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stevesharrlngtons · 4 years ago

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pin prick and needle sticks.

roman godfrey x reader

summary: your solution for roman’s feeding problem is met with some resistance.

word count: 3.9k

a/n: ya im having so much fun writing again so hopefully there will be more! i hope you enjoy and if you do, pls give me some feedback (-:

also this is a repost bc this wasn’t showing up in tags

When you strode into Dr. Pryce’s office, he didn’t try to hide his surprise at your uncharacteristic appearance.

“Ms. (Y/L/N)! This is surely an unexpected visit.” Pryce pushed out of his desk chair to meet you in the middle of the large glass room.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” You say politely as Johann takes the coat that’s folded over your arm.

“No, not presently. I was just about to wrap up some paperwork and go to lunch.”

“Well, I won’t keep you long. I am hoping my question has a simple enough answer.” You say as you take a seat in one of the visitors chairs across from his desk.

“So, you are looking for my expertise on a matter?” Pryce asks, taking his own seat now.

“Yes, and maybe a small favor depending on your answer.” You smile, trying to seem as sweet as possible.

You knew Johann was asked for wild favors and cover ups where the Godfrey family was concerned constantly, almost on the daily. You wanted him to be receptive to your idea and not shoot you down before he heard your pitch.

Pryce was tolerant of your presence and occasionally even fond of your acquaintance when Roman needed him for something or another. You were very bright and amiable company.

He sighs deeply, already seeming resistant, “Is this a Roman related favor?”

“Yes, but not in the way you think. It’s more like a gift I need your help in giving.”

Johann looked extremely perplexed as he placed his laced fingers on his desktop, “Now I am very intrigued. Please, proceed,”

“You are aware that Roman has been having some trouble sourcing food. Right?” You try to say everything as delicately as possible, even though you knew Pryce knew about Roman’s situation in full. Probably even more than you knew.

“Yes, I am. Unfortunately Olivia forbids me to speak with him on the matter before she does, and she refuses to do so until Roman goes to her for help.”

“Withholding access to food, sounds like an award winning mother if you ask me.”

Johann chuckles, “Yes, Olivia is nothing but selfless.”

“Selfless and maternal.”

Pryce laughs again before he asks you what is the nature of your visit in relation to Roman and his upirism.

“Like all things in Roman’s life that are broken, I have found the solution to fix them. In this case, I have decided that I will take my blood and give it to him. As much as I can give, so he will never have to worry about where to feed again.” You said this with a self assured expression, elated that you had come up with a way to help your love.

The true extent of Roman’s feeding problem had become apparent one night while you were making love.

Roman sat on his knees, your legs around his waist while he pressed his hips deliciously into yours. He had set a gentle rhythm of thrusts, ones that were illicting your mewls and calls of his name from your lips. While you were reveling in your pleasure, Roman was trembling. Desire filming his eyes as they transfixed on your jugular. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the faint thrum in your neck, your voice becoming hazy and distant as his mouth watered at the sight of your craned neck below him. It wasn’t until you grabbed his cheeks that he snapped from his thirsty stupor.

Roman tumbled off your naked form to the floor of the bedroom unceremoniously, skirting away from you until his back reached the wall, the farthest wall from the bed. You had sat up, not bothering to cover yourself as you stared at your crumpled boyfriend, who shook and stammered under his breath.

“I can’t, OK? We can’t! Not until I feed again. I don’t think I can control it- I can’t control myself.”

“Baby, it’s going to be fine. I know you would never hurt me,” You push away the remains of crumpled sheets and begin toward him, but Roman flinches aggressively.

“I can’t help it, no matter how much I don’t want too, I will. I would kill you just for a taste and I would hate myself forever.”

You wanted to offer yourself up on a silver platter then and there. Ask him to drink from you because even if he doubted his control, you knew he would stop feeding before you were in any semblance of danger. You just wanted to make him feel better, in any way you could. But, as Roman wove his hands into his hair and tugged ruthlessly at the roots, it was clear that this wasn’t going to become an argument, or even a conversation. Roman left the bedroom soon after, muttering something about the refrigerator and leeches, while you watched him leave with an ache in your chest.

You had been trying to figure out the best possible solution to Roman’s problem since. After contemplating many different avenues, you concluded that you weren’t a bank robber (even if it was just a blood bank) and hiring someone from Craigslist seemed too risky (and too weird). So, you had fallen back on your original idea from that night: Roman would drink from you.

“To be clear, you want to extract your own blood and stockpile it for Roman?”

“Exactly. I just need to know how to do it and how much I can give per week without dying of iron deficiency or something.” You nonchalantly reply.

“This is very noble of you to do, (Y/N).”

You wave a dismissive hand at his compliment, “I just want to help him in the best way I can. It’s what you do for the people you love.”

Pryce stares at you for a moment, and begins to wonder how Roman attracted you in the first place? He was sure it was the young man’s killer good looks and the charm he held with the opposite sex that first caught your attention, but you were a smart girl. You wouldn’t fall for him simply because he was a blueprint for a Greek statue or threw a few saccharine words your way. He wondered if Roman was warm and adoring? Sweet and loving and soft when he was only in your company? From what Pryce had seen first hand, Roman was kind and gentle when you were around, but only ever to you. The second Roman laid his eyes back on Pryce or anyone else for that matter, he was back to an angry frothing terror to anyone in his path.

“When giving blood for say, The Red Cross, they take about a liter of your blood which is around 15 fluid ounce. You shouldn’t give more than that a mouth, but I could give you a few supplements that could help replenish your red blood cells at a slightly quicker rate so you would be able to give blood once a week.

“You would likely need to take breaks, possibly a month on and a month off? To make sure that giving blood this frequently wouldn’t take any serious toll, or have any significant side effects on the body.” Pryce explains.

“And these supplements won’t do anything weird to me if I take them?” You trusted Pryce, but only minutely. While you felt cordial with him, you still knew to be weary of his experiments.

“No, of course not. They are all over the counter supplements and vitamins that you can buy on your own accord. I would just tell you how, when and the quantity to take.”

You sighed at his answer and laughed lightly, “So it’s all good? We could do it?”

“I don’t see why not. I could send a tech to your home to administer the IV, and possibly if this method of feeding works out for Roman long term, you could learn to insert it yourself.”

“Am I going to have like, crazy puncture marks? Am I gonna look like a junkie?” You asked, the vanity of this whole thing only now coming to your mind.

“Unfortunately, there will be noticeable marks and possible bruises from repeated insertions. I could work on something to heal your puncture marks, as I said, if this becomes a main source of Roman’s feeding.”

You nod, mulling over the information for a moment.

“When could we start?”

Telling Roman about the whole thing never even crossed your mind. To you, this was a gift that you were going to give to him, and you loved the element of surprise. It was strange, sure, but to you, this idea of yours felt totally romantic. Some women gave their boyfriends watches, or flat screen TV’s, or let them put in their ass on their birthdays; but for your boyfriend? The man who had every material object he desired and every sexual need quenched? Your blood was a perfect way to show him you cared.

You didn’t want Roman to get just one bag for the first time you presented him with the blood, so you waited four long weeks to create your mini arsenal for him. You just took to wearing long sleeves around the house and silk robes right before bed to hide the little marks on your arms. Roman, still not at his most observant from his lack of feedings, didn’t even bat an eye at your clothing choices.

After your final session with one of Pryce’s tech’s in your home, you felt giddy. You had been keeping the blood in the outside fridge until you had the stockpile you desired, knowing Roman never checked it’s contents. Tonight was the night you were finally going to give them to him.

After Pryce’s man left, you placed your newest bag in the refrigerator and went back inside to change into something far more alluring than the sweatpants you adorned currently. This was going to be a special night for your man and you wanted to pull out all the stops. You had already directed Conway and Anna to make a four course feast for the two of you before you would bring out Roman’s surprise.

After changing into the tightly fitted black dress you had picked out a few weeks ago, along with Roman’s favorite silk lingerie set, you went back downstairs to continue to set the scene for Roman when he returned from work. You scattered candles around the room and played an old jazz record to soothe any worry or anxiety from your boyfriend once he entered your shared home. You wanted everything to be perfect, he deserved it.

As you finished and Anna and Conway were wrapping up the meal, you heard someone placing a key in the front door. You turned to see Roman’s tall silhouette through the frosted glass and you couldn’t keep the smile off your lips.

When he walked through the door, he looked exhausted. His eyes were haloed in shadows and he was gaunt, his pale skin pasty and dull. He looked about ready to collapse.

Until he saw you.

“Welcome home.” You said, a wide grin on your features.

“What’s all this?” Roman asked as you met him by the door.

“I know how stressed you’ve been and I wanted to set up a nice evening for the two of us.” You replied as you pushed his coat off his shoulders and held out for Conway to take.

Roman glanced over your shoulder to see the extent of the fuss you had made for him and his shoulders visibly relaxed, “You’re amazing.”

You took both his hands and started to walk back toward the table, “That I am, and I have a little surprise for you after dinner.”

Roman tugs you to him suddenly, causing you to stumble a bit in your heels, but that only accomplished to bring you flush to him.

“Is my surprise under this sexy little get up of yours?” Roman’s eyes twinkle with lust as he moves his hands down to grip your ass.

You hum with delight, “I guess you have two surprises coming, then.”

You lean up to place a lingering kiss to his lips and Roman groans a curse as you step away from his hold.

“But for now, let’s eat and unwind. How was your day?” You ask, pulling out Roman’s chair for him.

“Better now.” He grinned, one that was without smare or ulterior motive. Just a pure smile radiating happiness.

After you chatted about your days and Roman having bitched about work to his heart’s content, you both finished the delicious dinner that was prepared for you. You had moved across the table to sit on his lap while you both shared a chocolate mousse, the gentle ping of the silver spoon against the serving glass lulling you both into calm relaxation and sloth as you ate the rich dessert.

Roman’s temple was pressed against your exposed cleavage, practically purring with the bliss he felt.

“Thank you for tonight, baby. I needed it.” He sighed, turning his head just enough to let you kiss his lips.

“Of course, my love.” You responded, stroking your hand through his hair, “I’d pluck the stars from the sky if it’d make you happy.”

“Hey,” Roman smiles, poking your side, “That’s my line.”

You giggle as Roman prodes you, “Well, while I’m taking your lines, let me take another. I got you something and I need to go and get it.”

“You know I don’t need anything.” Roman says, squeezing you once more before you got off his lap.

“This present is something you need, trust me.” You say over your shoulder as you exit the kitchen and enter the garage to get the gift box you had prepared.

Was this all very dramatic? Yes. Over the top? Of course.

But you loved pampering Roman, so you threw all cares to the wind.

As you entered the kitchen with the rectangular black gift box held together with a silk ribbon, Roman looked at you confused.

“Jeez, what is that? Is my mother’s head in there?” He asked as he watched you place the box on the dining table.

“I wish.” You chuckled, dusting your hands off on your dress as you looked into Roman’s puzzled expression, “Open it.”

Unable to even guess what could be in the box, Roman stood up and walked toward you and where it lay.

“It’s not gonna be anything that’s gonna pop out at me, right?”

“Oh my God, stop being such a bitch and open it already!” You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder as you quaked with excitement.

Roman finally pulled on the black ribbon and slowly untied it, causing the sides of the box to fall apart and reveal it’s contents.

“Surprise!” You said, jumping slightly in place, barely able to keep your excitement to yourself as Roman took in the gift.

He just looked at the blood blankly, all placed in a row before him. His mouth hung open, but he said nothing.

“How did you get this?”

“Well, that’s the extra special part. It’s mine,” You gestured to the blood, “It’s all from me.”

Roman looked up at you, and the appreciation you’d thought you’d see written all over his face wasn’t there. Instead his face was red with anger.

“How could you do this? How could you be so reckless!” Roman raged.

Your heart sank with embarrassment and grief.

“I thought you’d like it.”

“Like it? Baby, why would I like you taking your blood to give to me? Do you know how dangerous this is? Do you!” You cowered under his voice, lip quivering.

“I thought you would be happy, I thought I was helping. Now you don’t have to worry about feeding or hurting anyone. I can just give blood every now and then and give it to you.” You responded, trying desperately to mend the evening.

“How did you even do this? How did you figure this out?” Roman picked up one of the bags and furiously tossed it back down.

You furrowed your brows and took a step toward your boyfriend, “OK, so don’t get mad- well, don’t get more mad I guess… but I asked Pryce-”

“You asked Pryce?” Roman shrieked, his eyes bulging from his head.

“Yes! But it wasn’t his idea, it was mine. The whole thing was my idea and all he did was help me and make sure I was safe.” You said quickly as Roman paced the length of the table in front of you.

“I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill that stupid little prick and rip his cock off and shove it down his throat!” Roman bellowed.

“Ro, it’s not his fault,”

“It is! He let you do this! Indulged you! He fucking put a needle in your arm and touched you!” It was then that Roman finally zeroed in on the small circular band aid on the inner crook of your elbow and his face passed its red hue into bright crimson.

“Pryce never touched me! He had a lab tech help me.”

“Then I’m killing the tech, then Pryce, then everyone in that fucking nut house of a lab who knew this was happening and didn’t tell me!”

“Stop!” You shouted over Roman’s angry rant, “Enough! This wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own, apparently. I fucked up, I can see that now. But I honestly and truly thought you would love this. That you could be satiated from my blood and never worry about where the next source would come from. But hey? Guess I was wrong.”

Tears threatened to spill from your eyes as you turned on your heel to leave.

“(Y/N),” Roman called after you but you stuck up your hand to silence him.

“No, I just want to go to sleep. I’ll see you in bed.” And you walked up the stairs to leave your boyfriend stewing in his own ire.

Stripped from your dress and lingerie, you lay under the thick covers of the bed and mindlessly watch some old re-run of a sitcom. It had been well over an hour since you had left Roman in the kitchen and each second he stayed away was another second of heartbreak and humiliation. You still weren’t sure why Roman had blown up the way he did… sure it was risky, but nothing that you couldn’t handle. You were a grown fucking woman who knew her own limits. You had picked up the supplements Pryce had prescribed you and you had been feeling perfectly fine. If you ever started to feel any effects, you knew you would head straight to Pryce or your primary doctor.

As another commercial break washed over the screen, Roman opened the door to the bedroom and peeked his head inside.

“You OK?”

“No.”

Roman sighed as he came fully into the room and shut the door behind himself, leaning against it.

“Listen, I’m sorry about the scene down there…”

“I’m sorry, too. I should have asked you first if you would have been OK with me doing this for you.” You slumped your shoulder into the mattress.

Roman just watched you.

“I just… Roman, I really thought you would like it! I thought you might even be grateful. I really meant what I said downstairs, I would give you a star if that would make you happy, I really would. And I thought helping solve your feeding problem would make you happy, and it didn’t, so I’m sorry.”

Still Roman stayed silent, just studying you, wrapped in a coil of thick blankets. He soon walked toward the bed and sat on the corner, his back facing you. He hunched over and placed his head in his hands, gently shook it side to side.

“I was never really even that mad at you, baby. Just at Pryce, I guess. And scared…”

“Scared about what?”

“Seriously? You’re going to ask that?” Roman glowered.

You kicked your foot out to the edge he was sitting on to jostle him, “Don’t be an asshole.”

He grumbled something under his breath that you sure was unkind before he continued.

“I was obviously fucking scared because this could go wrong, alright? You could get sick or stop clotting or something! I don’t know. I don’t have to be rational when it comes to your safety and health.”

You rolled your eyes at that comment, “I thought I was being rational coming up with this idea, Roman. In my head, this would solve everything. No more leeches or starving or worrying that you’ll kill someone when it gets too much!”

Roman looked back at you, his eyes intense as your cheeks heated with your outburst.

“I just-! Fuck,” He turned back around, bouncing his knee, “I don’t want you to do this for me and something bad happening. That’s it, that’s all.”

You frown and whisper his name, just loud enough for him to hear.

“And because you went to Pryce and not me… and that no one at my own fucking company told me about this. Fucking traitors.”

You shuffled your way out from the blankets and crawled your way toward Roman, placing a gentle hand to his shoulder to gage his reaction before you moved to hug him.

“I’m not going to get hurt, I promise. Pryce told me where to buy some vitamins to keep me healthy and they have been working. I won’t continue if I start to feel sick. And if by some chance I do, you will be the first person I tell.”

