#if you want me to like explain anything about my favorite characters half the tome I just cannot. I’ll know like two things abt them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alottanothing · 3 years ago

Text

Kismet

Summary: Evie prepares a meal for the stranger who helped her and finds herself more than a little smitten.

Previous Part: Hope

Word Count: 5707

Warnings: Language

Tag List: @ramilicious, @txmel, @edteche2, @gloriousdarkangelsworld, @diasimar, @xmxisxforxmaybe (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: Okay, I almost didn't get this up today because I was up most of the night sewing kilts for Highland Weekend at the Ohio Renfiare. BUT I stayed awake and did my final read-through, so this should be mostly okay. I skipped a couple steps in my editing to get this up on time but I think, for the most part, it's okay. If you see a grammatical booboo, just ignore it, I'll get in here sometime this week with my other two editing steps and find it, then repost this. Capisce? Okay, cool...now. I hope you enjoy it, I also hope my trying to phonetically write Mer's accent doesn't get too annoying. I know you really shouldn't write accents, but I think it helps add to the characters. And I do try to keep it to a minimum so it doesn't get annoying. Thanks for the love the first part received last month! I know waiting so long between updates is a bit sad after weekly updates with LtR. But life is busy right now and once a month is all can guarantee.

Jonny did not know how to keep a house.

In fact, Jonny did not know how to do much more than drink, argue, and get into fights. He was nothing but a thorn in Evie's side—never mind how much she needed him for a place to lay her head. A necessary thorn was still a thorn. Given the opportunity, she would rip it out as soon as she could and dress the wound promptly so she was finally able to heal better. She stayed only because she had no other choice. And every time Jonny raised his voice or stumbled in reeking of alcohol and red-faced, Evie could hear her best friend's warning in her head. Cynthia had begged her not to go with him, but she hadn't listened.

Oh, how she wished she had.

Luckily, Jonny wasn't the kind of man who liked to stay home which eased the ache of the ever-present thorn in her side. Whatever money he did have, he spent out on the town—the town being New Orleans. Like Evie, Jonny had been born and raised in the Big Apple, the noise and the chaos was part of him. As such, he hadn't taken to the quiet suburban life Bridge City offered as well as Evie. She liked the quiet, easy flow of the sleepy town. Her housemate loathed his new home. He thrived in disarray, thus, he found a group of like-minded young men to run amok with in the neighboring metropolis every chance he got.

If Jonny had been any sort of amicable company, the notion of him leaving most every night to wreak havoc several miles away would have been upsetting. Thankfully, his penchant for city life meant a good portion of Evie's days were spent out from under Jonny's tyranny. The hours he was gone were blissful and calm, and she relished in them. Whether she was creating art or tending to chores around the old house, Evie didn't care as long as Jonny wasn't there—never mind how lonely the routine often was.

Evie had never gotten the chance to meet Jonny's maternal grandmother, though she suspected she would have liked to. Unlike her grandson, she seemed like any other sweet elderly woman judging by the furnishings she'd left behind. There were dozens of lace doilies, and table cloths with soft patterns, decretive china even, but it was the plethora of photos the old woman kept that told Evie she'd carried a kindly heart. All of them were kept in pristine albums or intricate frames; they were the only barbles that seemed to have been cleaned or dusted with any regularity which spoke of how much she must have treasured them. Evie loved those tiny trinkets and black and white memories. It didn't matter that they were not her legacy of family heirlooms to keep, she adored them anyway.

She couldn't count the number of times she'd replaced a broken frame that had fallen victim to Jonny's drunken belligerence or scrubbed tirelessly at a stain he'd left on the patterned tablecloths. It proved to be a hefty undertaking, but dwelling in the fantasies of someone else's history let her forget the grief of her own. She was willing to sacrifice a little elbow grease if it allowed her mind to roam away from the shadow that never really seemed to vanish.

For all the effort Evie put in on the interior, the cottage held little in the way of curb appeal. The porch was sunken in the middle, the paint was peeling off in chunks, and the yard was mostly weeds. Worst, however, was the screen door which squeaked so loudly, every dog in the neighborhood howled in protest every time someone crossed the threshold. The outside needed love that Evie simply didn't have the energy to lend. Despite the grit, however, the foundations were sturdy enough that she didn't worry. The cottage proved to be stronger than she looked—a feat Evie felt she had in common with the old house. And while it was a swell enough place to rest her head, it never truly felt like home. Home was somewhere safe, and as long as Jonny lived under that roof she wasn't safe. Not really.

Fortunately, Jonny wasn't home when Evie returned after her run-in with Mr. Shelton—Mer, she corrected herself with a hint of a giddy smile. Without her housemate there, her evening promised to be hopeful instead of lonely, and she wasted no time in figuring out what to make for dinner.

With her red pumps replaced by her worn-in slippers and her blue checkered apron secured around her waist, she set a pot of water to boil and dialed the phone conveniently located in the kitchen. Every evening she called her sister-in-law to pass the time and keep up on unimportant gossip back home; this time, however, Evie was excited to finally have some good news to share.

"You got the job, didn't you?" Cynthia Clarke asked on the other end, sounding hopeful. "I knew you would."

Evie grinned, still amazed how the sound of Cyn's voice always seemed to settle some of the ever-present anxieties buzzing in her head. She missed her friend so much.

"I didn't even say yes."

"Did you or did you not get the job?" Cynthia pressed.

"I did," Evie confirmed and her smile grew hearing her friend cheer on the other end of the phone.

"See! I knew it." Cynthia said. "My gut feeling is always right."

Evie rolled her eyes and shook her head fondly.

"I think I'm gonna like working there too, so that's good." she mused as she stood at the stove, eyeing the pot of water she’d set to boil.

"That's so great, Ev. I'm so proud of you." Cynthia paused before continuing. "So, what are you up to tonight? Avoiding Jonny?"

"Sorta," Evie nodded even though she knew her friend wouldn't see.

As she continued to watch her cooking pot of water she told Cynthia all about her trouble with Jonny's car and the man who'd been so kind to help her.

"Wait. You invited the stranger over who fixed the car?" Concern was heavy in Cyn's voice, and Evie half expected a lecture to follow.

Despite knowing each other since childhood, Cynthia had taken on the role of her protector since Evie's family was no longer in the picture. The war had claimed Evie's father, and brother—although they'd never found her brother, Jimmy after he disappeared behind enemy lines. Evie never lost hope that Jimmy would one day be found, Cynthia though, was certain her husband was never coming home. After Cyn’s brother, Charlie, died at Normandy Cynthia had difficulty believing anyone was going to make it home. As for Evie's mother, losing a child and her husband to the war was too much for her tender heart and she passed not long after. Ever since, Cynthia was overcome with the need to act as Evie's guardian.

"He wouldn't let me pay him," Evie explained. "So I'm making him dinner—it seemed like the least I could do."

"I suppose…." Cynthia didn't sound convinced, if anything she sounded slightly irritated there was no quick way for her to argue the logic. "Just be careful, Evie. You don't know this guy—he could be another Jonny Doyle. Or worse."

"He's not," Evie said quickly. She wanted nothing more than to tell her friend all about how benevolent Mer was, but she decided against it. Cynthia would only argue that point somehow.

A long pause followed, and Evie wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder so her hands were free to work on the meal.

"So, what are you cooking?" This time, there was a hint of jest in her friend's tone when she spoke.

The art of cooking was one creative outlet that Evie struggled with, second only to music. In her youth, her mother did all the cooking—it was a passion of her mother's—thus Evie had done little more than watch in wonder as her mother whipped up meal after meal effortlessly. Breakfast she the meal she was probably best at, apple pies too, but anything beyond that Evie required a step by step guide to prepare. And even then she lacked confidence. Thankfully, when she'd fled south, she remembered to grab her mother's cookbook. It was a cumbersome tome with yellowed pages and notes scribbled into the margins: a piece of art itself cultivated over years of collecting recipe after recipe starting the moment her mother stepped off the boat that brought her from Ireland. And like a witch and her spellbook, Evie depended on it.

"Spaghetti with garlic bread," Evie admitted feeling as though the meal lacked a certain something.

Pasta was something she knew held a low degree of difficulty when it came to preparing. Surely she couldn't mess up pasta.

“Mmm, I can almost smell it,” Cynthia said.

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously,” Cyn replied. “You’re mom’s spaghetti recipe was always my favorite.”

A doleful smile pulled at the corners of her lips, thinking back to her mother happily cooking in the kitchen as she sang a Celtic tune. It seemed strange that those moments would never again play out, instead they’d become bittersweet memories Evie could only relive in her mind.

“Mine too,” she murmured, suddenly missing her family.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, and Evie’s mind roamed the dregs of her grief before blinking back into reality and the hope of something happy to come.

“I need to go, Cyn,” Evie told her friend with a sigh. “I don’t want to burn the garlic bread.”

Cynthia chuckled and said her goodbye, only after making Evie promise to call her in the morning to let her know how everything went.

With her second hand restored after hanging up, Evelyn reached for her mother’s cookbook to give the steps another look over to ensure she had done everything and added every herb and ingredient she was supposed to. She’d followed everything perfectly, even factoring in the little notes scribbled into the margins left there by her mother—those she smiled at fondly and traced the fading ink with her fingers. Everything was as it should be. Even so, without a taste, Evie knew the sauce she had prepared would never be as savory as what her mother made so effortlessly.

“You were the artist in the kitchen, Ma,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll stick to paper and canvas.”

For the smallest of a moment Evie thought she would hear the warmth of her mother’s laugh, and when it never came she sighed again, trying not to dwell on the shadows behind her. What mattered was the light ahead.

Despite her lack of confidence, the meal came together without any severe hiccups. The noodles were not overcooked, the sauce was a complementing mix of savory and sweet (though, as she had guessed after a tiny taste, was not nearly as good as her mother's) and the garlic bread was nicely golden. A small tingle of pride manifested in the form of a surprised, but satisfied, smile as she surveyed the dinner before her.

“Not bad, Ev,” she told herself, knowing her mother would have been delighted.

With the cooking done, Evie threw a glance over her shoulder to the clock mounted on the wall, triggering a surge of anxiety to bubble in her gut. Stranger, perhaps, was the amount of excitement coursing through her veins. It was as though all of her happiness was riding on whether or not she would see Merriell again. None of it made sense; the man was little more than a stranger. The coupling of nerves and delight was not a feeling that put her ill at ease, however. She trusted it. And it was that peculiar sensation that seemed to fuel her movements.

With a few minutes to spare, Evie wandered into the small bathroom to freshen up. She made sure her hair was still pinned the way she liked—up and pretty. Her make-up was holding up nicely despite the heat; all she needed was a fresh layer of lipstick to complete the illusion of a put-together young lady. It wasn't often she wore a dress with heels and a face of cosmetics—she liked to when the opportunity arose, but she was just as comfortable in a pair of old overalls and smudges of charcoal on her face.

Just as she wiggled back into her red pumps—discarding her worn-in house slippers with a couple of calculated kicks—a knock on the door signaled Merriells arrival. Immediately a grin curled onto Evie's lips and her heart began to pound an anxious-excited rhythm. A blush threatened to color her cheeks to give away the torrid muscle beating in her chest—her ever yearning heart already making leaps and bounds for a man she had known for mere hours.

Don't be ridiculous—she warned herself taking in a deep breath to curb the eagerness coursing in her veins. Untying her apron, she tossed it along with her discarded slippers and went to answer the door, taking one last deep breath to steady the fervor in her heart.

Merriell had changed and showered. The sweet bouquet of his shampoo coupled invitingly with the musk of the aftershave he'd chosen, making it difficult for Evie to keep from soaking in the scent he carried. His curls were still somewhat damp—too much moisture in the air to keep the heat from drying them on his way over—though they fought to spring back into their previous fluff. The grease-covered, jeans he'd been wearing had been replaced by a nice pair of tan slacks, and the buttoned shirt he wore was a soft shade of green that made his eyes glitter a deeper emerald as he stood under the glow of the porch light. All Evie could do was stare—utterly beguiled—every rational thought in her head lost to her.

Mer smirked, amused by her ogling. "Hiya."

Evie blinked, coming back to reality, suddenly feeling foolish, and uttered a nervous "hi" before swinging her arm to invite him inside.

"Come in."

Merriell's smile grew as he crossed the threshold, inhaling deeply. "Mm, smells tasty in here."

He gently forced a bottle into her hands as he passed on his way to investigate the savory smells in the kitchen.

"I wasn' sho what ya was makin', but I figured wine usually goes with anythin'."

"Oh, thank you." Evie glanced at the label, unable to read the French words printed there. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know," Mer shrugged, placing his hands in his pockets. "I just wanted to make a good impression."

There was something almost boyish when he smiled then—cheeks coloring pink ever-so-slightly—that made him even more of a mystery. One Evie was eager to solve.

"Well," she said placing the bottle on the kitchen table. "It should go perfectly with dinner."

His expression lost a hint of its boyish charm as it grew into a look of delight.

"Make yourself at home," Evie gestured vaguely between the table and the sofa in the living room as she ventured to the cabinet where the stemware was kept.

She placed two crystal glasses on the table along with the wine and retraced her steps to fetch some of the nicer china Jonny's grandmother had kept. Mer watched her, his gaze, gentle and attentive, and a little bit yearning as she methodically sat the table.

"Need help with anythin'?" he asked finally.

"Nope," She replied with a smile. "Everything is almost ready."

The hearty red sauce on the stove was beginning to boil again which told her it was hot enough to serve, and Evie eyed the pot with scrutiny, praying silently her attempt at cooking would go over well.

"I'll pour us a glass then," Mer announced.

"Great, lemme…" Evie spun to fish for the corkscrew in the drawer of misfit utensils, finding it, only to turn to see Merriell holding his lighter against the neck of the dark bottle just below the cork.

Before she could ask, a loud pop sounded, causing her to jump as the cork went flying.

"Oh my goodness!" she laughed, a little surprised, a little impressed. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Mer shrugged, a sly expression on his features, and left her question unanswered.

"How much ya want?" He held the open bottle over the top of her glass, waiting patiently.

"Enough," she said, tossing him a coy smirk without really meaning to.

He bit his lower lip as he smiled, chuckling under his breath when he poured a generous glass of red wine for each of them. She thanked him as he took his seat and grabbed his plate to dish out their dinner.

"How much pasta would you like?"

Mer's face lit with charm and mischief as he turned to face her.

"Enough," he grinned.

The expression on his face was playful, his smirk devious and amused by his own response and his cheekiness settled warmly in Evie's stomach. Not only did she revel in it, but she also played into his whimsy and scooped as much spaghetti into his plate as she could before coupling it with the savory sauce and a slice of bread.

