. And then so was everyone else.

When you looked up, squinting past the rain, and your eyes fixated on that glowing lighting bolt that floated above your head, the world went quiet. A week of hearing everything about the glory of being claimed — how at ease you would be, how reassured you would end up. None of it was true. Because for some reason, the symbol that hung above your head sent nothing but trepidation running through you.

You almost missed Chiron's next words,

“Zeus. Law Maker. Striker of Lightning. King of Olympus. All hail.” He shouted your name, but it didn’t feel right in your ears, “Daughter of the Sky God.”

When you couldn’t stand the sight of it — when it started to make you feel sick, when the picturesque summer camp you were finally finding yourself in started to feel tight and uncomfortable, you looked down. Everyone was kneeling, eyes on the ground. It was comforting that they weren’t staring at you anymore, but when you searched the crowd for those baby brows that held you down, they were fixated firmly on the mud.

After your claiming, Chiron dismissed everyone sharply. They left, all talk about the capture the flag win long left behind and replaced by canards about you and your family. Your lineage. You were very prepared to stand frozen on the other side of the creek for the rest of the day but the centaur ushered you into his office in the big house just as the rain stopped.

The next hour was a muffled blur. You felt as if you had just been plunged underwater and all you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears — you vaguely registered Chiron and Mr. D asking you a load of questions about your childhood and whether there were any signs of your parentage along the way. You couldn’t answer that.

They Iris-Messaged your mother — who was in her office and jumped up startled when the call came through. You might have been in a hazy funk, but you could tell the surprise on her face when Chiron informed her of your claiming was genuine. She’d had no idea. That, out of all things, angered you the most.

“This new information will have caused quite a stir in Olympus.” Was one of the last things he said, “But you should be fine, since you’re seventeen.”

“Why does me being seventeen mean anything?”

Zeus’ Cabin was subpar to say the least. Alright if you’re only going in there to worship the guy, not so alright if you’re planning on living there. There weren’t any beds, but there were alcoves lining the walls that you tucked your sleeping bag into so you didn’t have to look at the giant statue of Zeus that stood at the end of the room. For good measure, you chucked a spare blanket over its head — he could smite you for it, you didn’t really care anymore.

You zoned back into reality when a knock sounded on your door, and you realised it was nightfall. Dinner time. You stood from your perch on one of the many benches that sat in the room — you thought they’d have better use in the pavilion, where Hermes kids were practically falling off the benches there were so little of them — and headed over to the huge double doors, heaving one open and breathing deep at the workout it took just to see who was at the door.

It was Evie, and for some reason that made a pit of disappointment form in your gut. You sent her a weak smile nonetheless, “Hi.”

She smiled back, full of pity, “Hey. Just thought I’d come check on you, we haven’t seen you in hours.”

“I didn’t like them staring at me.” You said plainly, stepping out into the open air. The rain had stopped now, the sky clear, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes.

“Yeah, I get that.” Was her heartfelt reply. You felt bad for being so plain with her, but there was really only one person you wanted to see, “But, um, it’s dinner right about now. Wanna…come with?”

You didn’t really wanna, but you were starving and almost certain that nobody would be bringing you any food, so you shrugged, “Sure.”

The large door shut on its own when you stepped away from it, and Evie jumped at the sound. You folded your arms and walked alongside her in silence until you were forced to part at the pavilion. She tried to say something — maybe a goodbye, a good luck. Maybe a we can’t be friends anymore because you’re forbidden. You didn’t stick around to check, walking over to the empty Zeus table where you unfortunately belonged.

You filled your plate, hungry from the workout of capture the flag and exhaustion from the day, but your appetite was ruined when you saw Luke walk in and avoid your eyes completely in favour of sitting at his usual spot at the Hermes table. You hadn’t seen him all day, he hadn’t seen you, and yet here he was; ignoring your existence like he used to. It sort of hurt.

So you dropped your fork, leaned your elbows on the untouched wood and stared at nothing. Only hours earlier were you at the top of your game, happy and ready to use your skills in capture the flag, show your friends what you could do. Now? You were completely alone, completely miserable, and completely ready to go back to Vermont.

You wanted nothing more than to climb into your bed and cry.

People started to stand. Heading in the direction of the campfire that you were definitely going to skip. Some Hermes kids stood, Luke included, and started a slow stroll down there too, past your table and down the hill. Chris was talking animatedly to his friends on either side of him, but Luke didn’t look very happy with whatever it was he was saying. Before you could build up the courage to call out for him, beg him to look you in the eyes and still stay your friend, he was shoving Chris roughly, the boy falling into your table with a grunt.

“What the hell, man?” He sneered, brushing himself off. Luke just glared. He scoffed, “You’ve changed, bro. And not for the better.”

Then he was walking off in a huff, and his friends were following him. Luke met your eyes for half a second before storming off in the opposite direction — and with the influence of the tug on your heart, you followed.

He was halfway to the Hermes cabin when you caught him, and you were thrown back to the time he got into that…thing with Dean from Ares and you chased him all the way up the hill. This time, it was down, and you were a lot less out of breath when you reached out and tugged on his elbow.

He turned to you, “What?”

You paused, hand falling to your side. You swallowed, shrugged, “I…uh…”

Luke tightened his jaw, eyes flicking above your head like if he looked at you any longer his facade would break. He took in a deep breath and met your gaze once more, “Go to the campfire.”

“What —?”

“Go to the campfire.” He was backing away, “Entertain your fans, give out autographs. Conjure some more lighting. I don’t know. Do something, but don’t do it here.”

You weren’t having that. Your gaze hardened, “Hey. You’re not allowed to say that to me after you ignored me all day.”

“I —“ He went for a rebuttal, but came up short, licking his lips in frustration. “You disappeared.”

“I was in the Big House, being interrogated.” You explained, annoyance clear in your tone, “I would’ve liked it if my best friend was waiting for me when I got out but unfortunately he decided he hated me like everyone else and I had to cry alone in my cabin.”

He paused then, taking slow steps back towards you and meeting your saddened gaze. His brows furrowed, “I’m your best friend?”

You cracked a tiny smile, “Of course you are, idiot.”

His nod was barely there, but you saw it. You also saw his smile, small like yours and gone in a flash. “I don’t hate you.” He said, “I don’t care that Zeus is your dad. It’s just…”

“He forgot about me.”

“What?”

You shrugged, folding your arms. There, standing in the middle of the cabins and staring at Luke Castellan, you admitted out loud what you’d been avoiding since you left the Big House, “Zeus. He forgot about me. That's why I never got attacked by monsters, because my deadbeat father was so busy turning his kid into a tree that he forgot he had another one.”

Even under the tears brimming in your lids and through the lump on your throat, you saw Luke flinch. A minute movement, but you caught it like you caught all of his other details. The freckle on his eyebrow, the scar on his forehead that other people missed because they were too busy staring at his big one. The flinch when you brought up the tree. Thalia Grace, is what Chiron had called her.

“I’m sorry for avoiding you.” He said in a low murmur. “Thalia was a friend of mine and Annabeth’s. Brought back some rough memories.”

“Oh.” You breathed, “Oh, gods. I’m so sorry.”

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his torso before you could think about it. Big bad Luke definitely didn’t like hugs, but there you were; hugging him and staining his camp shirt with your salty tears. You couldn’t help it — you were so full of emotions that a single hug that he hadn't even reciprocated was bringing you to tears.

Then he hugged you back, and you started bawling.

Bawling like a baby into his chest while he stood there and held you. Crying about your dad who forgot about you, your sister who died while you lived a happy life, your nonexistent purpose in life because you were over sixteen now and there was nothing for you. Maybe being a forbidden kid was enough, but not really. You weren’t forbidden enough for them, apparently.

“Sorry for shoving Chris.” He spoke into your hair. You pulled your head back enough to meet his eyes, “He was saying shit about you and Thalia and it pissed me off. I know that you want me to be better, happier or whatever, and I am trying but…”

“I don’t care.”

His lips shut with a smack, “What?”

You let out a sad chuckle, “Be miserable. I don’t care, I like you for who you are. Plus, I get it. Y’know? This isn’t the happiest life.”

Luke looked at you with an expression so genuine and heavy that it sort of scared you, but you let it burn you. You’d let him burn you forever more. Then he let out a breath, tinged with relief, and relaxed his forehead onto your own. You stayed like that, heads pressed together and arms wrapped around one another, until footsteps bled into your ears.

You pulled away from each other and spotted Annabeth, who was making her way over very quickly, trudging through the grass that was still wet from earlier.

“Anna Banana.” Luke squinted, his new way of smiling, “What are ya’ doing over here?”

The girl stopped between the two of you and ignored her brother in favour of looking at you, “So, you’re Zeus’ kid.”

“Yup.”

“I knew your sister. She was my sister, too, for a bit.” She said, and you thought it sounded sad, but the girl hid her emotions well. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You shrugged — it wasn’t anyone’s fault but Zeus’. You sent her a kind smile.

She returned it, glancing at Luke then, “Don’t call me that.”

He chucked, patting her on the head and yanking on one of her braids. She huffed and smacked his hand away, but smiled nonetheless. Then she looked back at you, “You were good with that spear today. Maybe Athena could pair up with Zeus for the next game.”

“Maybe they could.” You nodded.

She nodded back, before announcing her departure and heading off. You looked at Luke with a proud grin, “She likes me.”

He smiled fully, amused, “She does.”

“You like me.”

A little sheepish, “I do.”

“So who cares if daddy dearest doesn’t?” You settled on, tilting your head, “We got each other.”

Luke nodded, and you admired the way he looked. He was handsome, that you knew, but he seemed particularly beautiful under the moon, alone with you.

🏷️ @katherines-imagines @lovingjasontoddmakemewanttocry @jennapancake @cobaltskiez @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @m00ng4z3r @ma1dita @woodlandwrites @tsireyasgf @theo-notts-doll @iammightsadyall @fennecswife @csifandom @evilwrongdoer @blueberryjune @dancing-inasnowglobe @acidaciruela @solshaven @rosieandthethorns @sofiacblair @obxstiles @lukecastellanirl (comment to be removed/added!) (also sorry if some of these didn’t work idk what’s going on)

#sunny!verse #who gasped #guys tell me this is good #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #@lia’s works #luke castellan x you #thanks to the anon who gave me the idea for her godly parent

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ariascoven · 2 months ago

Text

fluff is signaled by ❀ ; smut is signaled by ☪︎

AGATHA HARKNESS ༊*·˚

lost bunny - 1. 2.

cozy & spooky ❀

home early ☪︎

insomnia pills ❀

jealous girl ☪︎ ( wip )

like a kitten ☪︎

not your fault ❀

ALICE WU-GULLIVER ༊*·˚

playing dangerous ☪︎

stress relief ☪︎

EVE FLETCHER ༊*·˚

after midnight ☪︎

eyes don't lie ☪︎ ( wip )

VANESSA SHELLY ༊*·˚

thanks to the rain ☪︎

#navigation post #fxf smut #wlw fanfic #kathryn hahn x reader #agatha harkness x reader #eve fletcher x reader #alice wu gulliver x reader #vanessa shelly x reader #elizabeth lail x reader

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knivestothroats · 2 months ago

Text

The Professionals: Passing the Buck

Follow up to this piece The Professionals || In The Woods Somewhere || Professional//Victim Content warnings: Long term captivity, discussions of past torture, discussions of near death experiences, discussions of sexual assault

Fletcher was sitting on the front steps whittling when Buck pulled up in front of the lodge. They stood and strolled up, looking the vehicle over as Buck got out.

“This is the car I bought you?” they asked.

“Yeah,” Buck said. “Thanks, again, for the cash.”

“Uh huh. Looks nice. Gotta be honest, though, I’ve been driving the same truck for a decade, so.” Fletcher shrugged. “Listen, we gotta talk before you go in.”

Fletcher paused. “You’re just double-fisting drinks there.”

Buck bristled. “One is for Tommy.”

“Okay, look,” Fletcher waved it off. “I don’t know exactly how you think this is gonna go. You think this guy is like, someone you can take under your wing because you’ve been through it before, right? You have to understand, he has been through much worse, and for much longer, than you. I think you’re going to find yourself out of your depth here.”

Buck frowned. “It’ll be fine. There’s not a lot of people you can talk to who can relate when you’ve gone through something like this. And I can’t… not do anything for him. Knowing he’s here.”

“It’s not your fault he’s here,” Fletcher said.

“I know. I guess. It’s just weird. And I feel like…” Buck thought about the man he had seen be dragged in for Fletcher to torture, only to be dragged out again and killed. He thought about how he watched it happen and did nothing. Maybe there was nothing he could have done - it had certainly felt that way at the time - but he still felt the guilt like a knife in the stomach when he thought about it.

And he should know, having taken a knife to the stomach.

“I just want you to manage your expectations,” Fletcher said after Buck had trailed off. “And don’t get any ideas about ‘saving him’ or whatever. Trust me when I say this is an upgrade from where he was before.”

“Yeah, you’re a saint, Fletcher,” Buck quipped. “Can we go in now?”

Tommy was reclined on his bed doodling in a notebook when Fletcher knocked on the door. With them, the knock was just a heads up that they were about to enter. Tommy quickly stashed the notebook and pen under his pillow and sat up straight.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Fletcher said, pointing a thumb over their shoulder as they walked into the room.

Following behind Fletcher was the man who had come to the lodge… It must’ve been a week or so ago now; the cuts on his arm from that day were scabbed over, but not gone like they would have been with Sam’s technology. It was something Tommy was still getting used to.

Buck, Tommy remembered.

Buck had his hair tied back this time, with pieces falling loose in front. Tommy’s eyes read over the scars on his face like words across a page.

The first time he saw Buck, Tommy had thought he had looked tough - scary. But as he studied Buck now, there was no sharp edge in his expression. His face was soft, his eyes were sad, he shrank himself as he walked carefully through the house. He didn’t look hard so much as hurt. Not injured, but a lingering sort of hurt. The kind that gets beaten into you permanently. Tommy couldn’t reconcile that with also being someone who willingly spends time with Fletcher.

“Hey, uh…” Buck waved awkwardly. He was holding a to-go cup in each hand. “Told you I’d be back.”

Tommy’s eyes moved to Fletcher, leaning against the wall with their arms folded, staying out of the way. He looked over Buck again, searching for signs of danger. If he was one of Fletcher’s friends, he may have similar interests. Fletcher could have brought him here to torture Tommy as a pick-me-up. It wasn’t clear to him yet what the intent was, and that put Tommy ill at ease. He carefully watched Buck's face and tone, rifling through an index of roles he could play while he struggled to find the right fit for his mysterious visitor.

“Um, I brought you this,” Buck held out one of the drinks. A peak of whipped cream sat on top. “It’s a mocha shake. Like a coffee chocolate milkshake. I don’t know, um, if you like coffee, or how you take it, but it’s pretty sweet so I figured it would be safe. Mostly tastes like chocolate.”

Tommy looked at the drink, then up at Buck - he wore an encouraging smile but still carried those sympathetic eyes - then turned to look at Fletcher. He waited for their approval before he dared lift his hand toward it.

“You said you like your coffee sweet,” Fletcher conceded. They gestured to the cup.

Tommy reached out and accepted the drink. “Thank you.”

He took a sip. It was indeed sweet, sickly sweet almost, but with just enough balance from the bitterness of the espresso to not tip it over the edge. Tommy slurped it down until he gave himself a brain freeze. With a grimace, he pressed the palm of his hand against his temple.

“Yeah, sorry, I know it’s a little cold out for shakes,” Buck said. “But I figured a hot drink would cool off by the time I got here, and this wouldn’t melt as much.”

Buck sat down on the bed next to Tommy. He did his best not to take up too much room, or encroach on Tommy’s space, both hands cupped around his drink. Still, Tommy drew back his legs and inched away just enough to make sure they wouldn’t accidentally touch.

“So,” Buck gave a smile that was half-grimace. “How are you holding up here?”

Tommy’s eyes shot to Fletcher. This was almost too obvious of a trap.

“Fine. Good. I’m very grateful to Fletcher for getting me out of my previous situation and providing a home for me here.”

Buck opened his mouth but was at a loss for words. Tommy couldn’t help but look to Fletcher again for approval. Their face remained mostly neutral, but there was satisfaction there underneath.

“Right. Well that’s…” Buck shot a look to Fletcher as well. He didn’t seem convinced. “Great to hear.”

Of course he wasn’t convinced. It was too obvious. But Tommy was a professional - he just had to give them what they wanted.

“Really,” Tommy pressed. “I’m - it’s much better here. I owe Fletcher a lot for taking me in.”