Roman says nothing at first, but you knew he heard you. You placed a few simple kisses to his shoulder and wound your arms tighter around his waist, snuggling to him.

“I want to know the second you start to feel anything less than fantastic, OK? If you feel faint or nauseous or even if you have a fucking headache, alright? I’m not fucking around here.” He replied firmly.

A smile spread across your face and you pressed it to his skin, “Of course, baby. No more secrets ever again.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Roman trailed off with a sigh, but leaning into your touch.

“You know,” You started, moving around his neck to see his face, “I thought the idea of you drinking my blood was very romantic. Maybe even erotic.”

Roman moved to give you a quizzical look and you only grinned wider.

“Something about giving myself to you fully, running through your veins, letting you have all of me, you don’t think that’s romantic?”

Roman’s lips began to pull into his signature smirk, “I think I was little more taken by your erotic comment.”

You giggled and playfully bit his shoulder, “I don’t know, I think about watching you drink it… about you covered in it and knowing it’s from me,”

Roman was quick to grab you and manhandle you around him and into his lap.

“Yeah?” He asked, smirk persistent as his hands explored your body.

“Yeah… knowing you drink my blood, my cum, that you’re the only one who knows my taste… it got me all hot, baby.”

Roman groaned deep in his chest as he dug his fingers into your hips, twitching his hips up against you and making your eyes flutter.

“My baby, my girl,” He hummed, leaning forward to ghost his lips over your own, “You drive me absolutely wild.”

“All better now?”

Roman just chuckles, grinding you down onto him.

“And you’ll drink the blood?”

“Yeah, fine,” And he finally kisses you.

You knew that he was playing it off now like it was nothing, but the honesty you had shown him, and the utter devotion you had just pledged, meant something to him. It meant everything to him.

i really hope you enjoyed!!!! if you do, i’d love to hear your thoughts (:

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amlovelies · 4 years ago

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what desire will make foolish people do

@wayhavenmonthly Fall for Unit Bravo

Day 5: game

pairing: Mason/f!oc Serena Willis (not a detective)

warnings: not technically smut, but super suggestive also smoking and foul language

words: 2779

read on ao3

A/N: this is part of my Au and takes place before the scene I posted for day 2: Liability. I’ve posted parts of this before as “excerpts from a fic I’ll never write” guess I’m a liar. This is all pulled from different parts of the story because I liked the way I could use them to fit the theme, so there are some slightly awkward bits where I edited it to make more sense.

Round 1

The cool spring air outside the warehouse helps to clear my head. The last few weeks have been hard, and as much as I think I am adjusting to my new life and role here, there are still days when it’s harder. Days when I miss home and feel so out of my depth it’s almost a joke. I lean back against the door and close my eyes taking deep breaths.

“Are you planning on blocking the door all night?”

My eyes snap open at the growled question. Great, Mason. Of all the members of Unit Bravo I’ve been unable to really connect or understand him. He’s made it clear he thinks I’m useless and I’m surprised he bothered to waste a whole sentence on me rather than just grunting. I watch him pull out his damn near ubiquitous pack of cigarettes.

“Can I have one?” I ask almost surprising myself. I haven’t smoked in years, but maybe it’ll take the edge off.

“Sorry,” Mason says as he pulls a cigarette from the half full pack in his hands, “I’m all out”

“So you’re the only one who gets to use self-destructive behaviors to make them feel better?” I ask in what I hope isn’t a petulant tone.

“Isn’t self-destructive if I’m immortal. Besides, I’ve got something I can give you that’ll make you feel much better than a smoke would.”

I’m glad it’s getting too dark so I don’t have to see the smirk on his face. It’s too bad it doesn’t affect his vision because I’m sure he can see the blush that paints my cheeks even as I’m rolling my eyes at his much too obvious come on. I’d heard rumors about Mason’s “charms,” but this is the first time he’s ever tried to use them on me. No matter what I think of his personality, he is a dangerously handsome man and I hate how flustered the comment makes me feel even if his flirting has more in common with a battering ram.

“Or I could just go to the store and pick up my own pack. Sounds a lot more satisfying.” I say as I push off the door and make to walk past Mason. I don’t actually want a smoke that bad, but I also don’t want to back down in front of him.

“Fine, don’t say I never did anything for ya.” Mason scoffs and I yelp as I’m hit in the chest with the pack. I eagerly pull one out and pass the pack back to him. I’m a little skeptical about his sudden altruism, maybe he really is trying to get me into bed.

“Where’s your lighter?” I ask.

“Never asked for a lighter, Sweetheart, and it seems I’ve lost mine.” He says, voice smug and mocking. So much for my victory. “Maybe you should pat me down, see if you can find it.” He adds opening his arms wide to give me access.

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Your loss.” He replies as he leans against the wall.

I sit for a moment tapping the cigarette against my leg trying to figure out how to regain the upper hand. Or maybe not even the upper hand so much as just to stay in the game. Because this is some sort of game to him, and the last thing I was going to do was let Mason win this round of whatever the hell this is.

A hazy memory resurfaces of younger wilder nights, and I start speaking before I lose my nerve.

“Don’t worry, Sunshine.” That gets his attention and a scowl replaces the smirk he’d had only a moment before. “I know how to take care of myself. It’s not the first time I’ve had to get creative to get what I want.” I say in what I hope is a low and teasing tone, but I worry sounds like I have a head cold. I close the space between us.

I raise my cigarette to my lips and wait until he begins to pull another drag from his. “All I need is for you to stay still.”

I move forward on my tiptoes until the unlit end is pressed firmly against the glowing ember of Mason’s cigarette. We are so close and alarm bells start ringing in my head. His presence envelopes me. My senses are overwhelmed by him. The scent of smoke and sandalwood is heady and enticing, especially combined with the heat I can feel pouring off his body. God he’s good looking. I have to remind myself to breath, to inhale or otherwise this won’t work and I’ll just be trapped under the intense gaze of his grey eyes.

To my relief, it ignites and I’m able to move away from him. I put some space between us, and take a thankful drag from the cig hoping it will ease my now rattled nerves. It doesn’t, and to be honest I’m not sure why I used to enjoy this so much. I steal a glance over to where Mason stands with a wry smile, his eyes studying me. I’m not sure what he’s looking for.

“Well thanks for the smoke.” I say with an attempt at a flippant tone. I don’t wait for a response; I turn on my heel and walk off toward the fence. I can hear the door open and I breath a sigh of relief to find myself alone once more.

Round two

I guess I earned some sort of respect in Mason’s eyes after the cigarette incident. Oh, sure it was mostly him making innuendos and propositioning me, but it was a hell of a lot more than the monosyllabic grunts that I was used to.

I tried not to read to much into the flirting. That he wanted to sleep with me I didn’t doubt. I also had heard enough rumors, and been subtly warned by Nate, that I knew it wasn’t really personal. Mason wanted to sleep with everyone. Besides I found myself enjoying our little verbal sparring matches. Considering the fact that he kept doing it he didn’t seem to mind or maybe he just viewed me as a challenge.

Mason manages to corner me in one of the warehouse’s many labyrinthine hallways. I had been avoiding him all day. The night before I had woken up from vivid dreams that definitely didn’t involve the incredible annoying vampire in front of me. As much as I try to play unaffected by his seduction attempts, I know it’s a lie, and my subconscious did not come to play last night.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Sweetheart, but our bedrooms share a wall.” Mason leans forward closing the already small gap between us a wolfish smile on his face, “and my hearing is very good.”

He pauses and I try not to be entranced by the sight of his tongue running over his top lip. I’m pretty sure I know where he is going with this and I wonder it is possible to die of embarrassment.

“Not that there was much to hear last night. I’d be glad to show you how best to use your fingers,” he raises one hand to push his hair back drawing my attention to his well-shaped and surely dexterous hands.

It takes all my self-control to hold his gaze and I’m secretly grateful for the solid wall pressed against my back. You could probably boil a pot of water with the heat pouring off my face. The thought that he had heard my clumsy fumbling last night is perhaps the most mortifying thing I could imagine. He probably couldn’t wait to use this against me. At least he doesn’t know I was thinking about him. After all everyone masturbates. The only part of this that is really getting to me it knowing that there is some part of me that wants to see exactly what those hands can do. Not the rational part obviously, but still I’d be foolish to continue to pretend it’s not there.

At least he had waited for a moment when we were alone. I could only imagine the field day Farah would have with this, or maybe he was afraid of Nate’s disappointment. He looks so pleased with himself and I would give almost anything to wipe that smirk off his stupid handsome face. I have to think of something quick.

“Listening at walls? Are you really getting that little action?” His smile drops and I know I’ve picked the right counterattack.

“You know I don’t really think I should be the one you’re concerned with,” I smile and place a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Maybe Dinah can set you up on a bind date. I’m sure she knows some nice girl who is just frothing at the mouth to reform a bad boy and teach him the meaning of love” I gaze up with what I hope is an innocent expression.

The angry growl that he response with is music to my ears. I try and keep the glee from my face, but as he stomps away, I can’t help but congratulate myself on another victory in what-ever-the-hell game it was that I somehow found myself playing with him.

Round 3:

“You suck at this.” Mason says as he once again knocks me on my ass. He isn’t even breaking a sweat while my gasping attempts to catch my breath seem to be echoing in the empty training room.

I push away the hairs that are sticking to my sweat drenched face and give him a withering glare. He just laughs. How kind of him to make sure I want to hit him, not that I’ve managed to land one yet.

“Always such a gentleman, Sunshine,” I say as I haul myself back to my feet. “Considering how charming you are it must be a miracle that I haven’t just fallen into bed with you yet.”

He quirks a brow and gives me a look that I know well enough by now to know is trouble, “yet?”

I inwardly curse my poor word choice or Freudian slip or whatever. Not that I’d found myself thinking about him late at night more and more, or appreciating the long lean lines of his body, or wondering if he actually had to skills to back up all his bravado.

“Fuck off, Mason” I say as I roll my eyes and sink into a crouch ready to continue our sparring. It’s a petulant response, not at all keeping with the game we’ve been playing. A game which mostly consists of me trying to not let him unnerve me and find new and exciting ways to drag the very dangerous vampire who is has spent the last few hours kicking my ass.

He circles me, his movements lazy and languid. When he moves it’s sudden and with a speed I can’t follow. Before I know what’s happening, he’s behind me, his breath ghosting over my neck, “I’d much rather fuck you.” He says with a laugh.

Summoning ever bit of agility I possess, I turn and swing, but there’s nothing but empty air and his laughter. I overextend myself and have to stumble forward a few steps to avoid falling over. Once I’ve regained my balance, I flip him the bird.

He just grins and lands a stinging hit to my right side. “Do you know what the problem is Sweetheart?”

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

He moves in a blur, and I find myself pressed up against him chest to chest. My arms are held secure behind my back. His face is only inches above mine, his well-shaped mouth curled in a taunting smirk. This close I can clearly see the freckles that dust his checks. He’s breathtaking, and I hope he attributed the rapid increase of my pulse to a fight or flight instinct of being trapped rather than his proximity.

“Your body gives you away.” His voice is almost a whisper. A fierce blush erupts over my cheeks. Damn his stupid vampire super senses. He’s so smug and enjoying this. I rack my brain for a way to turn this around, but it’s hard to think clearly when I can feel the lean lines of his body pressed against me, and I can’t help but wonder how far those freckles extend over his body. I have to act quick, maybe I can distract him.

I tilt my head up to meet his gaze and moisten my lips. His eyes dart towards the action and I press forward against him. I’m playing with fire. This is a stupid idea, but that has never stopped me before.

“What exactly is my body telling you now?” I ask my voice breathy, low, and inviting. Before he can answer I close the space between us and press my lips against his. I try not to think about the feel of his lips against mine.

His hands on my arms loosen in surprise. I know that it’s now or never, but I hesitate. No small part of me what’s to stay in this moment surrounded and overwhelmed by him. But that would mean he wins. So, I pull my arm back and strike a weak jab to his right side. He moves back from me with a grunt

. “Not afraid to fight dirty. Maybe there’s hope for you yet. “He says with a nod before turning and leaving me standing along in the center of the training room.

I know I should be savoring my victory, but all I can taste is Mason on my lips.

Match

It’s a little after midnight and I’m standing in front of Mason’s door. I’ve spent the last few hours tossing and turning in a vain attempt to sleep. I keep replaying what happened in the training room: the feel of his body against mine, the brief taste of his lips, the feel of his breath ghosting over my neck. All these months of trading innuendos and hot tense moments seem to have come to a head and I feel consumed by wanting. It was a line I shouldn’t have crossed, even if it did let me land a punch, but now that I have, I feel like I’m falling towards the inevitable conclusion. And would it really be the worst thing? It’s been so long since I’ve been intimate with someone. Maybe it’s better to do it this way knowing that it’s just fun?

So now I’m standing in front of his door daring myself to knock. I mean he’ll probably be insufferable after this, but at least I’ll get laid? We both want this. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.

In the end, he saves me from having to knock. I jump a little, startled out of my deliberations, when the door swings open. His shirt is off and my eyes trace over his form. Freckles dot his skin and a patch of hair curls over his well-defined chest. Fuck he’s hot.

“Is it yet already?” He asks with a smirk his eyes tracking over my body. I’d only thrown on my bathrobe before following my libido to his door.

I take a deep breath and swallow the snarky comment I want to make. “Guess it is,” I say as I push past him into the darkened room.

He closes the door and turns to face me.

“You sure about this?” he asks taking a step closer to me.

I step closer as well only a foot or two separate us. If I wanted to, I could reach out and run my fingers over his chest tracing the line of dark hair to where it disappears under his skinny jeans. And god knows I want to.

“I am. Are you? You’ve talked a big game. Afraid you won’t perform to expectations?” I ask with a smirk.

His laugh is dark and low and confident and turns something within me molten. He closes the space between us, pulling my body flush against his. I’m intensely aware of the thin fabric of my robe as the only barrier between us.

“Not even remotely.” His voice is velvet and sends a shiver through me.

Then his lips are on mine and all I can sense is Mason: the smooth skin of his back under my hands, the wicked glint in his grey eyes, the heady scent of him-sandalwood and smoke, the taste of him on my lips, and the way he growls as nips his way down my exposed neck. He walks us backwards toward his bed and I know I am lost.

tagging: @morgans-ass-freckles @specialistagent-morgan @bionicgrapejuice and @agentnatesewell

#the wayhaven chronicles #TWC #twc mason #fallforunitbravo #liability au #mason/serena #scribblings #fanfiction #not totally in love with the last two sections #but trying to not get too in my head about this #so just post it #embrace the cringe 2020 #lovelieswrites

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years ago

Text

Eccentricity [Chapter 2: You Can Run Around Infinite In My Head]

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make.

Potentially a better love story than Twilight (we’ll let @killer-queen-xo decide when it’s all said and done 😉).

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: Rome by Dermot Kennedy.

Chapter Warnings: Language, mentions of violence.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Tagging: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 💜

Missing In Action

I wish she would stop staring at me.

Lucille sat at the Lees’ usual table and apathetically picked through a heaping salad. (Friday was salad bar day, which I appreciated considerably more than the chicken finger obsession that marred Mondays at Calawah University.) Every once in a while, Rami nudged her and Lucille would spear a cherry tomato with her fork and bite it in half with perfectly even, white teeth. But her large blue-green eyes—they reminded me of webs of seaweed tumbling in the cold, frothing La Push waves—always found their way back to me, strangely focused, inquisitive, perhaps accusatory.

Ben probably told them how much he hates me for whatever nebulous reason and now they all hate me too and I’m going to spend the next two years being death-glared by five ridiculously attractive and somewhat incestuous foster kids.

Chemistry was a three times a week class. Ben hadn’t shown on Wednesday, and I was 99% sure he would skip again today. I spotted him around campus periodically, always from a distance: dropping quarters into a vending machine, clandestinely vaping behind dorm buildings (what self-respecting pre-med student VAPES?!!), browsing YouTube videos in the library next to a tower of unopened textbooks, biology and chem and physics and calculus. He wasn’t home, he wasn’t sick; there was no attempt made to construct any sort of pretext. He was patently avoiding me.