Despite being only strangers, the atmosphere that bloomed that evening was not marked by any hint of bashfulness, instead, it was relaxed and amiable. Warmth that Evie had longed to dwell in again—that unrefutable kindness she'd lost with the passing of her family—flowed uninhibited from the man sitting adjacent to her. His conversation was cautious but still jovial and genuine. It was the first time since running south Evie could recall what life felt like without grief and fear weighing upon her. Merriell was a stranger, but she felt safe with him. Jonny had never made her feel that way.

"So," Evie spoke as she twirled the last bit of pasta with her fork. "What is it you do, Mr. Shelton?"

Mer cast her a look of disapproval—no doubt in retaliation to being addressed so formally—before his features softened back into a neutral, yet somehow still amused side smirk.

"Nothin' too excitin'," he stated vaguely. "The odd jobs are what I like ta do the most—like fixin' ya car this aftah noon."

Without really meaning to, Evie leaned forward, resting her elbow and chin on the table, utterly enchanted by the beautiful stranger at her table.

"You like to get your hands dirty, huh? Fixing things?" she was entirely too intrigued with the thought of what he could do with his hands.

He shrugged, suddenly modest after a foray of playfully arrogant smirks and glances. It made him abruptly twice as charming.

"I've always had a knack for it, I guess." Merriell finished the food on his plate with the help of his remaining garlic bread to mop up the sauce still left on his dish.

"What about you?" he asked after chewing. "Ya workin' anywhere?"

All at once, a proud smile lit up Evie's face. After all the excitement of seeing Merriell again, she'd almost forgotten about her good news.

"Actually, I just got a job today—the general store downtown, Southern Comfort."

Mer's face lit up too, "Birdie's place?"

"Yeah, you know it?" Of course, he knows it! She thought, Bridge City's population was slightly less than the number of people who lived in a single district back home in New York. Everyone knew everyone else.

"Sho do—I was practically raised there…ole Birdie's like a second mothah to me."

"Really?" Evie found a great deal of comfort in that notion. In fact the more she thought on it, the more she realized how similar the old woman and Mer were; they radiated the same magnetism and sincerity.

"Mmhm," he nodded, his eyes focusing elsewhere as the veil of memories danced across the contours of his features. "My mama used ta work there…once upon a time…"

"Does she still work there?"

Merriell's face lost a hit of its levity and he swallowed as though to fight off the onslaught of sudden emotion threatening to cast a shadow onto his expression.

"No…" he said softly. "She—uh—she died, about a year ago."

Shit!

Abruptly, sick knots twisted into Evie's stomach, feeling callous, but understanding of the quiet misery he hid under layers of charm and arrogance.

"Merriell, I'm…I'm sorry—I didn't mean…"

He met her eyes and cast her a quick smile—doleful, but enough to ease the awful feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"It's okay," he reassured her, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a good gulp before changing the subject. "Birdie's great—you'll enjoy workin' for her."

"I hope so…" Evie said softly, still too embarrassed to meet Mer's glance longer than a second or two.

For the first time all night the atmosphere they shared felt cumbersome—perhaps more melancholy—than she'd wanted it to get. Evie sat, worrying her bottom lip, her fingers toying with a loose thread in the table cloth as she stole quick glances through her lashes in Mer's direction.

He was nursing the alcohol in his glass with the same sadness she'd caught plaguing him as he sat at the bar hours ago. And while Evie was eager to know if his grief stemmed only from the loss of his mother, or perhaps more, Merriell was still too much of a stranger to warrant such questions. It didn't matter how easy it was to be near him, she had not earned the right to know his narrative.

A soft sigh broke past her lips as she fought to find a way to properly allay the gloom that was quickly ruining an otherwise wonderful evening. It wasn't until her eyes found their desert sitting on the counter, waiting to save the day, that she perked up.

"Got any room for apple pie?" Evie asked with a hesitant smile. She hoped he wanted to stay long enough to have a slice, though she would not have blamed him for wanting to leave.

Immediately Mer perked up too, the shadows on his features retreating with the promise of something sweet.

"I was countin' on it—seems as how you promised a slice earlier," he said with a boyish grin.

When she stood, he did too, helping clear away their dinner plates, and letting them soak in the sink to be washed later. Evie cut them each a slice of apple pie and the delight on Mer’s face made her smile too seeing him lick his lips as his grin continued to grow. Catching that flash of his tongue was like a bolt of hot lightning striking her without warning; a blush rose so quickly on her cheeks Evie had to look away to keep the blunder a secret. Thankfully, the pie was more than enough to hold Merriell’s attention away from her.

“Mmmm… Almost looks too good to eat,” he said ogling the desert in front of him.

When Evie chanced a look his way, the expression on his face caused her to chuckle, “‘oughta be, I made one for my pa every year for his birthday since I was nine. It’s probably the only thing I have any confidence in making in the kitchen.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Mer quipped as he loaded his fork with as much pie as he could.

The moment he took a bite, his brows creased, and eyes closed as he chewed painfully slow. Those few seconds were like agony. Evie’s heart was pounding in her chest with so much anticipation she feared she might faint as she watched him sample the only thing she could actually make that was worth a damn.

“Fuck me, if that ain’t the best apple pie I’ve evah had the pleasure of tasting.”

A somewhat nervous, but relieved chuckle sounded in the back of Evelyn’s throat as she watched Merriell shovel a larger bite of pie into his mouth.

“Mmm… Yep. God damn delightful.”

“Stop,” Evie said sheepishly, suddenly afraid he was overselling his reaction to keep from hurting her feelings.

“No,” he wiped his mouth and leaned across the table to meet her gaze with a sincere expression that stole away all the doubt writhing in her stomach.

“I mean it. If I wasn’t so full of pasta, I’d eat that whole damn pie right now.”

“Well,” Evie grinned softly, trying not to let her blush color her cheeks too obviously. “Thank you. And you’re welcome to take the rest of it when you go.”

Excitement took form on his face with a smirk that was sweet but roguish all at once—a sort of debonair charm that amplified his magnetism—as if his bright eyes dark curls and razor-sharp jaw did not make him alluring enough already. Again she had to look away knowing the pink in her cheeks would be too strong to combat.

“Imma have ta take ya up on that offah. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout you every time I cut me a slice.”

That blush was unstoppable; her heart was suddenly so smitten, it felt as though butterflies were fluttering merrily in her stomach. She felt weightless with warmth and hope swelling in her bosom, fearing any slight breeze would carry her off. It was ridiculous how at ease Evie felt sitting there eating pie with a complete stranger. The conversation had been easy all night; even when it had delved into less savory topics he still made her feel comfortable. Evelyn had forgotten what it was like to be in the company of a man who wasn’t easy to anger, who was genuine and kind and wanted only to live in the moment.

For a time the whimsy of the atmosphere faded as the warmth in her heart ached, suddenly missing her brother James and Cynthia's brother Charlie. Both of them were good men, kind and genuine—like Merriell—but they had been swallowed by the rages of war. Brave young men were lost forever, while a man like Jonny Doyle was still alive How was that fair?

No matter how pleasant her thoughts could be, they always fell back to the grief that plagued her. She sighed, deeply, pushing those intrusive memories back into the depths of her mind so she could find joy once more in the moment with a kind stranger.

When Merrill finished his plate he made a beeline for the sink full of soaking dishes.

“Oh, no,” she said jumping to her feet. “I can do those.”

Merriell, however, shook his head. “Uh-uh, you did the cookin’, I can do the cleanin’.”

When Evie tried to argue, Mer simply shook his head, his grin amused but determined as he kept scrubbing the dirty dishes.

“Let me help at least,” she suggested. “I’ll dry and put them away.”

Before he could protest, she snatched the freshly rinsed dish from his hand and began wiping away the droplets of water clinging to the porcelain surface, throwing him a smug smirk that made him chuckle.

“Alright,“ he smirked.

She watched him for a moment not really paying attention to her task as he scrubbed the old plates clean, overcome with a blissful vision of peaceful domesticity. It made her stomach fill to the brim with whimsy and her heart was fluttering again; had this stranger bewitched her already? Or did what she feel bubbling lightly in her gut like a seltzer stem from an end to her loneliness—even if it was only for a few hours? Evelyn didn’t know. Nevertheless, she was intrigued with a profound feeling and she wanted to dwell in it for as long as she could.

Occasionally as he would hand a freshly washed dish her way, his calloused fingertips would brush against her skin, igniting a spark she didn’t know how to react to. It was more than an amicable tingle racing from the tips of her fingers right to her heart. And each time they touched, Merriell would cast her a gentle smile that held nothing more than his inherent charm and magnetism. She wondered if he felt it too, or if her need for companionship was playing a dirty trick on her.

When the dishes were all back in their usual places—the night drawing to a close—Evelyn realized she was not ready to say farewell to her Beautiful Stranger. She longed to stay up all night just chatting with him, she did not care about what, Evelyn only wanted to stay encompassed a while longer in the blissful warmth he brought into her life. Once he was gone, all she would be able to do was stay up and ponder the significance of those little touches and the sparks they brought.

Thankfully, Merriell lingered on the old rickety porch, one hand in his pocket, the other holding onto his plate of leftover pie, seeming to stall their inevitable departure.

“Well,” he said with a grin. “Thank you for invitin’ a stranger ovah for dinna.” He paused, glancing at the leftover pie in his hand. “Can’t recall ever having a better plate of pasta, an’ nothin’ evah gonna beat this pie.”

Evie quickly looked at her feet to hide another blush.

“It was the least I could do,” she told him before looking back to meet his eyes. “You have no idea how much of a savior you were this afternoon…”

A glint of concern flashed in his eye, his brows beginning to crease as his unspoken question lingered between them.

She thought about telling him—telling him how Jonny was nothing more than a throne in her side, and how much she cherished Merriells company—but Mer was still a stranger. It wasn’t right to unload so much onto someone she’d only known for a few hours.

Before Mer could offer any reply, the sound of screeching tires stole all their focus as an old wagon pulled along the curb—narrowly missing a collision with the mailbox. The rowdy passengers were laughing and shouting loud enough even before the door opened to let Jonny stumble out. He staggered on drunk feet and screamed a handful of profanities to his buddies in the car which made them all roar with laughter.

It was only after the wagon full of hooligans pulled away that Jonny began to stagger towards the house, and it was exactly then that Evie’s fluttering heart became consumed with panic.

She and Mer watched him cross the yard, unseen, both frozen: Evie in fear and Merriell in confusion. Jonny’s intoxication level inhibited him from taking notice of them until he was at the base of the steps leading onto the porch. Immediately, his eyes narrowed and he frowned.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Jonny, this is Mr. Merriell Shelton,” Evie said quickly, willing her voice not to shake.

The Doyle’s were not known for their hospitality, nor were they known to trust most people. Especially strangers.

“He helped me this afternoon with a bit of trouble I was having,” she explained vaguely, hoping to thwart any more suspicion. “I made him dinner to say thank you—he’s just about to leave.”

Jonny eyed Merriell, seizing him up as best he could through drunken lenses. Mer stood his ground, eyeing him back with a subtle intensity that never so much as cracked under Jonny’s scrutiny.

Finally, being the better man, Mer held out his hand in a friendly manner, “nice ta meet ya.”

Jonny cast a prolonged glare at Merriell's open hand, his brows furrowed and part of his lip hiked up in a sort of snarl. Instead of returning the kind gesture, Jonny made a show of spitting at his feet before tossing his heavy leer at Evelyn.

"Evie, do not invite any more strangers into my house. I don't care if they are dying." He shoved past them both, purposely bumping Mer's shoulder (most likely in hopes to start something) muttering as he went: "I don't trust any of these filthy southerners."

Shock sent Evie's jaw slack; this time the redness in her cheeks was a symptom of embarrassment instead of infatuation. She should have known Jonny would say something rude and uncouth. Without another thought, she grabbed Mer by his sleeve and pulled him across the lawn until they stood next to his truck parked along the curb.

"I am so sorry about him," she said, crossing her arms and glaring at Jonny's house, ashamed and angry.

Mer shrugged as he placed his partially eaten pie in the passenger seat through the open window before fixing his hands in his front pockets.

"Ya boyfriend's a bit of an asshole."

"He is not my boyfriend," Evie corrected vehemently. "I don't think he knows that though. I'm just staying here until I can figure some things out."

Merriell was quiet a moment, nodding silently. It seemed as though he was taking his time processing the whole situation. There was compassion on his face and behind his eyes, but it was guarded somehow. Evie caught it though and she was grateful when he didn't ask the questions plainly forming in his mind.

"Well," he said finally, his tone light as one corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. "Since he ain't ya othah half, I feel more inclined ta leave ya with this…"

Gently, Merriell caressed her upper arm as he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on her cheek. He let his lips linger slightly longer than was common for such an act, that all at once wove a new hopefulness into her heart.

"Dinna was swell," he added as he pulled away, his smile somehow more charming than it had been all night. "Hope I see ya again, Evie."

"Me too," she murmured.

Evie watched as he got in his truck to leave, her hand held to the cheek he'd graced with his kiss. And when he drove away, it took everything inside of her to keep from running after him.

#Beautiful Stranger Series #Merriell Shelton x Original Character #Merriell Shelton #Snafu Shelton #HBO War #The Pacific #The Pacific Fanfiction #Rami Malek Fanfiction

29 notes · View notes

indiavolowetrust · 4 years ago

Text

Matthew 7:7

SUMMARY: "Ask, and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you."

Satan tutors a particularly curious, chatty student.

Notes: This MC is based on various female saints. Prior to falling into the Devildom, this MC lived in Catholic rural Spain -- hence the name Maria Cruz (MC). This fic explores the possibility of demons having their own language outside of the MC's native language, as well as Satan's inner wrathful nature.

My head pulses with the reverberation of the rain, the battering against the windowpane a thunderous, steady march. While I can’t quite fathom how the Devildom has changes in weather -- outside of temperature changes, that is -- it is difficult to do anything but take the anomaly in stride. In a realm crowded with demons, angels, and beings dangerously akin to monsters, it would be only a headache to dwell on it. A waste of time.

But aside from that, it is comforting. A vague resemblance to a typical autumnal rain. If I close my eyes for a moment, I can almost imagine that I am in one of Sister Marta’s classes again: bored, tapping my pen against the wooden desk, and on the verge of sleep, the sound lulling me into a placid state. Sister Marta would drone on and on about the syntax and grammar of Latin, citing various points in scripture. My pen would scrawl doodles and notes alike, creating looping whorls on my paper. And the occasional running line for each time I nodded off, of course. The storm would rage on and on, drawing my eyes to the rivulets of droplets on the window, and my patience and attention would slowly slip into nothingness.

I regret doing so each and every day that I spend in the Devildom.