“Sure, yeah.” Buck squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He fixed his face when he opened them again, forcing that encouraging smile. “What are some things you like?”

This was not a turn in the conversation that Tommy had anticipated. “Um… sorry?”

“Like, what’s something you miss from the outside world?” Buck asked.

“Oh, uh,” Tommy gave a small laugh and said, “I try not to think about it.”

Buck cringed. “Right, sorry, uh, I just ask because I was thinking I could, like, bring you something.”

Tommy searched Buck’s face as if he could find the missing piece that would make it all fit together into a clear picture.

“Something…?”

“Yeah, like, is there a food that you like?” Buck asked.

“Oh, Fletcher feeds me very well here,” Tommy assured him.

“Yeah, I - okay.” Buck regrouped. “Is there - what about like candy or something that Fletcher doesn’t make?”

“Um…” Tommy pinched at the fabric over his legs and glanced nervously at Fletcher, who was just watching the exchange silently. Was this all still a test? Why was he being so insistent? “I’m sure if - if there’s anything Fletcher wants me to have, they would provide it for me.”

Buck now turned to look at Fletcher with a pained expression, but Fletcher was looking smug.

“Okay.” Buck rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. Um. What kind of stuff do you like? Do you have any interests or hobbies you want to pick back up? Books, movies, music?”

Tommy's anxiety was rising. Whatever Buck was looking for from him, he was clearly failing to provide. His answers were all wrong. Buck was getting frustrated. He couldn’t figure out what the right thing to say was, and Buck was going to keep pushing until he got it right.

Tommy shrank down, pulling his shoulders up and averting his gaze to the floor.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re looking for right now,” he admitted.

Buck’s brows pulled together. “Hey, no, you’re okay.” He put his hand out towards Tommy like he was trying to steady a scared animal. “I’m not looking for anything, like - you’re not in trouble, okay? I just… I remember… Fletcher said you’ve been, um�� captive for a pretty long time, and I was just thinking it might be nice if I could bring you something you couldn’t otherwise get.”

Tommy set his drink aside. He wiped the condensation off his hands onto his pants, running his hands over his legs over and over. As he spoke, he kept his eyes down.

“You don’t have to get me anything,” Tommy said. “You can just take what you want. We don’t have to�� delay the inevitable.”

“Wh- uhh…” Buck was at a loss. “I’m not here to…” He looked to Fletcher out of desperation.

Fletcher cleared their throat to get Tommy’s attention, then said, “What’s the worst thing you’ve been through?”

“Fletcher!” Buck exclaimed indignantly.

“You want to bond?” Fletcher asked. “Find a shared experience. You can give your answer next.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk about it,” Buck argued.

“You don’t know that,” Fletcher countered. “Maybe he wants to get it off his chest with someone who can understand, huh? Why don’t you go first, actually. That way he’ll be more comfortable.”

Buck grit his teeth. “I think you know mine.”

Fletcher shrugged. “There’s a few things I could guess, but I don’t know where you rank them.”

Tommy watched the two of them, relieved for the attention to be off of him for a moment. There was conflict here he was desperate not to be in the middle of. He still didn’t understand their dynamic, or Buck’s position in general. He grasped at any enlightening information he could get.

Buck sighed, annoyed. It was the first time Tommy saw the flicker of real anger in his eyes.

“Probably when you beat, waterboarded, and pretended to execute me.”

Tommy failed to suppress his look of alarm as he gaped at Buck. Fletcher had done all that to him? Why was he back here then, seemingly visiting of his own volition, delivering coffee to Fletcher’s new prisoner?

“Hm,” was Fletcher’s response. “Not when you got stabbed or shot?”

“No,” Buck said. “I mean… they were all bad. But that day stands out.”

Fletcher scratched their cheek in thought. “I was just thinking, getting shot was what started it all. And getting stabbed was the closest you came to dying. O’Connor did a number on you, too.”

“Yeah, well…” Buck lost his words for a moment. He closed his eyes, adrift in his memories. When he opened them he said, “Yeah, they were all fucking bad. Getting stabbed is a close second. But when you… I really thought… you drew it out so much. I thought you were going to kill me, for real. Like, I was going to die on my knees in the dirt. And you beat the shit out of me for…” Buck stopped himself, looking away. “Never mind. Let’s not get into that.”

Tommy’s eyes danced between them. Each new turn in the conversation left him more and more lost. How did they end up where they are now? Fletcher had been so vague before - just that Buck had saved their life. Why would Buck save the person who had tortured him?

“Well, there you have it,” Fletcher said to Tommy, who quickly tried to swallow down his look of horror. “Buck’s been through some shit. Your turn.”

“Oh… um… that you’ve done?” Tommy did his best to collect himself. “Um, my arm was pretty bad. But burning my hand on the baking sheet was pretty scary. And slamming my head into the cabinets. But I know I deserved it,” He added quickly before offering a sheepish smile to Buck. “I ruined the dinner that Fletcher had worked really hard on.”

Fletcher waved it off. “Not from me, the worst in general. I’m guessing your clients wanted a little more than a toasted hand.”

Tommy flushed with humiliation at the mention of his clients. Buck gave him a questioning look, but Fletcher was waiting expectantly. Tommy’s mouth was dry again, but he feared Fletcher’s impatience.

Tommy had no idea what to say. “Hey, those things have happened to me too, samesies bro”? He didn’t want to volunteer any wicked ideas Fletcher might want to reprise, or try to one-up. His mind went to Sarge. No, steer clear of admitting you tried to kill Caius. Darwin - too difficult to describe. His birthday - he winced away from the memory, no, he could not possibly explain that.

“Maybe um. This couple…it was a flogging, and then lashes with the cat of nines, and hung me up on some meat hooks to fuck me.”

Buck recoiled. He hadn’t meant to. It was just more than he was ready for. And the way Tommy said it - so casually, like it was another day at the office.

Tommy saw Buck pull back, eyes wide. His face reddened, hot up to the tips of his ears, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. He was sure Buck was picturing it now. At the time, he had begged even Caius to look away, and now he gave it to Buck and Fletcher to picture in their heads.

Buck quickly pulled himself together when he saw Tommy get embarrassed. Maybe he should be casual about it too, so Tommy didn’t feel like it was a big deal. But he had no idea how to be casual about that. Buck had been beaten, but never flogged or whipped. And he had certainly never been raped.

That stuck out to him the most. Tommy didn’t even call it rape, just that they fucked him. Made it seem like it was a regular occurrence.

“Um,” Buck cleared his throat. “When you say they hung you on hooks…” he began, remembering being strung up in Fletcher’s basement, “...do you mean, like, by your wrists? Like were you in cuffs, or..?”

“No, they went through my back,” Tommy said, keeping his head down.

Buck felt sick. “Like… you were impaled?”

“No - no, sorry,” Tommy shook his head. “Just, in my back and out my back. But they went under the skin, you know?”

“Sure,” Buck mumbled. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Fletcher was looking at him, but he refused to make eye contact. “How long were you, um… what was your situation?”

“Five years, about. There was this…business, that rented me out. They’d take me to a client’s house for them to use me for -” He made a vague hand gesture that Buck wasn’t sure he wanted to understand, “-whatever. Whatever they wanted to do that they normally couldn’t, but I couldn’t say no, so…yeah. Then I’d go to the doctor, he was in the business too, and he would fix me up and cover all the scars and stuff and get me ready for the next one.”

Once he started, it all came out in a rush, and he sat back, a little surprised at himself. He’d never told anyone about any of this stuff, no one had asked him. Buck was the first one who didn’t already know what he did. He felt like maybe it didn’t sound so bad when he said it out loud that way. He didn’t want to scare Buck too much.

Buck tried to process what he’d heard. “So they would just… rent you out? And people would, like… just torture and rape you? And then they’d rent you out again to someone else?”

That sounded less good.

“Well…I would usually have some time to heal, in between. Do some chores whenever I was able. If I earned a punishment it might take a little longer before I was ready for the next one but, yeah. As soon as I was in good enough shape they’d take me to the next one.”

Buck looked down, blinked, and then turned away. He sat like that for a moment, thumb rubbing over the lid of his coffee cup. Tommy couldn’t see his face, and feared he had said something wrong. He felt foolish that he had not put it together that Fletcher hadn’t used Buck for sex, and without that shared experience, Buck would see him differently.

Buck must think I’m a whore.

Buck turned back then, keeping his eyes low. He reached out and put his hand over Tommy’s.

Tommy froze. He didn’t pull away. He knew not to pull away. Touch was always scary. It had been a long time since he’d been touched at all by someone who didn’t want to hurt him. But Buck… Buck’s touch felt nice. Part of him wanted to crawl into Buck’s arms, although he knew he still couldn’t be sure of Buck’s intentions in the long term.

Buck looked up into Tommy’s eyes. He was blinking a lot, trying to keep tears from welling up.

“I am so sorry you went through that,” he spoke with sincerity. “You didn’t deserve it.”

Fletcher made a face at the mention of deserve, but neither were looking at them now. Tommy was caught in Buck’s gaze like a deer in headlights, his own eyes suddenly stinging.

“Oh,” was all he managed. His throat was suddenly too thick to speak. There was a painful pang of longing being strummed in his chest by Buck’s gentle touch. He wasn’t sure if he was going to cry, or throw up, or if he was falling in love. At least two out of the three, he feared.

Fletcher let out a loud sigh. Both Tommy and Buck turned to look at them.

“Fletcher,” Buck said. “Seriously?”

“I’m just asking myself why I’m here watching this,” Fletcher shook their head.

“You don’t have to be here,” Buck said pointedly.

Fletcher scoffed. “Oh come on. Like I’m going to let you be alone with him. Once you start thinking of deserve it’s all downhill. Look, I’m not going to stop you two from bonding or whatever, I just don’t want you to start getting ideas. I think your little pet project would be better suited to, like, coming over for movie night and shit. Bring some board games if you want to bring something. Fun distractions. Give him a little something to make his living situation better, because this is his living situation, and that’s not changing.”

Tommy didn’t realize his heart had lightened until it sank again with Fletcher’s words.

They warned you not to get your hopes up.

Buck looked at Tommy again. Fletcher was right, in a way, despite being an asshole about it. He knew he couldn’t really change Tommy’s big picture situation. If Petrova hadn’t tried to kill Fletcher, Buck himself would probably still be stuck here. His goal should be to do what he could to make Tommy’s life here at the lodge less miserable and alone than his own was.

“Does a movie night sound good to you?” Buck asked Tommy gently.

Tommy nodded, managing a nervous smile in spite of himself. He didn’t know how to tell him, so he squeezed Buck’s hand, hoping he knew that he was grateful.

“Alright, let’s go pick a movie.” Fletcher clapped their hands once and opened up the door to usher the boys out. “I don’t know why you’re being so mopey about this. It’s overall a net positive. Let’s make some popcorn.”

@suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome–hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds @morning-star-whump

@leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday @defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @utopian819 @pretty-face-breaker @inpainandsuffering @victimeyez

@light-me-on-pyre @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

#the professionals #writings #original #cutting it real close to 4pm here lol

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sarahsmi13s · 1 year ago

Text

Friday Night Moonlight

for @roosterforme 's rocktober event!!

pairing: robert 'bob' floyd x reader (slight high school au)

characters: bob floyd, reader (nickname dolly), beckett fletcher, misc high school kids

warnings: language, cheating, high school drama, pining, best friends to sorta lovers, the ending may be rushed, there's a kiss, fighting, toxic boyfriend, please let me know if i missed anything

word count: ~4.5k

a/n: the song that inspired this is the nitty gritty dirt band's fishin' in the dark, and taylor swift's you belong with me music video (she was born in the 80's 😅) em, i want to apologize for getting this up so late! i got bogged down with whumptober, but i'm here!

summary: having been best friends since childhood, bob knows just what you need to feel better after a nasty break up

You and Bob had been neighbors your entire life. Your bedroom window had been right across from his since you were both toddlers and you played in your backyards while your parents drank coffee or watched the football games on Saturdays.

Also, you and Bob both had cousins that participated in Friday night events so you often played in the grass, completely ignoring the game and just enjoying getting to stay up past your bedtime. You even wrote notes in sketchbooks and talked through your windows when you were supposed to be in bed.

And even now, in your senior year of high school, you still did that.

Talking through your windows like you were passing notes in class, which you also did and you never once got caught.

You also got to see parts of each other you never let your parents see, and never spoke about outside of your sketchbooks.

The sad parts, the angry parts, all of it stayed on pieces of paper, hidden between two pieces of cardboard and bound together with flimsy metal spirals.

Until tonight…

Bob glanced up from his homework, looking towards your window to check on you and your AP Calculus homework.

But all he found was you on your feet, pacing around your room as you heatedly spoke into your phone, unoccupied arm flailing about as you argued with whoever was on the other end. It was no doubt your boyfriend.

Ah yes… Your boyfriend, the star running back on the football team — Beckett Fletcher.

Bob and Beckett weren’t the fondest of each other. Bob knew you deserved better and Beckett was threatened by your childhood best friend. But they tried their best to not let you catch on, sending one another looks when you weren’t paying attention.

But Bob wanted to tell you to leave, tell you that Beckett is no good for you. Because if Bob ever saw you on your phone and you were either crying or angry… chances were it was Beckett on the other end of the line.

And Bob despised it.

Ever since you were children, Bob never liked to see you sad. He always found a way to cheer you up, whether it was getting you to laugh or just simply distracting you with a cartoon and cuddles on the couch.

He found a way to take your pain away.

Watching you intensely as you talked, Bob was already reaching for his sketchbook.

Once you threw the phone on your bed and you sat at your desk by the window, you looked up and saw that Bob had a note ready. The letter’s scribbled across reading, “what’s wrong?” rather than what they usually read which was “are you okay?”

Man… you really needed to shut your curtain when you’re on the phone with Beckett.

You didn’t like Bob seeing the faults in your relationship, seeing that the foundation was cracked just so he could tell you it was a bad investment because of the unstable ground.

You were trying so hard to keep this relationship standing, it was the only way to get over your feelings for your best friend, to forget the piece of paper you tucked away in your night stand 6 years ago… but Beckett was making it really hard.

And now you were really debating if staying with him was worth it… and Bob could see it.

Sighing, you picked up your own sketchbook and thick Sharpie, writing your message down before flipping it to show him.

“drama, i’m just sick of it”

You were lucky that Bob couldn’t see your tears through the glass and you tried your best to keep it hidden from him by not letting your shoulders move as you silently cried.

Bob frowned, he wasn’t aware of any drama at the school. And being the fly on the wall he tends to be, he knows a lot of the drama. So this was clearly a sign that this was internal in your relationship and exclusive to locker room and cheer practice talk, which he was not privy to as he was in band – a percussionist no less, they had their own things going on.

But even still, you liked to share your drama with him, sitting in the backyard while your parents watched the Sooners play on Saturday night. It was y’all’s thing, but over the past few weeks you never shared cheer drama with him and you both just chatted about what you both knew and then changed the subject completely to something else.

He knew something was wrong but… this wasn’t something you talk about over notes through a window, and you looked… tired.

So he gave you a sympathetic look and apologized, not happy that you just shrugged it off and gave him a less than convincing smile. But you were quick to throw up a ‘goodnight’ note, closing your curtain when you saw his note.

Bob frowned and looked at his drawer, pondering about the note left in there… a note he wrote a while back that he was too scared to show you.

Meanwhile, you turned your lamp off and collapsed into your bed, holding a stuffed bunny to your chest as you sobbed into your pillow.

Tomorrow wasn’t gonna be fun.

The next morning, you woke up looking like death hit you with a fighter jet.

You had fierce under eye bags and your cheeks were blotchy and red. Your upper lip and nose were raw from both your hand rubbing it and the tissues that were never as gentle as they claimed.

Groaning, you did your best to cover it up, using the proper techniques your mother taught you to use with her estheticians license. You had to look put together for tonight because it was Friday and you had a home football game against one of your biggest rivals.

After your makeup was done and your hair was in dutch braids, a bow securing them together at the base of your neck with your ends curled in tight waves, you put your long sleeve uniform on. It was going to cool off once the sun went down so you needed to be prepared.

And after all that was said and done, you bid your parents a goodbye before walking out to meet Beckett at the curb so he can take you to school.

You had your license, but you didn’t have a car just yet so Bob had offered to take you to school and he did until you started dating Beckett and then you rode with him instead.

Except, you didn’t walk out with a smile on your face or that “cheerleader pep” in your step this time. No, because after your argument with him, you truly weren’t sure if he was even going to be outside this time or not.

And to your disappointment but not disbelief… your boyfriend wasn’t there.

But Bob was… your best friend was there, he was always there.