I stabbed moodily at the serrated disks of cucumber in my salad. Jessica was blathering away about the latest season of The Bachelor and ranking the contestants’ eyebrows from best to worst. “...Like seriously, has she never heard of microblading?!”

“For real,” Angela offered, not especially invested but forever a good sport.

Lucille’s eyes settled on me again as she sipped a cup of steaming tea, staring until her forehead crinkled with the effort, staring hard, almost leering.

“What’s her problem?” I muttered.

Jessica shot a glance towards the Lee table and slurped her Sprite. The great mystery surrounding her potential Mormon-ness persisted. “Who? Lucy?”

Only Lucille’s friends called her Lucy. Jessica, a shameless aspiring socialite, presumed she was everybody’s friend unless they explicitly informed her otherwise, which of course no one ever did.

“Yeah,” I answered glumly.

“Maybe it’s your dress.”

“My dress? What’s wrong with my dress?”

Jessica wrinkled her nose and surveyed me as if I were a bug, and not a cute bug like a roly-poly bug or The Very Hungry Caterpillar or whatever. Like a really hideous bug. Like one of those spider-cricket hybrid things that hopped straight out of a hell dimension and into the dark, drippy corners of your basement. “It’s, like, very 1960s. But not in a sexy Woodstock way. In a ‘I’m about to join a hippie murder cult’ way.”

“I got it at TJ Maxx. It was on sale.”

Jessica snorted. “Probably for a reason.”

“That’s it. I’m giving all the hippies in my new murder cult your address.”

She and Angela laughed. Mike and Eric, the missing pieces of our daily lunch puzzle, were preoccupied with a campus protest to convert fried fish day (Thursdays) into tacos day. I sympathized with their efforts, but didn’t feel that my one-week tenure as a Calawah University student gave me much right to go around overhauling the dining hall schedule.

“I doubt she’s actually offended by a dress,” Angela said, nibbling on French fries that shed grains of salt like snowflakes.

Jessica sighed dreamily. “But Lucy’s just so fashionable...and that accent...” She drifted off into some daydream which began—I could only assume—with Lucy’s invitation to go shopping together and concluded with marrying Ben on some lush tropical island in the South Pacific.

Lucille was definitely fashionable, especially today: short black dress with sheer sleeves that ran to her fragile wrists, black polka dot tights, black heeled oxfords, dangling ruby earrings like beads of blood. She would have blended in perfectly at Paris Fashion Week. Rami was wearing a cardigan and khakis, per usual; Joe was in dark fitted jeans and a roomy U Chicago hoodie despite the fact that Forks was at minimum a thirty-four hour drive from the Windy City. What did Angela say his major was? Finance? No, Mathematical Economics. So he’s probably aiming at Chicago for an MBA or Econ PhD someday. Angela had told me that Joe was wicked smart. He better be if he’s entertaining fantasies of grad school at the University of Chicago.

Scarlett had come straight from Fencing Club and was wearing bright pink yoga pants and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut out, sprinkling Hot Cheetos into her open mouth, her blonde hair secured in a tight French braid. You know those girls who are so irrationally, gluttonously, unfairly beautiful that it doesn’t seem possible the genetic lottery could spit out so many winning numbers at once, and you comfort yourself with the certainty that there must be some set of circumstances that would level the playing field—I bet she looks like anyone else without all that makeup, she just has a really good sense of style and knows how to maximize her assets, there are definitely some goofy oversized ears hiding beneath that hair and that’s why she always wears it down—and then one day you run into them wearing sweatpants and a ponytail in the tampon aisle at Walmart and they’re still so perfect it stings you, baffles you, makes you feel like there must have been some divergence in the evolutionary chain because there’s no freaking way you’re the same species? Yeah, Scarlett was one of those girls. Scarlett was the queen of those girls.

Ben was conspicuously absent from the table.

Scarlett’s pink leopard-print iPhone rang and she answered. “Hello?” She turned to Joe. “Dad says you left your phone at home. Do you need it?”

Joe was gnawing his way through his third slice of pepperoni pizza. “No, I’m good, thanks though.”

Scarlett relayed the message. “Dad says he’s going to bring it by just in case.”

“Oh my god, ScarJo, I’m fine! Tell him not to!”

“Dad says he doesn’t trust you and he’s going to be here in fifteen minutes. He’s also bringing the Game Theory homework you left by the hot tub.”

Joe groaned and rolled his lively dark eyes as Rami grinned at him; Lucille was still watching me and entirely oblivious.

“Isn’t it weird that Ben and Lucille have accents?” I asked Jessica. “That they’re from the U.K.? I didn’t think fostering kids was an international thing.”

“It’s not that weird. Dr. Lee is British too. Maybe there’s some kind of exchange system, I don’t know. But you know what I do know?”

“What?” Now my interest was piqued.

She smiled. “That the British accents are hot.”

“Ugh,” I exhaled involuntarily.

“Please get a hobby,” Angela begged Jessica. “Start a YouTube channel. Make care packages for orphans. Grow marijuana. Adopt a cat. I have a shift at the animal shelter this Sunday morning, you want to come with me?”

“Sorry, can’t. I have a temple thing.”

Temple on Sunday. The mystery is solved. She’s a Mormon for sure. I mentally resolved not to let her set me up with anyone unless I was still single on Valentine’s Day. Which, obviously, assuming I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere, I will be.

I gathered up my trash and slung my backpack over my shoulder. “Okay, well this has been a bizarre lunch to be completely honest, and now I have to go to Chemistry so I’ll see you later and hopefully we can brainstorm some more alternatives to Jessica’s current life trajectory on Monday. Because I am not looking forward to being a bridesmaid in these impending Lee nuptials.”

“Oh please!” Jessica lamented. “He doesn’t even know I exist. You, on the other hand...”

I scoffed. “Yeah, he wants to kill me. I truly have a gift.”

They waved as I left. I could feel Lucille’s eyes on me until I reached the door.

Sure enough, Ben wasn’t in Chemistry. I tried not to notice. I drew my atoms, wrote my equations, took my notes diligently and in my favorite sky blue ink. But I felt the emptiness in the chair next to me like a black hole, like an immense and dragging weight, like a snag in the fabric of all those interwoven strands of physics that orchestrate the universe like an immortal puppeteer. Why can’t I forget this guy? Why do I still feel like I’ve met him before?

Halfway through class, I hauled my emergency sweatshirt out of my backpack and pulled it on over my dress, floral and flowing and golden yellow like the sun, the sun that never shines here in Forks. I had liked it plenty under the florescent lights of the fitting room at TJ Maxx, and I had still liked it this morning; but Jessica’s words hummed around in my skull like wasps. The zipper of the sweatshirt was broken, but it accomplished the task of obscuring my dress well enough.

After Chemistry, I journeyed to the campus library to find a book I was supposed to read and present for a different class. I looked it up in the computer catalogue, spent an embarrassingly long time trying to figure out how the Dewey Decimal System works, eventually wound up finding the book on the highest floor of the library...and, to add a little extra peril to the mission, on the highest shelf. The book mocked me from its lofty, unattainable stronghold. The title was embossed in gold letters down the crimson spine. The Walruses And Me: A Transformative Experience. Idiotic title, I’m aware. It’s about some marine biologist who spent months alone in the Arctic studying the lifecycles of walruses. A noble pursuit, sure, but still a terrible title.

There wasn’t a chair or stepstool in sight. I tested my weight by stepping up onto the second-lowest shelf. The metal immediately squealed and shifted in protest. I retreated back down to the carpet, defeated by gravity. I scowled up at the book and sighed melodramatically. Ugh.

“Need something?”

I spun around to see Joe in his University of Chicago hoodie and pale flawless skin and intangible magnetism, that bewildering trademark Lee ethereality. I instinctively crossed my arms, clutching the sleeves of my sweatshirt, shrinking inwards like a startled armadillo in the Arizona desert.

“Are you, uh, anemic...?” he ventured.

“Oh no, I’m not cold. I’m just trying to hide my dress. My friend said it was too hippie-murder-cult 1960s.”

I figured he’d laugh, make a snide comment, maybe just blink in confusion. Instead, he glimpsed down at my dress—what could still be seen of it, anyway—and shook his head. “The neckline isn’t right for the 60s. And you seem like you’ve showered at least once in the past two weeks, so definitely not a hippie.”

I smiled, completely unexpectedly. “I didn’t realize Econ majors knew anything about leftist counterculture.”

“Disparaging it is our favorite pastime. Are you trying to get a book or are you just disrespecting university property for entertainment?”

I pointed. “The big red one.”

“The Walruses And Me...?”

“I know, it’s a horrible title. Not my personal preference. It’s for a class.”

“Bestiality 101?”

“Good guess. Marine Mammals.”

“Ahhh.” He glanced up and down the aisle, tapped his chin with agile fingers, pondered something I wasn’t privy to. “Turn around for a second.”

“What? Why?”

He waved his hand mysteriously in front of his grinning face. “It’s a magic trick. I’m going to make your problem disappear.”

“You can’t climb that,” I warned. “You’ll fall and break your neck. Or you’ll knock the whole shelf over and cause a tragic domino effect and the university will withhold your diploma until you pay them restitution.”

“I’m extremely athletic.”

“Are you sure?” I appraised him with exaggerated skepticism for comedic effect. “My dad refers to you only as the spindly annoying Lee.”

Oh my god, WHY did I say that?

Now he would definitely hate me. Now I’d have two mortal enemies on one campus. I mentally calculated how humiliating it would be to transfer to some Florida college, any Florida college, after only one week at Calawah. Hi mom, yeah I’m coming to live with you and Paul, a gang of hot pasty foster kids wants to slaughter me.

Instead, Joe threw back his head and cackled wildly. A librarian—mid-fifties, angry red hair from out of a box, fuzzy cat sweater—glared into the aisle and shushed him.

“Chief Swan...he actually...he calls me that? Really?!” Joe managed, wiping his leaking eyes. “That’s hilarious. I’m so glad my life is in his hands. Okay seriously, turn around.”

“Why would you help me?” I asked suspiciously.

“That’s just what I do. I’m a friendly guy.”

“This friendliness must not run in the family.”

Again, Joe’s cheerful demeanor didn’t falter. “You mean Ben? Forget about Ben, he hates everyone. Don’t take it personally.” Then he added: “Plus, as I’m sure you know, we’re not biologically related. No overlapping genetic material whatsoever. I didn’t get the male supermodel gene, he didn’t get the irresistibly charming gene, life’s not fair but the world keeps spinning.”

“It sure does,” I agreed softly. Unexpected wisdom from my new favorite Lee. I turned away from him. “Fine, I’m not looking, go ahead and dazzle me with your supernatural friendliness—”

“Done.”

“What?” I whirled around. Joe held The Walruses And Me in his hand. “How...did you...?!”

He passed me the book as I sputtered incoherently. “I told you. Magic trick.”

“I don’t....?!” I gawked up at the top shelf, at Joe, back to the top shelf. Sure enough, the space where The Walruses And Me once lived was now just a vacant slit in the row of dusty books. How could he have climbed up there that quickly? How could I not have heard anything? “The shelves didn’t even creak,” I murmured shakily.

“Yes, well, that’s due to my conveniently spindly physique.” Joe winked. “Any other problems I can help you solve at the moment, Baby Swan?”

“No. And don’t call me Baby Swan, or I’ll push this whole bookshelf over and tell the feisty librarian lady you did it.”

“That’s cold, ma’am.”

I liked that Joe didn’t make me feel like Ben did: unworthy, unloved, infuriating. Joe made me feel something else, something lighthearted, casual, buoyant; like the world didn’t have anything in it worth worrying about, regretting, agonizing over. Like unadulteratedly myself was all I ever needed to be.

I heard a muted buzz and Joe slid his iPhone out of his jeans pocket. Dr. Lee must have successfully delivered it. “Whoops, I forgot that Ordinary Differential Equations existed. Got to go. See ya.”

“Bye,” I replied. And then Joseph Lee was gone, very quickly, a little too quickly, the same way that Ben had vanished on that first afternoon after Chemistry.

Forks is weird. Calawah University is weird. And the Lee kids are super fucking weird.

Long Walks On The Beach

“Can I ask you a random question?”

“You just paid me $100 for an oil change that took fifteen minutes. You can ask me anything you want.” He grinned, flashing bright teeth and deep dimples.

It was Saturday afternoon. I had shoveled down a Chipotle veggie bowl as Archer changed the 1999 Accord’s oil in a small garage with a cracked concrete floor and the searing pungency of gasoline fumes thick in the air. He had apprenticed all through high school and rented his own shop after graduation. Archer now had a loyal clientele that encompassed virtually the entire Quileute reservation and a growing chunk of Forks...including Charlie and me, of course. Archer was the only child of Larry Foxchild—Charlie’s best friend since they worked together at Dairy Queen as teenagers—and the closest thing to a son my dad would ever have. I guess that made him like a brother to me, something that seemed intuitive now that I’d thought of it.

After the Accord was serviced we drove it down to La Push to walk on the beach, climb the salt-lashed rocks, toss pebbles into the roiling surf, reprise our childhood enthusiasm for poking dead washed-up marine creatures with shards of driftwood.

“Do you know anything about the Lees?” I asked Archer, investigating a deceased green shore crab.

His brow furrowed. He looked so serious like that, suddenly so much like Larry: the same tan skin, jet black hair, umbral eyes like oil wells, strong jaw overlaid with the stubbled shadow of a beard. We really aren’t kids anymore, are we? “The doctor and his kids?”

“Yeah. The foster kids. They’re really pale and strange and half of them are British.”

Archer chuckled. “I know who you mean. They’re hard to miss.”

“Are they...” Just eccentric rich people? Traumatized from abusive childhoods? Government experiments? CIA agents? Secret murderers? The image of Ben in that first Chemistry class came roaring back to me, including the adjective that had flashed red behind my eyes like an emergency exit sign: fierce. Finally, I decided: “Dangerous?”

Now Archer full-on laughed, gripping his belly, shaking his head. Drops of saltwater flew from his short hair. “Seriously?!” he exclaimed. “Come on, they’re freaks but they’re not, like...that kind of freaks.”

“Are you sure?” I was starting to feel better already. Of course they’re not actual demons, you fucking idiot. This is Washington, not The Twilight Zone or Black Mirror. Not goddamn American Horror Story.

“Yeah.” Archer skipped a grey pebble over the water, something I’d never been able to do. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know them all that well. They usually keep to themselves. But I’ve never heard anything bad about any of the kids. And everyone respects Dr. Lee and appreciates him for taking the pay cut to come to some bumblefuck town like Forks. He’s insanely highly credentialed, has degrees from Harvard or Yale or somewhere like that. Super impressive. We’re lucky to have him. I definitely sleep better at night knowing he’ll be the one to fix me up if I ever get a few fingers ripped off on the job.”

“Don’t even say that. Then who would I grossly overpay for oil changes?”

Archer smiled, then sobered as he peered out over the Pacific Ocean.

“What?” I asked, feeling a plummeting in my guts like primal fear.

“Well...okay, so there is one thing that’s always bothered me. You remember Grandpa Foxchild?”

“Yeah, of course.” He had been an impossibly ancient man with long grey braided hair, a low rumbly voice, gnarled arthritic hands, ceaseless wrinkles. I remembered Charlie calling me when he passed away last spring. Renee and I had picked out a flower arrangement to send to the funeral.

“So,” Archer said slowly, like he was still puzzling it out himself. “Grandpa used to say things like ‘That Dr. Lee has been around a long time.’ Which of course makes no sense, the Lees moved here like two years ago. And I’d tell Grandpa that, but he completely ignored me. He would just keep repeating it. ‘That Dr. Lee shouldn’t still be here.’ ‘That Dr. Lee should go on home to where he came from.’ ‘That Dr. Lee isn’t right.’ Creepy shit like that. My dad and I always assumed it was the dementia talking, but...I don’t know. It just bothered me. Because Grandpa...he wasn’t just being gossipy or suspicious. He was angry. And he was afraid. Grandpa was at Guadalcanal and Iwo Jima and he would talk about that no problem, mention landmines or flesh melting off a soldier’s face like it was nothing. He was a tough guy. Immeasurably tough, I’ll never be half the man he was. But if you mentioned the Lees, Grandpa got scared. Why the hell would he be so scared of them?”