I take another glance at the two books strewn on the desk, attempting to focus again. A compilation of notes sits beneath my hand, the two tomes in Latin and Enoch flipped open to what should be the same page. My fingers cramp from writing so much, protesting the constant workload, but I wholly ignore the sensation. If I had paid more attention in Latin class, I would be able to translate Enoch better. If I hadn’t drifted off so much and ignored Sister Marta, I wouldn’t have such a noticeable accent when speaking to the demons of the Devildom. If I hadn’t spent so much time daydreaming about the end of the school day, I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself upon my first arrival in the Devildom. My skin still bristles at the memory: my complete bewilderment, combined with the Lord Diavolo’s lack of foresight to provide me with a translator, had only led to disaster.

A complete idiot, some part of me says, chiding me. You looked like a complete idiot, spouting off nonsensical phrases in Latin.

Then again, it wasn’t as if I had really believed in demons or angels before. How was I supposed to know that the language of the demons was only a derivative of Latin?

Another clap of thunder nearly shakes the House of Lamentation’s foundation. I read the hands of the grandfather clock: it is only half past midnight. Plenty of time to finish the last five pages of translations and vocabulary practice. I will myself to understand the texts before me, gripping the pen tightly in my hands. I force my eyes to focus. If I am to survive the remainder of my exchange year at RAD, I would have to do a much better job at hiding my humanity -- starting with disguising my Spanish accent. But the words only blur in my vision again, the call of sleep urging my eyelids to close, and I feel myself sway unsteadily in the chair. The stress and fatigue from work hits me all at once. The lull of the storm sings to me, exacerbating my exhaustion. My pen begins to drift off the paper. My head nods forward.

“Maria?”

I blink, immediately forcing myself back to consciousness again. My eyes scan the library, drawing itself over rows of bookshelves and dark mahogany tables. The dim lamp on the desk is dim and flickering, casting long shadows across the room.

And Satan stands in the doorway, looking just as surprised as I am.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, hand still on the doorknob.

I glance down at my notes. I’ve drifted far enough into sleep that I’ve drawn a crooked line over the preexisting words, I realize with embarrassment. I quickly hide the ruined sheet. “Just studying,” I respond. “It’s -- it’s late, isn’t it? What are you doing here?”

Satan arches a brow. “Well, aren’t we curious?”

“Ah, I didn’t mean --”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he dismisses, throwing a smile my way. It does nothing to disarm me, nor does it ease my sense of embarrassment. He reaches one of the bookshelves in the corner of the room with long strides and pulls a book off the shelf, evidently acquainted with the contents and layout of the library. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I would read something to relax. I left one of my favorite novels here.”

I nod, trying to hide my discomfort. “I see.”

I look down on my notes again, reading over the newly written content, but I make sure to keep a wary watch over Satan out of the corner of my eye. While traveling to the human world with Satan, Lucifer, and Mammon had helped in forming the bonds between Satan and Lucifer, I cannot say the same for myself. Only a few weeks have passed since Satan’s outburst. Since his threats of, verbatim, slicing off my nose and ears, ripping off my arms and legs, and feeding me to the lower-level demons. While it is easy for someone like Lucifer to simply overlook the transgression, being a demon, it is much more difficult for a human like me to forget the terrifying experience. Satan had clearly meant to make good on his word. If Lucifer hadn’t stepped in, I would likely be nothing more than a pile of torn flesh and bone.

“You’ve gotten pretty proficient,” Satan’s voice says over my shoulder.

I nearly startle out of my chair, turning towards the source of the voice. Satan stands to the side of the desk, leaning as he regards my notes. His gaze draws itself over my notes and the tomes with interest. I shrink back instinctively from his presence, still caught in surprise. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice. The wrathful demon simply nods, as if satisfied by my work.

“So this is how you’ve become fluent so quickly,” Satan remarks, green eyes lighting up. “Tell me, are all humans like this?”

I shake my head. “Not really. It’s -- I just figured it would be a good idea if I learned more Enoch,” I explain hastily, my hands already working to close the tomes and collect my notes. “Didn’t want a repeat of the first few weeks of school.”

“Well, it was almost incomprehensible when you first started.”

My cheeks flush. “I --”

“And you’ve improved significantly,” he says. “You should be proud of yourself, human.”

There it is again: that brilliant, faux smile. I merely nod in acknowledgment and utter a small thank you as I gather the rest of my things, closing each tome with finality. Satan steps back as I stand from my seat, bearing various notes, notebooks, and a pen in my hands, and I do my best to offer him a smile in return. A goodbye gesture of sorts. If I am to have my choice in the situation, I will not spend another moment in Satan’s presence. Not alone, anyway. It is late, as it is. He probably wouldn’t be too offended if I made the excuse of exhaustion. I begin to make my way past him, the excuse falling from my lips.

Satan catches me by the arm. I flinch as I regard him, both the surprise and fear registering on my features before I can stop myself -- and Satan lets go immediately, the facade slipping almost imperceptibly. He draws his hand back to his side, the action creating distance between us once more. I stare awkwardly at him for a moment.

“I can tutor you, if you would like,” Satan finally says, breaking the silence. “Tomorrow, same place.”

Say no. Just outright refuse, my conscience advises, attempting to build my resolve. You can tutor yourself just as well as that demon can. Just say no and he’ll leave it alone.

* * *

The tip of the pen emerges from its casing with a gentle click, Satan’s fingers wrapped securely around its base. His eyes scour my written translation for a moment, peering over the frames of his reading glasses. He scratches corrections onto the paper after a moment, then pushes the notebook towards me. His pen taps on the various scrawlings.

Satan pushes his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose, “This word is pretty close, but there are too many connotations for it,” he explains. He writes out various characters in Enoch, pronouncing the syllables of each word. “It’s a bit more formal, but it’ll probably get your point across a little more clearly. Your professors will probably appreciate that.”

I take a look over Satan’s writings, comparing them to the text. As promised -- or mildly coerced, depending on how I regard the circumstances -- Satan had met me in a small library of the House of Lamentation, at least several high-grade novels and other books piled high before him. And, as expected, Satan is nothing but strict in his teachings. Each wrong stroke of an Enochian character leads to a quick, ruthless correction, Satan immediately scratching out the mistakes. Each wrong pronunciation of a word in Enoch incites a tsk from him, his typical gentlemanly countenance making way for his true nature. While it is somewhat reassuring that the demon no longer feels a need to hide his nature from me -- therefore making his outbursts more predictable if they do occur -- I still can’t quite shake the discomfort. The contrast between his outward and inward nature is unsettling.

I sigh inwardly, dispelling the thought. If I had really wanted to refuse, I should have done so right then and there. Because I was given a choice, wasn’t I? An implied choice. I could have said no. I could have refused. But then a memory had suddenly occurred to me, and I found myself completely stripped of my will.

Don’t you dare trifle with me, human, Satan’s voice echoes, the memory still fresh and palpable. If you dare say that you won’t make a pact with me again, you’ll pay for it with your --

“What’s wrong?” asks Satan, casting a glance at the space underneath my pen. Empty. “Is there something you don’t understand?”

I blink, then quickly shake my head. “No, I was -- I was just thinking about something.”

“Like what?”

My mind searches for an excuse, eyes inadvertently scrutinizing his appearance. While one would normally wear something more comfortable and casual for bed, Satan is dressed in an almost formal sweater and sweatpants that could be taken for slacks, his hair still perfectly mussed and styled from the school day. Nothing about him is undone. The meticulously thought-out details make me feel nearly out of place with my borrowed, oversized sweater, pyjama pants, and pineapple-like bun of curls sitting on top of my head. A slovenly effort when compared to Satan.

My eyes land on the reading glasses perched on top of his nose.

“Do you need those?” I ask, distracting myself from my own thoughts. “I always imagined demons were all-powerful. Did you have to go to a doctor in the human world to find your prescription?”

Satan looks surprised for a moment, as if he hadn’t expected me to comment. Or notice, depending on how low his expectations of humans are. “Well, no, but I thought they seemed appropriate.”

“You thought I would learn faster if you looked the part?”

“You like to ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” he counters, clearing his throat. “Curiosity killed the cat -- isn’t that what you humans always say?”

“‘Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back,” I recite, correcting him. I lean in closer to peer at his glasses, my curiosity overtaking my unease around the demon for a moment. The glass is thin, free of any curve in the glass. Moreover, they bear a plain yet distinctive design -- akin to what a gumshoe in a noir novel would wear. My mind flashes back to the book he had pulled off the shelf the other night. “They aren’t real.”

Satan gives me a withering look. “If you knew that, then why did you ask?”

“You’re wearing them because you want to look like Detective Vic Stone from Masking the Shadow,” I observe. Satan’s impassive facade falls for a moment, his flustered state suddenly apparent, and a sense of victory nearly quirks my lips into a smile. A strange sense of victory over the wrathful, figuratively masked demon -- but a victory nonetheless. “You can correct me if I’m wrong.”

Satan brings a hand to his face, partially obscuring the flush over his features. “You try my patience too much. If you have any other questions, I would suggest you ask them now.”

“Just one.”

“I’ll make sure to bind your mouth next time.”

“How much would you like to be paid per session?” I ask, ignoring his words. “I work part-time, so there isn’t really a --”

He cuts me off. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I echo, confused. “If this is because you think me incapable of compensating you, you are sorely mistaken.”

He sighs, obscuring his face as he focuses his attention back on the Enochian tome. Adjusts his glasses again. “Why wouldn’t I?” Satan says matter-of-factly, as if I should be aware of the answer. “That would be like refusing to take home a kitten in the rain. There’s no reason why I wouldn’t help you.”

“But --”

My words die in my throat as Satan places his hand on my head, patting my pineapple-like bun of curls as if I were truly a pet. That fake, polite smile graces his features once more. “You ask too many questions,” he says, his tone halfway to a threat. “Work.”

part 2

#obey me shall we date #obey me!#obey me satan #obey me fanfic #original character #writing #writing practice

19 notes · View notes

joyofcrime-elinorhigh · 6 years ago

Text

Don’t Hug Me, I’m Scared REVIEW:

Hello there everybody! My name is JoyofCrimeArt and I do review-y type stuff on rare occasion! I've been a fan of online original content ever since I was a kid, ever since I first got into "Homestar Runner" back in 2010 (before that most of my internet time was spent playing flash games online and listing to Phineas and Ferb songs on Youtube.) Me and my brothers fell in love with Homestar Runner, as well as the various spin-off series that came from Homestar like the "Teen Girl Squad" and the "Strong Bad Emails." While I'm sure there where some web series I had seen before then it was Homestar that was the first big one and ever since I have been enamored with online original content. As time went on I became fans of other online web series, like Death Battle, TOME, RWBY, and many many others. There is something I find just magical about online original content. It's completely unfiltered content. Online you can do or create anything you can imagine, have it run for as long as you want it to (assuming you have the money or dedication to keep producing it) without the threat of it "not meeting the right demo" or "not pulling in high enough ratings." If you can imagine it and have the gumption to put in the hard work you create anything you want to. It like the artist equivalent of the American Dream. You can do anything you want, and be as creative as you want to be! Sorry if that came off as a bit long winded and cheesy but that's how I feel about this exciting new medium. And while there are tonnes of web series I would like to talk about in a review at some point, (and hopefully I will get to some of them in the future) for today I want to talk about a web series that brings whole new meaning to the word "creative," Don't Hug Me I'm Scared. "Don't Hug Me I'm Scared" is a British web series created by Becky Sloan and Joseph Pelling. Also TomSka was an executive producer for episodes 3-6. Which...actually explains a lot. Basically DHMIS Is a six part miniseries that ran from July 29th, 2011 to June 19th 2016. The series is basically an education series in the style of "Sesame Street" starring three puppets named "Red Guy," Yellow Guy," and "Duck Guy." (And yes those are there official) names as they learn different educational lessons from different "teachers" in each episode. Now if you haven't seen the series yet I highly suggest you check it out before continuing the review because this is the kind of show where the less you know going in the better, plus combined the series is only about a half hour long. However, I feel like I must warn you, this series is not for young children. It is for adults. (Because come on, it something online and it looks wholesome. Of course it's actually fu*ked up.) Don't go into this series unless your in the mood to see some messed up sh*t. So before you advance be aware, SPOILERS! Anyway, you back? Okay, so for those of you who already know the show or don't care about spoilers, the show is really a dark parody of pre-school televisions that should either be classified in the horror genre, the REALLY dark comedy genre, or BOTH, depending on ones personal point of view. Each episode tends to follow the same basic formula about some teacher showing up and trying to teach our main characters a lesson, but somewhere along the way the message becomes corrupted and usually ends with the puppets being traumatized or killed. Episode Two, for example, is at first about time, but slowly but surly ends up becoming about the impending death or everyone and thing. Episode Three starts talking about love and ends up being about cult indoctrination. It's pretty messed up stuff. But I know what you're thinking, who cares? There are tonnes of stuff that take kiddie things and makes them adult, especially on the internet. What makes DHMIS so special? Personally, I think want makes Don't Hug Me so special is the amount of detail and that was put into it. Even without the shock value the series is still a well made and interesting spectacle to see. So let's talk about the characters. While this form of simple and short form series doesn't lend itself to any complex characterization the main three puppets still have distinct personalities, even if there not the deepest characters out there. Red Guy is the sarcastic and rational one, and always talks with a deadpan tone to his voice. He is the smartest one of the group and is the fastest to figure out that something wrong is going on. Yellow Guy is naive, childlike, and not very bright. He is the most excepting of all of the puppets. He's my favorite character in the series, because by the end you just feel so bad for him (watch the series if you want to know what I'm talking about, I don't want to spoil to much.) Duck Guy, honestly, is my least favorite of the main three puppets. He seems kinda foppish and a bit more likely to kinda acts as the smart one when Red Guy isn't used for that, but overall I feel he's the weakest of the main three characters and doesn't have as much character development.