“Hey, Y/N! Do you need a lift? I’ve got plenty of room.”

Hearing his voice in person was a bigger relief than you thought it was going to be. It was soothing for you, and you felt a gentle smile form on your face.

Instead of answering right away you walked over to him, prompting him to walk and meet you halfway.

“How are you doing? That conversation looked pretty heated…”

While his tone was gentle, Bob’s words were straight to the point. He knew that whatever was said had a great effect on you and a simple night’s sleep wouldn’t magically fix it all.

“I’m okay. Just a dumb fight. It’s probably just his nerves, tonight is a big game and he’s got a lot riding on his shoulders,” you said, acceptance in your voice as you didn’t meet your best friend’s eyes.

Bob hated that. Hated the excuse you made for Beckett. Hated that you kept giving him the benefit of the doubt instead of just accepting that he was a shitty boyfriend.

You had been getting into more fights lately and you were either blaming yourself or excusing Beckett’s faults for the fact he was stressed out.

Even if he was stressed, Bob wouldn’t ever make you feel like this. He would never make you feel like this, period, he loved you too much.

“Are you sure? You seem to be having a lot of fights the past few weeks, does it have to do with the drama you told me about?”

The way you sucked in a breath and played with the bottom of your uniform skirt told him all he needed to know.

“Dolly…”

Your head whipped up at the mention of your childhood nickname. Bob had given it to you because you carried around your bunny doll everywhere when you were little. He rarely used it anymore, so when he did – he was being serious.

“Bobby look I-”

Suddenly a car pulled up, “Hey babe, sorry I’m late.”

You looked over, seeing Beckett, “It’s alright Beck.” You looked at Bob, “I’ll see you later. Bye.” Bob waved, “See you later, Y/N.”

Beckett sent Bob a glare as you got in the passenger seat before driving off as soon as your door was closed. Bob just rolled his eyes and huffed before getting in his car.

“So, what were you and Bob talking about before I pulled up?” Beckett asked as he drove away. You shrugged and buckled your seat belt, “It was nothing Beck.” He huffed a little, “Sure it was.”

You scoffed but just shook your head and rested your hand on your fist.

Beckett had really been bugging you about Bob lately. Asking you questions all the time. Accusing you of being with Bob when you missed a call.

You knew him and Bob didn’t get along. But he had rarely ever accused you of having feelings towards him until recently. It was completely random because it came out of nowhere. It was causing so many fights and the stress was blowing small things way out of proportion.

It was killing your relationship.

The school day went by fairly quickly. It usually did on Fridays because a pep-rally in the middle of the day usually made the second half go by faster.

Most students went home to get ready for the game, maybe changing an outfit or doing makeup touch ups before coming back to the stadium. But not everyone did. The kids participating in the night’s activities, the football players, cheerleaders, and band members, stayed on campus or close to it so they weren’t late. Usually just going to grab a bite to eat or just hang out until it was time.

Bob usually went with you to go eat and hangout before you got with Beckett. But now he just chilled in the percussion room and practiced until he needed to get ready.

He tried to tune out the color guard next door, not real keen on listening in to their drama. But this time, something piqued his interest.

“Oh my gosh, you’re kidding! There’s no way!” Mariah yelled, her voice going through the thin walls.

“Apparently so, it’s sad honestly. And Tamara knows that he’s still with Y/N!” Paige exclaimed.

That. That statement was what really got Bob’s attention.

Tamara was on the dance team, going there after not making it on the cheer squad. She had never been mean to you per say but it was pretty clear that she wasn’t your biggest fan.

And now it seems like she went straight for the throat and was keen on making your life hell your final year of high school.

“I know, and Y/N doesn’t even know… I hope she finds out soon or Beckett actually breaks up with her first. She’s clearly taking it hard.”

“They fight all the damn time, of course she’s not okay, Mariah.”

Bob clenched his fist, he was seething.

This, this was the drama you were talking about and this was the reason Beckett kept picking fights with you.

He shook his head and pulled out his phone, he needed to talk to you.

You sat in the field house, smiling at Beckett as he drummed on your thigh.

You both managed to make up before the game. Apologies on both sides and spending time together to really talk it out. So, now you both could focus on the game and not worry about your relationship.

“Fletch, c’mon, we gotta go get dressed,” Taylor, Beckett’s best friend said, not looking at you as he pointed to the locker room. Beckett nodded and kissed your cheek where his number was temporarily tattooed on your cheek, “I gotta go baby.” You nodded and kissed his lips, “Good luck, Beck.”

You smiled at Taylor and walked over to the cheerleaders.

“Dude, you have to tell her. Or I’ll tell her,” you overheard Taylor whispering. “Taylor, chill out. Everything’s fine.”

You feel your heart drop, thoughts filling your mind before you shake them away.

“Yeah Tamara told me-” Megan started before Jayme cut her off. “Girl, shut up.” “Why? I thought you wanted to talk about her and B-”

“Hey, Y/N, I see that you and Beckett are getting along again,” Kaitlyn said, once again cutting Megan off.

You nodded, “Yeah, we had a decent conversation, talked a lot of things out. Still not smooth, but less rough than before.” Alicia nodded with a smile, “That’s good.”

You nodded again and then your phone went off with a text.

Meet me in the band room parking lot by my car. There’s something I need to tell you.

You sucked in a breath, “Hey, guys, I’ll um, I’ll be right back.” “Okay, practice can’t start without you. Don’t keep us waiting,” JJ said with a teasing smile. You rolled your eyes playfully, “I shouldn’t be too long.”

You jogged out of the fieldhouse and down to the parking lot where Bob’s car was.

Bob was leaning on the hood when you got to him.

“Hey, what did you-”

“Beckett’s cheating on you.”

You stopped dead in your tracks. Your heart was practically pounding in your ears now.

“W-what?”

He stepped towards you and gently grabbed your arms as he looked down. “Beckett’s cheating on you with Tamara. Mariah and Paige were talking about it in the band room… I’m so sorry Y/N…”

You blinked at him before shaking your head and pushing him off of you, “No… No, you’re wrong. You’re lying.” You backed away from him, still shaking your head. “You’re supposed to be my friend. Why are you lying to me? Beckett wouldn’t–” Bob stepped forward desperately trying to get you to listen to him but you stepped back with your arms outstretched, “Don’t touch me.”

Bob's face fell, “Dolly… please. You have to believe me. I wouldn’t lie to you about this.”

You shook your head, “He wouldn’t do that!” “I’m not lying! I heard them talking about it!” Bob defended, honestly feeling hurt that you thought he would do that to you.

You throw your arms up, the words you overheard in the fieldhouse flooding your mind and the things Beckett had said about Bob before.

“Look, Robert,” you hissed and began to talk with your hands. “I get that you might be jealous of Beckett, but lying to me and saying shit like this won’t help you.”

Your stomach churned nauseously as the venom slipped back down your own throat as Bob’s anger shifted into hurt and betrayal behind his lenses. You had never believed the words you just spat at him. Never once did you think that Bob would lie to you because he was jealous. He had never done it before, so why would he do it now?

But you were conflicted and you were hurt. You felt embarrassed that it seemed everyone knew what was going on in your relationship and you didn’t. You felt used and gullible.

You knew you were misplacing your hurt and anger. Bob was just trying to help. But you had made up with Beckett and it all felt right again, Bob just happened to be the one that took off your rose tinted glasses.

But before you could rectify yourself, Bob clicked his tongue and hung his head as he rested his hands on his hips.

“You wanna be like that? Fine. Be like that, don’t believe me,” he shook his head and dropped his hands to his side. “You know where to find me when it crashes down on top of you.”

All you could do was cross your arms and look down at your white cheer shoes, which only made him scoff before he shook his head again. His shoulder collided with yours as he walked past, knocking you off your footing a little before going back inside the bad room.

You could only sniffle before shaking your head and walking up to the field house.

The game was finally over.

Your team won with, you guessed it, Beckett scoring the winning touchdown.

You and Bob had just been thrumming with nerves the whole game. Bob was worried about you and he felt bad for just leaving you like he had instead of giving you a minute to process. But he guesses you were both acting off emotions.

You were anxious because you knew that other shoe had to drop. You just wanted to catch it before it landed on your heart.

And even though they won, you still were anxious as you ran out onto the football field.

“Beck! Beck! Beckett!” Taylor tried to fast walk by you as you tried to find your boyfriend. “Hey, Taylor,” you caught his arm. “Where’s Beckett?” Taylor looked down at you sympathetically before you watched his eyes flicker back the direction he came, “Y/N… I’m so sorry…”

You furrowed your brow and he sighed before gently turning you.

And the other shoe dropped…

It dropped and sent 15 cleat studs into your heart.

There in the endzone was none other than Beckett Fletcher and Tamara Wilson making out like they had been dating for a year.

“I tried Y/N… I’m so sorry…”

You sniffled and looked down at your grass stained cheer shoes, “Yeah because sorry is gonna fix the fact your sister is making out with my boyfriend…” Tears finally slipped down your face. “You know what, you can break up with him for me… I need to leave.”

Pulling your arm from his grip, you turned to go to the track and get your bag.

“Y/N wait–”

“Taylor, I-I can’t right now okay? I just… I need to go be with someone I wholeheartedly trust right now.”

You sniffled before wiping at your nose and running back towards the track.

Bob sighed and walked out of the band room and towards his car. He was ready to go home and just shower off the day and sleep.

Taking a deep breath, he unlocked his car and opened the door.

And he saw the last thing he expected to see.

You.

You were curled up in the front seat of his car, with a mirror in hand scrubbing at your cheek with a McDonald’s napkin as you sobbed. He could see you practically shivering still being in your uniform that provided no warmth at all.

He knew why you were there and he wasn’t gonna say a damn thing. He knew better than to say I told you so or anything because that was shitty of him.

You needed a friend, you needed him.

So, he got in and shut his door. “I have sweatpants in the backseat,” he said lowly as he started the car. “And a hoodie.”

You sniffled and hiccuped a little, “Please…” He nodded and turned in his seat to get them from under his backpack. “Here ya go Dolly,” he said softly as he handed the items to you.

You put your mirror down and wiped at your raw, damp cheek to wipe away both tears and any remainder of that tattoo. You had taken your shoes off when you got in, so you just slipped the sweats on before wiggling your skirt down your legs.

Wadding it up, you threw it in the backseat before practically ripping your bow out and doing the same.

Bob just watched, patiently waiting on you and letting you collect yourself.

“Robby I…” You started before a new wave of tears hit and you started sobbing into your hands.

He frowned, hating the sound of you crying. But he didn’t want to attempt to coax anything out of you just yet, wanting you to just let it out.

Gently, Bob turned you around so your back faced him. He carefully untied your ponytail before using his dexterous fingers to undo your braids. He gently massaged your head, knowing that it was a good way to calm you down.

Your sobs lessened to smaller whimpers and sniffles as he massaged the areas where you were sensitive, soothing you slowly.

He smiled a little as you turned to face him.

“Robby, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things to you. You were just trying to help… I didn’t believe what I said about you being jealous. I’m sorry I said it.”

You wrapped your arms around him and he immediately reciprocated. “I’m sorry for how I reacted. I should have been more patient, and maybe I should have been more gentle with it.” You sniffled into his shoulder, “I deserved it… I shouldn’t have–”

“No, no, Dolly, we’re not doing that. We’ve both acknowledged what we shouldn’t have done. We can work past it, because that’s what we do. We work together.” You nodded, “You’re right, you’re right.”

You pulled back and wiped your eyes, giggling a little when he held the hoodie out to you. You took it, trying to ignore the butterflies as your fingers brushed his and the scent of his body spray surrounding you as slipped the hoodie on. “Thank you, Robby.”

He smiled at you, “Of course. Now let’s go, I’m sure we can hang out in the living room and watch your comfort movies.” You giggled, “You always know how to cheer me up.”

“I’ve known you for 13 years, I’d hope so,” he chuckled as he started driving out of the parking lot. You smiled over at him before resting your head against the window and closing your eyes as he turned the radio up a little more.

Bob nodded his head as he turned down your road, drumming the steering wheel as he listened to the radio.

“You and me go fishin' in the dark. Lyin' on our backs and countin' the stars. Where the cool grass grows,” he sang quietly to himself. “Down by the river in the full moonlight. We'll be fallin' in love in the middle of the night. Just movin' slow. Stayin' the whole night through. It feels so good to be with you.”

He glanced over at you where you dozed off against the window.

This was one of your favorite songs and normally you’d be banging his dashboard in a slightly off beat rhythm but he’d let it slide because you were so excited to hear the song.

He hummed along as he got close to your homes. But as he began to slow down he got an idea.

So, instead of stopping, Bob drove past your houses and headed towards one of your favorite spots to go to clear your head.

Bob pulled up to and parked his car before getting out and going over to your side of the car.

He carefully opens the door and you jerk awake.

“Ah! What the– Bobby, what’s going on?” You asked groggily as you rubbed your eyes.

“I took a detour. I figured you could use a late night trip to our spot,” he said with a playful smile. You gave him a tired smile, “Oh Bobby… thank you.” “Course, now c’mon.”

You giggled, “I can’t wear my cheer shoes, they’ll get dirty.” He grinned and opened the backdoor. “Well, it just so happens that last time we were here, you left your Converses back here.”

Your jaw dropped, “I have been looking for these! And you mean to tell me that you’ve been keeping my shoes hostage!” He chuckled and knelt down to put them on your feet.

Heat rose to your cheeks as he did, the action reminding you of when you were both little and you dressed up as a princess all the time and he happily played your knight. “How could you Bobby Floyd?”

“Oh hush,” he laughed as he tied them before helping you up. “Okay, let’s go.” You giggled as you closed the door and followed him to the river side.

You smiled at him as you both laid down. “C,mere Dolly,” he said as he pulled you into his side.

Smiling wider, you laid your head on his chest and sighed a little bit. “Thank you Robby, this really is what I needed.” He gently scratched your back, “I’m glad I could help.” You looked up at him, “My knight…” You trailed off as his moonlit baby blue eyes made eye contact with yours.

Almost as if you were both on autopilot, you propped yourself up on your elbow and he cupped your cheek. Before either of you realized what was happening, your lips met.

This kiss was sweet and gentle, but it sucked the breath out of your lungs all the same.

It felt like you were connected forever, but when you pulled away it didn’t feel long enough.

Bob had turned bright pink and immediately began to apologize, “I-I– oh my goodness, I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have–”

“Robby, Robby!” You cut him off by covering his mouth. “Hey, it’s okay. I kissed you back… I liked it… a lot.”

He relaxed under your hand at your words and you think he’s gonna say something but he licks your hand. “Oh gross! I was trying to be sweet and you licked me!” You wiped your hand on the hoodie he was wearing.

Bob chuckled, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He held your wrist gently as he sobered up, “I liked it too. But… I think we should wait, just because I want to make sure you’re ready…” You nodded, “I know, thank you.” You smiled and pecked his cheek.

Laying beside him, you laced your fingers with his and rested your other hand on your stomach as you looked at the sky.

He smiled at you and watched your smile widened as you pointed to the clear night sky, counting the stars and pointing out constellations.

The sight made Bob think back to the note in his desk drawer and a smile split his features.

The note has waited 6 years, it can wait a little while longer.

hi, hello, thank you all for reading and making it to the end! i hope you enjoyed! and i'm so sorry this is late

top gun taglist <33: @luckyladycreator2 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @sebsxphia @nobody7102 @djs8891 @desert-fern @startrekfangirl2233 @horseshoegirl @hangmansgbaby @mamachasesmayhem @roosterforme @kmc1989 @lovinglyeternal @callsign-mongoose

sorry if i missed anyone on the taglist, my list in an absolute mess right now 😂

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tagthescullion · 1 year ago

Text

The Undead Diary of Luke Castellan

Fandom(s): Percy Jackson and the Olympians

Rating: T

Summary: It's not Luke's fault the Underworld is understaffed and some of its doors connecting with the living world are left unattended.

Words: 2929

AO3 link

I’d like to begin this story by saying this wasn’t my fault.

Not completely. Or well, not exactly.

The decision was mine, I guess. Except that it wasn’t a decision. More like an impulsive action that turned out to have big consequences.

But, in my defence —a line I’ve been using a lot these past few years, and, come to think of it, all of my life—, I was left unsupervised.

Let’s go back to the beginning.

I died.

Was it painful? Yes, very. Was it unfortunate? Many would disagree. Did I have it coming? I might have, yeah.

At any rate, my arrival in the Underworld had been most expected (by both the demigods alive and the ones whose deaths I’d had a hand in). All things considered, betrayal to the gods and my old camp-mates and whatnot, I hadn’t exactly hoped for a loving welcome committee.