I didn’t have an answer for him, not a single word. I just stared at Archer, my eyes growing huge, my heart sprinting, blood pounding in my ears. He knew. Grandpa Foxchild knew there was something off about them, and now I know it too. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

Archer tittered nervously. “Anyway, that was genuinely disturbing. But like I said. It was probably just the dementia.”

“What if it wasn’t?”

“It had to be,” he insisted. “There’s no other logical explanation.”

“I guess,” I agreed, scooping up the green shore crab corpse with my bare hands. I hurled it out into the waves, imagined it sinking through murky water and suspended grains of sand, the body settling into prehistoric silt, the scavengers descending upon it, the inescapable wheel of birth and death and resurrection through those who unwittingly carry our atoms with them into the next generation, into the perpetual future.

That night my dreams were full of pale skin and scorching eyes, Ben and Joe and Rami, Lucille and Scarlett, crashing waves, cold water and bleached bones; and Grandpa Foxchild’s mistrustful refrain: That Dr. Lee has been around a long time.

Benjamin

I soared down the staircase and through the dining room. Gwil was working late at the hospital, Mercy outside tending the animals, everyone else presumably scattered throughout the house. I had to get out before anyone noticed me. I had to get out without Rami or Lucy knowing.

I yanked open the door to the back porch. Rami was waiting there.

“Good evening,” he greeted me in that slow, thoughtful drawl.

“Stay the fuck out of my head.”

“You know how it works, Benny Boy. I can’t ignore the loud thoughts. And you’ve been having some very loud thoughts lately.”

I stared down at my shoes, all black Adidas. Black is good. It doesn’t show stains. For example, purely hypothetically, splatters of human blood and organs. “I can make it quick. I can make it painless.”

Rami’s aura flared maroon; not enraged, no, not quite that, but certainly revolted. I was always finding new and horrifying ways to revolt them, whether I was trying to or not. “She has a family, Ben. A father. You know Chief Swan, you’ve seen him around town. He’s a good person. She’s a good person. You really want to do this? You really want to relapse like this?”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t have to. Hearing thoughts is a tricky thing, and not a gift that I would ever want; unspoken words are rarely a steam and usually a storm, disjointed and twisting, interrupting each other, bottomless layers of whispers and screams. But I was sure Rami could catch the important parts: that I didn’t know the difference between good and bad people, that I didn’t know what to think of people at all, that for me her blood was not a desire but a compulsion. I couldn’t stop envisioning it spilling over my tongue and teeth, down my throat, hot and pulsing erratically and fading. “Why can’t you hear her? Why can’t I see what she’s feeling?”

Rami shrugged, characteristically placid and restrained. It was maddening. “There are seven and a half billion people on this planet. So maybe every once in a while you get one that lives in our blind spots, there’s something chromosomal or psychological that puts them on a different frequency. I don’t know. How the hell should I know? All I know is that you definitely shouldn’t be seriously considering...well. What you’re considering.”

“Have you ever met someone whose thoughts you couldn’t hear before?”

“No,” Rami admitted; and was that a ghost of unease that crossed his face?

“Please, Rami. Let me go. Pretend you never saw me.” My words come out strained, hushed, like a spilled secret, like a confession. I’ve never wanted anyone’s blood like I want hers.

He heard that; I could see the dismay in his eyes. Now his aura is dark grey, almost black. Disappointment. Resignation. Mourning. “I told you what Lucy saw.”

“What she saw is impossible and you know it.”

Again, Rami shrugged. That blind, mindless faith. I wished I knew what it felt like. “She’s never wrong.”

“Have you told him?”

“Who, Joe?! Of course I haven’t told Joe. He...”

“He wouldn’t believe it either?” I snapped, like it was a victory.

“No,” Rami amended carefully. “No, he would believe anything Lucy saw.” Lucy had visions: flashes of the future, the past, the present. They were rare and unpredictable, often fragmented, snapshots rather than arcs. But they were always true. Or, rather, the other Lees claimed they were. The real Lees. “I don’t know what he would do about it,” Rami said finally. “So I’m waiting it out. And killing one of the primary participants is definitely not waiting it out.”

I seethed as I glared at him, hating him in that moment, hating myself only slightly more; and he heard that too. But then that wispy, fleeting haze around him was a pink like the last threads of sunlight sinking into the Western horizon. Forgiveness. Attachment. Love.

“Come with me, Ben,” Rami said gently, opening the door. “Come back inside. You can beat this. You’re better than this. You’re a good soul. You wouldn’t be with us if you weren’t.”

I tried to laugh. It came out like a snarl. “I haven’t had a soul in a long time.”

#joe mazzello fic #joe mazzelo x reader #borhap #borhap fic #borhap cast fic #twilight au #twilight #supernatural au

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mightbewriting · 4 years ago

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Hiiii Amanda, grad student anon here. I know I’m a little late, but I LOVED the final chapter so so so much. I have this rather terrible habit of not reading the final chapter / not watching the last episode of something I love because I just don’t want it to end (I still haven’t seen the last episode of Downton Abbey), but I squashed this urge to not read the very last chapter of B&E and let me tell you, there were tears. A lot of them. The daffodil, the affirmations... Gosh, I’m tearing up again.

I’ve been re-reading my favourite chapters (they are mostly from 2002) and I noticed something that made me emotional. When Narcissa visits Draco’s lab in chapter 7, Draco doesn’t feel comfortable about anyone touching his wand, not even her. In chapter 43, however, he doesn’t even think twice about letting Hermione use his wand to drop her glamours. I don’t know if this was intentional, but I loved this little detail.

Now, I mostly read for plot (academia kinda ruined my brain), but you have such a way with words that I can’t help but slow down to be able to take in everything fully. When I do a full re-read of B&E, I might compile a list of my favourite words. I’m still not over the fact that you just casually used defenestration. I’m completely in awe of your vocabulary and the way you weave these words into your prose.

Unfortunately, I have nothing to report on the Scandinavian demigod topic, but I’m pretty sure that there will be attempts to sabotage my schedule next semester. I had a small win recently: I managed to secure myself an office space with an actual desk. It’s a kind of a big deal, considering that I haven’t even set foot on campus since mid-October. I’m really pleased that I finally have my own desk, even though I’ll be sharing the office with my advisor and his beloved collection of dirty mugs.

I wish you a brighter, happier and easier 2021🤍 Thank you for making this strange and difficult year better with the wonderful universe you created. I’m excited to read more from you and you can expect me to pop in as I re-read B&E and W&H. And Bone Mortar, because apparently I can’t get enough of that story.

P.S. I’m obsessed with Sugar Flurries, Candy Storms!

oh my goodness hello again grad student anon! I'm so, so happy to hear you enjoyed the ending!! <3 i am d y i n g that you caught that little wand moment. it was the just a tiny little easter egg and here you are, spotting it in no time. i do like to headcanon that there’s something very intimate about using someones else's wand (dick jokes aside, though i’m here for those too).

and look, i already feel like an asshole for saying so....but if you did do a reread and tracked words you like i would be WILDY INTERESTED in knowing what they are. my nerdy word brain is like, frothing at the mouth over the idea of getting insight into what word choices work for someone.

i am sad for you on the Scandinavian demigod front but very excited about this office and desk situation! congratulations!! (also how dare you throw in details about sharing an office with your advisor and his dirty mug collection. don't you know that’s how fanfics get written lol?? what a wonderful detail)

i hope you had a lovely and safe new years and that 2021 treats you kindly!! its always so lovely to hear from you!! thank you for reading my words and chatting with me about them!! <3 <3

#anonymous asks #grad student anon

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what-big-teeth · 5 years ago

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Imprint (Asrai Girlfriend, pt. 1)

Female Reader (POV) x Female Monster [Part 2]

tw: near-drowning

It all started with a tire swing suspended over the lake near your family’s shared summer home.

Old and worn, its fraying rope was tied to the thick branch of a dying oak tree; but that didn’t stop your cousins from using it. Neither did their and your parents’ constant warnings.

One summer’s day, during a long-winded session of Truth or Dare, Simon and Silas led you to the lake’s edge. With barely hidden mischief shining from their matching eyes, Simon stepped forward and shoved you towards the oak tree.

“We dare you to take three big swings,” he said. “If you do it without screaming, you win.”

As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t say no. The word was too deeply lodged in your throat, held in place by the larger size and greater strength of your older cousins. With a held breath, you climbed on top of the tire swing and sat down, squeezing the unraveling rope between your knees. The swing pulled back, thanks to your cousins grabbing the old tire’s inner ring and shuffling backwards together. You gulped when the rope went completely taut.

“W-wait,” you whimpered, “I’m not—!“

The first swing took you by surprise, accompanied by your older cousins’ laughter. At its apex, squinting against the sun’s bright rays, you looked back, directly past the lake’s clear surface to the deep bottom underneath. Your stomach heaved and your hands scrambled to tighten their meager grip around the old rope on the back swing.

“Guys! I wanna get off!”

Instead of catching you as you hoped, Simon and Silas just watched as the tire swung backward, still laughing. The highest point came again with a violent lurch that roiled your stomach. Something was wrong.

You screamed out to Simon and Silas again, voice cracking and eyes burning as the tire spun like a top. Like before, they ignored you. And laughed and laughed and laughed—

Something snapped.

You flew, hurled into the air like a ragdoll, the world somersaulting until your back and head collided with something solid. The impact stole the air from your body. When you tried to breathe, your lungs burned. A froth of bubbles raced up above your head towards a wavering light. All as you sank deeper and further, too stunned to do anything but watch.

But not for long.

An unseen force wrapped your wrist in a cold vice and pulled. The sudden speed at which you moved stung your eyes, forcing them closed. But you still heard the rush of water beating against your ears. The pressure built inside them until you could no longer keep gritting your teeth. Your mouth pried open from the pain above the lake’s surface instead of under.

Your hands scrabbled at the lakeside, sinking into the wet soil and seizing a raised, gnarled tree root. Your vision began to blur and you wheezed, unable to properly draw in air due to the wet crackling in your chest.

So when you heard a soft, soothing murmur right by your ear and turned towards the source, you couldn’t believe what you saw.

No girls you knew ever had natural green hair. Or slit pupils. But the thought didn’t have time to root itself in your mind.

With your mother’s screams ringing in your ears, your body gave into exhaustion and everything faded to black.

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

That was years ago, when you were just a child.

A day-long visit to the nearby hospital guaranteed your recovery, but the accident left its mark in various ways. A rift severed most of the familial bonds between your parents and your uncle and aunt. The only thing they agreed to leave untouched was the shared ownership of the lake house.

Your grandparents’ final request was for it to be a secondary haven in times of need, and the adults couldn’t bring themselves to dishonor that wish. Regardless, estrangement became the norm as you grew up. So you never saw Simon and Silas again.

But you didn’t have time to dwell on the sudden alienation for long. The incident affected you as well. The first result was a wariness of any large bodies of standing water, one you’re still trying to overcome. The second was an odd curiosity: a faint, silvery handprint on your wrist.

It faded over time, but not enough to vanish. The size of the imprint resembled that of a child’s hand, which could no longer encircle your adult-sized joint. It was undeniable proof of what you saw before you were taken to the hospital.

The green-haired girl who saved your life.

Over the years, the mark tugged at the curiosity deep within you. Not insistent, but docile. The sensation gained a life of its own and turned into a steady gentle pulse, coaxing you to follow the underlying urge infused into it.

Return to the lake. And this summer, you intend to answer the call.

“Sweetheart, are you sure about this?”

You slam home the trunk door of your old-fashioned, teal pickup and dust off your hands.

“I am. I talked to my therapist and she thinks safe exposure therapy will help. We’ve scheduled when she’ll check in on me and I have her number on speed dial.”

Your dad steps closer to your mother and wraps an arm around her shoulders. He doesn’t speak. But the stiffness of his movements and the compressed corners of his eyes say enough.

You pocket your car keys and step into your parents’ awaiting, warm embrace.

“I’ll be okay,” you whisper, “Promise.”

To seal the deal, you offer your dad your extended pinky which he wraps his own around, an old, childhood tradition. All while your mom kisses your temple. With a final goodbye and promise to text them, you pull away from the curb and drive off.

An upbeat playlist blasting from your phone makes the three-hour-long drive tolerable. The natural progression from the concrete, city sights to natural scenery doesn’t hurt, either. Soon enough, your truck takes a final turn down an unpaved, dirt road. Each and every bump is just as familiar and nostalgic as they were when you were younger. But without the slight pain to your backside.

You reach the end of the trail, the lake house revealing itself once your pass the last of the towering pines. It’s exactly as you remember it, untouched by time. And without any other vehicles in the driveway.

You step out of your parked truck, inhaling the clean, sharp scent of the surrounding area. Instead of uncomfortable dread, you only feel a sense of peace and calm. With a decisive nod, you get to work.

Unpacking your rolling luggage and cooler takes the better part of an hour. Mainly as the backup generator had to be fired up and the A/C needed to circulate. Blessedly, you don’t find any traces of dust or dirt inside. The place is spotless, the trash having been emptied. Once you’re settled inside, your stomach makes its emptiness known.

Lunch is a simple sandwich, chips, and a chilled bottle of your favorite iced tea. Hunger sated, you tackle the few dirtied dishes and rack them. As you dry your hands, your wrist tingles and cools.

Your gaze lifts towards an uncurtained window, past the glass and out towards the overcast lake. This is your chance.

Brisk footsteps lead you out onto the wooden pier. Here, you used to dangle your bare feet above the lake’s surface and watch the peaceful scenery. But now, you cautiously inch towards the pier’s edge on tense hands and knees to stare down into the water. There’s nothing unusual. Just a few fish gliding along as if they’re flying.

A swift shape darts by and underneath the pier. You stifle a gasp and squint through the small gaps between the wood.

But a sweet, low chirrup interrupts your search. Your gaze turns back towards the pier’s end. Vivid sea-green eyes peer up at you, framed by a heart-shaped face, a button nose, and long, dark green hair. And her light teal skin is smooth and flawless.

Her full lips lift into a sweet smile, one that makes your cheeks fill with a pleasant warmth. It’s an addicting feeling and you find yourself moving to meet her at the pier’s end. Her smile grows even sweeter and your pulse flutters in your chest.

“It’s really you,” you breathe.

Your childhood savior tilts her head to the side, chirping softly. She blinks up at you in an endearing way and you realize the issue.

“You can’t understand me, can you?”

As if hearing the sad tone in your voice, she reaches out her hand and grazes it against yours. Seeing the thin membrane between her fingers, you carefully twine yours with hers. Her skin is cold to the touch but not unpleasant in the humid, summer heat.

She hums, drawing your attention. Her face is much closer than before. Glancing down, you see water curling up from the lake to rest underneath her lithe form, acting as a seat. She purses her lips and your eyes follow the movement of her plush mouth.

Pulse pounding, and hoping your assumption is right, you lean down towards her. She lifts her free hand to cup your warming cheek and meets you halfway.

The kiss is chaste and sweet, and when she opens her mouth in invitation, you immediately accept. She tastes of the berries you used to gather in the past, rich and bright. Your tongue brushes against something sharp and you gasp. But she soothes the sting with her own tongue before tapering off the kiss with smaller pecks.

Dazed, you pull back panting softly. She shows her white, fanged teeth with a grin.

“I can understand you now,” she murmurs, licking her lips.

You feel no fear from the hungry gleam in her eyes. Instead, it sends shivers racing up and down your spine.

“Who are you?”

She brushes the pad of her thumb against your bottom lip.

“You may call me Maris.”

You’re torn between catching your breath or indulging yourself in her again. The choice is made for you when someone calls your name.

Startled, you push away from the pier’s end and land hard on your rear. With a groan, you clamber to your feet, hissing and squirting through the pain. The face you meet isn’t familiar at first thanks to the neat, trimmed beard he has. But if you removed the facial hair, the black-rimmed glasses and the dark bags underneath his eyes…

“Silas?”

Your cousin blinks at you as if fully recognizing you for the first time. He smiles awkwardly and holds up a large hand in greeting.

“Yeah. It’s…it’s good to see you.”

You honestly don’t know if you can truly say the same. But you nod in reply, regardless.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he says.