(...) (What did you say to me, b!tch?) And I say character development because, shockingly, all three characters do go through some character development as the series progressive. The characters become more self aware, and eventually start to expect something bad to happen once there weird "teachers" show up, instead of just going with it like they did in the earlier episodes. One of my favorite blink and you miss it style jokes in the series is when Duck Guy freaks out when The Computer mentions being able to tell the time, because he remembers the "lesson" about time he already learned from the clock. It's cool because they are learning form past experiences. Also there's individual arcs for the characters as time goes on like Red Guy learning to be less of a downer and being more creative. The show starts following a basic formula, with a teacher teaching the puppets a lesson through song, then something messed up happening and the world resets. However what I really admire is that this show plays with that formula, starting with episode four onward. The shows starts to lose it's status quo and, as mentioned above, the characters start to become more self aware. The episodes start having frickin' continuity! For real! It's really unexpected and, in my opinion, was a really good idea. The audience where starting to see the formula, and after the first episode where just waiting for the episodes to become messed up. So they decided to create a story to draw the audience in. If they just keep doing messed up things over and over again the show would become boring but the twist of actually telling a story, couple with the brevity of the story, managed to keep the story interesting the whole way through. The story is...weird. It's very much up for interpretation and cryptic. Sort of in the "Five Nights at Freddies" kind of way. Hints and Easter eggs are hidden in the various episodes and there are tonnes of theory videos online about what it all "really means." So if that's your kind of thing then you'll love this series. there are so many weird hints and recurring motifs that I haven't seen a single theory that covers everything. The final episode feels like the story is solved but heck if I know what the story even was about. I think the point of DHMIS isn't about actually solving the mystery but rather making up your own conclusion. I don't think there is a one hundred percent "definitive" answer, partially because of the theme of "creativity" that is in the series a lot and partially because Becky Sloan in an interview said in regard to fan theories that "they are all correct." and I love it when creators say that. They leave things up to the audience to decide what to take away form the series, instead of telling them. Don't Hug Me I'm Scared's attention to detail goes beyond the recurring motifs and Easter eggs though. What I really appreciate about the series is the attention to detail when it comes to the parody aspect of the show. Now this is a subjective thing, but I've always felt that the best parodies are the ones that either respect the thing that they are parodying. If you like the thing that your parodying it will give you a better understanding of it and make it easier to parody, cause you know exactly why the thing works and is good. It is possible to parody something you hate if you really get what your parodying, but it may end up coming off as sounding bitter. (Not always mind you, but sometimes.) It is clear that there was respect and love for educational programming like Sesame Street, and thus the parody ends up working a lot better. The high production value also helps the parody aspect. The puppets in DHMIS look really good! They look like they could be legitimate puppets in a real children's educational television program. This ends up making the twist that it's actually a horror story even better because the audience doesn't know what to expect if there going into the series blind. They might stumble upon the video and think it's a clip from some real British television series. The series wouldn't be able to work the way it does now if the puppets looked creepy from the start, there would be no contrast. To be honest the puppets in this show look less creepy than some real children's educational puppet shows.

(That top pic is from 80's direct to VHS education series "Peppermint Park" by the way, and also sorry if I accidentally gave you any nightmares.) Speaking of which, the production values of this whole show is frickin' incredible! Admittedly the production values for the first two episodes aren't as good as later episodes, but starting with episode three the series becomes amazing to look at. Every prop is is made of felt or cloth and the world is heavily decorated down to the smallest detail. The show also incorporates a multitude of different art styles throughout the series. Sure it's ninety percent puppetry but they also incorporate stop motion, flash animation, purposely bad CG graphics, and even some live action film making in certain parts. Every episode features a different song, and most are really catchy (Though the series tends to focus less and less on the songs as time goes on in order to focus more on plot, which is kind of a bummer.) The humor won't be for everybody, it's that sort of dry and surreal humor found in say, and old adult swim show. It's not for everyone but I really like it. It would be so easy to just make this show a kid show that ends up becoming disturbing, but this show does offer other positives so you can still enjoy the series after on re-watch. If I had to pick a favorite episode out of the six I would probably say episode three. I like the song, moral, and environments the most out of any episode and I feel like the comedy in that episode is the best of the whole series. Episode three also acts like a nice breather episode as it's one of the least terrifying one. My least favorite episode would probably be episode five. The song isn't that catchy in my opinion and it keeps getting interrupted by the plot, which isn't bad for the episodes necessarily but it does hurt the song.) Also I honestly can't tell what the message is. Most other episodes have a message, even if it is a dark and twisted one, like how episode four is about the dangers on the internet, how it just wants information from you, and how easy it is to get sucked inside it. But episodes five's moral, I just don't really see it. I still like the episode but I just find it a bit subpar compared to some of the other episodes. And no disrespect to you if you love episode five or hate episode three, it's just my personal opinion. So yeah, I highly recommend DHMIS. It's bright, it's disturbing, it's funny, it has incredible production value for a Youtube series, it has great songs, it has chicken picnic's and aspic, what more can anybody want! While it's in no way the perfect series it's a really creative show that I think really pushes the envelope of what a Youtube series can be, because honestly that's probably the most impressive thing about Don't Hug Me. It managed to become popular without feeling the need to conform to what everybody else on Youtube was doing. It is something completely unique. While there may be tonnes of online gamers and film reviewers (And I'm not trying to knock those type of Youtuber's as I am a fan of many people that fall into that category) but there is only one online surrealist, horror, dark comedy, musical, puppet show! And that's Don't Hug Me, I'm Scared. It's not for everybody, but if your a fan of things like "Too Many Cooks" than you'll love this. So that's my review of Don't Hug Me, I'm Scared (Hopefully it didn't come off as too rambly and fanboy-y). Have you seen the series? If you have, what do you think? Do you have any theories or interpretations on the ending? What's your favorite episode? Tell me in the comments bellow if you'd like to. I'd love to have a civil discussion about it! I'd love to hear what you all have to think, even if you disagree with what I think. Also I'd love to know what you think about my review style, and what I could do to improve upon it in the future. Please fav, follow, and comment and If you liked the review and I will see you all next time! Have a great day! (I do not own any of the images in this review.) .......Okay, I change my mind. This guy is my favorite character.

https://www.deviantart.com/joyofcrimeart/journal/Don-t-Hug-Me-I-m-Scared-REVIEW-629975791 DA Link

#cartoon review #Don't Hug Me I'm Scared #Peppermint Park #review #puppets

64 notes · View notes

wholesome-holland · 6 years ago

Text

Jealous

Word count: 1802

Warnings: none

A/N: this is my first work on here, hope you all like it! Also— credit to @tyrus-is-endgame-fight-me and @oreo-275 for the idea/head cannons) this went into a bit of a different direction then I intended whoops.

———————————————————

When Lester heard that TJ was finally bringing Cyrus, the boy he had been talking non stop about for months, to meet him and Reed, he didn't expect he'd be pissed off the entire time.

The day and started out fine, the three were riding their motorbikes as they awaited Cyrus' arrival, Reed was teasing TJ about his large crush on Cyrus that was obvious to everyone. Which, if Lester wasn't lying, was one thing he expected.

It was all fun and games. They were all hanging out, chilling, having fun.

And then Cyrus actually arrived. Lester liked him, he seemed funny and nice just like TJ said. Though within a few seconds of meeting, Reed seemed to be quite interested in whatever Cyrus had to say or what Cyrus did.

Lester zoned out as he watched, snapping back into reality right when TJ said "Give it a shot." To Cyrus. Meaning, give riding a motorbike a shot. "No thanks." Cyrus quickly declined, "I have a fear of basically everything going on here."

His head snapped in his boyfriend's direction as he let out a laugh. "TJ was right, you are funny." Reed said. "I don't know." Cyrus chuckled.

Reed was quick to respond. A little too quick, if you ask Lester. "Come on, day something else funny." He encouraged, gesturing with his hand for Cyrus to continue.

Cyrus had a look of confusion on his face as he spoke. "My humor's mostly observational and character driven." He explained to the blond haired boy. "That's good, that's good." Reed said as he laughed once again.

"Hot crowd." Cyrus said, looking in TJ's direction. "You gonna ride?" Reed asked him. "Ah, I'm good."

Lester continued watching as the whole situation played out, jealousy bubbling inside of him. He shook his head and stared down towards the ground and began to fiddle with his thumbs. That was a habit he had when he got nervous or upset and needed to calm down.

Before he knew it, they were all watching Cyrus attempt to ride TJ's motorbike. While wearing Reed's gloves and helmet and protective gear. Something about that pushed Lester's buttons even more.

Lester was silent the entire tome Reed and TJ were cheering Cyrus on, he didn't have anything against Cyrus, he just didn't like how his boyfriend was being so forward with him

As Lester was setting up the watermelons, he looked over and saw Reed talking to Cyrus. They weren't too far away, therefore he could hear everything they were saying.

He wasn't usually one for eavesdropping, but he couldn't exactly help it this time.

"You did pretty well on the motorbike, you know, it being your first time riding one and all." Reed said, lightly hitting Cyrus on the shoulder. Cyrus' eyebrows knitted together, but he smiled anyways. "Thanks, Reed." He replied.

"You seriously could make that a hobby, you could get even better at it." Reed continued. Lester looked over to TJ who was fuming as well.

Lester rolled his eyes and drives to ignore them like he had been. Whenever Lester was upset, he had a habit of being silent and just shutting down in a way. That's how Reed could usually tell when he was upset.

It was about the third watermelon, Reed had walked over after his obvious flirting with Cyrus and helped Lester set the large fruits up.

"Hey, L, need any help?" Reed asked, reaching down and grabbing a watermelon from the large bag they brought them in.

Lester just shrugged, mumbling a small "Sure, whatever works." And continuing to set the melons up.

Reed gave him a confused look. "What's wrong, L?"

He did not feel like dealing with it then, so he decided to lie and shrug it off. "Nothing." Lester spoke as he refuse to make eye contact with his boyfriend. Reed continuously tried got all to him, just to be shut down each and every time.

He eventually just walked away, Lester noticed Reed found himself in yet another conversation with Cyrus. This time, it didn't look as pleasant you could say.

"Is that real?" Cyrus had asked rather quietly.

"Of course it's real." Reed nonchalantly responded, closing up the bag that held the gun.

Cyrus had a look of panic on his face. "Where did you get that?"

Reed shrugged, "it's my dads." "Does he know you have it?!" Cyrus exclaimed.

"Dude, chill."

Cyrus turned and looked back at Reed who had a look of sorrow on his face. He looked away from Cyrus and Cyrus turned back to face Reed. "Do you want to hold it?" Reed offered.

"No. No, I definitely do not." Cyrus said as he backed away, then heading towards TJ.

Lester walked over to Reed, making sure everything was in check. He wasn't against shooting watermelons, it wasn't his favorite activity, but he wasn't about to let Reed use a gun and be alone. If something happened and he wasn't there, he wouldn't forgive himself.

"Do you want to go first?" Reed asked. Lester shrugged, trying to figure out how he wanted to say what he wanted to say.

Reed just stopped, giving Lester a look.

Lester knew this look. It was the Look Reed had when he was getting frustrated.

"What is up with you today?" Reed asked. "Nothing." Lester responded, though it was barely audible.

"That's obviously a lie." Reed almost immediately stated.

Lester, once again, shrugged. "Come on, L! There is no way there's it's just nothing." He continued on.

Before Lester could reply, TJ stormed over, obviously angry. "What's your problem?" Reed asked. TJ simply glared at him with his arms crossed.

Reed looked around, "Where's Cyrus?" Lester rolled his eyes at that. Of course he was worried about where Cyrus went. God forbid Cyrus isn't here. He thought.

"He left." TJ said as his jaw clenched. "Oh man, I liked him." Reed shrugged and Lester couldn't help but scoff at his boyfriend's words.

TJ held a look of grimace. "Why are you so upset TJ? I was nice, just like you asked." Reed said with a smug look.

"Yeah. A little too nice." He huffed.

"What, are you jealous or something?" You could hear the smirk just through Reed's tone as he asked that.

TJ blinked a few times, looking a little baffled. "Maybe... so what! You have a boyfriend anyways." He said as he gestured to Lester.

"Oh come on, he knows I was just joking. Right?" Reed asked with a laugh. His playful look was soon replaced with one of confusion when Lester refused to meet his gaze.

TJ shook his head and began storming off in the opposite direction. That left just Lester, Reed and the watermelons.

Lester cleared his throat, "I think I'm gonna head home too." Reed gave him a pout. "But I thought you wanted to hang out today."

"Does it have to be here?" Lester asked.

"I mean I guess not." Reed said. They packed back up the watermelons, took their motorbikes back to the garage Reed's family owned specifically for the bikes, and they headed back to Reed's house since it wasn't too far away.

The walk back was awkward to say the least. Neither knew what to say, it was like they completely forgotten how to communicate. So the silence and the tension was thick.

"Mom, I'm home." Reed called as he entered the door. There was no answer. "I guess no ones home." He breathed. He snuck upstairs to his parents bedroom, Lester assumed he was putting the firearm back in its place.

Lester took a seat on the couch in the living room where he began setting up for a round of Fortnite. Reed came back into the room and plopped next to him.

Again, silence. All that was heard was the opening music on the game.

Reed was the first to speak up. "You did know I was joking right?" He asked. "You know, when I was talking to Cyrus."

Lester bit the insides of his cheeks, not really sure how to respond. "Oh my god you thought I was actually flirting with him."

He tried to protest, but he didn't know what he could say in that moment to convince Reed otherwise. "L, I'm sorry." He said softly.

"It's fine, Reed. Really." Lester said. Then curiosity struck him. "But why did you anyways?" He asked.

"I was trying to get TJ jealous enough to grow a pair and ask Cyrus out since he's liked him for so long. I was trying to do him a favor." Reed explained. "And explaining this out loud is making me realize I should've told you first. In my head, it didn't really matter. I thought it'd be fine. But I get why you were upset. I'm sorry."

Lester grabbed one of his hands and intertwined their fingers. "It's alright. Hey, maybe It'll work out." He said with a small smile.

Reed was deep in thought for a few moments. "I'm gonna make it up to you. Stay here." He instructed. Reed headed to the kitchen where he grabbed half a water melon from the fridge and cut it into triangle pieces. He arranged them nicely on a plate and presented them to his boyfriend who couldn't hold back a smile as Reed was trying to cheer him up.

"Thank you Reed." Lester said, leaning up and pressing his lips to Reed's cheek briefly. Reed situated himself next to Lester and held him close. He gently toyed with Lester's hair while he ate the watermelon.

Lester held a piece up to Reed as an offering, Reed shook his head. "Those are for you, L." He simply said.

After Lester finished his food, Reed took the plate out. He decided he would play a movie instead of fortnite, so he signed into Netflix and put on some random movie.

During the movie, Lester had his head resting on Reed's chest, just enough so Reed could still play with his hair they since they both loved it.

Reed stared down at the boy who was now sleeping in his arms. He couldn't help but gaze and smile at his boy. He loved for these moments, nothing could ever amount to the feeling he got anytime he was around Lester. He always had this facade that he was a badass who didn't care about anyone or anything, but around Lester he became the biggest, cuddly teddy bear.

He leaned over gently so he wouldn't wake Lester up, and kissed the top of his head.

"How did I get so lucky?" He asked no one in particular. "I love you and I'm so happy to have you."

It was silent for a few seconds until he heard a small and soft "I love you too".