If I’m honest, my judgement and the execution of my sentence were far less harsh than I probably deserved.

Hades himself was in charge of my fate, and to my utmost surprise, he vetoed the judges’ decision to let me burn in acid in the Fields of Punishment. Instead, he suggested I made myself useful, to account for all the destruction I’d brought.

“My domain has expanded exponentially in the past century,” Hades had said. “Daedalus has proved a worthy addition to my efforts to keep it organised efficiently, and you will follow his example if you’re smart.”

And for the past year I had done my job well enough to keep the Lord of the Dead content.

Daedalus was grateful for another pair of hands, so to speak, for I’m not entirely sure I really had hands, or if my spirit’s consciousness believed it hard enough to make it feel that way.

The old man was an incredible and astute engineer, but he had trouble controlling his workers. I, on the other hand, had no idea how to even build a bridge with legos, but I had lots of experience in the field of leading reluctant people, monsters, and even minor deities into battle, which meant organising souls into efficient work groups was a piece of cake. And so I did —carefully watched by one of Hades’ Furies, of course—.

At the beginning, I didn’t see any fellow demigods. Not any I knew, anyway. I was sure some of the souls working under me had been demigods in the past century.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have the time, Hades had given me Wednesdays off —I didn’t really know what day of the week it was, time is an elusive variant in the Underworld, but the Fury was kind enough to remind me—. I just didn’t have the courage to face my old acquaintances just yet.

I kept to the outskirts of Elysium. Souls don’t need to sleep, don't need to eat, don't need to do anything, truly. So I wandered around, looking remarkably like the souls who’d forgotten themselves after so many years.

One day, I was spotted by Lee Fletcher.

It felt like a dagger through my unbeating heart. Lee Fletcher had been my best friend and the second person I’d failed to convince to turn to Kronos’ side. I was glad Lee hadn’t joined in the end, but I’d been shattered when I learned of his demise in Zeus’ Fist at camp.

Lee didn’t look particularly surprised, though.

“I was hoping you’d show your face around eventually,” he’d said. “You deserve a punch in the face and a friend to listen to an explanation.”

I had then offered my old friend a crooked smile. “That’s why I didn’t come round.”

Lee walked with me for a while in silence. I didn’t feel like explaining, and I suppose Lee didn’t feel like forgiving just yet.

After a couple of weeks, it became our Wednesday routine. Lee dared to speak before I did. He told me of what he knew of our respective siblings, and what he knew of everybody else, really. Demigods died and brought news even after the Battle of Manhattan. Obviously, a lot less frequently, but demigod life wasn’t easy in peace times either.

At some point, Lee managed to convince me to meet Silena.

I assumed if anybody was also wary of our former friends it was her. She’d been a marvellous informant, but that had also made her an incredible traitor.

There was a fraction of a second of tense silence when we stood face to face. Then Silena bursted out into sobs and hugged me tight.

“We fucked up,” she cried. “We fucked up, we fucked up…”

I agreed, of course. Gods, we’d fucked up big time.

Slowly, Lee threw more people my way.

Traitors at first, all of them filled with guilt and remorse. I imagine if they weren’t, they would’ve been burning in the Fields of Punishment with the acid the judges had wanted for me.

Then, there’d been a couple of kids who’d never joined my side. They were reluctant, I knew, but they clearly respected Lee enough to go along with him.

Eventually, I got used to the nasty glares, but, more surprisingly, I started getting comments around the lines of, ‘Something had to be done, though’, ‘They really don’t care much about us, do they?’.

Through Lee’s diplomacy and my visible humility and apologetic behaviour —which wasn’t natural to me, but I wasn’t exactly in a position to start defending myself—, my old friends appeared on my Wednesday walks without being coerced. And I even stopped dreading those meetings so much.

That was until spirits started disappearing.

It was rather chaotic at first. There was fear around, which wasn’t common in Elysium.

But then the fear turned into hope. They didn’t disappear. Rumours said they were going back to life.

My inner curiosity got the best of me, as it always did.

One Wednesday, I led Lee and Silena to Melinoe’s cave. She wasn’t home, which made me wonder whether she was in her father’s castle or just roaming around, scaring the shit out of innocent mortals.

When Melinoe wasn’t in her cave, there was always Thanatos, I knew, making sure nobody snooped around like we were doing. Thanatos was a rather strict fellow, and a very good ally to Hades.

In retrospect, it was easy to see he hadn’t been seen around in a long while. But then again, it’s easier to notice those things in hindsight. Time, as I said before, is hard to keep pace of in the Underworld.

“I don’t like this,” Lee said. “I don’t think we should be here.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “Worst case scenario, they’ll blame me.”

Lee smiled. That had been a thing even before I left camp. Whenever something fishy happened, Chiron was always quick to point at me rather than Apollo’s golden son.

“I’d rather they blamed nobody,” Silena said. “This place feels terrible, let’s go back.”

I stared at my friends. Didn’t they realise? Thanatos wasn’t here, neither was Melinoe, the Furies would need some time to catch us.

“It’s a way out, guys!”

“Out?” Lee’s expression turned uneasy. “Listen, Luke, we shouldn’t mess around with that idea.”

“It’s been done before,” I insisted. “Or almost.”

“I’m with Lee,” Silena said. “What’s happened, happened. We can’t leave. We can’t go back.”

“There’s nobody here!” I took another tentative step into the cave. I felt a pull, pushing me out into the open, but I went further in. “It feels… strange.”

I felt warm and cold at the same time. I hadn’t felt much since I’d died. My spirit had felt a trace of sensation, but it was muted. As if it was a memory rather than the real thing.

Could I possibly go out? Into the living world?

Over the past year I’d pushed down those feelings of incompleteness. There were still so many things I wanted to do. So many apologies. But two in particular. There were two people I’d have given anything to see.

And perhaps, if there was nobody to stop us, we might be able to leave!

“Luke, stop it!”

But Lee’s voice grew dimmer in my ears.

I could meet them again, my two girls. Explain, tell them how sorry I was.

The force pushing me back grew stronger with every step, but it was no match for my determination.

Step after step, the sensations enhanced in my chest. Cold and warmth, and even a hint of nausea. The ground sloped down, slowly at first, then steeper as I kept going.

Then I realised I could smell. It didn’t smell like a musty old cave, it was the smell of summer. Of hot wind and freshly cut grass.

It only made my resolve stronger.

It was pitch dark. The light from the entrance of the cave had been lost completely.

I went another step further. Then another step. And another step.

I took a deep breath. I could breathe. I was breathing!

Another step. Another step. Another step.

The sound of my heartbeat filled my ears. Loud, strong, quick. Deafening.

Another step. Another step. Another step.

The force pushing me back was so strong now, that I almost tripped. But I regained balance and managed to keep going.

Another step… Another step… Another step…

Then the ground disappeared.

And I fell.

-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z

My first sensation when I woke up was warmth in my face.

A memory stirred in my mind. The smell of ripe strawberries, the laughter of children free for the summer holidays, the rhythmic sound of waves, a towel under my body, and the warmth of the sun hitting my exposed skin.

It was the sun. The sun! I was feeling the sun on my skin!

Then the feeling disappeared, and the brightness I could see through my closed eyelids banished.

A soft hand patted my cheek carefully.

“Hello?” Said a woman’s voice. “Young man?”

I opened my eyes slowly. Outlined by a halo of sunlight the face of a pretty woman of about thirty hovered around a metre away from me.

I tried to speak but my throat felt like sandpaper.

“It’s okay,” she said. Her voice held a trace of an accent. “It takes a while to get used to being back.”

Back.

In spite of the burning feeling in my throat, my face split into a grin.

“Back,” I rasped. “I’m back.”

The woman helped me sit up.

I studied her properly now. Her skirt, blouse, and sweater looked old-fashioned. Her hair was loose, but it curled in that style I’d seen in a thousand WWII movies. She had a warm smile and a clever look.

“I’m Luke,” I said, offering her a hand. “My name’s Luke Castellan.”

“Maria,” she replied.

She looked at my hand and shook it after a second of hesitation.

“I keep forgetting Americans shake hands. So impersonal,” she stated with a raised eyebrow. Her tone was teasing though.

“Are you—” I caught myself. “Were you dead too?”

“Right to the point, yes?” She smiled. “Yes, I was dead. I have been for a while. But now I’m here, and I need to find my son.”

“Your son?” I was surprised.

My perception of ‘mother’ isn’t the best, but this woman didn’t look like a mom to me. She looked like an old time movie star, those that always had perfect make-up, in the black-and-white photos I’d seen in the cinema close to my place in Connecticut.

“Yes,” she said. “My little boy. He should be an old man by now, I would have expected.”

“But he isn’t?” I wondered.

She shook her head, anger and sorrow transformed her expression.

“My daughter passed away,” she told me. “Not too long ago. She should have been old, but she was still a girl.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I looked down, and when I spoke it was full of bitterness. “Children’s lives should never be at risk.”

And despite what many may think, I do believe that kids shouldn’t be put in the line of fire.

Maria nodded, swallowed, and composed herself so fast I felt a little thread of envy. If only I could’ve put up a cheerful façade that quickly…

“You don’t look old enough to die either,” she decided, giving me a once over.

“I think I deserved it,” I admitted. ‘It was my choice’ sounded a bit too harsh. “Besides, I’m 23, that’s better than dying as a child.”

Maria huffed. “23 is still so young.”

“As opposed to…?” I asked.

She seemed horrified by my audacity.

“A lady doesn’t ask nor answer that question,” she said firmly. “And neither should a gentleman.”

I shrugged. She sounded fancy. I guessed in whichever time she came from, old-money people stuck to those ridiculous social rules.

“What do you know of your son?” I wondered. “Do you know where we can find him? Hell, do you know where we are?”

I scanned my surroundings. My eyes were unused to the sun, which made me squint a bit.

It looked like a meadow. The land was flat, not a hill on sight. The grass was green and soft under me, and far to my right, there was a big house.

“Italy,” she said. “Veneto.”

Holy shit.

“A bit far from where I expected to be,” I said.

“The Underworld has many exits,” Maria told me.

My muscles tensed. I had assumed she was a lost mortal, who had followed the path out of the afterlife by accident, but mortals in Italy wouldn’t be likely to call the Underworld by that name. Nor, I guess, would they be likely to have children who were supposed to be old but looked young.

“Oh, I know about all of this,” she smiled. “My children are— were, like you. Demigods. I’m… what’s that term he used? Clear sighted?”

I nodded.

Italian demigods. Did I know Italian demigods? Probably a fair few, but I wasn’t sure if any of the ones I’d met were from Veneto.

And she said she had died ages ago. Whoever her children were they would have been taken out of time.

It rang a bell in my memory, but my mind wasn’t clear enough yet for me to recall properly. Not to mention I’d known dozens of demigods who had bizarre stories.

Thalia was a tree for a while, she’d looked younger than she should have been that time she pushed me off that cliff.

Annabeth and her little gang had been in that Casino thing in Vegas, that had messed up time for them, too.

And the Sea of Monsters, there were a lot of islands there where children could have been stuck in time for decades.

“Are your—,” I hesitated. “Did your children ever get to camp? Camp Half-Blood, in New York?”

Maria’s expression turned dubious. “I think so. Bianca didn’t explain much, she didn’t stay long. But I reckon wherever my boy is, it’s in America. That’s the last place I saw them.”

That’s where she had died then.

“Then camp’s our best bet,” I said. “He’s alive, he’s likely to have at least crossed paths with somebody from there.”

She nodded.

She turned and pointed at the house in the distance. “That’s my family’s home. You can stay there for a bit. To rest.”

She stood and offered a hand for me to get up too.

“I— Yeah, thanks,” I said. I felt weak. I’d just come back to life. She was right to say it took some adjustment. I wondered how long she’d been back. “I could use a place to sit for a bit.”

In exchange, I could help her find camp and her son. Assuming the kid was still alive, that was. I wouldn’t go to camp myself. I’d be stoned the moment I set a foot in there. But leading Maria there was the least I could do after she’d been so kind to me.

I just hoped her son wasn’t somebody I knew. That could make things awkward.

We walked for a bit in silence. As we got closer, the house grew bigger and bigger. ‘House’ was an understatement, I thought. The place was huge.

Balconies, huge floor to ceiling windows, at least four storeys tall. It had a path that led to the main entrance lined with orchard trees, and off to the side there was a less pretentious dirt path that I assumed went to the servant’s entrance.

“I’m sorry,” I said, before I could stop myself, pointing at the immense building in front of us. “But did your family own Italy?”

Maria gave me a funny look. “It’s not such an ostentatious place.”

Perhaps if you are related to the Windsor family, then Maria’s family’s house isn’t ostentatious. If, like me, you come from the US suburbs, then it’s something taken right out of Downton fucking Abbey.

“My father was a marquess,” she explained, when she caught my cynical expression. “Sua grazia, il Signor di Angelo, and all the paraphernalia it came with. The house is all right, but we weren’t…”

But I had stopped listening.

Di Angelo. I did remember that name. Di Angelo was that little kid who’d popped out of nowhere with an army of undead soldiers and his godly father on toe.

But not even I couldn’t be that unlucky.

“What’s your son’s name?” I asked, as casually as I could.

“Niccolò,” she said with a proud smile. “But everybody always called him Nico.”

Nico. Nico di Angelo.

Well, fuck. To nobody’s surprise, I could be that unlucky.

#luke castellan #maria di angelo #lee fletcher #silena beauregard #hades pjo #nico di angelo #pjo #riordanverse #hoo #mis fics #tagthescullion #undead diary

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isalisewrites · 3 months ago

Text

Summer after the traumatic end of the Triwizard Tournament, instead of Harry Potter getting visions of the latest evil plot from the Dark Lord, it is Voldemort who gets visions of The-Boy-Who-Lived’s childhood.

And they’re not pleasant.

---

When Newt accepted to become one of Harry Potter's secret guard as a favor to Albus Dumbledore, he hadn't anticipated being faced with a choice concerning the welfare and safety of a child: obey Albus Dumbledore's orders or stay at Voldemort's side to protect Harry.

Though difficult, the right choice was clear.

------

THREE EXCERPT:

Number Four Privet Drive stood out in the neighborhood.

It boasted of a pristine yard of healthy grass, not a weed in sight, and the house was clean without a speck of dust coating the siding.

Odd sort of muggles.

A young boy, one who could be no older than thirteen, was kneeling on the ground and pruning the undergrowth of one of the hydrangea bushes. He rested on his heels, wiped his brow, and rubbed the back of his neck. Newt frowned, noting the peeling sunburn.

Hang on a minute…

If this was Number Four, then that meant…

“Harry Potter?” said Newt.

The boy’s head popped up. He twisted around, fully on alert, and stiffened at the sight of him. Newt’s heart stopped. A yellowing bruise adorned the boy’s cheek. Newt stepped forward onto the property, taking long strides through the lawn.

“Who’re you?” asked Harry, tensing up. Newt noted the way he glanced down at Newt’s feet before he visibly relaxed. “Sorry for my tone, sir. Are you here to see Uncle Vernon?”

“No, Harry,” said Newt absentmindedly. He knelt beside Harry on the lawn and took a hand to his chin, tilting the boy’s face to the side. Harry tensed. Newt pursed his lips at the discoloring of his cheek. Harry’s eyes stayed locked onto him. “That’s a pretty wicked bruise you’ve got there. Where’d you get it?”

Harry sucked in his breath, surprise flooding his expression. “Oh, uh, I got into a fight with some neighborhood boys—my fault. I’m doing yard work as a punishment.”

Newt frowned.

That didn’t seem like a lie, per se.

But it also wasn’t true.

Now he could see what the Weasley boy had meant. Harry didn’t look like a healthy teenager, not at all. He was thin and lanky, yet didn’t seem to have the height for it. Wasn’t the boy supposed to be turning fifteen soon?

Underdeveloped? That suggests long term malnutrition.

“How d’you know my name?”

“Oh.” Newt blinked. “Pardon me,” he said, holding out a hand. Harry shook it tentatively. “I’m Newt Scamander and Albus sent me to be part of your guard.”

“What?” breathed Harry. “You’re—Newt Scamander? The author? Wait a minute, Dumbledore sent you? A guard—I have a guard?”

“Of course,” said Newt, still keeping an eye on the bruise. It didn’t have the look of a punch. If Newt had to take a guess… it had the spread out look caused by a palm to the face. “I’m a latest addition. Haven’t you met any of them? Has no one said hello to you?”

Harry slowly shook his head. “No. I didn’t know…”

That was… odd. Though Newt didn’t really see Mundungus Fletcher dropping by to greet Harry, but surely Ms. Tonks would’ve dropped by for a hello and a chat. She was a talkative little thing and Newt found himself not as uncomfortable around her as he was of others in the Order.