His bushy brows knit together as if trying to discern your reason. The gesture leaves a sour taste in the back of your mouth. It reminds you of how he and Simon would wrench your words from your mouth when you were little. Like pulling teeth. But you don’t budge and refuse to give in. To your surprise, he does.

“Things...at home aren’t going so well. Sara can’t stand to look at me and my little girl…”

You didn’t expect to learn about his marital problems, let alone the fact that he was married with a child.

“So you need a place to stay, right?”

He nods.

“Just until this small thing blows over.”

With the way his hands clutch helplessly at the air by his sides, you know this ‘small thing’ has to be colossal. But it isn’t any of your business and you hope to keep it that way.

“I already claimed the larger guestroom,” you say. “But the other’s up for grabs and so is the master suite. There’s still room in the fridge for any food you’ve brought.”

Silas rubs the back of his neck and mutters a quick “thank you”.

“I’ll be sure to stay out of your way.”

His retreating shoulders slouch, burdened by an invisible weight as he trudges off the pier towards the lake house. You release the breath you were holding in a slow, steady stream. This wasn’t part of the plan, but you’ll have to make due. You always had as a child and still could.

Before following after Silas, you turn back towards the lake just as a breeze ripples the water’s surface. Sunlight shines down on the peaceful scene.

Maris is gone.

#asrai girlfriend #monster girlfriend #monster romance #exophilia #terato #fae #fair folk #fairy #remember how I said this was going to be a one-shot?#my muse lied to me #it's gonna be a two-shot instead #i'll have the second part posted sometime next week #fem reader #female reader

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woodedcove · 4 years ago

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Your Side, My Side, and the Truth: the Manipulation of Media

When I was a kid my Dad would often tell me that there were three sides to a story: your side, my side, and the truth. It was good to remember that no matter how I perceived a certain event, I was seeing it through the filter of my faults, shortcomings, or even desires for good. But the very same event experienced by another individual with their own set of faults, shortcomings, or desires for good may perceive that event in a completely different way. So then which one of us is right? Which one of us knows the truth? Do you begin to see how making judgments on our perceptions could be a dangerous thing to do?

The question then becomes how do we know what is true? Or how can we know if someone is telling us the truth?

Two things need to happen before one can proceed. First: we need to be honest with ourselves about what motivates our desires to know the truth. President Ezra Taft Benson, a modern prophet of God, said “Pride is concerned with who is right. Humility is concerned with what is right.” Can we honestly say that what motivates our desire is to know what is right? Or is there some part of us that only wants the facts to align in a way that we are proven right? It is a significant difference. Pride only wants to be proven right But when we are humble we will only want to know what is right even if we will be proven wrong. We must have and cultivate within ourselves the honest, humble desire to know the truth. We must love the truth more than ourselves, more than our need to fit in, be right, look good, or to get anything that the world can offer.

Second: we need to be willing not only to pray, asking Heavenly Father to reveal the truth to us, but we need to be willing to receive His truth and act upon it no matter what our prior opinion might have been. This prayer can be for any matter about which we need to know the truth. Jesus Christ is "the way, the truth, and the light" (John 14:6). Therefore, all truth may be found through Him.

Once we can honestly say that we desire to know the truth, we can then apply the words of our Savior to the test for truth.

“Either make the tree good, and his fruit good; or else make the tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt; for the tree is known by his fruit.

“Oh generation of vipers, how can ye being evil, speak good things? For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.

“A good man out of the good treasure of the heart bringeth forth good things: and an evil man out of the evil treasure bringeth forth evil things.” (Matt 12:33-35)

What lies in the heart but one’s motivation? How do we begin to understand a person’s motivations but by his actions and words? A person can say things that may be pleasing for us to hear to gain popularity, fame, or even monetary gain. But their actions and words (especially when that person is caught off guard), will always reveal what is truly in their hearts.

Now a word about the media.

Having worked in the entertainment industry and having taught students about the creation of stories for any form of media, I feel I must disclose a troubling truth. The good storyteller is manipulating their audience. They will tell you something sad or heroic or something lovable to entice you into pulling for the hero. They want you to believe in him. They want you to want him to win at the end of the story. The good storyteller will use everything in his or her power to paint a picture for you that will make you see their hero the way they want you to see him. Does he come from a slum? Does he have abusive parents? Is he kind to animals? Or is he just so dang cool that you wish you could have an ounce of his coolness? All of these things can be used to play on our sympathies and to help us empathize with the character.

While this manipulation can be harmless in cases where the main character is truly someone to be admired, this same technique can also be used to cause us to sympathize and admire characters that really aren’t worthy of sympathy or admiration. We see the extenuating circumstances and feel that it’s okay for the character to do what they did even if what they were doing was breaking the law, hurting other people, causing anger or hatred, or giving the enemy of our souls a chance to work within us. While some storytellers simply want to tell a good story with a fairly innocuous theme like “follow your dreams", there are also many who enjoy getting us to root for something wrong. And there are many more who don’t care what we’re watching or rooting for. They have only one motivation: money.

We may think, “well sure, that’s entertainment”, and we would be right. But the problem is it doesn’t end with just movies, games, television shows or video clips on YouTube. News programs, news nets, and newspapers are driven by the very same motivation. They figure out what their readers or viewers want to read or watch and they pander to their audience. As their viewership or readers increase, so does the amount of money they can charge their sponsors. And the more sponsors see that certain programs have the viewers they’re trying to sell to, the more they are willing to pay higher prices for the opportunity to have their commercial shown to that audience. What this means is that those who are involved with reporting the news are just like those that are involved in entertainment and it all comes down to the almighty dollar.

Let’s go one step further. The people who work in news entertainment know that words are very powerful and can stir our most negative emotions into a bubbling, frothing, or even explosive rage. So let's say one person brushed their shoulder against another person. We don’t know why. We just know it happened. If the reporter says the first person tapped the second person with his shoulder it sounds boring and no one wants to read a boring story. But if the reporter says that the first person slammed their shoulder into the second person, well now people are going to want to know what happened. In using the right choice of words, the reporter grabs the interest of the reader or viewer. Now let's take two reporters reporting the same shoulder tap. One reporter is sympathetic to the first person so he writes the second person as the villain. Meanwhile, a second reporter who is sympathetic to the second person paints the first person as the true villain. Now we have two news sources reporting the same boring event and pitting their two audiences against each other. this can not only increase their audience but by heightening the anger of their audiences they could incite one audience to take action against another and thereby create more news to report.

Understand, I’m not saying that reporters are lying. They’re doing something far worse: they’re reporting half-truths or exaggerations. We want to believe that the news we watch wouldn’t do this. That we can trust them. The news the other guy watches might be untrustworthy but the people we watch or read are telling us the absolute truth. But think, if the purpose of the newspaper, news net, or news program is to make money (which it is), is it always in their best interest to report the absolute truth?

Here is one thing we can know. If what is being reported is stirring us up to anger, to feel hate or resentment, or to act out against another individual, no matter what their race or creed or political leaning, if it makes the Spirit flee and takes us further from Christ, then what we’re feeling is not from God and therefore whatever we’re watching or reading is something we should turn off or throw out. But if what we are watching or reading makes us feel justified in the anger we have felt towards a person or group or makes us feel like we have been proven right, that may not be from the right source either. Again, the test is: can I feel close to Christ and still feel justified in my anger or my enjoyment over someone whom I deem to be proven wrong? If not, then these feelings have come from the wrong source and I need to stop watching, or stop reading and repent.

What we need to remember is that there is one out there whose only desire is to destroy our peace, our happiness, and, if we let him, our souls. He is the one that wants to pit us against each other. While he may have enlisted some on this Earth to work for him, I am willing to bet that many don’t even know they are in his service. So then, why do they deserve our wrath? “Oh be wise, what can I say more?” (Jacob 6:12) This is sad advice that I feel I must write, but please, don’t trust the media, and don’t grow angry with any group of people that the media is using to make news or the adversary is using to stir up anger. But let us search for the truth individually and be at peace with and love our neighbor. If we can do this in humility, then it won’t matter who is right or wrong because the truth will always prevail in the end.

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songofadaydream · 5 years ago

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my real-time thoughts on rocketman the 4th time I’ve seen it in total and 2nd time this week, let’s go bois *very long post warning*

fair warning I just finished jojo rabbit less than an hour ago and it was way more emotional than I expected, so she’s probably going to be an emotional wreck tonight ladies!! :)) also, I will be pausing the movie throughout! just wanted to let you know

starting the night out right with some lay’s salt and vinegar chips and a lush face mask

not even a part of the movie but when the studio logos come on a version of goodbye yellow brick road and just *french kiss*

it’s starting and I am here for it!!

taron comes looking like an icon and a snack. actually, a whole meal. the heart glasses omggg

“how long’s this gonna take.” “that’s really up to you.”

i never noticed this before but taron stares right into the camera as he introduces himself

“my name is elton hercules john. and I’m an alcoholic. and a cocaine addict. and a sex addict. and a bulimic. i’m also a shopaholic who was problems with weed, prescription drugs, and anger management.”

“well my dealer was out of town I thought this seemed like a good alternative,”

“and I wanted to get better.”

um the transition into the full on musical number of the bitch is back.

this tiny little child actor playing elton saying bitch 10 million times. props to his parents for letting him do that.

um also his riffs??

just the way his mom says, “love to.”

god his dad is a DOUCHE

“when are you going to hug me”🥺🥺

the flashlight conducting scene!! they’re playing rocketman and it’s so beautiful and cute!! whe lil reggie/elton gets on the mini piano oh my god

when he looks at his mom’s fashion magazines...gay fashion icon beginnings...

*looks up* “can we go home,”

he starts playing his teacher’s song and she’s just like 😦😦

idk if this is an unpopular opinion but I don’t really like the I want love scene. I just don’t really like the switching of singer, the arrangement, and tempo. just my opinion though :/ also that’s the only weak scene of this movie I think

elton’s grandmother appreciation post send tweet

that last I want love though.

when his mom is clearly getting it on in a car and her date is like, “I’m..,,..a friend of.,.,,..your mum’s,.,,”

his dad leaves. heartbreaking!

when he wipes the tear away...

“i discovered records. and rock and roll :)”

playing classical music with an elvis presley haircut is an aesthetic no I don’t take criticism

“excuse me. you can’t put that there,” “why not,” “it’ll get knocked off.”

when he transforms into teenage elton and an amazing musical/dance number starts

that face taron makes when the door shuts on the car

“it’s not just your name. you gotta kill the person you were born to be in order to become the person you wanna be.”

that kiss with one of the band members is so hot.

peeing in a bottle in disgusting I’m sorry.

“what’d you say your name was again?” “elton.” “elton. elton what.” “john. elton john.”

ray is cute af. also the transcendental moment when he hands elton the envelope with bernie’s lyrics in it.

“one frothy coffee, no froth.”

jamie is so cute what the heckkkk

singing streets of loredo in a cafe is so wholesome and adorable

holy sHIT BORDER SONG IS STARTING

bernie and elton are literally so cute together as friends omg

also completely digging these like early 70s silk scarf things.

“yeah I could just take those songs and leave if you like,”

“what about the fact that you’re a f*g...your little friend here...is a homosexual.”

bernie not caring whether or not elton is is gay is Peak Pure ™

“oH fUcK”

when they stumble home drunk. the cuteness I can’t.

“you are a ssshhHHITT hot piano player, you have an aMAZING voice, and I’m telling you there is something special that happens...when you sing our songs.”

the way the two handle elton’s leaning in for a kiss is SO GOOD and I could write an entire essay on it. “we became inseparable after that. the brother I never had.”

“anyway I took his advice. told arabella. she took it quite well actually,” *cut to her throwing his piano out the window* “sHe KiLlEd mY pIaNo”

your song and everything about that scene is perfection. that’s all I have to say.

“you can’t just sPRING the troubadour on me.”

“put on a great

fucking

show. and just don’t kill yourself with drugs?”

amoreena is so good how didn’t I realize this until now!

doug flirting w/bernie kills me every time.

“ooh dude. what the hell’re you wearing?”

“my stage gear.”

*bernie stumbles in drunk* “reggie! reggie reggie. neil diamond is at the bar he’s talkin to leon russell and half the fuckin beach boys eh??”

“jesus sHIT bernie,”

that little, “well come on then,” after being yelled by bernie & ray

“please welcome all the way from london, england...”

ELTON JOHN

when he starts singing it’s like the smoothest molasses ever and I am HERE for it.

there’s an interview where taron says, and I quote, “those dungarees made my ass look massive” wholeheartedly agree my guy. but in best way possible

when they start floating

elton’s jacket and the magic that is the entirety of tiny dancer <3 <3

there’s a whole ass bed in a tipi?? what the hell

“so you like the songs then?” “not quite as much as the singer,” OH SHIT THE GAY TENSION

“there are moments in a rockstar’s life that defines who he is...and it’s going to be a wild ride,”

it’s a weird scene to like but I really love the take me to the pilot love scene. the song is so good and perfect for that moment, and they seem genuinely attracted to each other (even though john ends up being a huge dick later)

the way he takes the glasses off

the lil race to get their pants off is weird but it works

elton just seems so happy and content at the end and it’s so refreshing.

when he gets the shoes and the glasses <3

he looks so happy and fulfilled my little boy

why is it so cute when he and Kiki record don’t go breaking my heart

elton stops it the SECOND he sees John oh my goddd

kiki’s little “ough” when she sees john

“elton what’s going on are we going again or should we go for a pint,” *sees john walk into the closet* “yeah no yeah you should go for a pint”

HONKY CAT IS ONE OF IF NOT THE BEST SCENES/SONGS IN THE ENTIRE FILM THERE I SAID IT

cocaine induced head butt of a soccer ball is iconic

why did they have to get rid of rayyyy

the, “best of luck to you elton,” is so bitter yet genuinely well-wishing??

“welp...that was *absolutely* horrible,” is such a mood

the scene where he goes to come out to his dad is so incredibly heartbreaking, especially when it cuts to him in rehab.

taron deserves an oscar just for throwing that chair alone.

“what have you got to do the get a fucking drink around here, eh?” and then he takes a swig from a bottle in the car with john

when he calls his mom to come out. that shit hurts.

“i just hope you realize you’re choosing a life of being alone forever...you’ll never be loved properly.” he opens his mouth. it’s so awful guys. and then he fucking gets punched by john what an absolute dick.

“real love’s hard to come by. so you find a way to cope without it.”

the scene that comes right after that when he’s getting ready for his show and snorts cocaine and takes a swig of a drink really shows how far off the deep end he had gone. it’s heartbreaking, really.

“PEOPLE DON’T PAY TO SEE rEgInALd dWiGhT THEY PAY TO SEE ELTON JOHN. DON’T EVER TELL ME HOW TO DO MY FUCKING JOB.” “WRITE THE FUCKING LYRICS, BERNIE. LET ME DEAL WITH THE REST,” “i’m sorry,” “i know.”

that headdress tho

ok but pinball wizard absolutely slaps and so does the montage with all of his changing outfits

oh my god the drag queen in his room though

NONONONO JOHN IS LITERALLY RIGHT THERE FUCKING CHEATING ON HIM IT IS NOT OKAY.

what an inconvenient time for his mom to waltz in

“and what a shy little boy you were! look at you now.”

“mum you’re ON my GOWN,”

i wish i were as cool as bernie getting out of that car and coming inside

“yEaGhHhH...go get a lil drink. yehyeh,”

get ready for one of the most impactful scenes of 2019 if not the 2010s ladies

“FOR MY NEXT TRICK i’m gonna fucking kill myself.”

again, I could write an entire essay on this but the fact that he is literally hitting rock bottom with his childhood self down there is so impactful and powerful and one of the greatest artistic choices they made in this film. also the cinematography is gorgeous.

and oh, by the way, taron actually performed this underwater. no cgi or special effects. where is his oscar.

john is a dick to him on the stretcher but bernie looks so genuinely concerned for his friend and I love that.

it is absolutely gut wrenching when they pump his stomach.