#andi mack #rester #reed with the weed #lester andi mack #reed andi mack #cyrus goodman #tj kippen #tyrus #rester fic #reed x lester

74 notes · View notes

hellish-summoner · 6 years ago

Text

To start us off, how about a fun way to learn about the local summoner?

“Well, this might be a bit long, but not like I have anything else to do here, and we are having a pause from the fighting....”

Just for one quick thing before the read more.....

Have a Heca I made in a character maker~

Introduce your summoner

“Ah, introduce myself? My name is Hecatia Lapislazuil, but most people here we refer to me as Heca; feel free to do the same. As dragon-like as I might appear, I’m a friend, I promise.”

How did they come to Askr?

“Well, I was summoned of course! I was never aware of this world before I came here, which is odd given my role back in He-....Well, that’s not important to you, is it?”

what are their favorite hobbies?

“My favorite hobbies? Well, I certainly like engaging in spell card battles or even just normal battles, but there is no one to fight! All my heroes don’t want to even do a friendly battle for the most part, besides one....”

“......I have found that testing out magic is a fun hobby, and so is doodling or trying my hand at writing. Or......playing video games. I have found that magic can work just as well for charging handhelds and mobile devices, so a lack of a tv isn’t too much of an issue....”

Does your summoner have any bad habits that the heroes try to help them through?

“If I do have any, I’m not looking for solving them; it’s a matter of opinion really.”

“Besides, I.....had a bad habit that I would of accepted help with if I didn’t already learn my lesson there.”

How close is your summoner to their heroes?

“It depends on the hero.....My special heroes required more attention when getting them adjusted to Askr than the normal ones. And I do feel like I’m friends with a lot of the younger ones, and the dragons.....”

“.........Though I feel I’m closest with the special heroes from my world; and two of my Corrins. And......a friend who will be called Hydra since I think he prefers it.”

Does your summoner struggle with being a tactician?

“I will say that I have never thought of acting as well, so it’s been a learning process, but some advice here and there from the polite tacticians and leaders from other worlds have helped. Well, helped with directing people; my own tactics if allowed to fight is basically ‘overwhelm them’ still.”

How did your summoner react during their first time summoning?

“I think I just went quiet and realized that ‘holy shit.....I CAN SHOOT PEOPLE OUT OF THIS GUN???’ because you know.....I know what a gun is, but never remember what this thing is named. It’s the summongun now.”

How does your summoner react to summoning now?

“Eh, I’m used to it at this point. Would love it if it could give me those I’m looking for more often; that hawk king and wolf queen look quite fine~”

How well do they adjust to life in Askr?

“I adjusted fairly well; I’m used to places being behind the modern world in terms of tech......Kinda why I know how to charge things with magic.”

How long have they been a summoner?

“Since.......the start of that conflict with Embla? I think? It’s been a while at least.”

“..........Oh fuck, I have probably worried my wife and husband so much by this point.”

Who’s your summoners main team?

“Right now it’s the two Grimas, Lady Corncob, and smol Tiki. But currently I’m working on training two more Corncobs to make a slightly better dragon team. But hmm, to have Lady Grimgram babysit them, or have Hydra get to go with them into battle instead of just with one Corn.....Hmm...”

Who’s your summoners S support?

“Technically, it’s Crescent, aka the one I just called Lady Corncob, but that’s platonic.....My spouses have not been summoned (yet), so thus I wouldn’t feel comfortable getting in another relationship; the feeling is mutual, since Crescent has her own lovers she is waiting for.”

How was your Summoner and ally support building to S support?

“She was one of my first units to get really strong actually; she had quite the drive to be strong so she could help protect Askr. Partly, the relationship formed out of her assisting me often on staying calm....I was not always a Manakete, so the fact I needed to keep myself in control was a foreign concept.”

“................Not helped by me lacking a dragonstone back then. It had to be made specific too....”

How many allies have s support with your summoner?

“......I might be close enough to Hydra for that to be considered another platonic one. Lady Vallite as well.”

What are your top 4 ally x ally supports?

“Oh my~ Personally, I love to see Mikoto and Hydra interact; lovers separated far too soon finally getting reunited is quite a touching thing to see. Same with Crescent and the only one of her loves that has shown up; I swear, that green ninja follows us into battle even when he isn’t actually among the group fighting; though she has told me that two are still missing, though I don’t know where to find an orange kitsune and a half-dragon that favors a bow over a dragonstone or sword...”

“Who else that wouldn’t require much explaining....Ah yes, the male Grima is a possessed Robin who isn’t the normal one you see summoned, and I summoned a Olivia who uses a pegasus; and got to see Grima actually happy for pure reasons. He was so happy to see his wife again, that even the fell influence could do nothing to stop him from running up and hugging her. Also learned his name is Lunar.....”

“And then.....Ah what the hell, the other Grima, the female one, is quite small and unintimidating in this Askr, but it was quite interesting to see her cling to Henry and refuse to let go of him when I summoned him in his halloween outfit....I think Henry just ended up holding her until she was finally ready to let go.....Kokoro or Miyu is her name I believe, depending on if you are extremely close to her or anyone else.”

“..........I think I saw Kokor-...Uh, Miyu start crying when I summoned male Morgan. Said something about not being able to believe that she is able to have children....”

What does your summoner miss from home?

“I miss the heat......And I miss Isamu and Junko.....I would say I miss my loyal lampad, but CP seems to have followed me here somehow, it just took her a while to find me. And Therai.....I have missed my old friend, but with his appearance comes me needing to earn his forgiveness. He’s......still rather mad at me....”

If they could bring one thing from home with them what would it be?

“Ok, I know I can’t bring a person......I would love to bring a TV......Maybe also some dvds and blu-rays.....”

Is your summoners robe unique?

“...........Wait, we can get unique ones?! Fuck, all I got was one that has holes for wings and horns!”

Who are your fellow summoner friends?

“Let’s see.....There’s Alex, who has long suffered trying to fully comprehend me and magic in general......Lemon, who is from a race adept with time, and banged a dragon, a choice I can 100% respect....Mari, who thirsts for many, and should maybe bed both Xander and Ryoma instead of trying to choose one at this point....Mina, who is quite the lovely lady and understands the pains of being very limited in terms of strength; I honestly hope she regains her lost power, she deserves it......And-...Well, this is long enough already, I guess....”

What does your summoner wear if during their down time?

“I still have my Welcome Hell shirt, and wear it a lot in my downtime; or other t-shirts.....I like wearing skirts, since those are nice to wear, though I have been advised to wear shorts if I plan to go flying or do anything that might lift it up....”

How do they handle merging heroes or sending them home?

“I have never seen dupes of the same exact person, and normally send dupes of the same person from different timelines back home right away....”

What abilities/ weapons do they have?

“I got tomes, dragonstones....I had a lance until I had to give it back to the angry lizard. As for abilities.....Well, it’s not like myself to reveal all my tricks, but I will admit that I’m quite adept with magic even without a tome.”

Would your summoner like to know magic?

“I know magic already, though I would like to learn any new forms I didn’t already know.”

Are they able to hold their own in a fight?

“Yes-.....Kinda. I’m a bit of a glass cannon without my full power it seems......”

How many heroes have you acquired?

“A lot......I have lost count my friend. We certainly have an army here....”

What book has been the hardest? Emotional or battlewise.

“Going with emotional for my allies.....The most recent one; the death curse is very concerning.....Mostly because someone other than that prince got one too; and that poor child’s timer is only five days......I pray for Vallite that she does not have to see her son die, as I’m unsure of how a death from that curse will affect him, or even if it might cause him to get dragged to Hel....”

If your summoner went into battle what would be there class?

“Um....I use Tomes and Dragonstones....which matches no current class. I guess a Nohr Noble but without the swords?”

Are there any heroes they clash with?

“Therai.......though I willingly fight him, since it gets his anger out.”

Which hero have you pumped more into?

“I guess.....Crescent? She has asked to train with a lot of heroes before they go home. She has learned many things from them as a result.”

Which hero do you get a lot of while summoning?

“I see......a lot of the more common heroes.”

Which hero’s have they adopted?

“Harm any of the dragon children, and I and the Grimas will give you absolute hell.”

Do they participate in voting gauntlets?

“When I feel like it.......Not often now, since I need to focus on other things.

How do they handle their orbs?

“I save....sometimes.......Vallite said she saved something called Wisdom Cubes one time and still didn’t find the one she was looking for until she searched some sea a lot....”

What hero do you wanna see in fire emblem heroes?

“Someone let my fellow summoners summon the Silent Dragon. He is very nice if you summon the sane one. Mikoto can help keep him nice and calm.”

Will your summoner stay in Askr? Nifl? Muspell? Hel? Emblian?

“...........Muspell was nice and warm.........I would love to find a way to travel between this world and my own, honestly.”

What is your Summoner life like years later if they stayed? Askr. Nifl. Muspell. Hel. Emblian.

“Honestly....If I seemingly stayed, I would have a way to go back and forth.....So normal really; I have multiple bodies in my world, so maybe I can form one that can stay here, or just travel back and forth as needed.”

“.....Hell doesn’t need me that often anyways; I have those under me that can deal with things there just fine.”

Summoners family reacting to your summoners significant other?

“..............I don’t have much of a family. Isamu and Junko’s families are dead. And.....I actually don’t know what Junko’s parents thought of Isamu. Guess it’s completely unknown then.”

In a twist of fate, if your summoner could change one thing what would it be?

“...............I would say to make it so at least one of my spouses got summoned with me, but one, that would just worry the one that was not summoned more, and two......I would use it to either give that poor child a longer timer or prevent him from having to jump in front of Vallite to protect and thus causing some form of anger for Hel.....”

#summoner Heca #oh geez this is long...

2 notes · View notes

awashsquid · 6 years ago

Text

From one artist to another

I can’t take credit for this idea--it was inspired by a post that @presidentnerd made a while ago about Michiru bonding with Chibi-Usa over their shared artistry. About 1900 words. Like it? Reblog, shoot me a comment, or check out my ko-fi!

Michiru padded over the plush area rug in the living room to sit in her favorite chair, a hot cup of tea delicately balanced in one hand, the novel she was currently perusing tucked underneath her arm. The tea cup clinked gently against the marble coaster on the end table as she set it down, watching the steam curl upwards gently and dissipate into the air. She turned to retrieve a blanket out of the chest, the encroaching winter chilling the air, when she spotted an item that did not belong in the carefully cultivated decor of the space.

On the corner of the glass coffee table was a sketchpad--one of the cheaper ones, she noted habitually--that was well-worn, the corners of the pages rolling upwards, a stain marking one spot towards the center. Michiru crossed and picked up the foreign book, noting the melange of worn stickers decorating its cover, before flipping through its pages.

The first page declared in fanciful lettering: “CHIBI-USA’S DRAWINGS.” That would explain its presence, then, she mused, fingers leafing through the thick pages with deft precision cultivated from years of skimming through her own similar tomes. Professor Tomoe had not yet been declared mentally fit to raise Hotaru, not since the “tragic explosion” that had overtaken the Mugen School a few years back. He was a loving and doting father, but his frequent memory lapses meant that he had been confined to a group living facility since that time.

He had been surprised, but not ungrateful, when Michiru, Haruka, and Setsuna had offered to take Hotaru during his rehabilitation, Michiru offering up expertly forged paperwork declaring them to be cousins of Hotaru’s mother (easy enough to obtain for someone with her wealth and connections). The young girl had aged rapidly from baby to toddler to teenager, but her growth seemed to have stalled and returned to a normal pace somewhere around the age of sixteen. Chibi-Usa had been delighted by this rekindled opportunity to spend time with her best friend and had become a frequent visitor in their flat, the two teens typically shut up in Hotaru’s room, the door open just a crack at Haruka’s protective insistence.

The drawings weren’t half-bad, Michiru recognized with some measure of surprise as she flipped through them. Many towards the beginning of the pages were of Pegasus in various landscapes, then one with the horse looking into a mirror where a young boy was looking back, fingertips touching the glass barrier lightly. There was a degree of awkwardness to the proportions, but the expression on his face was captivatingly rendered, sadness and resignation evident on his carefully penciled visage. Michiru sat on the couch absently and continued to look through the book at pages depicting what she assumed to be Crystal Tokyo, a few rough sketches of Diana, an unflattering caricature of Usagi shoving rice cakes into her mouth, and various other subject matters before landing on the final drawing.

It was Hotaru, looking at the viewer with a knowing smile not dissimilar to the Mona Lisa’s, her eyes kind and wise even as there appeared to be a distance between her and the audience. The proportions were a little imperfect, the shading rough and the lighting inconsistent, but Chibi-Usa had managed to capture the essence of Hotaru’s character in the sketchy lines of the face, and the eyes of the drawing were captivating, showing a true promise of talent.

Michiru shut the sketchpad gently and placed it back onto the coffee table, then rose and went upstairs to dress, tea forgotten and growing cold in its cup where she had left it. She had some calls to make.

“Hello?” Usagi answered the door, a confused smile appearing on her face. “Michiru! What’s up? Um, I mean, how can I help you? Do you need something?” She danced a little on the balls of her feet, clearly nervous even after years of knowing the older woman. Michiru pushed away the thought that Usagi would naturally assume she wanted something from her rather than just stopping by for a visit and instead smiled back placidly.

“Hello, Usagi. I was wondering if Chibi-Usa was home. Might I come in?” Usagi nodded and stepped out of the way, shutting the door as Michiru delicately slipped out of her shoes.

“Lemme just go grab her! Um, you can sit down, or whatever; be right back!” With that, Usagi bounded out of the room and up the stairs. Michiru could hear a muffled shout of “CHIBI-USA! MICHIRU’S HERE FOR YOU!” followed by the reply, similarly bellowed. She felt a small smile turn up the corners of her mouth. Perhaps it was that Chibi-Usa was a princess allowed to be a child where Michiru had been a child expected to act like a princess, but something about the freedom with which the two were able to interact in such an immature but open manner warmed her in a way she couldn’t quite parse out.

Michiru sat down primly on the couch for a moment, absently smoothing her skirt as she glanced around the room at all of the various knick-knacks and photos on display. After a minute or so, she heard the thumping of little feet running down the stairs. Chibi-Usa skidded into the room, nearly toppling over, and took a moment to catch her breath before standing straight. “Michiru! Usagi said you wanted to see me?” Her eyes flickered over the table between them and she frowned, turning to scream up the stairs. “USAGI! You didn’t even offer her something to drink!”

Michiru chuckled, her hand rising to delicately cover her mouth. “I’m not planning to linger for very long, Chibi-Usa, but thank you for your hospitality.” Chibi-Usa’s cheeks flushed pink and she nodded. “I believe that you left this at our house yesterday, and I thought you may be missing it.” She pulled the sketchpad from her purse, offering it out towards the girl.