“Mr. Moody or Ms. Tonk haven’t stopped by for a chat?” asked Newt.

“Moody is part of my guard?” asked Harry, eyes widening.

Well, that answered that.

Unease swirled inside Newt. Surely, the others had seen Harry outside and surelythey’d have seen his condition. And yet… they didn’t check up on him?

Something wasn’t right.

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tsarinatorment · 1 year ago

Text

Michael Yew's Fatal Flaw

This meta is the fault of @apollosgiftofprophecy who made the questionable decision of asking about Michael's fatal flaw in my vicinity the other day.

People who have been following me for a while may recall I once answered an ask about Apollo kid fatal flaws, and mentioned Michael there. Please ignore what I said back then because I'd barely even started picking him apart to see what made him tick, and my conclusions there have since been deemed rather surface-level!

The first question, of course, is what is a fatal flaw? What makes it different from a regular character flaw? The clue's in the name, I think - fatal flaw is one that's most likely to one day result in the hero's death, as Annabeth also suggests in Sea of Monsters:

“I don’t know, Percy, but every hero has one. If you don’t find it and learn to control it … well, they don’t call it ‘fatal’ for nothing.”

Athena gives us a little more to go on in The Titan's Curse:

"In each case, your loved ones have been used to lure you into Kronos's traps. Your fatal flaw is personal loyalty, Percy. You do not know when it is time to cut your losses. To save a friend, you would sacrifice the world. In a hero of the prophecy, that is very, very dangerous." I balled my fists. "That's not a flaw. Just because I want to help my friends—" "The most dangerous flaws are those which are good in moderation," she said. "Evil is easy to fight. Lack of wisdom… that is very hard indeed."

Of course, she's talking specifically to Percy about his flaw here, but there are certainly broader points to be inferred from this. When you break down all her warnings, it boils down near enough to "your fatal flaw is one you either cannot fight, or do not want to fight, because you think it is right/justified", which is interesting. It's a flaw that you don't, necessarily, recognise as a flaw, which makes it difficult to do anything about because how can something that's right be wrong?

As Athena says, the most dangerous flaws are those which are good in moderation - flaws that, in most situations, actually help, or are perceived to do so. These are the flaws most likely to kill the hero - and maybe others, as well.

With that out of the way, let's start picking apart Michael properly.

Generally, I see anger, pride or stubbornness put forwards as suggestions for his fatal flaw, so I'll look at each of those and see how well they actually fit. On top of that, I'm also going to explore two other contenders that I've come to notice from the hundreds of times I've re-read his scenes - protectiveness, and love.

First up, let's talk about Anger.

Anger is the one that seems to spring to mind most readily for some people (myself included), and it's hardly surprising given his introductory scene:

She was in the midst of yelling at Michael Yew, the new head counselor for Apollo, which looked kind of funny since Clarisse was a foot taller. Michael had taken over the Apollo cabin after Lee Fletcher died in battle last summer. Michael stood four feet six, with another two feet of attitude. He reminded me of a ferret, with a pointy nose and scrunched-up features—either because he scowled so much or because he spent too much time looking down the shaft of an arrow. "It's our loot!" he yelled, standing on his tiptoes so he could get in Clarisse's face. "If you don't like it, you can kiss my quiver!" [...] I couldn't believe Clarisse and Michael standing over her, arguing about something as stupid as loot, when she'd just lost Beckendorf. "STOP IT!" I yelled. "What are you guys doing?" Clarisse glowered at me. "Tell Michael not to be a selfish jerk." "Oh, that's perfect, coming from you," Michael said.

(As an aside, I love Michael's "kiss my quiver" line because hip quivers are very much a thing and if you think of his quiver as on his hip instead of his back... he's basically saying "kiss my ass" but in a kid-book-friendly way)

Michael's introduction is full of aggression - he's standing on tiptoes, getting "in Clarisse's face", and yelling at her. To make matters worse, it's in front of a grieving Silena which makes him (and Clarisse, but we've already had four books on how much Clarisse can be a bitch in Percy's opinion) look incredibly callous and uncaring. Percy's rather unflattering description about "two feet of attitude" and "because he scowled so much" adds to the overall impression that Michael's a right piece of work as well. Thanks, Percy.

It's a good introduction, though. This is memorable, as far as character introductions go (far more memorable than the first time we're introduced to Beckendorf, or Silena, etc.), and it's full of personality - personality that says Michael is not afraid to throw hands and will do it anywhere, anytime. It directly opposes him with Clarisse, but in such a way that makes them seem like similar characters, and we know anger/rage is one of Clarisse's traits as well.

This scene isn't a one-off, either. We get the full feud against the Ares cabin, which Michael spearheads:

We ducked as Michael Yew's chariot dive-bombed an Ares camper. The Ares camper tried to stab him and cuss him out in rhyming couplets. He was pretty creative about rhyming those cuss words. "We're fighting for our lives," I said, "and they're bickering about some stupid chariot." "They'll get over it," Annabeth said. "Clarisse will come to her senses."

The fact that it's Clarisse, not Michael, that Annabeth thinks is going to stand down also says a lot about how she sees the pair of them, and she must know Michael reasonably well, so this adds another note to the impression that Michael can be even more unreasonable than Clarisse (although it should also be noted that in this feud Michael is the one in the right, and Chiron has said as much to the campers, or at least the head counsellors - and of course from a narrative point of view, Clarisse is a far more familiar character for readers).

Michael himself also admits later on that he lost his temper with Clarisse again off-screen:

Michael shrugged. "Yeah, well, I called her some names when she said she still wouldn't fight. I doubt that helped. Here come the uglies!"

Those names certainly weren't ones for polite company - or a children's book. I think we can confidently say that Michael certainly has a temper, much like his father is legendary for.

But is it a fatal flaw? Well, sadly we have a scene that's implied to be Michael's death scene (I say implied because we never saw a body and a lot of things don't quite add up, so I prefer to think of him as not-dead, but for the purposes of this meta we'll consider it his death scene), so let's go look at that.

He struck the bridge with the butt of his scythe, and a wave of pure force blasted me backward. Cars went careening. Demigods—even Luke's own men—were blown off the edge of the bridge. Suspension cords whipped around, and I skidded halfway back to Manhattan. I got unsteadily to my feet. The remaining Apollo campers had almost made it to the end of the bridge, except for Michael Yew, who was perched on one of the suspension cables a few yards away from me, His last arrow was notched in his bow.

Michael's final stand happens immediately after several demigods - including his own siblings - are just blown clean off the bridge by Kronos. Is it a decision spurred by anger after things going wrong after they were finally going right? It would make sense.

However, there is one big issue with anger as his fatal flaw. Obviously, Michael does have this temper, and it does get out of hand, but we only ever see it get out of hand in the (relative) safety of camp. The Michael we see in Manhattan actually seems very calm and in control the entire time. He's observant and quick-witted, and is the only head counsellor to spot (or at least verbalise) a potential flaws in Percy and Annabeth's plan.

"He's right," Annabeth said. "The gods of the wind should keep Kronos's forces away from Olympus by air, so he'll try a ground assault. We have to cut off the entrances to the island." "They have boats," Michael Yew pointed out. An electric tingle went down my back. Suddenly I understood Athena's advice: Remember the rivers. "I'll take care of the boats," I said. Michael frowned. "How?" "Just leave it to me," I said.

Of course, Percy being the son of Poseidon can plug that massive gap, but it took Michael asking the question for him to make the important connection that he needed to.

This calmness continues into the battle itself, as well.

Michael Yew ran up to us. He was definitely the shortest commando I'd ever seen. He had a bandaged cut on his arm. His ferrety face was smeared with soot and his quiver was almost empty, but he was smiling like he was having a great time. "Glad you could join us," he said. "Where are the other reinforcements?" "For now, we're it," I said. "Then we're dead," he said. [...] "We have to fall back," Michael said. "I've got Kayla and Austin setting traps farther down the bridge." "No," I said. "Bring your campers forward to this position and wait for my signal. We're going to drive the enemy back to Brooklyn." Michael laughed. "How do you plan to do that?" I drew my sword. "Percy," Annabeth said, "let me come with you." "Too dangerous," I said. "Besides, I need you to help Michael coordinate the defensive line. I'll distract the monsters. You group up here. Move the sleeping mortals out of the way. Then you can start picking off monsters while I keep them focused on me. If anybody can do all that, you can." Michael snorted. "Thanks a lot."

No temper tantrums, no yelling like he did with Clarisse earlier - he's matter of fact when he realises they don't really have reinforcements (not knowing, of course, about Percy's little Styx bath), he doesn't argue with Percy when Percy starts taking command. He continues to say his piece and get his point across, but at no point do we ever get the sense that Michael is anything other than perfectly in control at any point during the battle - which is not what you would expect from a rage-based fatal flaw.

For example, contrast Michael's scenes with Clarisse later in the battle:

The real Clarisse looked up at the drakon, her face filled with absolute hate. I'd seen a look that intense only once before. Her father, Ares, had worn the same expression when I'd fought him in single combat. "YOU WANT DEATH?" Clarisse screamed at the drakon. "WELL, COME ON!" She grabbed her spear from the fallen girl. With no armor or shield, she charged the drakon.

and

"I AM CLARISSE, DRAKON-SLAYER!" she yelled. "I will kill you ALL! Where is Kronos? Bring him out! Is he a coward?" "Clarisse!" I yelled. "Stop it. Withdraw!" "What's the matter, Titan lord?" she yelled. "BRING IT ON!" There was no answer from the enemy. Slowly, they began to fall back behind a dracaenae shield wall, while Clarisse drove in circles around Fifth Avenue, daring anyone to cross her path. The two- hundred-foot-long drakon carcass made a hollow scraping noise against the pavement, like a thousand knives. Meanwhile, we tended our wounded, bringing them inside the lobby. Long after the enemy had retreated from sight, Clarisse kept riding up and down the avenue with her horrible trophy, demanding that Kronos meet her battle.

Calm and collected whomst? Not to say that Clarisse's temper isn't understandable here, but this fits much more in line with Athena's description of a fatal flaw - one that seems justified, right, even (and later on, Clarisse gets frozen by a Hyperborean Giant, so this does come back to bite her!), as opposed to the way Michael seems to stay in control of his temper even when his siblings are being killed around him.

With all that in mind, while I willa gree that anger is a flaw of Michael's, it certainly doesn't seem to check the boxes to be a fatal flaw, so let's move onto the next one: Pride.

Pride has its roots in the same parts of the narration as anger, so this section is going to be rather shorter because I don't need to rehash all the quotes again. The main thing that stands out on the pride side of the feud, specifically, is that it's completely needless for Michael to keep agitating Clarisse and the Ares cabin.

Clarisse turned to Chiron. "You're in charge, right? Does my cabin get what we want or not?" Chiron shuffled his hooves. "My dear, as I've already explained, Michael is correct. Apollo's cabin has the best claim. Besides, we have more important matters—" [...] "I see," Clarisse said. "And the senior counselors? Are any of you going to side with me?" Nobody was smiling now. None of them met Clarisse's eyes.

Chiron's put his hooves down on the matter - the Apollo cabin has the best claim to the chariot, Clarisse is the aggressor here. The other head counsellors all agree with that, too. Michael could, and given the upcoming war, should, ignore her and put his and his siblings' focus towards the war and not an argument he's already won.

But he doesn't. His chariot is attacking the campers - the Apollo kids aren't just defending themselves from the upset Ares kids, they're on the offensive themselves, arguably more so than the Ares campers.

As we crossed the commons area, a fight broke out between the Ares and Apollo cabins. Some Apollo campers armed with firebombs flew over the Ares cabin in a chariot pulled by two pegasi. I'd never seen the chariot before, but it looked like a pretty sweet ride. Soon, the roof of the Ares cabin was burning, and naiads from the canoe lake rushed over to blow water on it. Then the Ares campers called down a curse, and all the Apollo kids' arrows turned to rubber. The Apollo kids kept shooting at the Ares kids, but the arrows bounced off. Two archers ran by, chased by an angry Ares kid who was yelling in poetry: "Curse me, eh? I'll make you pay! / I don't want to rhyme all day!"

This feels a lot like he's trying to validate that yes, the chariot really is his cabin's, and the fact that Clarisse keeps insisting otherwise despite every non-Ares member of the camp being on Michael's side is insulting/undermining the Apollo cabin's claim.

It also sounds like he made sure to have the final word against Clarisse when she still refused to come and fight, which is a very prideful action.

"Nah," Michael said. "Left it at camp. I told Clarisse she could have it. Whatever, you know? Not worth fighting about anymore. But she said it was too late. We'd insulted her honor for the last time or some stupid thing." "Least you tried," I said. Michael shrugged. "Yeah, well, I called her some names when she said she still wouldn't fight. I doubt that helped. Here come the uglies!"

The thing is, though, that we hit a snag with the pride theory at this point for a similar reason to the anger one - as soon as there's something bigger and more immediate to focus on, Michael sets it aside.

He gives up the chariot they were fighting over - the chariot that, rightfully, is the Apollo cabin's - for no reason other than because he knew that they needed the Ares cabin to come and fight and it was the only thing he could think of that he could do to try and change Clarisse's mind - made even more stark when compared with Michael's original, in-camp, reaction to Clarisse's declaration.

Clarisse threw her knife on the Ping-Pong table. "All of you can fight this war without Ares. Until I get satisfaction, no one in my cabin is lifting a finger to help. Have fun dying." The counselors were all too stunned to say anything as Clarisse stormed out of the room. Finally Michael Yew said, "Good riddance."

It's true that Michael does get upset when Clarisse ignores his sacrifice of the chariot and still refuses to fight, but I think that's understandable given the situation (and he is, still, a teenage boy with a temper). It doesn't change the fact that he does it, however, nor the fact that Michael doesn't rescind the sacrifice and bring the chariot with him regardless, despite its potential stragetic uses in the war. Pride certainly doesn't seem to have much if any weight in his final stand, either, so I'd say that like anger, this doesn't actually fit as his fatal flaw, even if it might be somewhat of a personal trait/flaw.

At this point, it seems a little bit like a moot point to poke at Stubbornness because most of the counter-arguments for anger and pride also address this, but I'll quickly go over it anyway because this is the first one that properly shows itself all the way through Michael's appearances.

I've already mentioned the way he doesn't back down in the chariot feud, which is pride, yes, but also stubbornness - he won't leave it alone, won't let Clarisse stake her own claim on it, keeps fighting past the point of necessity over it.

But then we have his final scene, where he stands his ground. There's no indication that Michael even tried to run when the bridge crumbled.

I got unsteadily to my feet. The remaining Apollo campers had almost made it to the end of the bridge, except for Michael Yew, who was perched on one of the suspension cables a few yards away from me, His last arrow was notched in his bow. "Michael, go!" I screamed. "Percy, the bridge!" he called. "It's already weak!" At first I didn't understand. Then I looked down and saw fissures in the pavement. Patches of the road were half melted from Greek fire. The bridge had taken a beating from Kronos's blast and the exploding arrows. "Break it!" Michael yelled. "Use your powers!" [...] I turned to thank Michael Yew, but the words died in my throat. Twenty feet away, a bow lay in the street. Its owner was nowhere to be seen. "No!" I searched the wreckage on my side of the bridge. I stared down at the river. Nothing.

Michael completely ignores Percy telling him to run, tells him to break the bridge that he's currently on and clearly has no intentions of leaving, not with that notched arrow that he then seems to have fired, given that there's no arrow later on. This seems the closest we've got so far to a flaw that goes beyond a simple character flaw and into the fatal category.

Except.

He's a stubborn character, but just like with anger, like with pride, Michael keeps putting it aside when it might otherwise cause issues during the battle - he questions Percy's plans more than once, but despite that, he cedes command to Percy on Williamsburg Bridge, follows his orders instead of continuing with his own strategies, and generally shows that he's exactly the sort of person you want by your side/at your back when you're fighting. Michael's flexible and prepared to change and adapt as the situation does - which is pretty much the opposite of stubbornness, so while at first glance it seemed like a strong candidate it's once again contradicted by the scenes on Williamsburg Bridge.

So, that's the three usual suspects that arise from the chariot feud all falling apart once we rearch the battlefield. Michael is certainly passionate about the fight - more than once, Percy implies that he seems to actually be having a good time on the battlefield and there's no other explanation other than eagerness for this moment:

I sliced through armor like it was made of paper. Snake women exploded. Hellhounds melted to shadow. I slashed and stabbed and whirled, and I might have even laughed once or twice—a crazy laugh that scared me as much as it did my enemies. I was aware of the Apollo campers behind me shooting arrows, disrupting every attempt by the enemy to rally. Finally, the monsters turned and fled—about twenty left alive out of two hundred. I followed with the Apollo campers at my heels. "Yes!" yelled Michael Yew. "That's what I'm talking about!"