THE CINEMATOGRAPHY AND ANGLES AND SILHOUETTES WHEN IT GETS TO THE BIG CHORUS PART IS SO SO SO INCREDIBLY GOOD AND AMAZING AND I WILL NEVER, EVER GET OVER IT.

the nurses getting him ready for what was probably his biggest/most iconic performance to date is something so incredible, and such a great choice cinematically, story wise, and really emotion wise too. he was at his absolute rock bottom and did one of if not the most iconic performance a little over 24hrs later, and I think this little part really helps to illustrate that.

taron actually hit that baseball and I’m so proud of him for it.

the liftoff is so great. and then it cuts to him in a plane with smoke on his head which just. ugh.

hot take: elton’s addiction wouldn’t have gotten so bad if he had just gone to bernie’s fucking ranch with him

THE QUEEN OUTFIT IS SO ICONIC IM SORRY

also if this movie doesn’t win the goddamn best costume design I swear to god.

YES BENNIE AND THE JETSSSSS

this is also such a great scene as well omg.

when he flashbacks to his childhood and difficult and also great moments in his life during this sequence. that hit hard.

i feel like no one talks about taron’s arms enough? they as thiccc as his thighs why y’all sleeping on them

“You signed a contract with me years ago, so I’ll still be collecting my 20% long after you’ve killed yourself.” that’s cold as hell.

when he throws that glass at the door. and then victim of love starts playing straight afterwards UGH dexter fletcher you need to STOP and CALM DOWN

listen I don’t know elton was thinking and/or feeling in terms of life and his sexuality when he decided to marry renata but can we talk about his wedding outfit?? wtffff it’s so gay and if you don’t see it you’re blind.

the look his mom gives him I’m DEAD

they literally had separate rooms this was not a normal marriage. the breakfast scene is so sad though.

“did being married make you happy?” “not really, I’m gay.” hands down one of the most iconic lines in the entire movie.

why does he have sperm on this firework suit coat.

“you know I am so sick of running away from who I am.”

the way his voice wavers and cracks is not okay. and neither is his mom twisting everything around so that she’s made out to be the victim. and don’t cry in the bathroom elton please buddy. you’ll be okay.

“campaign to kill yourself is going well, eh?”

“when did you give up? if you don’t care about yourself how can you expect anyone else to...it’s not weak to ask for help.”

goodbye yellow brick road is such a beautiful song and scene and why didn’t we get Jamie to sing more I mean come on he does so incredibly well in this scene.

also I didn’t really realize that they flipped a few verses around for the movie. and elton yelling and screaming at bernie as he leaves is so powerful.

elton yelling at himself.

this is also when he has a heart attack?? chest infection?? I don’t really know but he falls down the stairs and Mr. Dick Manager John makes him continue to perform.

and there he is in the first scene’s costume. singing the rest of yellow brick road.

and there he goes. off to rehab. a full circle moment. good for him for finally taking control of his life and addictions.

“yeah but I started acting like a c*nt in 1975. I just forgot to stop.”

“maybe I should’ve tried to be more ordinary.” his grandmother walks in. “he was never ordinary.” my. heart. can. not. take. this.

this next scene where he talks to everyone in his mind is incredibly powerful and I will shout it from the rooftops until the end of time.

“my problem is that I believed you loved me. and you’re incapable of it.” the SHADE

“actually I think I’m okay with strange.”

BERNIE COMES IN MY LOVE

“bernie...I never told you how much I need you.” shit fam here comes the waterworks

“you just need to remember who you are. and be okay with it.”

and then his childhood self comes in. “I haven’t been reggie Dwight for years.” “when are you going to hug me.” he engulfs his young self in a hug. this is one of the best moments of the film and I am now full on crying.

I can’t get over how wholesome bernie’s visit is with Elton. the sweetest thing ever.

“you’re not scared you’re not good without it, you’re scared to feel again...this is the part you gotta do on your own. these...need music”

“thank you bernie.” “you’re my brother.” <3

and then he finally sits down to write again. and it’s pure magic.

I’m still standing is a a feat of what he’s been through the entire movie. finally, he’s sober, he’s accepting of himself/his sexuality, and is getting to a better place. plus, it mirrors the original music video, and is everything I’ve ever needed and more. *the* perfect scene and song to end upon.

he’s so happy at the end. and then the epilogue starts and says he’s been sober for 28 years and counting, set up an aids charity, still writes with bernie, met his husband David 25 years ago and is finally loved properly (rip my heart out of my chest, why don’t you), has two sons and is retiring from touring. and and the I’m gonna love me again plays with him and taron and it’s just such a perfect song to end, and I can’t.

so. those are my thought while watching rocketman for the 4th time in total, 2nd time this week. sorry that’s it’s so long. I just love this film so much. anyways, it’s almost 2am and I’m an emotional wreck. I’m gonna go cry and go to bed now. thanks for making it this far. :) <3

#elton john rocket man #eltonjohn #sir elton john #elton john #taron egerton #taronegerton #taron egerton rocketman #70s music #musical biopic #musical fanatasy #rocketman review #rocketman movie review #movie review #film review #music review #film analysis #film exposé

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heartslogos · 8 years ago

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newfragile yellows [66]

Bull wakes up and congratulations himself on not pissing immediately.

Mahanon’s sharp face scowls at him, lying next to him on the bed.

“My sister,” Mahanon’s voice is - as always - deceptively soft and disturbingly flat, “Believes that she is very humorous.”

“That’s fine,” Bull says as he consciously lowers his heart rate and works on relaxing all of his muscles. Mahanon can sense tension and it makes him want to attack more. It also entertains him when it doesn’t annoy him. Most things, when the aren’t annoying to the man are very entertaining. There’s rarely an in-between that isn’t absolute frothing rage. “Sometimes I let her think that she’s making logical eating choices.”

Mahanon’s lips twitch upwards and Bull catches the sound of Ellana through the baby monitor, cooing and humming.

“Welcome back to the land of people with social security numbers,” Bull says.

Mahanon wordlessly tugs at his hands, tied above his head to the headboard. “Untie me and you can keep yours.”

“What? Master assassin can’t untie some ropes?” Bull jokes, but sits up and works on the knots anyway.

“Not when I’m unconscious, no,” Mahanon replies, “Nor when she’s taped three of my fingers together. Stop giving her tips, it creates an unfair disadvantage for me.”

“I’m helping to sharpen your skills, you home grown amateur,” Bull replies, freeing the last knot. Mahanon immediately sits up, quickly turning his face to give Bull a kiss on each cheek before sliding out of the bed and pulling on one of his sister’s maternity sweaters. “Seriously though, welcome back. She misses you when you’re not around.”

“She misses having one more person to torment,” Mahanon says, sitting back down on top of the covers, apparently satisfied now that he has Ellana’s sweater. Mahanon begins to fix his hair. “Parenthood is good to you. I am glad. I was concerned. It seems that this was unnecessary.”

“Thanks?”

“You are welcome,” Mahanon crosses his legs then moves back towards the headboard and shoves his legs underneath the covers, wiggling his toes. “Has the child vomited on Pavus yet?”

“Yup, once directly onto Dorian’s mouth.”

Mahanon’s smile has teeth to it.

The last memory Bull consciously allows himself to remember featuring that smile was the night before he and Lavellan got married.

“Have you met Imekari?”

“You called the child Baby before birth, now you call the child Imekari after birth, tell me - at any point was a name chosen?”

“You call Imekari the child, I don’t think you’re one to talk.”

“That’s how I refer to everyone. My sister, the child,” Mahanon gives Bull a pointed look, “My sister’s attachment.”

“Well, it’s better than what you call Dorian.”

“The Dramatic, yes.”

“Were you able to see the baby?”

“No, I got to the driveway and my sister ambushed me. I’d be impressed if we weren’t on the phone the entire time.”

Ellana jerks awake when she hears a crackle over the monitor. She’s already halfway up, unbuttoning her sleeping shirt when she hears Bull’s low voice -

“Shhh, Imekari. You know your mama’s sleeping. Why are you awake, huh? Why are you being a brat tonight? Not hungry, nah? Shhh.”

Her body relaxes as she slowly lowers herself back down onto the bed, arm spreading out to the now cool space on the bed where Bull was before.

She is so, so lucky.

Ellana smiles up at the ceiling, listening to Bull’s voice as he soothes the baby - a mix of every language all at once, even Dalish.

She hopes that they’re doing right by this child. She hopes that this child grows up to understand why their family is so different, and why it works.

Ellana rolls onto her side - ah, the freedom to roll! The freedom to stretch and contort her body in every way she wants! What a luxury! She pulls Bull’s pillow to her chest, mashing her face into it as she sprawls in the middle of the bed.

If he came in here right now and saw her smiling like this instead of sleeping he’d shake his head at her.

He starts to sing softly, and Ellana allows herself to drift off to that. She’ll have to wake up in maybe half an hour or so to feed the baby, but for now she can sleep.

“I thought you don’t know Baby’s sex yet,” Cullen asks as Ellana watches him unloading paint cans from the back of his truck. “Are you sure you’re alright with leftover paint?”

“I like to be inspired,” Ellana replies, “Besides - what does Baby’s sex have to do with what color paint I use?”

“That’s a good point.”

“Cullen, were you trying to get me to reveal what I know about Baby so that you could win a bet?”

“Possibly,” Cullen says, “I’m not very good at it, am I?”

“No, you should leave that sort of sneaky talk to Evelyn. How is she?”

“Two emails away from taking the truck and driving across international boards to Skyhold to wrest control back from Herah,” Cullen answers, “We all know Herah’s got a good handle on everything, but - Evelyn.”

Ellana nods, “She’s entered that stage of her pregnancy, has she? It’s better than last time, though, isn’t it? Last time she was also so agitated about future parenting situations that she had you running drills. Now you know what it’s like to be parents so - “

“No, now we’re running drills involving the twins,” Cullen says.

Ellana looks baffled, “You poor man, how did you even stay awake on the drive over?”

“I brought one of the dogs,” Cullen says.

Ellana’s face moves from pitying to cross, “And you didn’t tell me sooner? Cullen!”

She storms over to the side of the truck and rips the door open, exclaiming, “Beauty!”, as the pit bull wakes up with a deep booming boof! and jumps out of the car to excitedly jump-trot in circles around Ellana.

Cullen makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat, “Beauty, calm.”

Beauty sits, tail wagging as she beams up at Ellana.

“I’m going to move the paint cans to your porch,” Cullen says, “Bull and Dorian can move them inside when you figure out what you want to do with them.”

“Alright, thank you Cullen. I could’ve just gotten them myself you know,” Ellana says.

“It gives Evelyn and me a break from each other,” Cullen says, “Don’t worry about it. I think if the two of us were in the house together for a minute longer one of us would have snapped. I know she’s pregnant and the twins can be hard to manage, but her nerves are wearing on my nerves and both of our anxiety is getting to the twins and it’s really just a vicious cycle.”

“All couples need time apart to keep their heads clear,” Ellana nods, “It’s just common sense.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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rayraywrites · 8 years ago

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Title: When you put your arms around me

Fandom: Daiya no Ace | Diamond no Ace | Ace of Diamond

Pairing: Yuki Tetsuya x Takigawa Chris Yuu x Isashiki Jun

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 1976

Gift for: @whythehandbasket

Collab Partner: @daiyanerd (art link)

AO3

Summary:

It rains too much sometimes, and singing is just an easy way to pass the time.

Even if you didn’t intend to sing.

He stood under the awning, staring out at the field as rain poured down. His face was splattered with droplets of rain that had splashed in his direction, yet he had done nothing to stop it. He sighed softly at the wasted day ahead, knowing that even with indoor practice, there still wouldn’t be enough done that day. His eyes tracked a particular raindrop that got caught on the edge of the building, almost struggling to be free and fall down.

Involuntarily, his hand moved to catch the raindrop, ignoring how the rest of his palm and wrist were quickly soaked with rain. He continued staring out at the rain, completely lost in thought, so much so that when a hand landed gently on the small of his back he couldn’t suppress the small jump. Turning his head he saw Jun’s concerned face and just chuckled softly.

“I’m fine Jun, don’t worry.” He fully rotated a gentle smile on his lips. The furrow between his brows slowly disappeared as he watched Jun scowl before stomping away.

Growling lowly, Jun continued speaking. “Then if you’re done baka, come inside would you? Chris wanted to speak to you about your fielding.”

He swiftly walked over to Jun, who had unknowingly paused to wait for him. He didn’t say much as he entered the room, just walking over towards Chris and sat beside him. He could feel Jun sitting close to them, pulling a smile from his lips when he felt Jun’s thigh press into his back. Spying Miyuki walking into the room, Tetsu seriously lifted the shogi piece in his hand.

“Miyuki, shogi?” He could see the hesitance in Miyuki’s body, but Tetsu just pushed on, moving the piece in the air as if it was on the board. Just as he thought that maybe Miyuki would play with him, Tetsu noticed the door open quickly and internally sighed when Sawamura and the other two first years walked in. He had nothing against the loud pitcher, but that did mean Miyuki wouldn’t be willing to play with him. Feeling a hand sneak into his own, Tetsu smiled a little, squeezing back. He could see that Chris was consumed in his conversation with Kanemaru but even then Chris was aware about Tetsu and Jun.

At some point he focussed back on the conversation between Miyuki and Sawamura. Tetsu had to hold back the laugh bubbling in his chest when he heard Miyuki continuously teasing Sawamura. How those two weren’t together yet baffled him, but from Jun’s extensive shoujo collection apparently this kind of relationship was a prelude to a close and beautiful relationship.

Didn’t stop him from meddling sometimes with Chris and Jun though.

Sawamura looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel, and even though Kominato junior was trying to hold him back, when Miyuki finally said, “well I don’t think I want to hear your singing. I mean, I’ve heard you shouting all too much,” Sawamura finally exploded. Nearly frothing at the mouth, something which Tetsu found strangely fascinating as Jun could do that sometimes as well when really angered, the southpaw replied.

“BAKAYUKI! I could almost definitely out sing you any day. If I do, then you have to catch for me all of tomorrow!” At that declaration, Furuya suddenly perked up, his aura all fired up. Tetsu watched amused as Furuya quickly rushed over to the pair and declare his absolute intent to win. Quickly, in order to prevent his teammate from taking much more of Miyuki’s attention, Sawamura rushed up to Chris and spoke loudly, and unsurprisingly quite formally. Bowing deeply, Sawamura spoke, while Tetsu watched the surprise and uncomfort on Chris’ face melt away to reveal exasperated fondness.

“Master, would you do us the honour of judging our singing?”

Tetsuya could see the hesitancy in Chris’ face, but he was interested to see how the event would turn out and spoke swiftly, “Chris, you should do it. It would be a good team bonding experience.” His aura flared slightly, always wanting to see the betterment of the team. He heard Jun try not to laugh, and felt a slight smile stretch across his face once more.

Someone in the room suggested karaoke, and Kuramochi, who had yet to stop cackling about the idea quickly leapt onto the plan suggesting the cafeteria. “The cafeteria has pretty good speakers. We could do it in there, plus it’s larger so more people could fit.”

They all quickly trooped out of the room, some running through the rain before they got wet. Tetsu stayed back, walking between Chris and Jun. When they had stood up from the ground, Tetsu and Chris had been forced to let go, but as they were at the back of the group, he quickly grabbed Chris’ hand and tugged on the back of Jun’s sweater.

He could see them glance around to make sure no one was looking, but he didn’t really care. He knew the benefit of keeping their relationship on the down low, but he just wanted to be around his boys more. Pulling them into a tight hug, Tetsu breathed in their comforting scents before letting go. The bright red flush on Jun’s face adorably countered his deep scowl, while Chris just smiled gently, though his face was just a bit more pink than before.

Crossing his arms, Jun growled, “what did you do that for baka! What if some—” Tetsu smiled and shrugged, “I wanted to. That’s all.” He walked away, still holding Chris’ hand, therefore pulling him as well but leaving a blushing Jun behind.

As they walked inside the cafeteria, he could see that everyone else had moved the tables around and connected someone’s phone to the speakers. Settling down into one of the chairs, Tetsu quickly got comfortable, waiting to hear everyone’s singing. This wasn’t the first time that Karaoke night had happened, but not since his own first year.

He watched as Sawamura stomped up to the front of the room, shouting about how his singing would be the best. Truthfully, Tetsuya was expecting Sawamura to be very good at singing, especially considering how many times he’d seen the boy mouthing along with music while running. And in fact, he wasn’t wrong when Sawamura began singing quietly, before his voice crescendoed into a gorgeous peak.