Chibi-Usa’s eyes lit up and she took it quickly, holding the book close to her chest as she twisted back and forth in an embrace with it. “I was looking for this all morning! Thank you so much!” She smiled widely during her response, prompting Michiru to smile back without even recognizing that she was doing so.

“I’m glad I was able to reunite you. I understand the anxiety of being separated from your works.”

The young girl’s happy expression fell slightly, and her bottom lip disappeared into her mouth as she bit it, her movement stilling and an expression of anxiety working its way across her features. “Did- did you look at it?”

Michiru winced internally, knowing that she was going to have to admit to the inquisitiveness that had caused her to violate Chibi-Usa’s privacy. “I did,” she affirmed, and Chibi-Usa’s expression turned more nervous. “Initially, just to determine who it belonged to, but I confess that my curiosity can best me at times, and I admit to looking through it. I am sorry if I invaded your privacy.”

Chibi-Usa blushed, face turning pink to match her hair. “It- it’s not private or anything, it’s just sketches though, it’s not my best stuff or anything--” she stammered out anxiously, rocking back and forth slightly as all children do when embarrassed.

Michiru raised her eyebrows. “You mean to say that you have more works? What medium do you prefer?” She received no reply, so she decided to rephrase the question slightly. “Do you like watercolors, oil paints, pastels, sculpture…?” she trailed off, waiting for a response.

“We did all of those at school, um, but I wasn’t too good at sculpture,” she responded, face wincing as she recalled all of the assistance she had needed to complete her Holy Grail. “I like painting, mostly. Watercolors are nice because I like how light they are. It makes it look all dreamy,” she described, her eyes flicking off as though envisioning herself painting.

“Between the two of us, Chibi-Usa, I’m not talented at sculpting myself,” Michiru confided in a conspiratorial tone, and the girl seemed to relax at the idea that even an artist like Michiru wasn’t perfect at everything.

“Really?” she asked.

“Really,” Michiru affirmed. “Sculpture was the course I performed most poorly in during my schooling. I found it too abstract, too much to visualize at once, perhaps.” She cleared her throat. “I digress. I am sorry for looking through your works. I know how personal they can be.” She thought of her own sketchbooks, full of drawings of her visions, of Haruka, of things that she wouldn’t necessarily want to be shared to the world. “I assure you I won’t tell anyone about the contents of your sketches.

“I do want to tell you, though, that the reason I even perused so was because I think that you have genuine talent, Chibi-Usa.”

“Wait, seriously? You’re not just being nice, are you?” The skepticism was heavy in her tone, her small face crinkling in suspicion.

Michiru smiled. “Have you ever known me to give a compliment insincerely, just to make the recipient feel better?” There was a pause where Chibi-Usa’s light eyebrows furrowed together as she though hard before deciding on an answer and shaking her head ‘no.’ “Precisely. You have a real gift for capturing the emotion of your subjects, and I think with some refining that you could be a truly great artist. How would you like to be enrolled in some studio classes? Evenings and weekends, of course, so that they wouldn’t interfere with your traditional schooling.”

Chibi-Usa’s eyes lit up. “Really? But wait, I have to ask about--”

Michiru held up a smooth palm. “Everything will be paid for in full; I insist. My only stipulation is that I be invited to your first gallery showing one day.” Chibi-Usa rushed forward and wrapped her in a tight hug, shocking the air out of her as the small arms squeezed around her torso. She smiled and patted the girl’s back before Chibi-Usa withdrew, flushing once more with a mixture of embarrassment and happiness.

She graciously accepted the multitude of proffered thanks before exiting, assuring Chibi-Usa that she would be receiving information via the mail in a few days regarding her upcoming coursework. The next morning, a package arrived on the Tsukinos’ steps addressed to Chibi-Usa, a card attached. The careful calligraphy on the inside read: To get you started, from one artist to another. -M. Kaioh.

Inside the large box were thick, expensive sketchpads and painting pads, fine watercolors and brushes, shading pencils, several canvases, and other assorted supplies, each one of the highest quality, purchased from an expensive art-specialty boutique, not just the local craft store where her previous supplies had come from. Usagi’s mouth had fallen open when she saw the contents of the box, and Chibi-Usa promptly ran up to her room with the contents, eager to try out some of the new supplies that she had been given.

She unwrapped a watercolor set carefully and selected a piece of thick paper to begin her first work, smiling as the brush glided across what would become a carefully-detailed thank-you card to Michiru, one that she would secretly keep on display in her studio for years to come.

#fanfiction #michiru kaioh #chibiusa tsukino #chibi-usa tsukino #my writing #sailor moon #yes that's how i headcanon they got hotaru btw #bc i Do Not sit well with kidnapped child just because we could

26 notes · View notes

etherealblasphemy · 6 years ago

Text

The Mechanic

just a little gift for you all to tide you over while i’m off in west virginia :)

(this is completely unreviewed, so apologies if there are any grammar/ spelling/ continuity mistakes)

TW: Mild language

They flew for Legion, a foreign country on a foreign planet in a foreign system. Cal couldn’t help but feel nervous as their ship slowly entered the atmosphere, not used to being completely new to a place. They didn’t know the people, they didn’t know the land, they didn’t know what resources were at their disposal if push came to shove and Draven showed up. It made them uneasy, squirming in their seat as they pressed their lips into a thin line, willing the worry to go away.

Halfway through the journey, Anxiety and Logan returned from the med bay, the earthling sporting a cloth sling. “It honestly doesn’t hurt that much now that Logan’s put some salve on it,” he told Roman, who placated immediately.

“Anxiety, I wanna see the Halo Sword, show it to us,” Cal begged. Anxiety shrugged, pulling out a small stone nonchalantly and holding out for all to see, palm outstretched. Cal’s eyes narrowed. “Is that… is that it?”

Roman hopped out of his chair, strolling confidently and swiping the stone from Anxiety’s hand. “It’s not activated yet, it’s still in its hidden form,” he told them as he whispered to the stone, waving his hand over the smooth surface. Before their eyes, the stone disappeared, replaced by a shimmering sword, its handle the color of roses. It seemed to glow, growing brighter every second Cal’s eyes were trained on it. “Ta-da!” Roman exclaimed, proudly showing off the gleaming blade. Cal marveled over it, running their fingers along its sharp length, careful to not cut their hand on the serrated edge.

“Calypso, Vasryians have the coolest things. When we defeat Draven, you’re going to get me one, deal?” Roman laughed, nodding his head as Cal continued to poke and prod at the Halo Sword.

“You might want to settle down Cal. Trust me, you’ll need that energy when you meet Wonderling,” Anxiety mused, stifling his giggles with the black sleeve of his hoodie.

“Okay, now I’m really curious about this ‘Wonderling’ person. What- how- who even are they?” Cal asked. The other four shared a look, a wistful look in their eyes. It was Logan who took up the duty of explanation.

“Wonderling… is an enigma, to say the least. She could very well qualify as the definition of sonder or ebullience; though, she’s a rather complex character to describe. We crash-landed once near her shop a few years back when we were less experienced pilots and had had a run-in with intergalactic law enforcement. She repaired the Sanders Yersinia and offered us hospitality. Wonderling is the best mechanic in the universe, without a doubt, and one of the few people besides Remy that we trust wholeheartedly,” Logan detailed. Cal pursed their lips, deciding to pretend that they understood half of the words the robot had used.

“She’s very tough when the time calls for it, but she’s a sweetheart otherwise,” Patton chimed in. “We’ve had an adventure or two-”

“Which we do not speak about,” Anxiety cut in. “The sooner I forget, the better,” he snickered. “The sooner Wonderling forgets, the better.” Cal smirked, planning to ask the mechanic about the incident in question as soon as they met.

“Hey, kiddos, we’re going to arrive soon,” Patton informed them as Anxiety cheered quietly, eager to see their friend.

Before Cal knew it, the world of Honua approached them, a spinning ball of blue and green, a marble of life in the bag of existence. Patton guided their spacecraft for the land of Legion, heading for Niner, a city that shined like polished gold and copper. Gears and stained brown off-white cloths seemed to be the decorations of choice in this town, mechanics taking center stage. As the Sanders Yersinia touched ground, Cal caught a glimpse of a blimp soaring across the sky like a man-made sun. Every single building appeared to be made of gold, bronze, or copper, gleaming in the early morning aurora as the sun crept over the mountains towards the east. In the sky, metal creatures of all sizes flew about, some transporting goods and people.

Cal stepped out of the ship with their jaw agape, spinning around to take in everything all at once. A wind-up songbird landed on their shoulder, whistling a tune merrily before flying away. They had half a mind to chase after it, but Logan called their name, gesturing them over down the street, where the others were waiting for them under a sign that read, “Exotic Wonders Trading Company and Mechanic.” Below it, a second sign was added, scrawled with messy handwriting, reading, “arbor & arbor tailoring.”

“Looks like Rowan’s finally got his stuff together since we last stopped by,” Patton was saying.

“Please, we both know Moxie threatened to show his baby pictures to Ada to get him to help her,” Anxiety retorted with a snort. “C’mon, let’s find Wonderling.”

They went inside, a small bell tinkling as the door swung closed, disturbing a cloud of dust. Cal sneezed, waving their hand to clear the air as their eyes adjusted to a place not illuminated by the sun. A couple lanterns were stationed on antique tables, their flames flickering. Aging portraits hung on the walls, little brass placards at the bottom describing them and their sitters, the dim light casting shadows on the canvas that made the people come to life, ready to pop out of their confining frames in a moment.

The tables and shelves doting the space were filled to the brim with exotic goods. One table’s surface was covered entirely in pocket watches carved with intricate miniscule details, and another was devoted to journals and tomes, some opened to seemingly random pages filled with doodles of mythical sea creatures and far-away lands. Cal’s attention was divided between a metal robot and a collection of shiny minerals when a voice spoke right behind them.

“Like what you see?”

Cal shrieked, jumping into the air as they whirled around, clutching their heart. Their eyes landed on a petite young woman watching them with interest, her icy blue eyes piercing Cal’s. Her mocha skin blended into the shadows, giving her the appearance of a ethereal creature. Something told Cal she enjoyed roaming unseen. The woman stuck out a hand in greeting, unhesitant as she grabbed Cal’s and shook it vigorously.

“Name’s Moxie Arbor. I run a tailor shop in the back of this treasure trove. You here for Exotic Wonders or Arbor & Arbor?” she asked in one breath. Cal stuttered, unsure how to respond.

“They’re with us, Moxie,” Roman said, coming to Cal’s rescue. Moxie rolled her eyes, turning towards the prince with a hand on her hip. “Do you know where Wonderling is?” Moxie laughed, her head falling back.

“Oh, she’ll have a fit when she sees y’all,” Moxie cackled.

“Hello to you, too, Moxie,” Logan said, approaching them, dragging Anxiety and Patton away from old telescopes and compasses. “I assume Wonderling is on another delivery?”

“Should be back by now-” Moxie was cut off by the ring of the bell, signaling the entrance of another customer. “Oh, heya, Wonder!” Moxie called, waving them over. “Look who showed!” Cal gulped at the heavy tread of boots, the newcomer’s face obscured by shadows.

“Well, I’ll be damned. If it ain’t the li’l shits who almost broke Axel,” the person, presumably Wonderling, grumbled deathly quiet, her voice devoid of humor. Cal heard Roman curse under his breath. She stopped right as the flames of the gas lanterns lit up her face. A grin suddenly broke across her face. “...who also happen to be my favorite customers! Y’all can head inside the workshop and help y’allselves to a glass of lemonade while I see what y’all broke this time ‘round- oh, who’s the sweetheart over here?” Wonderling asked, taking notice of Cal. Cal swallowed thickly, blushing furiously as they offered a awkward, toothy smile. “Don’t be shy, honey, I don’t bite that hard,” Wonderling reassured.

Cal bit down hard on their lip, willing themselves to not blurt out anything stupid and make a fool out of themselves. They eyes glanced over Wonderling, pausing on her warm chocolate eyes and ebony hair streaked with gold. Her smooth skin, the color of walnuts, glowed in the firelight of the lamps, the white of her blouse standing out in the shadows.

“Cat got ya tongue?” Wonderling inquired, pursing her lips teasingly. “C’mon, I’m guessing y’all are acquainted with one another.” Wonderling ushered Cal and the others into the back, passing into a sizeable room filled with gears and cogs and all sorts of tiny trinkets. A falcon made of metal sat on the largest table, half its wing dismantled on the surface.

“Don’t mind the mess, I’ve got to fix Axis’s wings before I use her again for package delivery,” Wonderling explained as they headed past into a much smaller room, where six chairs circled a table laden with a glass of lemonade and a small plate of cookies that smelled divine. “Help y’allselves. Just leave me some this time, a’ight?” Cal and Anxiety dove at one for the freshly baked desserts, shoving several in their mouth and moaning as the sugar melted in their mouths. “I’ll go take a look at the Yersinia; if y’all need help, just holler.” Wonderling left with a swish of her navy cloak, sending a wink towards a flustered Cal.

“Are those wedding bells I hear?” Anxiety teased, dodging a napkin thrown at his face.

“How about we leave me alone and figure out what we’re going to do now that we have the Halo Sword?” Even Logan cracked a smile at Cal’s flusteredness.

“We’re going to start a rebellion, and you’re going to start a relationship,” Roman said as Cal groaned, burying their face in their tanned hands, feeling their face heat up even further. “Just before the Guard of the Snake found us back on Vasryia, Terrence told me he knew every single staff member who was still loyal to my father and would ask them for their support if I decided to challenge the throne. As we speak, he’s probably rallying up the common folk. By the time we return, we should hopefully have people to help us fight back.”

“Let’s hope Terrence and the others aren’t caught by Draven,” Patton added, Logan humming in agreement.

“Once we rally the support of the commoners, we can storm the palace and capture Draven. We’ll ask any commoners who have any grievances against him to come forward and we’ll transcribe them,” Roman continued, accenting his speech with animated hand gestures. “As soon as we have a big enough list, we declare him overthrown and start imprisoning his original supporters for conspiring against the crown. That’s all I have for now. I think for the time being, we should forget about our impending doom and enjoy Niner while we still can.”

“If it’s fine with you guys, I’d like to explore the city before we leave. I saw some shops selling silk scarves and I wanna get one,” Cal piped up, rising from their seat, wolfing down their third cookie.

“Sure, kiddo, just don’t be too long,” Patton told them. Cal assured him that, of course, they wouldn’t be more than an hour or two, and bolted out of the shop. Their eyes instinctively narrowed in the bright sunlight. They spun around in the street, passerby swerving around to avoid their outstretched arms as they reveled in the glory of the shining city of Niner. Up ahead, they saw Wonderling cautiously approach the Sanders Yersinia, stepping up onto the platform they had landed on.