But despite all of this, that passion doesn't seem to be based in anger, pride, or stubbornness, despite those being the first things people seem to think of when they think about Michael - and that's why I have two more options added to the list to explore.

Moving on, then, I'll start with Protectiveness.

So, just now I said that stubbornness is what caused Michael's final moments, but is it really? It was certainly part of it, but also - as I mentioned earlier, when talking about anger, Michael's final stand is immediately after some of his siblings have been thrown off the bridge - having already seen at least one other sibling killed earlier:

Hellhounds leaped ahead of the line from time to time. Most were destroyed with arrows, but one got hold of an Apollo camper and dragged him away. I didn't see what happened to him next. I didn't want to know.

Siblings, of course, that as their head counsellor he is the one in charge of and responsible for - it's likely that he's the oldest in the cabin as well (although not guaranteed), and that these are all his younger siblings that are getting killed/seriously injured/status unknown. We're told that the "remaining" Apollo campers are running for the end of the bridge and retreating as far as possible - all of them except for Michael, who was with them to start with but stopped and turned to face the enemy.

Michael and his archers tried to retreat, but Annabeth stayed right beside me, fighting with her knife and mirrored shield as we slowly backed up the bridge.

Followed by

The remaining Apollo campers had almost made it to the end of the bridge, except for Michael Yew, who was perched on one of the suspension cables a few yards away from me. His last arrow was notched in his bow.

This is the point when Michael makes the decision that the bridge has to be destroyed, figures out how to destroy it, and basically orders Percy to do it. I've got a whole other argument about how Michael is the reason Olympus didn't fall that first night of the siege, but at this point I think it's blatantly obvious that the only thing Michael is thinking about is protecting his siblings. Why else would he put himself (tiny archer who should never, ever, be on the front lines - which is hinted at by the fact he still seeks out as high a ground as he can get aka the cables) as the rear guard, the barrier between an entire army and his fleeing siblings?

He's protecting his siblings - he's guarding their backs as they flee to safety and he's finding a way to stop them from being pursued, even if it kills him in the process. It's clearly the right decision to him, the only decision he thinks he can take - and it's textbook fatal flaw.

But before I settle on that, there's one more I want to talk about, which is really an extension of protectiveness, and that's Love.

I'll admit that love always feels like a bit of a cheat to me as a fatal flaw - it's a bit of a catch-all, in that if you argue hard enough you can pull back almost any character to love in some way (which is why Aphrodite is such an underrated yet powerful goddess), and it's nowhere near as obvious for Michael as it is for Apollo and Nico (yes I know what Bianca said, but consider: she didn't know what she was talking about. Nico's fatal flaw is a whole other meta, though), but I think it fills in a few gaps that protectiveness leaves a little open.

There's something that gets overlooked a lot when Michael gets discussed, especially the chariot feud, despite the fact that Percy outright states it.

Michael had taken over the Apollo cabin after Lee Fletcher died in battle last summer.

No sugar-coating, no forgetting about a background character that got all of two pre-death appearances - Lee was killed in battle, and Michael was the one that took over the cabin from him.

We never get any canon information on Michael and Lee's relationship, but obviously they knew each other well, given that Michael's the next most senior kid - and isn't that the kicker. Because this line tells us one very important thing: Michael had to step into his big brother's suddenly-vacated shoes in the immediate aftermath of a battle, with no time to grieve.

We even have a comparison to make right in that same scene:

Even Jake Mason, the hastily appointed new counselor from Hephaestus, managed a faint smile.

Jake's also been shoved into the same role, a role we later find out he never wanted and never recovered from - big brother's dead, your turn to step up and lead the cabin in war. Most of the counsellors are laughing but all Jake can do is a faint smile. He's not okay, and you wouldn't expect him to be - and in The Lost Hero he's even more blatant about the fact that he's not okay (same as Will, in fact) - so, clearly, Michael is not okay, either.

The chariot feud is a whole mess of emotions - anger, pride and stubbornness are ones I've already covered - but I never see anyone talk about grief, and how Michael's been forced to lead a cabin in the wake of the death of his older sibling (the first wartime promotion, really - the Stolls situation isn't quite the same), and how he has to be at least somewhat off-balance, because grief is a tricky little thing and there's no way it hasn't got its nasty little claws in Michael, and that only a few scant months - a year at most - after Lee's death, it's still very, very raw.

And there's a strong correlation between love and grief. "What is grief but love perservering?" "Grief is the price we pay for love" - there's a neverending list of sayings about grief and love.

Then there's the bridge. There's Michael putting Austin and Kayla right at the back, setting traps but a long way back from the front line. There's the way he knew that without the Ares cabin they weren't going to win so he surrendered the chariot in the hopes of getting the front line fighters to join in - the ones that will stand between the archers and the enemy, between his siblings and the enemy. There's, again, the way he stood his ground as a barrier between Kronos and his army and his siblings, even though if Percy hadn't destroyed the bridge he would've been overrun and killed (and he was in such a precarious position that breaking the bridge... well, we know what happened or do we).

But also there's the fact that Michael was fighting at all. The fact that Michael wanted to fight - when Percy gives him the opportunity to take the fight to Kronos, to fight back rather than just numbly defending the bridge/Manhattan/Olympus, Michael seizes it.

His ferrety face was smeared with soot and his quiver was almost empty, but he was smiling like he was having a great time.

"That was my last sonic arrow," Michael said. "A gift from your dad?" I asked. "God of music?" Michael grinned wickedly.

I followed with the Apollo campers at my heels. "Yes!" yelled Michael Yew. "That's what I'm talking about!"

He's right there on the front line, it's so obvious that he's there because he wants to be, because he believes in their cause. Because he loves Apollo.

It's never said in so many words (although we know Apollo has interacted with Michael because he's given him those sonic arrows), but it's there in Michael's actions, in how he never falters in the pro-god side of the war despite losing sibling after sibling after sibling to it - Michael has to love Apollo for anything else to make sense.

It's his siblings he sacrifices himself for, but it's his father he chose to fight for. And it's both that he died for.

If that's not a fatal flaw in action, what is?

#michael yew #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo meta #tsari analyses things #i have so many feelings about Michael okay #he didn't deserve to die #and i sincerely hope he didn't

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flavorcrash · 1 month ago

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Hi! Sorry if this has already been asked, feel free to ignore it if so <3.

But I don't know if you would mind making a summary or a file of your OC?

THIS LITTLE ONE IS SO CUTE

I need to know more about him, his name, age, why he wears that adorable whale pendant (I think) his pronouns aaaaaa always come up in my beginning but I don't know anything about this little one!

Thank you very much <3

Oh that's my character Fletcher ! !

His full name is Fletcher Baines. He's 23 years old in the MDHM universe and he's originally an OC i made for my story Cross My Heart! I just love him a lot so i just shoved him into the MDHM universe for self indulgence. His pronouns are he/him, he's FTM Trans, and homosexual. He's 5'10" and that whale pendant is a locket that has photos of people he cares about the most (Stu and Ursula) the necklace is a gift from his mom and he's had it since he was 7 years old. He's very autistic about whales and sea life in general. He would have LOVED to become a marine biologist but instead followed his mom's footsteps and became a mortician in Scotland (where he's from)

In the MDHM au i have him in, he was born in Scotland and his parents moved to the U.S. when he was little. He grew up in the same neighborhood with Stu and Ursula and was entirely the troublemaker amongst the three of them. Come the middle of Senior year, Ursula is taken to Canada for treatment as her tuberculosis has only gotten worse over time. Meanwhile Fletcher's family moves back to Scotland as his dad got a better job. He decided to stay there for college and moved to this (fictional) town called Glasfar. After her got his license he was working as a mortician for a while until he befriended the town's groundskeeper for the cemetery.... And then for 6 months Ursula and Stu lost contact with him... 6 months then turned into 2 years and even his parents didn't have contact with him.

He shows up in Doomsbury after those 2 years looking the worst he ever has in his life and runs into Ursula- or rather a lacrosse ball hits him in the head and she drags him to his house where her younger brother yells at him then hugs him. Ever since then he's been living in Doomsbury for 2 years, working on getting a Computer Science degree for a better job.

His interests include Slasher Movies (another hyperfixation of his), Coding, Visual Novels, Horror in general, Anatomy, Marine Life, Dogs, and Cooking!

Also don't let his pretty looks fool you, he can be a major douchebag at times even if he is a pretty loyal friend. To a fault... He has a lot of growing up to do even now. Shockingly. He's more pathetic than Stu.

Edit: Oh i also have a playlist about him for those interested.

#mdhm oc #asks

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tsarisfanfiction · 5 months ago

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I saw on Discord that you were writing another long multi chapter Riordanverse fic but I couldn't find what is it going to be about. So I came here to ask, if you could perhaps tell us something about it? ( like what is it about, who are the main characters etc.)

I am, the first draft is completed and I'm into the editing phases now, and it's over 200k words, making it my longest Riordanverse fanfiction, and also my longest continuous story ever!

As for what it's about... I'm keeping most of that hushed for the time being, but there are a few things I'll share. Firstly, please note that this fic is the fault of @stereden, who came into my DMs back in April with "hey you know what would be a great title for a fic where [x happens]?" and gave me a title and before I knew it we had this whole thing planned out and... yeah. I did not expect it to be this long. Oops.

Still, what can you guys expect from this fic?

The main character is Lee Fletcher! The entire thing is from his pov. This is also a Lee Fletcher Lives fic, and it starts at the point where he dies in canon and takes us up to the end of the original series.

There will be angst, and also fluff, and family and friendship and heartbreak and betrayal, not necessarily in that order. I am reliably informed by Stereden that tissues are, at times, required. Apollo remains Best Godly Parent Ever because you will never get me to write a bad parent Apollo fic.

There is no pre-requisite reading of my other fics necessary for reading this one, but some events from previous fics of mine are referenced if you'd like to read them/refresh your memory if you've read them before:

Laurels and Labyrinths introduces some of the same characters, and a relationship that I continue to explore in this upcoming fic, and I consider this fic to be a spiritual sequal to mine and Stereden's podtogether work from 2022 - Lie To Me. If you (re-)read any of my fics whilst waiting for this one to drop, I'd recommend that one!

As for when this fic will drop... current plans suggest that will be around the end of August, so it's still a little way off, but editing this behemoth is going to take time!

#Anonymous #no i'm not dropping the title yet #i am Very Excited for this fic though #lee fletcher #riordanverse #percy jackson and the olympians #apollo cabin #cabin seven #rrverse #pjo

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thesandwichdaddy · 8 months ago

Text

Drumsticks

{Andrew/Rebecca-Whiplash}

(TW: substance use, smoking)

This is not proofread at all 😭. Rebecca is an original character. I will make more parts to this. Not really proud of this but ily 🫶🏻

3.2k words

Rebecca’s first week at Shaffer was really disappointing to her. Still, though it wasn’t the best, she appreciated the small gym and tennis court they had. It seemed like there was no one who went to Shaffer, all the students being quiet and distant.

She did manage to make a friend, though, a small preppy girl at the tennis court who just hit the ball against the net by herself. So, Becca, being the nice person she was, offered to be her partner and even her friend. The girl was thrilled, and so they often played tennis together when Becca wasn’t drumming away, with Fletcher giving a new piece every week.

It was hard to keep up with, but she managed. She didn’t let the class consume her mind, not like Andrew. Andrew was quite the character for Becca. A tall, awkward boy who would die to be core drums was a constant battle for Becca. At first, they were too awkward to even talk or complain about who was playing that day. It was painfully awkward for Becca.

The first day Andrew was moved into Becca’s music class, afterwards Becca swore he had been following her a bit. She felt his eyes on her, glaring as she left for her dorm. Then, once she was on the tennis court with her friend, she noticed him walking past, his eyes meeting hers, and then quickly looking away.

A few weeks later, the arguments between her and Neiman became frequent. They were almost like children fighting over whose turn it was and who could get the attention of Fletcher more.

“What did I tell you about adjusting my goddamn seat?” Andrew said with a scowl, leaning down to push down the seat to the drums as they set up for the day. “It’s not my fault you're huge, dude. I can't even see past the drums when it’s like that."She retorted as she set her water bottle down next to her, sitting in the seat beside the music stand. “I’m not huge; you’re just small. And weak,” Andrew said as he sat, not bothering to give her a glance. Becca shook her head a bit, annoyed, as she just ignored him, grumbling under her breath. “And it isn’t your seat..." Andrew ignored it, practicing as he tried to drown out her presence beside him.

Most days were like this: constant bickering and insults being thrown left and right. But one particular day, it became worse—way worse. Fletcher made the decision to make Becca the core drummer, thus giving her the spot to perform at their upcoming concert. She was happy about this and pleasantly surprised. But not Andrew. His eyes burned holes into Becca as he glared her down. It was the breaking point for him. How could she just steal his place that he worked so hard for just like that? He despised her nonchalant attitude about it as well. She didn’t know how badly he wanted—no—needed to play. This was his life, his everything.

As Becca walked out of class, Andrew was quick to rush over, walking with her. “What the fuck was that?? What did you do??” He immediately questioned her, which earned a confused look from Becca as she kept walking. “What do you mean, ‘what did I do’? I fucking earned that spot; that’s what I did.” She retorted, not in the mood for his fits. Andrew harshly grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to stop and look at him. “You had to have done something. He wouldn’t just replace me like that,” he said, his brows furrowed as he looked down at her. He was breathing hard and really worked up about this. Becca looked at him in disbelief, giving a slightly amused smile at this. “You sound crazy, Andrew. Just accept that I’m better than you.” She said, his large hand still on her shoulder, holding on tightly. This made Andrew even more pissed, his jaw tensing. “You’re not better than me. You know what? I bet you fucking opened your legs for him, didn’t you?” He said it harshly at her. Really, Andrew didn’t mean it, but he was too mad to stop himself now. Becca looked at him in disbelief, beyond anger, as she shoved his arm off her. “You are disgusting, Andrew.” She growled, going to walk again, but was stopped by Andrew once again turning her around, now with both of his hands tightly on her shoulders. “You haven’t earned shit, have you? You slut—“He was cut off by a harsh slap from Becca, making him back off and hold his face in slight shock from it. Becca looked at him in disbelief and anger. “Fuck you, Andrew.” She said that before going to leave, Andrew was just watching. The slap hurt, but in the best way possible for Andrew. He caught his breath. He didn’t actually mean what he said, but that slap was definitely deserved. For some reason, his focus now wasn’t so much on the drums as on Becca. He sighed, his face red from both the slap and his feelings. He had really messed himself up this time.

——

It was weird after that—quiet. Andrew didn’t talk to Becca, and she didn’t talk to him either. She played and practiced while Andrew turned her pages. It would feel rewarding for her if she hadn’t felt bad about him not playing. She had to admit that it got to her.

Andrew was caught in his feelings, confused. While a big part of him was dealing with the disappointment of not playing, the other part couldn’t stop thinking about Becca. It wasn’t just envy this time; this was a crush. He scowled at that thought. How childish of him to have a crush, he thought. Now that he thought about it, the last crush he had was in high school, but even then, it was nothing more than the usual teenage boy hormones. This was different; this felt real. Too real. He was a mess.

——

Becca was slacking. Her drumming became sloppy as her mind was ridden with the guilt of taking Andrew's place. He was a much better drummer; she knew that. Was this what she wanted? She didn’t think so. So here she was, standing outside of Fletcher’s office after class with her sticks in her hand, mentally preparing herself to talk to him.

She gave a soft knock, wincing as she did. She started to think that he didn’t hear until she heard a deep voice boom on the other side. “Come in.” And she did, nervously closing the door behind her. Fletcher looked at her with intrigue; his brows furrowed as he gestured for her to sit. Becca took a seat on the other side of his desk and took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure how he’d take this, but she hoped it wouldn’t be too bad. “Mr. Fletcher, I was hoping you would reconsider who’s on the core drums for the concert.” She said, ripping off the bandaid and being straight forward. Fletcher put down whatever papers he was looking at and crossed his arms, leaning back as he looked at her and thought to himself.