“And I… will always love you” “I… will always love you” “You, ooh”

Tetsu felt the goosebumps crawling up his arm, eliciting a shiver down his back. His voice was beautiful, and powerful yet there was something childish about it that made it all the more unique. Truthfully, if he had to say, Sawamura’s voice very strongly reminded him of Chris’ in first year. That strong timbre coupled with a young voice that still cracked slightly. Glancing over at Jun, he could see the same recognition in him as well. Squeezing Chris’ hand gently, he smiled at his boys, happy to be with them.

Looking at Miyuki, he could see the awestruck look in the catcher’s face, pulling a slight chuckle from his lips. Maybe they wouldn’t have to meddle with this couple. But the smirks on all three of their faces said there would still be some meddling to occur.

The burst of applause that resounded in the room after Sawamura was done singing seemed to shock the pitcher who quickly turned bright red but grinned brightly. Bashful Sawamura quickly disappeared however to shout at Furuya, “Your turn now! Beat that!” Everyone ignored as Sawamura surreptitiously wiped his tears away.

Furuya and Kominato junior walked towards the front, though Kominato’s face turned quite red when everyone’s eyes were on them, though he seemed to relax when Sawamura began to shout how Furuya was cheating. Ryou’s karate chop quickly shut him up.

They both stood beside each other, Furuya’s eyes nearly shut as if he was asleep in the bullpen. Kominato began singing, his voice soft like Sawamura’s before, but when Furuya joined in, no one could deny that their voices melded together beautifully.

“Now I’ve had the time of my life No, I never felt like this before Yes I swear it’s the truth And I owe it’all to you”

“Cause I’ve had the time of my life And I owe it all to you”

Tetsuya wasn’t surprised they sounded well together, though he wasn’t expecting this kind of song from them. And judging from Ryou’s tight smile, it wasn’t something he was happy about. He clapped for the beautifully sung performance, before laughing when he saw Miyuki and Kuramochi.

Apparently they had somehow found fedoras and sunglasses for their performance. Clearly their song was going to be a little less meaningful than the previous two. When the first beats of their chosen song came on, Tetsu couldn’t help but shake his head at their choice. This really was the best song for them.

“I’m too hot (hot damn) Am I bad ‘bout that money Break it down” … “Cause Uptown Funk gon’ give it to you ‘Cause Uptown Funk gon’ give it to you Saturday night and we’re in the spot Don’t believe me, just watch (Come on)”

The whole song got the team dancing in their seats, laughing as they sang along to the widely popular song. He knew that his decision to pass the team onto Miyuki and Kuramochi wasn’t a wrong one. They knew the team.

As the night wore on, more people sang, surprising many with the quite decent singing skills on the team. However, no one seemed to match up to the power or passion of Sawamura’s beginning song. And what a surprise that was, he seemed to always pull the attention to himself. As he looked around the room, he felt a little nervous when he realized that almost everyone had sang except him, Chris and Jun. And considering the knowing grin on Ryou’s face, that wasn’t because of Tetsu’s choice.

And indeed, Ryousuke clearly had a hand in them being the last to sing, as he spoke with a teasing lilt to his voice, “Clearly, Sawamura is the winner, as astonishing as that is. However, I think the reigning singing champions at Seidou should be the ones to finish the night off?” No one else in the room seemed to understand what Ryousuke meant, but the dawning comprehension in Chris and Jun’s face mirrored his own.

Technically, they had won the karaoke night in first year, but only because the other first year refused to sing after them. Now Ryou wanted to pull them into this again? Crossing his arms, he spoke in his captain voice. “Ryousuke, twenty extra laps tomorrow,” but the devious smirk never left Ryou’s face, even as he nodded in acquiescence.

Standing up, he glanced down at Chris and Jun, who sighed, or in Jun’s case, growled, but inevitably stood up. Walking to the front of the room, he waited as Chris chose the music.

Hearing the doowop beats coming from the speaker, Tetsu smiled softly, recognizing one of his favourite songs to sing. Jun looked just as happy, considering it was their first song they had attempted together.

“Woah, oh, oh For the longest time Woah, oh, oh For the longest”

“If you said goodbye to me tonight There would still be music left to write What else could I do I’m so inspired by you

That hasn’t happened for the longest time” “Once I thought my innocence was gone Now I know that happiness goes on That’s where you found me When you put your arms around me I haven’t been there for the longest time”

The stunned faces of the first and second years was worth it, but it was the fun he had, holding Jun and Chris’ shoulders as they sung that truly made the evening. Rain wasn’t that bad sometimes.

Notes

Tetsu, Jun and Chris: Billy Joel | The Longest Time Sawamura: Whitney Houston | I will always love you) Furuya/Haruichi: Bill Medley & Jennifer Warnes | The time of my life Miyuki/Kuramochi: Bruno Mars & Mark Ronson | Uptown Funk

#whythehandbasket #daiya no ace #cjt #takigawa chris yuu #isashiki jun #yuki tetsuya #chrisjuntetsu #daiyanerd #happy birthday gretch!#collab :)#ray ray writes #this was fun to write!

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docholligay · 8 years ago

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Step Into My Parlor

How long has it been since I wrote some proper Widowtracer? Roughly a zillion years. I’ve had this story in my head forever, and finally got it all out. Just about 4100 words, my entire OW universe is here if you want to place this in order.

The riding drum of the battlefield was never a thing Amelie understood. Her world was calm. Collected. Orderly. Above all, patient. So much of her life was simply waiting for on opportunity, the gift of time slipping through an hourglass until the perfect moment hit, and, like God himself, she could break death in one quiet moment.

It had been like that, at first. A flash of blue blinked her scope, and her finger did not wait to consult her brain, her sniper’s skill so refined that death was no longer a matter of thought, but of instinct. The world slowed, her eyes linking into Tracer’s, noticing the moment when they grew wide with realization, her mouth dropping open with a horrified surprise.

A small red dot on her right breast. Not a perfect shot, but good enough. She would accomplish what everyone else had failed, Tracer so far out from her team, so alone in the dark. The dot grew as Tracer stumbled into the alleyway, yanking off her goggles.

Widowmaker broke down her rifle quickly and strapped it to her back, not even really knowing why she was moving toward Tracer. It was essentially a confirmed kill. She had moments left.

And yet, she swung down into the dark alleyway, where Tracer knelt, coughing blood onto the cobblestones, giving a desperate gasp every so often.

She looked up to the sound of Widowmaker’s heels clacking on the ground. Her red-flecked lips moved to form the letters of Widowmaker’s name, the old one that time had forgotten, the one she must know from her file, a name human and wrong, but there was no breath behind it, no sound except the terrible rattle of her lungs.

Widowmaker knelt in front of her, a strange sickly feeling coming over her, and Tracer leaned against her shoulder. She was so warm. Like a tiny sun.

She put her arms around Tracer as she began to falter, holding her up until, she realized, she was cradling her in her arms.

“Tracer.” She could not break her gaze, drawn in by those terrible, deep brown eyes.

Tracer reached up and put a bloodied hand on her cheek, and softly, barely, mouthed ‘okay.’

“Lena.” It had broken from her mouth, fresh with a sorrow that disgusted her.

Tracer moved to take another shuddering breath, but nothing came, her eyes still locked with Widowmaker’s as they glazed over and the light in them died, as she grew heavy in Widowmaker’s arms.

The alley was cold again.

Widowmaker held her to her chest and shut her eyes tight, her teeth bared in anger at her own regret, at her own pain, at a life that had required her to take so much from herself, at Reaper’s order, at her willingness to take it, at her feeling, even now, that maybe it had been right, at the fact that right had always been her burden.

She still smelled of sunshine.

There was a furious roar behind her, and the last thing she saw was a giant black hand reaching toward her.

“This is stupid.” Tracer pouted as she sat on the couch.

“YOU are stupid.” Pharah glowered as she adjusted her gauntlet

Tracer stood up, fists balled. “Would you care to--”

“Fareeha. Lena. Enough.” Mercy touched their shoulders, the softness of her voice covering the room like a blanket. She looked over at Tracer. “She is only trying to protect you. You are still not well.”

“Says who?!”

Winston shook his head. “Pharah, I’m not sure I think you’re--I mean anyone, is capable of winning this--”

Pharah’s mouth hung open, agog with Tracer’s complete lack of reality in moments such as these, and her voice deepened in a growl. “You almost bled to death on a metal van floor less than a month ago. I realize your attention to detail is poor, but I would think--”

Tracer tossed her head and threw a hand in the air. “Not bleedin’ to death now!” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I can ‘elp. And besides, who died and made you dictator of this group? Because it surely wasn’t me.”

“Only because Mercy is exceptionally talented, is that true.” Pharah straightened up. “But you are right, Tracer.”

“Course I am.”

“This is a group founded on the principles of teamwork, and, where you and I disagree, the team should make a final decision.” She looked around the room, everyone in their battle gear save for Tracer, who was still wearing her plaid pajama pants, an oversize grey cardigan pulled over her West Ham shirt. “Everyone who believes that Overwatch Agent Lena Oxton, callsign Tracer,”

Lena sighed. “Can we skip your dramatics, this one time?” She held up a finger for emphasis.

Pharah extended a hand. “Who, only three weeks ago,”

“Three and a half.”

“Was nearly killed in the line of duty,”

“As if we ‘aven’t all done that!”

“And suffered from severe blood loss, requiring,” she turned around to look at Winston and Dva. “A minimum of six weeks before any strenuous physical activity, and is almost certain to weaken and collapse on the battlefield, causing either a dangerous rescue, or her death,”

“Listening to you’s the closest I’ve felt to death in me whole bloody life.”

“Should stay home from the mission, as the highly decorated and world renowned,” she winked at Mercy, “And beautiful, Dr. Angela Ziegler, recommends, raise your hand.” She raised her hand and smirked at Tracer.

“Are you through?” Tracer looked at Pharah incredulously, and then out at the group. “Counterpoint: I’m tip top, I’m a necessary part of the team, and I’ve a right to make me own decisions.”

D.va’s hand popped up first, and she popped her gum. “I mean, I don’t care, but you’re being dumb.”

Mercy raised her hand, and looked at Tracer apologetically. “You aren’t strong enough yet, Lena, I’m sorry.”

Winston slowly raised his hand.

“Win! You must be bloody joking!”

“It’s not a serious mission, and you’re tired, Lena. I can tell by looking at you.” He nodded frmly but looked at the ground. “And don’t tell me I don’t know, We both know I have no difficulty tellin--”

“Ugh!” Tracer flopped down dramatically on the couch.

“Take it easy, Mighty Mouse.” 76 reached down and patted her shoulder.

“Oh, get stuffed, Jack.” She picked up her cell phone. “Ordering an entire pizza, on Overwatch, and I won’t share one bite with the lot of you.” She glared at Mercy. “It’ll be all pork, as well, so don’t ‘old out ‘ope for leftovers.”

“Tracer” Pharah grinned.

“Yeah?”

Pharah winked at her. “Don’t wait up.”

“I ‘ate you.”

Widowmaker could not put the dream of last night from her mind, even as she quietly stirred her coffee, the light froth of cream making a web on the surface. These dreams had haunted her since the night on King’s Row, when she had first come face to face with Tracer, when she had beaten her, and yet Tracer had still claimed some small dominion in her head.

It was an unacceptable loss.

Much could be said of Widowmaker, and generally one of the first compliments given her was that she did not involve herself with her targets, emotionally or otherwise. Gabriel often praised her ruthless cold, different from Sombra’s smartass self-involvement. She prided herself on it. She could shake your hand one day and put a bullet through your head the next.

Why then, these dreams?

Tracer was nothing special--she had killed Overwatch agents she had known better before, with less thought. Even Gabriel had commented how odd it was for her to miss a target, particularly one that Talon found so very annoying. There was something in her eyes, maybe, something that looked past who Widowmaker was on paper.

She had called her Amelie. She had read Widowmaker’s file, too.

In a sense, she reasoned, it did not matter why she felt this way, it was a cancer she had to cut out, origin unknown and unimportant. But you can’t shoot her Amelie, the voice inside of her laughed, or you’d have done it as she lay in that hospital bed. No, no, another voice chimed in, Widow, you can certainly do it. You want her to see the face of the woman who kills her. That is all.

That must be it. There must need to be a sense of honor in it. That this had never been an issue before, and that she had happily shot many a soldier in the back from on high, did not enter her mind at the present moment, what was important was that she had discovered the whole of it, and Tracer would die.

She went to tell Gabriel her plan.

A strange feeling came over Tracer, and she didn’t think it was the breadsticks. Something palpable in the room, the she couldn’t quite place. Someone, something, was here with her. That, or her nightly dose of pain medication, which was not supposed to be mixed with alcohol, she thought, grimacing a little as she looked down at the brown bottle in front of her, freshly drained. She supposed it could be making her feel odd.

But she only had one. And she’d never been prone to a hallucination like this before.

The line between paranoid and cautious is always a difficult one for a soldier to walk, and Tracer tossed about in her mind the many possibilities in her head. She couldn’t well get into her battle gear--the idea of her team walking in and seeing her sitting on the couch in it, like a child who wasn’t picked to play, was too much for her to handle. But sitting here in her pjs, trusting on the ability of the room to hold her, was too nerve wracking, even knowing that Mercy would tell her it was very likely her mix of business and pleasure that was causing her nervousness.

Her casual accelerator, flatter and more comfortable, her only choice back before Winston had rigged up any of the rooms and still her general daily accelerator, sat on the hub in the corner, and Tracer clipped it on her body, slipping off her cardigan and putting the accelerator over her shirt.

“I’ve gone completely mad.” She slipped her cardigan back on, but sighed and forgave herself. “Feels better, though.”

It sometimes simply made her feel more secure to wear it, and, rather than tell herself she was being silly, she just gave in, and let herself feel safer. It wasn’t even uncomfortable to her, after all these years and so long wearing it even at home. For years, Win barely managed to keep her bedroom a free space. It was kind of him to do so much work to have a room or two here.

She sat back down on the couch, temporarily relaxing. It was nothing. Just some old anxiety, crawling inside of her, and she was going to turn into a nightmare like Jack, sweeping the perimeter, if she didn’t control it.

She picked up a glob of fallen cheese, wrapped around a bit of sausage, and tipped her head back, mouth open in delight, as Sue and Giles debated the merits of mock everything.

When she was small, Tracer had once lost her airplane in a tree. It was her favorite airplane, and she had no intention of losing it to anything so foolish as a piece of greenery, and so she had climbed what must have been 20 feet into the air, balancing on the branch as she teetered out. Her father had come out the back door, his face horrified, and she heard his same voice in her head now.

LENA!!

It jarred her entire body, sending a searing pain through her middle, but she whipped her head around to see the barrel of a gun staring at her.

“Boujour, cherie.” Widowmaker gave her deep laugh.

Tracer’s eyes flicked up to her. “‘Fraid I don’t speak much frog, love.”

Widowmaker recoiled in annoyance for a moment, and Tracer took it, leaping off the couch, not entirely sure where she was going to go but imagining that anywhere was better than the end of Widowmaker’s gun. She whirled around and sprung off the coffee table, as Widowmaker pursued her. Widowmaker leapt over the couch after her, and Tracer upended the coffee table with a kick, sending pizza and breadsticks flying at Widowmaker and all over the couch. Tracer gave a small, solitary blink toward the back of the room, knocking over a picture of Pharah and Mercy at their wedding as she did so.

The trouble, Tracer considered as she ran around the back of the couch, is that whenever you miniaturize technology, something has to give. Winston’s early work had been to try and make Tracer’s life more normal and comfortable--that she could harness her abilities and blink at all was a happy accidental discovery, and the casual accelerator had never been designed for fights like this.

Which was wonderful most of the time, as she didn’t plan on being murdered on a daily basis, agent or no, but on this particular occasion, she wished she could blink a little more that the one second allotted to her.

She thought quickly, her mind reeling. There had to be something here. She couldn’t die like this. And then she saw it. One of Dva’s guns, left carelessly to the side of the armchair where she’d been cleaning it. Pharah would have her ass for that, normally, but Tracer figured she would make an exception for the fact that it had saved Tracer’s life. Maybe.