Cal meandered closer, biting their lip as they idly watched the mechanic set to work, tilting her head as she surveyed the damage dealt to the spacecraft, mumbling to herself as her eyes narrowed.

“Will Draven ever stop running them up the creek?” Wonderling whispered to herself, unaware of the onlooker.

“Um… excuse me, M-Miss Wonderling?” Cal spoke up, internally berating themselves for sounding so stupid. Wonderling spun around, eyes wide in slight panic. “I, uh, I surveyed the damage before we came. I can s-show you the, uh, the diagram if it’ll help…” they stuttered. Wonderling flashed them a bright smile.

“That would help me a mighty lot, honey. Thank ya.” Cal hurried into the ship, coming out with a thin device where they pulled up the ship’s diagram and began explaining where the ship had taken damage, pointing a shaking finger at the different areas. “Say, sweetheart, did they give ya a name along with those fancy scars ‘cross your cheek?” Cal flushed, laughing nervously as they rubbed the back of their neck sheepishly.

“My name is Calrex. Bennova. Calrex Bennova,” they spit out quickly, tripping over their words. Wonderling’s eyes narrowed.

“I reckon I’ve seen your face beforehand on some account or another,” Wonderling mused, gaining a faraway look in her eyes before snapping her fingers, straightening. “Might ya be the one they call the Pirate?” Cal went pale, stuttering their response. “Don’t be afeared, honey, I respect what ya’ve done. I know ya didn’t destroy that galaxy- all my eye ya did. Ya’re a right-lookin’ angelica with yar head set on straight. Now, I know what y’all are allotting upon. Mind ya, I wish the others’d stop poking their heads into the firing range, but that’s no business of mine. Ya just remember there are people out there who know the truth. They’ll follow yar lead, Calrex Bennova. Trust them, and they won’t let ya down when the clock ticks midnight.”

Cal was at a loss for words as Wonderling’s unhesitant, impassioned speech. The mechanic took notice of Cal’s nerves and gently grabbed their hands, her calluses rubbing against the soles of their palms.

“If y’all need help at any time during yar rebellion whatnot, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m a mighty fine pilot, if I may say so myself, and I’ve seen my share of battles. I’ve lost some and I’ve won some, but it’s knowing that yar friends are fighting right beside ya that keeps ya pushing ‘til ya’ve made things right.” Cal squeezed Wonderling’s hands, smiling thankfully.

“Thank you, Wonderling. I’m really starting to see why everyone’s eyes would light up when they talked about you,” they told the mechanic, who colored, looking away.

“Oh, I’m nothing but a mechanic with grease stains on my soul. Yar the one who’s going to be savin’ the universe, aren’t ya? Now, ya didn’t just come outside to talk with li’l ole me. Go off and explore, Pirate. Find some booty to show off,” Wonderling laughed, smirking as they let go off Cals hands. Cal flashed her another grateful smile as they turned away, ready to set off and run around the city before they were stuck in the Sanders Yersinia for far too long again.

They paused, turning back around. “Would you happen to know where I can myself a silk scarf?” Wonderling smirked, extending a long, dainty finger down the street, saying nothing as she sent a wink towards Cal, suppressing her giggles.

“Make sure to get one in red, sweetheart. It makes your eyes shine.”

Cal ran through the street, dodging loitering shoppers as they weaved in and around the shops, the sun climbing further up the sky to burn the shoulders of mortals. They found the stall selling scarves hanging from hoops, their multicolored fabrics standing out in the golden browns of the wooden beams. They ran their hands over the soft materials, chatting energetically with the shopkeeper, a stout, elderly woman whose gnarled fingers tapped the wood rhymically as she watched Cal’s eyes widen to the size of the moon, studying the potential buyer.

“These scarves are made by Olga,” the old woman said with an accent thicker than the trunk of a Farafallen haedel tree, pointing a finger at herself. “They good for love-finding.”

“Sure. Is this what you tell all the couples that walk by?” Cal quipped, examining a different scarf. The hag cackled, her eyes wild and crazed.

“Not that kind of love, child,” she snapped. “The kind of love you wish for when you lonely, the kind between lovers of another kind who fight side by side in heat of battle. The kind of love for family.” Cal felt their breath rush out of them, shuddering a little. It had been so long- too long- since they had heard such a beautiful word. Since they could even imagine someone loving them the way a parent loves their child, shielding them from the horrors of the world until they could fend them off for themselves and still return to patch up their little one’s scratches. “Is five galleon, child, but three for you with eyes the color of sky kissing grass,” the shopkeeper offered, holding out an ancient hand to collect the three coins she knew she would receive. Cal wordlessly dropped the coins into her palm, snapping shut and delivering the handwoven cloth to the pirate staring soundlessly into the distance.

“May you find the love you seek, young Pirate,” the shopkeeper whispered conspiratorially as she shooed them away. Cal ran their fingers through the scarf before wrapping around their neck, heading further down the street full of peddlers and overflowing bars, all a raucous celebration of the enjoyment of life.

A less crowded alleyway drew Cal’s attention. They headed down, brick walls shouting up from the ground, stained with the scribbles of wanna-be prophets and teenagers aching to have a voice. They lost themselves in a maze of backways and alleyways, letting their mind wander as their feet did. Eventually, the walls opened up and grass roots forced their ways through cobblestones. Before them stretched out a main street of a different neighborhood, one enclosed by the confining towers of apartments stacked on top of one another like a child’s blocks. Lines of laundry stretched across the narrow street, the sheets dirty and the clothes ragged.

Cal approached this odd alley with hesitation. Glancing to their left, they saw a handmade sign with the words “Union Alley” carved into the rotting wood. “Might be like home,” they mumbled aloud as they meandered further into the neighborhood of one winding street. “Oi, ‘zis the choir infantry?” they called to a passing beggar, praying they slang they had learned was known in a place as exotic and far-away as Honua. The man’s eyes were bright and deranged as they focused on Cal’s body, gazing just over their shoulder as though there was someone standing right behind them.

“‘Tever you need, Union Alley pr’vides,” he told them solemnly. “A prett’ girl-” Cal tensed- “shou’dn’t be wanderin’ this street wearin’ clothes of such… fine dis-po-si-’ion.”

“I kin punch a shit where it counts, you ‘cluded,” they threatened, snarling. The beggar backed off, throwing his hands up in defense. They sighed, rolling their eyes as they moved on, scanning over the goods presented by each shopkeeper, their stalls tiny and cramped, hogging as much space as they could to attract enough customers to manage a wage able to buy them the ability to sleep inside and not in the exposed stalls where they mongered their goods like animals.

“Buy a tonic or two?” one yelled.

“We kin teach ya magic ta use on the Mericon traitors!” another offered.

“Want a good time? Just ask me, Night Flower, your next dream,” a femme galante purred, moving sultrily against a wall to attract the flickering glances of those who walked by. Cal pressed on, giving old memories no time to rise from the dead. Searching hands of the blind reached out, aching to see the light once more as Cal danced between them.

“Pirate with the scarf of blood, watch where you step,” a voice called out from a stall hidden in shadows. “There are beasts that lurk below the ground and can hear your careful tiptoes. Allow your devotion to let you fly, and your determination to let you soar.”

The hair on the back of their neck stood on end, chilled by the voice’s words. Two yellow eyes glowered at them from afar. Cal stumbled back, their breath caught in their throat. From the darkness emerged a teenager, their eyes wrapped with bloodied cloth, clutching a yellow-eyed creature in their arms.

“Pirate, there is a snake within your midst,” the young being warned, their grip on the creature growing tighter. “Tread carefully, and escape before it bites.”

“What are you talking about? How do you- how do you know who I am?” Cal asked, their breath hitching.

“You, Pirate, are the savior of the common people who have no voice. You are exalted across the universe for standing up to King Draven of Vasryia. There are whispers of your accomplishments even in the lands the King believes are most loyal to him. You, Pirate, are a symbol of hope for us. But you are in great danger here. An old nemesis prowls this alley. Keep your eyes of an eagle and beware the snake prepared to strike.” Before Cal had a chance to process the words of the teenager, they disappeared back into the thralls of the shadows, the yellow eyes of their beasts dimming to nothing but the absence of light.

Although they tried to shake off the growing feeling of nausea in their stomach, Cal couldn’t refocus on exploring, so caught up in trying to decipher the teen’s ominous words that they failed to notice the man behind them. They bumped into him, grunting at the impact and knocking him over.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry!” Cal apologized, helping him up. The man was silent, nodding tersely at their apology. “Are you alright?” they asked sincerely, offering him a soft smile.

“I’m fine,” he said briskly before yanking his hand away from Cal’s, sending them to the ground themselves with a yelp. “Oh, dear, how clumsy of me. Let me help you up,” the man said without much emotion, all but digging his nails into Cal’s arm and forcing them to their feet. Cal stumbled, falling into the man’s arms. As they looked up into his eyes, they felt their face pale, their brain screaming with recognition as those citrine eyes bored into their soul, mocking them.

“Well, if it isn’t the Unwanted One.”

Pain bloomed from the base of their skull and their vision began to blur as they slumped in the man’s arms. The last thing they could think of before they fell victim to unconsciousness was the man’s name: Cato.

Logan leafed through the aged pages of a journal, immersing himself in the different entries, some pages long and full of awed detail about new lands, others short and content to sketch a sunset before turning in for the night. He checked his pocket watch, putting the diary away as he made haste for the spaceship.

“We should leave now,” he informed the others, who groaned but put away their objects of wonder back where they belonged. As Logan counted heads, not helped by Moxie running through the aisles, hugging all her friends goodbye and telling them to come back soon, he felt strange. Something was missing- Cal. They hadn’t returned yet, more than likely simply forgetting to come back to the shop. It probably hadn’t helped that Cal was new to Niner and didn’t know labyrinth of criss-crossing streets as well as he or a native like Wonderling and the Arbor siblings did.

“Hey, where’s Cal?” Anxiety asked. “Didn’t they say they’d be back in an hour? It’s been three.” Logan’s line of logical thinking took a slight detour, his reason turning to concern. Perhaps Cal had gotten lost, and were wandering about, sure to encounter danger. Immediately, he told himself Cal was fine and could handle themselves if they somehow chanced upon a rougher or two. This concern was nothing but him overexerting his systems, a glitch in his programming.

“Find Wonderling. The one you call Cal was taking a look to her. She’ll point us the right direction, a‘least,” Moxie suggested, holding the door open for the robot and his companions. They had no chance to exit, however, as Wonderling came running in, her breath ragged and her hair pulled back, strands smeared with grease.

“I found this on the ramp,” she breathed, pulling out a blood red scarf, her hand shaking as she held it out. “I told Cal to get a red scarf, something must have befallen her.” Her voice wavered as she finished; Logan had half a mind to comfort and tell her Cal was fine, if only to keep Wonderling from having the panic attacks that had been increasing in intensity as of late.

“Wonder, you sure some folk didn’t just lose it to the wind?” Moxie asked, placing her hands on Wonderling’s shoulders to comfort her.

“It was under a rock.” Wonderling’s voice was meek and quiet, something that rarely happened in the time Logan and his companions had known the mechanic. “Someone put it there.” Logan could hear her hyperventilating, her brown eyes brimming with tears.

“Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, we gotta find Cal,” Anxiety was mumbling, running a hand through his long hair. “Shit, if something happened to them…”

Roman stepped towards him. “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” he assured the human. “Everything’s going to be alright.” Gently, he placed his hand on Anxiety’s cheek, pulling the nervous earthling into a hug, whispering comforting words into his ear to calm him.

“Right. We should hit the streets as soon as possible. While I would suggest splitting up to cover more ground, we need to know as soon as possible what’s happened to Cal, so we go as a group, spreading over a small area so if any one of us finds something, we can easily tell the others,” Logan said, already pulling up a map in his mind of the city, planning how they would search the city.

“A’right. A’right. We’ll find Calrex. They’re gonna be mighty fine, Wonder, don’t ya worry,” the mechanic told herself. “Let’s hit the craft first, ‘case I missed some’n. Sweet heavens, I hope they ain’t in a ruckus.” Wonderling held the door open as they crowded outside, squinting in the afternoon light.

Posthaste, they left for the landing pad where the Sanders Yersinia stood in all its glory. Wonderling’s box of tools and gears was left carelessly on the side on the pad. “Shall we begin searching?” Logan inquired. Wonderling, still shaken, nodded, going to pack up her toolbox as the others began scouring the area for any sort of clue of where Cal might be.

Logan watched the others for a moment as they searched. In the back of his head, he could hear himself saying how illogical this was. He had met Cal just over a month ago, and here he was, organizing a search for them and feeling- what, concern? The robot scoffed, rolling his eyes. No, this was normal. Missing people warranted concern and search parties, this wasn’t something uncommon.

But no matter how much he told himself he was not getting worried for the pirate, he couldn’t help but feel the dread boil in his stomach like a cocktail mixed wrong, a nuclear explosion only waiting to happen. He couldn’t help but feel those blasted errors in his coding.

The ominous feeling of doom only grew when his sensors caught notice of a slip of paper, half-hidden under a nearby stone. He took it out from underneath, ignoring the dread eating away at him. Unfolding the crumpled paper, he nearly dropped it as he registered the words scribbled on the off-white vellum. “I found something!” he called, watching his companion’s head whip toward him, desperate for answers.

He held out the paper for all to see, unable to keep the tremors from shaking his hand as he gripped the paper tight, reading the words aloud.

“If you want the Pirate back, darling nephew, you must come retrieve it yourself.”

Roman paled, clutching Anxiety’s hand as he processed the words. “It’s Draven. Oh, sweet Calypso, Draven took them,” he whispered as Wonderling inhaled sharply, covering her mouth with her grease-smudged hands, whimpering softly.

“We have no choice but to go rescue them.” Even Logan was surprised with the words that leapt out of his throat without his permission. Patton spoke up first, voicing his approval. Anxiety agreed less than a second later, Roman joining in with desperate acquiesce.

“Beat his ass, or you’re not ‘llowed back,” Moxie told them angrily, staring in rage at the note that had been left for them. Logan looked at Wonderling, who was staring blankly at the paper, fear driven wild in her eyes.

“Y’all better make sure to bring back that sweet soul, ya hear me?” she said quietly, still focused on the note. “And tell them it’s ‘bout time to rise up. When y’all decide to end this, give me a holler. I’m loath to turn my back on my friends, and y’all need all the help ya can acquire.” With that said, Wonderling turned away and hurried back to her shop. Logan called his thanks after her, knowing she would get Axel ready for a battle as soon as she set foot in her store.