“So did you feel bad about your boyfriend, or are you just pussying out?” Fletcher asked, obviously not pleased. Becca slightly winced at his answer, half expecting it. She ignored the boyfriend's comments at this point, being used to them. "No, uh," she sighed, not knowing how to put it. She sort of did feel bad for her boyfriend—no, Andrew. Becca looked at Fletcher, thinking. He waited with an impatient look on his face. Becca continued, “I think Andrew deserves this more than I do.” She said finally, earning an interested look from Fletcher. It was hard to decipher his emotions most of the time. It was odd to see him so interested, though. Becca was prepared for worse. It was almost like he had expected this, oddly enough.

——

As promised, Andrew got the core drums again. When Fletcher said he had just changed his mind and wanted Andrew back, he looked to Fletcher with shock, feeling like he had found purpose again. Becca was thankful that Fletcher didn’t say anything about their talk. Andrew glanced at her briefly as the news was told, trying to get a read on her emotions. But he was met with nothing but a neutral expression on Becca’s face. He assumed she would be upset. Or maybe she was, but she was good at hiding it? Now he felt a bit bad. Just a little thought, it was nice to finally get a distraction from his feelings now that he had something to work on. Why was she so quiet? Did she hate him? Still, he couldn’t bring himself to talk to her.

——

Andrew was going insane. The concert was tomorrow, and he couldn’t focus on anything. Andrew was pretty sure he was having a panic attack, and it was nearly in the middle of the night. He hated when these would happen. He was overwhelmed and more stressed than Elvis Presley. There was so much to think about—too much to think about. His mind didn’t stop, tormenting him with thoughts of the concert, his family, and Becca.

Andrew had to do something. He was pacing around his dorm like a tiger in a cage, his anxiety gnawing at him underneath his skin. He needed someone, his mom—god no, a friend. There was only one person he could think of, and that was to see Becca. It was late, and he had no idea how she even felt about him, but he needed this feeling to go away. Andrew thought he was the biggest creep for this, but he knew what dorm she stayed in because he happened to watch her walk in. He also happened to know that she played tennis on the court right next to her dorm. And he also happened to know that every morning she got a cream cheese bagel for breakfast at the campus cafe. God, maybe he did have a problem. Andrew prayed that she wouldn’t be asleep as he quickly stepped out of his dorm, marching over to hers, which was a whole building away. It gave Andrew time to think as he felt the warm air against his face. He was walking way too fast for anyone to think he was just taking a casual walk. His breaths were short and his chest felt tight as he walked, eventually making it to her dorm, where he repeated the door number a million times on the way there so he wouldn’t forget.

Andrew gave a knock, softer than a pounding but loud enough to come off urgent. Despite his prayers, Becca answered, obviously just having woken up. Her hair was so beautifully messy, and a baggy t-shirt almost covered the shorts she wore underneath it. He wondered if he had a shirt that size; maybe she needed one of his—he needed to stop. Becca looked at him with surprise, rubbing her eye a bit as she held the door open. “Andrew?” She asked, her voice a bit groggy. “Becca,” he said, looking at her as he breathed hard, trying to get out his words. “Please, can I come in?” He asked with a bit of desperation in his voice.

Becca knew something was off with Andrew, and she was worried. She nodded, opening the door as he came in, and she shut the door, looking at him. Andrew quickly looked around and then turned to her. His voice panicked as he started to feel that anxiety again. "Becca, I’m freaking out about tomorrow.” He said, his voice shaking a bit as he swallowed. It was mostly true, just that he left out the part where he also couldn’t stop thinking about her. Becca gave a slightly thoughtful look, still a bit surprised that he was here. The question of how he knew where she stayed didn’t seem to cross her mind just yet. She saw his desperation, feeling a bit sorry for him as she spoke. “You’re having a panic attack?” She asked, which Andrew thought about for a moment. “Yes.” He said it softly, his hands shaking. Becca motioned for him to sit next to her on the couch, and he did, looking forward as he focused on his shaky breath. As Becca woke up a bit more, she glanced at the clock across the room, which was reading 1:15 AM. This had to be really bad for him to be over at this time.

Becca thought about what she should do. She was never good at words, and comforting Andrew seemed like the most difficult task at the moment. Andrew sat there quietly, trying not to look at her beside him because he knew once he did, he’d crumble and try to latch onto her. He didn’t want to do that just yet; he wanted to try to have some sort of self-control for once in his life. With a sigh, Becca finally moved across the room to grab a small metal box, bringing it over. Andrew glanced over with confusion at it, and she opened it. “Have you ever smoked before?” Becca asked, moving the small grinder out of the way to pick a blunt. Andrew looked at her a bit apprehensive, surprised she even had this. “N-No, why are..." He trailed off, trying to make sense of the situation. Andrew had always been a good boy, never finding the need for things like this. Maybe occasionally a drink, but he didn’t have a problem. “It helps me when I’m freaking out and can’t sleep.” She answered his question, looking at him. Her expression seemed much softer than before when she looked at him. She waited for him to verbally consent; she wasn’t going to pressure him into anything. She just wanted to help. He gave a nod, sitting up straight and looking at her. “Okay.”

——

So here he was, his lungs slightly burning and his pupils blown out as he lay next to Becca on her humongous couch. “Becca?” Andrew's groggy voice spoke as he turned his head to see her, breaking the long silence between them. Becca met his gaze, her eyes red and slightly lidded. “Yeah?” Andrew swallowed hard, his nerves calmed way more than they had earlier. “I’m sorry.” He said quietly, studying her face. “For saying that stuff to you, and for taking the core drums.” Becca turned on her side to look at him, her head propped against her arm. He really did mean it, and he needed to get it off of his chest. He wanted to fix things between them funnily enough. Becca bit back on the urge to tell him that it was her decision to get him on core drums again, but she decided it would be nicer if she didn’t. “It’s okay, Andrew; don’t even worry about it.” She spoke softly, her eyes tracing his jawline. Relief washed over him as he stared into her eyes, calm and high. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve kissed her over and over right there and run his hands over her skin for hours, but he didn’t. “You’re still in your clothes from this morning.” Becca said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. Andrew snapped out of his trance, barely hearing her. “Huh? Oh, yeah.” He said with a slight smile, looking down at his wrinkled dress shirt and slacks.

There was another silence between them as Andrew looked up at the ceiling, his breaths slowing as his body finally calmed. He was tired, not wanting to worry about anything at the moment. Becca was still observing him, moving her hand to brush his hair slightly out of his face. “You’ll do great tomorrow, Andrew; don’t stress.” She whispered to him, meaning it. Andrews jaw tensed, his breathing starting to become hard as he refused to look at her. One look, and he’d break into tears. He knew it. Becca noticed this, moving closer with a soft look on her face. “Andrew,” she whispered. He shook, a small, painful whimper escaping him as he finally took a breath after holding his breath to stay quiet, something he learned from his childhood. “Hey.” She said, reaching to touch his shoulder just before Andrew sat up sharply. “No.” He said, pained and surprisingly stern. Becca sat up, confused and worried. “What’s wrong, Andrew?” She asked, looking at him as he hunched over and shook slightly. He shook his head, refusing to let his tears fall as he silently panicked. This was the worst thing ever for him; he didn’t want to cry in front of anybody, especially Becca.

He couldn’t speak, his throat and lungs burning from both holding his breath and holding his tears. He ruined the moment. He ruined everything. He should just go. Becca was silent, standing once he did, and she tried approaching again just for Andrew to hold out a hand to stop her. “N-no, please don't..." He said, making it to the door. Becca was beyond confused; a million questions were going through her head. Did she do something wrong? “I’ll see you tomorrow, Becca.” He says, not wanting to face her as he leaves, closing the door. Becca was left silent, looking at the door. She was really worried.

——

Andrew made it to his dorm, immediately going to his bed as he covered his face, finally letting out the cry he needed. He felt pathetic. He hated comfort. He needed comfort. He wanted to stay away from Becca. He longed for Becca. He hated this. He hated his stupid parents and the stupid trauma that made him this way. He wanted so badly for Becca to forgive him and his ways.

He eventually fell asleep, his tear-stained face buried in the pillow that he tightly clutched. He just hoped he was ready tomorrow and that Becca didn’t hate him.

#whiplash #original character #whiplash x reader #andrew neiman x reader #andrew neiman

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what-gs-watching · 1 year ago

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“Now, I may be wrong, but frankly, I doubt it.”

So I finished a draft of my new and improved resume today and I’m super jazzed about it. It looks hella professional (jokes on you, recruiters!) and it makes sense in a way my resumes never have before. I’ve got that nice, warm feeling of accomplishment going. Gotta appreciate the little wins where you can.

Keeping with this nice little boost ( while I listen to 1989 Taylor’s Version), I wanna talk about another comfort show I got into last year. Stay with me here, really.

Murder, She Wrote.

HEAR ME OUT!

Wherein a retired English teacher from a sleepy seaside town in Maine that never gentrifies simultaneously discovers she’s incredible at writing murder mysteries and solving real life murders.

If you were born in the 80’s like I was, you’ve seen at least pieces of episodes on tv when you were a kid. You could probably recognize the intro music and you most likely think ‘yeah, I’m good on that.’ BUT! But, but, but….

It’s really got everything. Random murders with ridiculous weapons that make you go ‘I really don’t think that would have killed someone’ and dead bodies with very little blood. Like, there’s never blood. And random guest stars you’d never expect. And murderers you can guess sometimes and sometimes you can’t because it’s convoluted or silly but that makes the episode better. But those wily murderers are always, always caught.

And there are TWELVE SEASONS! 264 episodes, running longer than the typical 42 minutes because we used to not shove so many ads down our fucking throats.

I spent like, nine months making my way through it and it was fantastic. Jessica Fletcher is an absolute badass, and she’s the grandmother figure I didn’t even realize I wanted. This bish is polite to a fault, whip smart, observant, and she faces down murderer after murderer without ever losing her nerve. She is utterly fierce, but kind. And you don’t really get a lot of female characters like that.

This powerhouse would outwit cops easily, solve their shit with the weirdest clues and seemingly random details, and then she’d make them feel like they did a good job and let them take the credit. She doesn’t want notoriety, she’s already got it through her best sellers, she just wants to help and ultimately catch the bad guy.

There are so many things I love about this show. It satisfies my pure, unadulterated lust for ridiculous murders, while making you feel cozy as hell. It’s comforting to know that by the end of the episode someone was going down and everything would be wrapped up neatly. Sometimes you need that.

And the fact that her character is an extremely accomplished writer in the universe is wonderful. Like, she sat down at her kitchen table one day and banged out some incredible book. And then kept doing it. Throughout the series, there’s mention of like THIRTY different books that she wrote. It’s totally implausible, there’s no way she’s writing like two books a year while also running into all these dead bodies but I love it. It makes my heart happy. It makes me want to write something, finally. Something real.

And y’all. The cameos. THE CAMEOS! Young Courtney Cox. JERRY ORBACH and his entire arc! George freakin’ Clooney. Baby Neil Patrick Harris! That one guy from that thing, and that chick from the other thing! Literally, everyone. I got my sister watching and she was behind me so every couple of days she was getting texts about who popped up. It’s impressive, really. If you were trying to be anyone in the late eighties, early nineties, you had to get your ass on Murder, She Wrote.

ALSO, Angela Lansbury is amazing. Hell of an actress, talent oozing from her pores. At one point, she plays her own British cousin, and it’s fantastic. She was in her 60’s when the show started! Like, someone gave a 60-year-old actress her own show. She was a ground breaker, a glass shatterer. She was a fucking icon.

I’m not sure what I’m driving at here really, but the show is just, such a place and time. And that place and time are really beautiful and relaxing and soothing and silly and entertaining. You don’t get shows like this anymore. Everything has to be edgy and dark and foreboding and yeah it’s a show about murder primarily but it doesn’t feel like that. Why can’t we make fluffy murder shows that make you feel like you're just hanging out with your cool aunt, and she’s radiating the intrinsic knowledge that everything is going to be perfectly fine? Why isn’t that a thing? Are we just that terribly jaded now?

Jessica Fletcher is a treasure. And she’ll warm your heart from the inside out. If you need to be snug and cozy, Cabot Cove is the place for you. It never changes and it never should and there are no loose ends. It’s just nice. And there isn’t enough nice out there. Trust me, and get it where you can.

#what g's watching #comfort show #murder she wrote #angela lansbury #jessica fletcher

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evilwriter-originals · 1 year ago

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Plastic Smiles

A/N: Sadly my mall horror story wasn't accepted into the anthology. However, that means I can share it here!

Rated: mature

Warnings: blood

Word Count: 4,437

Summary: A journalist named Blaine goes to investigate a mall where people seem to be disappearing.

The mall seemed to appear almost overnight. One day it had been an empty lot that was for sale, and the next it was a big, sprawling, four story mall.

But nobody talked about that in a way that implied it was unnatural. How could they when the mall was everything anyone could ever want? The food court was huge and diverse, even accommodating certain allergies (like gluten and dairy). The stores ranged from arts and crafts, to toys and games, to clothes. There was a movie theater with an IMAX screen on the fourth floor. An elevator and escalators transported shoppers between floors.

Everyone loved the mall. It was like it was mandatory to love the mall. Or, that’s what Blaine seemed to be observing.

Blaine Fletcher was a journalist—maybe not the best of the best when it came to getting stories published—and he fancied himself an investigative one too. He was 28, and had a degree in creative writing and communications. The creative writing degree tended to make people brush off his stories, as they were usually rather strange. He thought this unfair. It wasn’t his fault that he was the only one that noticed the strange happenings of the world, and they most certainly were not made up.

Recently, Blaine had heard about the mall through a nearly-forgotten newspaper printing. There were ads for it and its stores all over the paper. Blaine had been uninterested, but had skimmed through all of it anyway.

And he was glad he did. There, at the back, there was a list. At first it wasn’t clear what the list was, but looking at it closer revealed it to be one of those missing persons lists.

Oddly enough, an internet search showed that almost every person had last been seen at this mall.

The mall had a name. Or, it had had a name. Blaine had been sure of that, but now that he’d driven one state over (an easy feat given that he lived in New England), and entered the mall, any memory of its name left his mind. He kept trying to recollect it, and it felt like it was there, just on the tip of his tongue, but he was floundering in fog. There was no name.

And honestly? He didn’t quite care. Maybe it hadn’t actually had a name to begin with and was just “The Mall.”

Blaine stopped at the food court first. It was a huge, tiled room with a massive fountain in the middle, bordered by all sorts of cuisines. He was hungry after his drive over from Connecticut, but now he was having trouble deciding what to eat.

He approached one of the shoppers. He was always a little shy when he first got into investigating something, even if that was just scoping out a place to eat, but once he got his rhythm going, he couldn’t be stopped.

“Where’d you get your burger from?”

The woman, probably in her 30s with red hair, looked around as if he was talking to someone else. He usually felt safer talking to women. He wasn’t sure if he, well… “passed” as a cis man, as it were. He was on testosterone, which had deepened his voice and made little bits of stubble appear along his jaw, but he still had his breasts. Currently, he was wearing a sports bra rather than a binder. Binders weren’t good for long days, and this one was sure to be.

“Me?”

Blaine nodded emphatically.

“Oh, that shop over there,” she said, pointing nearby. “I eat these nearly every day.”

“You… come here every day?” Blaine found that incredibly odd. Who had the time and money to come to a mall every day?

“Nearly every day,” she corrected.

“Ah, well, thank you for the help.”

Everyone at The Mall seemed friendly, a bit more so than Blaine was used to. Wasn’t Massachusetts supposed to be the “Mass-hole” state? Ah, well, at least he wasn’t dealing with anyone belligerent or sarcastic.

The line for the burger joint moved along swiftly, no one complaining, everyone getting exactly what they ordered. Soon, Blaine was paying and being given his food.

“How long have you worked here?” Blaine asked the man at the register.

“Four years.”

“Four years?” Blaine asked incredulously. “I thought The Mall was new.”

“It is.”

“Then how—?”

“Next customer!” The man was suddenly acting as if he didn’t exist. Okay, so maybe there were rude people here.

Blaine found a small table rather easily despite there being a lot of people here. It was a convenient one, a good place to people-watch while he ate. The burger really was very good, and he enjoyed his fries a lot as well. People were laughing, talking, smiling. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Maybe nothing was.

Blaine was questioning why he’d even bothered coming here. It seemed like a normal mall.

Sighing, realizing he’d wasted his time, he threw out his food wrappers and then made for the doors. Time to go back home, he guessed.

That’s when he noticed an advertisement on the directory screen. There was a small bookshop called Death & Delights on the second floor. Blaine had always loved books (one reason he’d picked writing as a major in college), and was fascinated by the name of the place.

Death and Delights.

Feeling intrigued, he turned on his heel, away from the doors leading to the parking lot, and headed for the elevator. If he’d been allowed time to notice, he would have seen a heavy coat of pollen on many of the cars in the parking lot. (He hadn’t been given time though.)