She summoned up as much strength as she could and blinked her tiny blink toward it, grabbing the gun narrowly. She turned around and pointed it straight at Widowmaker, whose gun was trained on her, and they stood still for a moment, staring.

And then it came over her like a wave, sheer pain and exhaustion, and the gun suddenly became very heavy in her hand, and her body suddenly became very heavy on her frame, and her arm shook with the sheer effort of keeping it trained on Widowmaker, who stood stock-still, a smile playing with delight across her face.

Tracer’s eyelids fluttered for a moment, and she fell to her knees, breathing hard as she stared down at the floor. Widowmaker placed her food on the gun and sent it skittering across the room uselessly, walking to Tracer.

Tracer took a few deep breaths. “See as you don’t tell Pharah about this, she’d crow it over me grave for the rest of ‘er bloody life.” She gritted her teeth in frustration. “You’d never ‘ave bested me if I could blink properly.”

Widowmaker chuckled. “But you can’t” She cocked her gun and pointed it at Tracer’s forehead. Only a moment now. “Do you have any last requests?”

Tracer looked down the barrel of the gun, more thoughtful than worried. She looked up at Widowmaker. “Can I ‘ave two?”

Widowmaker was taken aback for a moment, although she supposed she should have considered Tracer’s general bravado.

“And what would those be, cherie?”

She narrowed her eyes at Widowmaker. “Promise me I can ‘ave ‘em.”

“I suppose, unless you mean to prevent your own death, which, cherie, comes for you as it does for us all, than I can--”

“Now as you mention it, I’d like a beer.”

“A beer?”

She shrugged. “You asked, not me. No tricks or nothing, you’ve got me bang to rights.”

“If that is what you want…”

She kept her gun pointed at Tracer as they walked toward the kitchen, Tracer moving slowly and haltingly, her hand against the wall as they came into the kitchen. “Even considering I can’t blink, you’d never ‘ave got me if I ‘adn’t been shot naught but a few weeks ago.”

“But you were. And now...you will die, like your mother and father before you.”

“You gonna give me cancer and an ‘eart attack, love? Brilliant trick, you have. “ She giggled, and then held her stomach, “Ow bad is the intelligence back at Talon, I wonder?”

WIdowmaker suddenly realized she had simply registered that Tracer’s parents were dead, and they had both been RAF, and she had simply assumed. It flustered her, to see Tracer giggle at her misstep.

“Did you know Americans drink their beer near-frozen?” Tracer slowly lowered her body and took a bottle out of a tiny wine fridge at the edge of the kitchen. “Didn’t learn that meself until I joined up with Overwatch. Disgusting, it is.” She stood up and popped off the cap, taking a long drink. “Want one?”

“No, I do not.”

Tracer gave a half-hearted shrug and shuffled slowly back toward the living room. “I won’t drag it out, but I do intend to enjoy it, seeing as it’s me last.” She sat down slowly on the couch, sinking into the cushions, closing her eyes in a deep sigh and just resting there a moment.

Widowmaker watched her, careful not to lower the gun. She took a drink or two of her beer, but mostly she just sat there, like a child about to drift off to sleep, her face unmarred with worry. Widowmaker could not decide if it was alluring or offputting, but it was certainly unsatisfying.

Tracer opened her eyes. “And now, for me second request.”

Widowmaker smiled as she raised the gun again. "Do you intend to beg for mercy?"

Tracer looked at her, a mix of confusion and offense in her face. "Not ‘ardly." Widowmaker looked at her askance, and she continued, pointing her bottle at Widowmaker. "If I so much as thought of begging the bloody French for anything, me Dad would some'ow raise from the dead just to 'ave another 'eart attack,he would. ” she leaned toward Widowmaker, “Because, love, that is ‘ow he died, and you may want to change the records back at base. No," she shook her head. "I'll finish me ale and die like a proper Englishwoman. But,” she took a sip, “I need you to take me out be’ind the garage, and do it there.” Widowmaker paused, confused by the request, and Tracer narrowed her eyes, “You promised me you’d let me ‘ave two requests.”

“A waste. I should not be surprised.” She lowered her gun for a moment. “I will do it, cherie, but first...you must explain to me why you ask it.”

“That’s wasn’t a part of it.”

“How can it matter so much, this close to your death?”

“On account of you’ll go back on your word,” Her eyes were accusatory and judgemental.

Widowmaker was, for a moment, insulted. They may have been enemies, and she was anxious to get to the part where she finally removed the mold that had been growing over her mind, but she was still a woman of honor. “I swear to you, I will kill whereever your little heart desires. Allow me a moment of curiosity.”

Tracer looked at her, turning the bottle over in her hand, and nodded. “All right. I think, all things considered, 76’ll fare best with finding me. ‘E lives above the garage, out of the ‘ouse. Save on the cleaning bill, as well. ‘E’ll not be thrilled, mind, but ‘e’ll be the least bothered.” She took one last drink of her beer, draining it, and set it down on the coffee table. She drew her oversize grey cardigan tighter around her body, and nodded at Widowmaker, her chin high. “Ready.”

“Well then.” WIdowmaker rose, pointing her gun again. “Shall we dance?”

Tracer slowly pushed herself to her feet, and Widowmaker poked her with the end of her rifle.

“I’m not exactly savoring the moment, you know, I’m moving as fast I as bloody well can.” She shuffled toward the back door off the kitchen. “Mind that you put the bottle in the recycling after you kill me, Mercy’s very keen on all that.”

Widowmaker set the rifle against her back again. “Do you really think it is so important who finds you?”

“Yes. It’ll be bad enough, as is. Pharah’ll blame ‘erself, just as she always does. Mercy...I’ve know ‘er so long, and I remember ‘ow gutted she was about Jack and Gabriel and...everyone, really. D.Va ‘asn’t been with us but a month” she laughed. “Which I suppose means she won’t ‘ave much cause to miss me, and that’s a blessing, innit? And Winston,” her face grew sad, for seemingly the first time since she realized she was going to die, “E’ll take it so ‘ard.. “E’ll tell ‘imself ‘e should ‘ave stayed.”

“You have such an English arrogance about your own importance.”

“Do you really not understand? Nobody’d be worried if you didn’t come ‘ome tonight?” As soon as she asked it, the look on her face told Widowmaker she knew the truth, that there was no one waiting, that she was an operative and not a member of a strange and cobbled together family.

Widowmaker simply shoved her through the door into the backyard.

Tracer took a deep breath. “This is near about the lowest moment of me life, and I ‘ate every word that’s about to come from me. Don’t suppose you’d consider not? Not for me own sake, but for Winston’s. He’s my best mate and all, and punch ‘im in the ‘eart, it will. If it’s just taking me out of the game that’s your aim, then,” she swallowed and looked back up at Widowmaker, “injure me bad enough, that I can’t be put right. Win’ll leave Overwatch so as not to remind me what I’ve lost, and we’ll ride off into the sunset, as they say.” She shook her head. “No, I ‘ate that. Just kill me.” she bit her lip and puzzled again. “Aw, Win…”

“I am prepared to take some begging from you.” She smiled with a dark delight.

“No,” she set her chin straight. “But don’t think I wouldn’t do it for Winston. I’d get down on me hands and knees and grovel, I would. But,” she continued, “Overwatch is more important than the both of us.” She continued to walk toward the garage.

“Do you feel the icy grip of death upon you, cherie? I will bathe tonight, lounging in your last moments.”

“That seems a bit gay, don’t you think? Thinking of me in the bath?”

“Your brave front is inspiring, even as you tremble.”

“I can’t ‘ardly walk, so you’ll have to mind the shakes. Kill me all you like, cherie,” she rolled her eyes, “ but you can’t make me afraid.”

Widowmaker looked into her eyes as she looked back, and saw, that it was true. She was not afraid, or broken, simply moving on with whatever came next, with her head held high.

Tracer leaned against the back of the garage and grinned. “That’s what really ‘as you steaming, innit? You can’t make me anything other’n what I am?” She gave a huff “Better people’n you ‘ave tried, love.”

She dropped the gun to her side and moved into Tracer, who did not have a chance to react before Widowmaker’s mouth was on hers, kissing her deeply. Widowmaker felt that revulsion and confusion and desperate longing all combine in the taste of Tracer’s mouth, so different than she had imagined but somehow more magical for it, the reality of feeling something for someone after years blooming inside of her.

Tracer took a stumbling step back, and slid against the garage. “‘Ang on.” Her eyes were darting around, studying every inch of Widowmaker’s body, her face, taking notice of each movement. It captivated Widowmaker, the way Tracer moved, never sinuously like she did, but like a hummingbird, hovering and darting. Even weakened and slowed, Widowmaker could see what she wanted to do, how she wanted to move in bursts like a tiny firework.

Widowmaker moved forward. “Do you object?”

“Yes! No. I’m not entirely sure. I--I--” She leaned heavily, almost falling.

Widowmaker kissed her again, and Tracer was there now, her lips closing around Widowmaker’s, her hand on Widowmaker’s hip, each fingertip warm and alive on her body. Widowmaker hand her hand along Tracer’s collarbone, feeling every muscle attached, ready to spring.

“You have a plane, yes?” She whispered into Tracer’s ear.

“A little Cessna, yeah.” She looked up at Widowmaker, still confused and aroused.

She kissed her again, and stroked her cheek. “Montreal. 7. Next Wednesday. Tell no one.” She stepped away. “I will be very disappointed, if you do not come.”

The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Widowmaker leapt into the night, and Tracer pulled the cardigan back over her shoulder, slowly moving back into the living room. Was that what she’d come for the entire time? To seduce her? IF so, she had a fairly terrible pick-up method, Tracer thought. Women didn’t generally like it when you attempted to murder them, but then again, maybe courtship was different in France.

She looked around at the mess in the living room, and sighed heavily. “Back to work.”

#HON HON HON #also quality tracer v everyone

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dreamingofravens · 7 years ago

Text

8/27/2017

More stuff. This time it’s with a character that’s not mine (Caspian who belongs to @goodnightpunks and a character that is (Nereus).

Caspian had ended up on the sea bluff several times through his life. Usually when he had something heavy weighing on him and couldn’t stand the idea of talking to any other living person about. He’d seat himself and let his legs dangle over the edge. If he held himself on his elbows and extended his legs down sometimes he could come close to toeing the water below. He couldn’t bring himself to do that at the moment. Instead he sat there in silence, staring down at the frothing water as it threw itself against the hard stone keeping the bluff up.

Sitting in his lap was a small reminder, something he’d been trying to will himself to get rid of for some time now. He couldn’t get a good deal on it so he told himself it was no use selling it; Nobody showed any interest in it when he tried to trade it so he gave up on that too. Briefly he thought about giving it to one of his sisters only to realize he’d hate to see it around their necks. He’d rather it weigh his down than see it on someone else. So now he sat over the ocean, contemplating.

He couldn’t count the times he’d clenched this damned necklace and raised his hand back to throw it only to end up dropping it back into his lap. Caspian was getting tired of it. He didn’t even want it anymore. He didn’t, he kept telling himself that over and over. He couldn’t even fathom how he still had it when it had meant so much to the person who gave it to him. Rubbing a hand over his face he inhaled deeply and picked up up again. He was just pulling his hand back, getting ready to throw it once and for all into the water when a voice spoke up.

“Hey now, you better throw it for real this time. It’s getting so boring watching you waffle over and over.” Caspian lurched backwards, away from the water, realizing that the voice was for a fact coming from almost underneath him. There was a flurry of feathers and then a… man? Was sitting on the bluff in front of Caspian. Caspian was on his feet quickly, clutching the necklace to his chest and staring at the being before him blankly.

“What, you look like you’ve seen blood in the water! Hahah! What a stupid expression. You humans have such ugly faces.” Caspian opened his mouth and then closed it. His brow dipped together and his lips pressed into a small, angry pout.

“What are you? Where did you come from?” The man flipped a flowing swath of hair back, sending droplet flying everywhere. The water was slicking out of his hair like it would duck feathers. He blinked, or, it looked like he blinked, and smiled broadly. It was supposed to be a friendly gesture but it looked completely menacing with his maw full of dagger-like teeth.

“I am the Man of the Sea, for who else could I be? I came from the primordial sludge that all beings of my kind emerged from. It’d do you good to be nicer to me, maybe I’ll even give you a little prize!” Caspian’s frown only became more severe as he looked the so called ‘Man of the Sea’ over. He didn’t even look much like a man. His skin was of no natural hue and had a strange texture perceivable by gaze. His face gave no indication of any real humanity either. He was like a strange fetish of mankind.

“You are no such thing, you’re--”

“Hey, hey, are you going to throw that? You know, I can’t stay in these waters long. That brat child, Souma, he’ll get mad if I stay too long. Give it here and I’ll be on my way!” Caspian felt a spike of anger stick through him followed by a twinge of fear. What kind of being would dare insult the god of the sea while entirely dependent on them? Caspian looked back at the necklace in his hand and thought over it.

“... No. No. I’m not going to throw it.” The being’s face morphed slightly and Caspian winced as he gnashed his teeth.

“Humans! You’re always so indecisive! What’s the big deal, huh? Ah, wait, it’s… Emotional attachment, isn’t it. I can only see the future you know, not the past. Speak up. Maybe I can convince you to part with it just yet.” Caspian didn’t like the pushy attitude of this Man of the Sea very much. He half considered pushing him off the bluff and into the waters below before realizing that wouldn’t be the wisest choice. Caspian may have been a man of impulse but he was not a total idiot.

“It’s none of your business. I wouldn’t give it to you under any circumstances.” The man flipped a hand to and fro, mocking Caspian in an eerily similar tone.

“Let me guess, I’d have to pry it from your cold, dead, clammy hands? Always going to the extremes! Humans. Oh, humans indeed! Are we playing a guessing game now? Ooh, ooh, I love those. Let’s see… Ex-lover? Bingo! I win, give it here.” Caspian floundered under the quick speaking interrogation before finally getting a word in.

“Shut up, would you!? You idiot naiad, go away!” The being chortled loudly at Caspian’s words, pulling himself up to a crouching position.

“Naiad! Hey, not bad! That’s a word I made, you know. Nice to see you people here have some culture. You’re wrong there though. I think the name you’re looking for is Nereus. So I was correct? Of course I was. You know, there are easier things to do than throw things in the ocean because someone broke your heart. Not that I’d tell anyone else that. Ahaha! I love all the funny things you humans chunk in!” Caspian was now distinctly aware that whatever this Nereus was it was not anything he would be able to identify. He simply clenched his jaw and grunted softly.

“You’re really not helping anything.”

“Who said I was trying to help? I just want that necklace.”

“What for!?” Caspian could tell he was practically bristling and he hoped to the gods nobody would show up and ask him who he was talking to. He was starting to feel like maybe this was a vivid hallucination caused by overwhelming sadness and guilt. Nereus tapped a tapered finger to his cheek and rolled his large bulbous eyes in a circle.

“What for? Just because. I don’t see why I shouldn’t want it, or why I shouldn’t have it.” Nereus’ thin lips spread into a wide grin again. Caspian had to look away. His face was rather hard to look at when he smiled like that.

“It’s… important to me. You can’t have it.” Nereus stared at Caspian blankly before he cocked his head and gnashed his teeth again. Even the noise of his teeth clicking together was something enough to incite discomfort in Caspian.

“Ah, see, so you admit it. That’s fair. Then get off the damn bluff and quit teasing me with the prospect of new jewelry, would you! Humans! You really are the worst. At least give me something for all the trouble you put me through.” Nereus put one webbed hand out and made a gesture for Caspian to cough up some loot. Caspian scoffed at this before tugging off the scarf he had tied around his waist and throwing it at Nereus. The man snatched it up greedily and briefly a strange shimmer danced over the fabric. Nereus then tied it around his arm. He winked, or as well as one can wink with translucent eyelids, at Caspian and stood up. With a sharp snapping noise he transformed into a pelican.

Caspian watched, jaw dropped, as the scarf clad bird flew away. After several moments of watching Nereus, now a bird, fly away into the horizon line, Caspian finally put his attention back to the necklace still clutched tightly in one hand. With a sigh he put it back around his neck and pat at the small circular charm on the chain. He’d be ready to take it off eventually. Now just wasn’t the time.

#dreamingofravens #original work #writing #entwined

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