“Bring ‘em back, boys. Wonder’ll be disappointed beyond belief if you don’t,” Moxie added, wishing them luck before heading after the mechanic.

“Don’t worry. We’re getting Cal back,” Roman growled, his brow furrowing with absolute fury. Patton lowered the ramp of the Sanders Yersinia, its crew wasting no time in boarding and gettin ready to lift off.

They were going to get their friend back.

hahahahahaha I have no idea how to end stories

I hope you all enjoyed this installment of Starbound! For once I was motivated enough to write something in a reasonable amount of time, hah. Thanks for reading and leaving notes, I really do appreciate all of it :D.

(*cough cough* wonderling and calrex forever, peasants *cough, cough*)

TAG LIST:

@asofterfan

@alix-the-skeleton

@hufflepuffsscrewdriver

@v-blue-writer

@sanderssidesstuff

11 notes · View notes

claitynroberts · 7 years ago

Text

Captain Hook & Rapunzel

Part 1 of 3 —> Part 2 Part 3

Description: Reader insert; multi-part oneshot. The reader has been a member of Team Free Will for a year now. During an unexpected lull in jobs recently, you, Sam, Dean and Cas decide to attend Jo’s themed birthday party. During the events of the night, cards are shown and things definitely take an unexpected turn.

Author’s Note: This fic was written for @eyes-of-a-disney-princess and her Rapunzel’s Tangled Up With Supernatural Challenge, and it is my first ever reader insert, as well as SPN fanfic. I’ve tried so hard to authentically portray the beautiful characters of the series, but I’m only human so please bear with me! I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Contains: angst, some language, fluff, potential bad decisions, physical fighting/violence

Warnings: physical violence, taking advantage of a drunk female (the reader) is mentioned but never acted on thanks to a big muscular hunk ;)

If you find any other triggers that may affect readers please let me know and I’ll add them here

Word Count (parts 1-3): 7,106...sorry, it’s so long :D

*This pic isn’t mine, credit to the owners and Google images.

You had been a member of Team Free Will for some time now. Long enough to fall into a comfortable, yet predictable, routine with the boys. Research, road trip, more research, gank, repeat. Like washing your hair, or winning the nightly games of rock, paper, scissors with Dean when y’all fought over the bed in the motel room, it became second nature.

You and Sam had become pretty close during this time, especially since you both enjoyed the more brainiac side of things. Cas even seemed to enjoy your quiet company; it was the precarious friendship with Dean that could make things uncomfortable sometimes. It’s not that you two didn’t get along, but sometimes the bond you shared felt as if it went substantially deeper than either of you let on.

The strange lull in paranormal sightings and jobs recently was odd; and to say it was taking its toll was an understatement. As much as you enjoyed spending time with Sam and Dean, you had spent more idle time with the boys in the bunker over the last couple weeks than you ever have. It was beginning to strain the friendships between each of you.

To pass time, you and Sam had spent time together digging through old files, inventorying artifacts and cursed objects, and even brushing up on the obscure lore the Men of Letters left behind. Whenever the dust got to you and caused your allergies to act up, you would spend some time with Dean cleaning and oiling guns or helping tune up Baby. You even had a Netflix binge session with Cas one time, although you had to explain to him that ‘no, watching Grey’s anatomy did not train you to be a real doctor’ no matter how real it seemed.

On this particular day though, you had decided to spend some much needed time alone listening to music and catching up on your very large ‘to be read’ pile. Toward the halfway point of the dusty tome you liked to call ‘light reading,’ sleep began to pull at the edges of your consciousness. The soft rock on the radio combined with the heady scent of the musty pages lulled you into a light doze. About the time you decided to let go and surrender to the tide of sleep, allowing it to pull you under its soft current, the phone began buzzing. Loudly.

A tortured groan fell from your lips as you roused yourself enough to locate the damn thing. Pulling the phone out from under your hip you noticed Jo’s name on the screen.

“Girl, I love you and all, but you just called as I was drifting off into what was probably going to be the best nap of my life,” you grumble-whined into the receiver.

“Sorry, not sorry,” came her clear voice. “You think every nap is going to be the best nap of your life,” she shot back with mirth.

“Well, if I keep getting interrupted how am I supposed to be able to compare them, huh?” You said, using your most logical sounding, matter-of-fact voice.

“Listen, just give me two minutes, then you can return to your nap.” You could practically see her eyes roll.

“Fine. Your time starts now.”

“As you know my birthday is this weekend. So I am going to have a party. You, Sam, Dean, and Cas are invited.”

“Alright.” Sigh. “Do you need us to bring anything? Booze, food, boozy-food…” you replied with a giggle at your own joke.

“No smart-ass. Mom and I have it covered. Be at the Roadhouse Friday night around nine.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” You said, pantomiming a mock salute, although you knew she couldn’t see it.

“Oh! Before I forget. It’s a costume party. Theme is Modern Fairytales. Be sure to tell the boys.”

“I will never understand your obsession with costumes.” You groaned as your rubbed your thumb and index fingers across your forehead.

“It’s kinda like a scaled down Halloween in April.” She said.

“Alright, we’ll be there.” You replied, huffing an exasperated sigh,

“In costume!”

“Yes, in costume.” You acquiesced.

“Good! See y’all then!” Her voice was so chipper you could hear her face splitting smile, as she hung up and the line went dead.

You sat up and texted the guys, Family meeting. Kitchen. 5 minutes, and carefully placed the thick book on your nightstand. Switching off the radio as you walked out the door and toward the kitchen.

Padding down the hallway, you made it to the kitchen before the rest of the crew, your stomach growling very loud. Geez, I guess I shouldn’t have skipped lunch. Opening the pantry you noticed your favorite snack, (Y/snack of choice), was up on one of the higher shelves. This place was not designed with average size humans in mind, you thought. Raising up on your tiptoes and stretching out the rest of your body did nothing to help the situation, especially since you could just barely touch the corner of the package. Struggling to retrieve your bounty, you didn’t notice the figure behind you until he reached up and retrieved your snacks; his chest brushing the side of your arm and his wrist grazing your fingertips.

Startled, you whirled toward the intruder and let out a small yelp, soliciting a grin from him. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” You yelled, smacking him in the chest.

Feigning offense, he raised the snacks higher, “Oh, so you want me to just put these back, then?” He stopped in midair and quirked an eyebrow.

“Dean, no! I haven’t eaten all day, and all I want is my (snack of choice). Plus, that’s not where I left them, so some titan around here must have gotten into them.”

He threw his head back and let out a bellowing laugh as he handed you the package. “Titans. That was a clever one, (y/n).” Still grinning he leaned against the counter and set to work wiping the grease off his hands with the towel he was holding. “Of all the things we’ve ever been called, Titans was not one of them if I remember correctly.” He looked at you with a smirk, his eyes crinkling with mischief. “Weren’t titans devilishly handsome and well endowed in the...ahem...height department?” His eyebrow quirked up again, his flirtatious words making a scarlet blush rise to your cheeks. God, he was so attractive; not that you’d ever let him know that.

“I think that’s all wishful thinking,” you spat back while rolling your eyes. “Where are the other two at?”

He cleared his throat. “I think Sam is heading up from the archives, and Cas was watching something on Netflix last I checked.” His half smirk dropped and his eyes became heavy with concern as he remembered why he was called to the kitchen, “what’s up with the abrupt family meeting?”

“Nothing bad, I promise.” You raised your hand as if testifying in court.

With that sentence, all the tension left his face. The furrow between his eyes disappeared, and he relaxed his jaw which he had unknowingly been clenching. As you completed an inventory of him, watching his shoulders become less strained and his posture relax, you met his magnetic green eyes. They held yours for longer than you expected, deep green piercing into (y/ec), causing the moment to become charged with all the tension that had been building between the two of you for some time now. You were glad you had walked to the other side of the room earlier and put the kitchen table between you two; you’re not quite sure what would have happened in that moment had you been beside him. His body always beckoned you to touch him, always left you wondering what it would feel like to be wrapped up in his strong arms. To feel the short strands of his hair slide between your fingers as his lips crashed down on yours, molding to the shape of them.

The tension built and the visions of fantasy kept coursing on until a soft cough broke the two of you from your intense staring competition. “Ahem.” Someone cleared their throat from the kitchen doorway, breaking the spell and jolting you out of your reverie. You turned to see it was Sam and Cas, both of them looking at the two of you with inquisitive looks. “Did we interrupt something,” Sam asked, trying to contain his smirk. Appreciating his attempt to remain somewhat nonchalant.

Embarrassed you buried your face in your snack bag, attempting to hide your blush. Peeking up through your lashes you saw Dean rub the back of his neck with his right hand, and turn toward the cabinets to retrieve a glass, which he quickly filled up with water from the tap.

“Well, that’s not weird,” said Cas.

Chuckling, Sam agreed. Still looking between the two of you, but deciding to leave the awkward moment for later, he asked, “so why did we need a family meeting?”

“Oh! Jo is having a birthday party this Friday; and we are all invited.” You replied as nonchalantly as possible.

“That’s it?” Asked Dean. “I was in the middle of changing Baby’s oil. This could have waited for later, (y/n).” His voice was gruff and aggravated as he feigned outrage for interrupting his alone time with the classic Impala. To undiscerning ears he would have genuinely sounded angry, but you knew him better than that. He was attempting to save face by making it sound like he had better things to do than stand around the kitchen with you.

Rolling your eyes at him and his weird obsession with his car, you went on. “There’s one catch. It’s a themed party.”

“Huh-uh. No way am I dressing up to attend her birthday party.” Dean said adamantly.

“Okay, first of all, Dean, we all know you’re a closet nerd and secretly love LARPing. This is no different. Second of all, her theme is ‘Modern Fairytales’ so we have to come dressed as a modern interpretation of a fairytale character. Third of all, we are all going in costume. No ifs, ands, or buts.” Sometimes the only way to get through to these three lunk-heads was to put your foot down, hard.

“Dean, she’s right,” Sam agreed with a smothered chuckle, “and it sounds like fun.”

“I’m not sure what any of that means, but I am in as well,” said Cas.

“I’ve already got my costume planned.” You said to Dean, raising your eyebrow.

“Fine.” He replied, unhappily. “I’ll wear a costume. What are you two thinking of going as?” He jerked his chin at Sam and Cas.

“Nope.” You interrupted. “No stealing ideas. No piggybacking. No talking about costumes in general until we are ready to go to her party. Got it?”

“Fine”. All three of them replied at once.

This was going to make for an interesting evening, that was for sure.

——

Friday night finally came around, and you couldn’t deny it—you were pretty excited to see what the boys came up with. You had decided you were going to go as modern Rapunzel, your character being loosely based on the Disney version instead of the original tale. Since she was a sweet, sheltered girl, you thought a modern day version would wear a pretty floral sundress. The dress you chose was a pale pink color, trimmed in lace, with a beautiful pattern of cherry blossoms on the skirt and bodice; a white pair of ballerina flats adorned your feet, and a blonde waist length wig covered up your (y/hc) hair. After you had checked and double checked your outfit, you decided you were still missing something. After you thought for a minute you realized what it was.

Down in the kitchen you were rummaging through the cabinet beside the stove attempting to find the smaller skillet you knew you could carry around for an evening. As you were stooped down digging through the various pots and pans, Dean quietly walked up behind you, unbeknownst to you. “Let me guess, Cinderella?”

You raised up abruptly smacking the back of your head against the cabinet opening. “Son of a bitch,” you groaned as you retreated from the storage space with your pan. “No I’m not Cinderella,” you said rubbing the goose egg forming on the top of your skull. “And what is it with you always sneaking up on me?”

“What can I say,” he shrugged. “I’m silent but deadly.”

“You know you just compared yourself to a fart, right,” you asked as you turned around.

While he was silently contemplative, mouth gaping like a fish as he remembered the conversation and attempted to come up with a retort to explain it away, you got a look at him in his costume. Dark wash, nearly black jeans adorned his beautiful bow legs. He wore a dark maroon shirt, untucked, with the top two buttons unfastened and covered by a black leather jacket. His dark emerald eyes were rimmed in a line of kohl, and a ruby earring adorned his left ear. On his left hand, was a shiny silver hook with a black leather cuff; his trusty Colt 1911 strapped into a shoulder holster in lieu of a sword. The breath caught in your throat as you took in how attractively badass he looked.

Giving up on his internal dialogue, he asked, “Alright, Blondie, who are you supposed to be, then?” His words broke through the mental fog brought on by his presence.

“Rapunzel. Obviously.” You said as you brandished your frying pan at him.

“Gesundheit.”

“Smart ass.” You rolled your eyes. It’s a wonder they haven’t become stuck in the back of your head. “Where is your brother and Clarence, hmm?” You asked affectionately using Meg’s nickname for Cas; as the words left your lips you heard Sam and Cas arguing as they approached the kitchen doorway.

“Cas, I don’t think you understand the theme here,” Sam was finishing as they entered the room.

“You explained it to me and now I understand perfectly,” he began, “we are supposed to dress as modern interpretations of fairytale characters.” He looked between the three of you. “Dean is obviously Captain Hook, (y/n) is Cinderella, you are Prince Eric, and I am Aladdin.”

Sam facepalmed, and you spoke up, “Umm, I’m actually Rapunzel, Cas.” He looked at you confused, so you didn’t bother to elaborate on the finer points of fairytale/Disney lore. “How are you dressed like Aladdin?”

“Aladdin was a street urchin who stole in order to feed himself and his primate friend Abu. Street urchins today look like anyone else, just like he resembled the people surrounding him. Thus, by wearing my usual attire, I am Aladdin.” He grinned in self-satisfaction.

Your eyes became wide, a retort on the tip of your tongue, when you locked eyes with Dean; his expression telling you explaining things to Cas would take more time and energy than it was really worth. You let the subject drop. Looking over at Sam you realized he pulled off a great modern rendition of Prince Eric. He had on salmon colored shorts that fell a couple inches above the knee, boat shoes, a white oxford button down with the sleeves rolled up, and a navy colored sweater tied across his shoulders. A pair of Ray-bans covered his eyes and a captain’s hat sat atop his luscious mane of hair. Around his neck hung a sign with the words, “Have you seen Ariel,” written on it. You stifled a giggle, “nice costume there Sam.”

He grinned in thanks.

“Well, then. Should we blow this popsicle joint?” Dean asked with reluctance.

#eyes-of-a-disney-princess #supernatural #spn #deanxreader #insert #fanfiction #fanfic #sam winchester #dean winchester #castiel #jo harvelle #ellen harvelle #april #costumes #party #theme #birthday #bad decisions #Rapunzel’s Tangled Up With Supernatural Challenge

40 notes · View notes