Blaine felt more comfortable taking the elevator; escalators had always scared him from a young age. He was followed in by three other people.

“Going up?” one of them, a smiling middle-aged woman asked.

Blaine looked at the buttons. “There only is an up.”

“That’s what I said.”

Blaine scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, uh, floor 2.”

The woman just smiled and nodded, and hit the button for him.

The people in the elevator chatted as if they’d known each other a long time, all smiles and laughter. Blaine felt like the odd one out—something he was quite used to feeling—and was happy to be let out on the second floor.

Death & Delights was a little hard to find, but he came upon it in a corner of the mall near the floor-to-ceiling windows. He thought he heard modern pop music playing, but it was nearly impossible to make out over all the shoppers and their laughter.

A little bell rang as Blaine pushed open the glass door, coming into a shop that was decorated in purple and black, with tapestries hanging on the walls. He didn’t say hello to the man at the front counter yet, just gave him a polite little wave, and began his look around.

Something about the store fascinated him. It smelled of incense and something sweet he couldn’t put his finger on. The smells were new to him, but made him also feel oddly at home.

The tapestries were interesting, depicting skeletons and naked women with long hair dancing beside them, odd symbols that Blaine had never seen before in splashes of beautiful color, and a lot of other things.

Then there were the books themselves. They smelled old, musty, and some of them had a fine layer of dust on them as if they were never touched. The spines were all cracked leather, the pages themselves looking to be yellow and old.

“Don’t get a lot of customers?” Blaine asked of the man at the front counter. He had short white hair despite looking to only be in his 50s or 60s, and piercing blue eyes.

“Most aren’t interested in the macabre and occult,” he responded, straightening. There was a twinkle in his eyes, almost like a challenge. “Are you?”

Blaine gave a noncommittal shrug. He’d been a little interested in the occult while in college, but that interest had died away. He felt a tiny tremor of something stirring in him though, like a pleasant tingling in his gut.

“Ah, well, take a look around.”

“I’m… actually looking for someone to speak with,” Blaine said. “Just for a few questions.”

The man eyed him up and down, noticed the bag slung from his shoulder. In it, Blaine carried his laptop, a notebook, and a variety of pens and pencils that were always going missing.

“Journalist, are you?”

Blaine laughed. “Yeah, I am.” He approached the counter, laid his hands on the glass top, which, as he looked through it past smudged fingerprints, he saw there were various crystals and miniature skulls and skeletons for sale. Staring at one of the skulls, admiring the detail in it, he asked: “Can I get a name?”

“Victor.” The man was smiling, just like everyone else in The Mall. You were supposed to smile in The Mall. “What kinds of questions do you have?”

Blaine was fishing his notebook out of his bag. Despite packing pens this morning, they seemed to be evading him. He sighed.

“Do you have a pen?”

Victor helpfully pulled one out of his pocket and handed it to Blaine, who gave him a grateful smile.

So, Blaine dove into his questions. He was glad he’d had them written down beforehand, because he was appearing to be forgetful today. Still, he smiled, and went on.

Victor painted a good picture for him. He’d been working at The Mall as soon as it had opened, thinking it was a good opportunity for his bookshop. The Mall was a few years old and everyone in town enjoyed it. People came from different states to see it. There wasn’t anything much going on there though, despite what that newspaper had made Blaine think.

Wait…

What newspaper?

Blaine couldn’t quite remember. He also forgot to flip his page of questions to get to the seriously juicy ones about disappearances.

He bought the miniature skull he’d been looking at before he left, a little thing made of ceramic or pottery. Victor gave him a pat on the shoulder and helped him with the door.

“Have a good day!” Victor called.

“You as well!”

Then Blaine was heading for the elevator, feeling satisfied. He didn’t know where he planned on going to next. Maybe the basement.

He checked his phone briefly to see if anyone had tried contacting him, saw a text from his dad, and let it go unanswered.

He could get to it later.

“Up or down?” a person in the elevator asked him, smiling.

“Down,” Blaine answered. “Basement level.”

The person just nodded and pressed the button below 1.

The ride was silent, and Blaine was glad the skull was hidden in a paper bag so no one would see it. He didn’t want to potentially scare anyone with it. He didn’t even know why he’d bought it. It had just been calling to him.

Once in the basement, the two stepped out of the elevator. The doors slid shut behind them, leaving them in a concrete room that was as large as The Mall was wide. Dull fluorescent lights flickered overhead.

It smelled sweet down here, like the bookshop.

And it was filled with people.

Blaine suddenly felt like he’d been punched. His gut twisted, his hands beginning to shake.

This wasn’t right.

“We shouldn’t be here,” he said to the person who had come down with him, words tight and rushed like he was going to be sick. He remembered now, that before, there had been no button below 1. There was no basement.

“Of course we should,” the person responded with a smile. Then they meandered away into the crowd of mingling people. Some were sitting on the concrete floor, some standing, and all around there was that sweet scent that was starting to smell rather sickly.

“No, no.” Blaine went to grab their shoulder, but they were already out of reach. He turned, frantically pushing the buttons to the elevator to make it open and take him from this wretched place.

The elevator wasn’t working. The compartment didn’t even seem to be on this floor anymore.

“Shit,” Blaine muttered under his breath.

He turned around, looking at all the people. Something didn’t feel right. He felt like… he felt like a cow being left for slaughter. They were all in the same boat, but they were smiling, laughing, and chatting as if nothing was wrong.

Above the sweetness, Blaine could also smell unwashed bodies and sweat. Hair was lank and oily, or packed together and bushy, as if people had tried to finger-comb it. A lot of these people had clearly been here for a long time. He noticed, uneasily, that most of the people down here were people of color, or wearing cheap clothes, or possibly even queer like him.

Easily expendable.

Now that “shit” exclamation turned into a terrified, breathy “Fuck.”

Blaine turned back to the elevator, slamming on the doors, the buttons, anything he could touch.

“Let me out! Let me out!”

No one heard him. Or, if anyone did, no one cared.

Blaine pressed his head against the doors, breathing heavily. He felt like he was going to panic, chest tightening, throat closing, stomach twisting with dread.

That missing persons list had just gone up.

Blaine couldn’t help it: he screamed. He screamed so loud it could be heard over the din of happily chattering voices.

No one noticed.

No one cared.

Crying in terror, wondering how he had even gotten into this mess, Blaine sank to the floor on his knees.

And there he stayed.

---

Hours could have passed. Blaine wasn’t entirely sure. He’d taken out his phone, had tried calling anyone at all, but there was no signal. The time on his phone stayed the same as when he’d arrived in the basement: 2:06 PM. There was no Wi-Fi either.

Blaine had run his hands through his hair over and over, had pulled some out, even. His dark brown curls were now a mess.

He sat near the elevator, tears wiped away, voice hoarse from screaming. He sat silently, and didn’t smile.

Not like the rest of the people down here. It was like they didn’t know they were trapped. How long had some of them been down here?

Most importantly, when would The Mall try to claim its next victim? Would Blaine be able to get out then, when the elevator came back down?

He was hungry. It was long past his usual time for dinner. He was worried out of his mind. Was anyone trying to call him? Anyone from the office? Any of his friends? His dad when he hadn’t responded to one of his texts that he’d gotten before going into the elevator?

Or would no one remember him? Would no one care?

Blaine sat with his back against the elevator doors. He got tired of looking at the cheerful people, got tired of wondering why he himself wasn’t affected by whatever power The Mall held. So, he took out the skull from the paper bag and began fiddling with it.

Looking at it made him think of Victor and how kindly he’d treated him, and oddly enough, he found himself longing to be in that strange bookshop again. At least he wouldn’t be trapped down here to waste away with all these smiling people.

The elevator dinged.

Blaine jumped to his feet, careless of the skull falling from his fingers and cracking on the unforgiving concrete.

He was ready to bolt when the doors opened, but he crashed into someone, and fell back out of the elevator with a startled sound. He landed hard on his rear, scraping up his palms in a bolt of sheering pain as he tried to brace himself so he wouldn’t hit his head.

“I didn’t expect to see you down here.”

The voice was familiar. Blaine lifted his head, shaking hair out of his eyes.

“Victor?”

The older man stepped out of the elevator, not wearing a smile, looking rather calm and collected. Odd. Was he not affected by The Mall either?

“Wait, wait!” Blaine rushed to his feet, but the elevator doors were already closing. “No! No! Dammit!” He slammed a fist against the doors, jolting pain into his skinned palms. He didn’t care about that very much, didn’t care about the way blood began to seep between his fingers.

Victor just watched him with what seemed to be mild amusement. Blaine turned to him, confused and desperate as ever.

“You’re… not affected by It?” Blaine asked.

“No.”

“Then what the hell are you doing down here?!” Blaine was angry now. “You could have let me out!” He looked around at all the other people trapped here with him. “You could have let all of them out!”

“I think It might trap me if I try to do that.” Victor shrugged. “Besides, The Mall and I have come to an agreement.”

“An… agreement?”

That’s when Blaine noticed that Victor held a satchel in one hand. He found himself slowly backing away from the bookseller, a nervous sweat popping out on his temples.

“Look, you have to let us out.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Victor took a step forward—Blaine, a step back. There was something dangerous in those piercing blue eyes.

“What agreement, then?” Blaine asked. “You can’t break it?”

“The agreement is that I feed It,” Victor responded. “The Mall can’t kill on its own, and time doesn’t work the same down here, so it would take too long for people to die.” He put one hand in his satchel. “So I come and do Its killing.”

Blaine’s eyes went big, his heart dropping to his feet.

“You— You— Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you’re not getting out of here alive. Or at all.” Victor smiled, and it wasn’t like those plastic smiles everyone in The Mall wore. It was genuine, and scary. It was like a predator showing its teeth before the final attack.

There was a flash of a long blade in the flickering fluorescents, and Blaine ran.

The problem was, there was nowhere to run to. There was the entire length of the concrete basement, large as it was, but the elevator wasn’t open. He was stuck.

He briefly thought of rushing into the crowd, of using people as something to get in Victor’s way, a shield of sorts. But that would just hurt or kill someone that wasn’t him.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. Blaine couldn’t think straight. He heard Victor’s pounding run behind him, could almost hear his breath. He was gaining on him.

Blaine abruptly turned, tore off his bag, and threw the entire thing at Victor, who was a mere six feet away. The laptop was going to add some weight to that.

It had the desired effect; it hit him square in the face, and he went down on his back with a cry, blade loudly clattering from his hand. Blaine’s bag and broken laptop pieces skidded away.

Blaine didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t give himself time to question it. He grabbed the weapon—a long, sharp, and slightly curved kitchen knife—and straddled Victor, shoving his satchel as far away as he could just in case it contained more weapons.

“You’re… you’re going to let us all out.” Blaine held the knife in two shaking hands, chest heaving with labored breaths. His vison was blurred, and he didn’t know if it was from the running or the ice that shuddered through his veins.

Victor didn’t look scared, just mildly startled. Blood leaked from his nose, and for a moment he just stared at Blaine.

Then he smiled.

“You’re not going to use that, are you?”

“I will!” Blaine cried, his voice uncomfortably high-pitched. “Let us out!”

Victor still didn’t look the least bit concerned. He didn’t believe him.

The Mall’s business partner tilted his head back and laughed.

“Oh, you’re pathetic!” he laughed. Blood ran into his mouth and he spat it out. “You don’t have what it takes! You don’t have the mettle!” He was struggling against Blaine now, trying to get himself free. “You don’t have what it takes to look someone in the eye and take their life.”

With an enraged shout, Blaine slashed down with the knife. A wound bloomed across Victor’s left cheek.

“I don’t have to kill you,” Blaine panted. “I just have to get these people free.” He scrambled off of Victor, grabbed him by his shirt before he could react, and pushed him. He stumbled, but righted himself, turned on Blaine with a growl.

Blaine’s bravado was false, but he leveled the knife at Victor. That had been the last straw.

“Walk.”

“And where are we going?”

Blaine grabbed Victor’s wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. The both of them were leaving blood stains on his clothes.

“You know where. Elevator. Move.”

Victor walked forward, Blaine close behind, holding his wrist in a vise-like grip. He was still unsettled by how calm Victor seemed, how sure of himself. Then again, this was his turf, and Blaine had only stepped into The Mall that very day.

“And how do you plan on getting all these people out?” Victor asked with a tone as if he were asking about the weather.

“None of your business. Move.”

That was the problem. Blaine didn’t know. He didn’t know how to free anyone from The Mall’s trap. Maybe something to do with Victor?

He told himself he’d figure it out once he got to the elevator.

The bloody knife trembled in his shaking hand.

They made it around the crowd and to the elevator. No one noticed them. Conversation carried on as usual.

“Open it,” Blaine ordered.

“To you? I—”

“I said open it!” He dug the knife point against Victor’s back, hopefully giving enough of a warning.

Victor pressed the button, the elevator dinged, and the doors opened.

“Going up?” he asked, putting on a smile.

Irritated with this man’s confidence, a plan snapped into place. Blaine stood in the doorway of the elevator, spun Victor around so he was in front of him, and pressed the knife to his throat.

He’d never spoken with a sentient mall before, but now was just the time for that.

“You let these people go!” he shouted.

“NO NEED TO SHOUT,” a voice came back. Or what Blaine thought was a voice. It was gentle and roiling, quiet and loud, all at the same time.

“You’re going to let these people go.”

“OR WHAT, DEAR BOY?”

“Or I kill him. No more food for you. No one helping you. You starve.”

The Mall seemed to be considering this.

Then, very suddenly, there was a rumbling. Blaine stumbled, but kept upright, kept his tight hold on Victor. There was no way in hell he was letting this man get away.

The rumbling continued, and it felt like something was expanding. Looking behind him, Blaine saw the elevator doing just that. The doors were widening, the space inside getting bigger and bigger.

And Blaine grew scared, feeling as if he could see every moment he’d ever lived and every moment he wouldn’t. What if this was another ploy to trap and consume them? Suddenly, the large elevator grew into a gargantuan mouth in his mind, and his knees almost started knocking together.

“How do I know you won’t trick us?”

The Mall smiled. It was like Blaine could feel it all around him, under his feet, crawling up his spine to raise the hairs on his neck.

“YOU DON’T.”

But this was Blaine’s only option of getting out with all these people. If he died trying to rescue everyone, so be it.

The people were suddenly all looking at him, a hundred tired, and slightly-crazed, desperate eyes fixed on him. Their smiles were gone, and there seemed to be conscious thought in them again.

“Get in the elevator,” Blaine said as calmly as he could. His hand trembled, and he accidentally nicked Victor on the neck, making the man flinch and wince.

Hmm, what to do about him? He couldn’t just let him out to continue this whole agreement.

Blaine moved aside to let the people enter, their scent rank in his nose, making his face scrunch up a little. They were murmuring quietly, looking at themselves and those around them in wide-eyed horror.

“What… what happened?” one older black man asked as he began to pass through the doors. “I just went shopping. I wanted to get my granddaughter a gift. I…” He trailed off, looking at Blaine with terrible confusion.

“I’ll explain. Or… do my best to explain,” Blaine answered.

The man nodded, and he passed into the elevator.

The basement was empty, the elevator full. Blaine still stood in the doorway, blocking it from closing.

“What’s your plan now, genius?” Victor asked, voice rich with condescension.

“This.”

Blaine removed the knife from Victor’s throat, and (he swore he’d read about this online once, but couldn’t remember where) kicked him in the backs of the knees so that he went down. He stumbled into the basement.

The last thing Blaine saw before the doors closed was Victor scrambling up, a loud, desperate “No!” leaving him.

And then the elevator began to go up. Blaine was surprised by this, given that he’d just broken The Mall’s agreement. Maybe it would enjoy Victor as recompense for letting them all go.

The elevator stopped.

“Okay, out! Everybody out!”

There was a rush to get to the doors as they opened. Blaine was helping to direct people.

He made sure to be the last one out.

The Mall looked normal. The lights were on, though it was closed and empty. Tinny, cheerful music played from somewhere above.

Blaine didn’t realize that he’d still been holding the knife until he heard it clatter to the floor, staining the pristine white tiles with crimson. He sank down onto the floor, his head in his hands.

Now, he began to sob.

---

In a day, The Mall was gone, leaving the lot as empty as it had started. In two days, people forgot that it had even existed.

But not Blaine. Blaine knew now, knew that there were supernatural forces in this world he couldn’t hope to stand against.

And during each long, and all too frequent, sleepless nights, all he could see was that last look in Victor’s eyes: dread and doom.

#horror #writing #fiction #short story #short stories #whump #blood #trans character

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