#like here i fixed the slinky it is now a wire

[whetstonefires]

Not that knowledgeable about CNovels or the svss fandom in general, so take this with a grain of salt, but maybe people are used to considering it in the context of other "System Novel Genre" tropes, in which "The System is a sentient entity" and "The System is a malicious force" are both an actual thing. Like anything from an AI in a virtual reality to interdimensional entity that uses it's players to colonize planets and rob life energy(yes, I've seen both).

Oh yeah, I'm a little vague on how the System conceit normally interfaces with the transmigration genre, but this is vaguely the impression I had, thank! Mxtx obviously wasn't going to use any element that wasn't already deeply conventional if not outright cliche in this, since that would fuck with the texture, so even if I don't recognize a specific cliche there's usually the outline of its shape to bite on. Appreciate the more clarification.

The planet-eating one is way more interesting than the virtual reality imo but ig I'm super burned out on 'it was all a dream' variants lmao.

But like, the System is clearly conscious because targeted spite is definitely a function of personhood, and it might be malevolent considering how much satisfaction it seems to get from just, fucking with its principal, it's just. Those are diegetic facts in the same way 'Luo Binghe is a dangerous crazy person' is a fact, and that's not a bad or incorrect way to engage with the story, obviously.

But like. Luo Binghe as stallion protagonist, as villain protagonist, and as romance novel main love interest are intrinsically wound up in his lunacy. Approaching him on an exclusively in-universe basis is a very fun lens (and even one of the points/main jokes of the book I think lmao) but it's completely inadequate to compass his character, and its structure and point.

You know? You're not doing anything useful with this fictional character if your analysis totally ignores the way his existence is in dialogue with the concept of a genre convention.

This story is of the kind that is about the nature of telling stories--a particular subset of stories in its particular publishing context--and the constraints placed on writer and character by the demands of genre and audience, not to mention narrative structure and the tricks played by perspective and expectation. (The structural bait and switch of the entire character of Tianlang-jun kills me.) The climactic scene penny-drop involves the System having reassigned the target audience as female.

'Women want a different kind of fuck book.' That's the plot. Like. Rip. 😂

The System does exist as a force and consciousness within the book, and it's important that it knows what it's doing is cruel and likes that, but artistically speaking if it were meant to be perceived as a character I'm pretty sure it would be approached less as a force of nature.

There's a horrid person in there in some way, and our leading man's consistent failure to perceive that deserves its own essay, but functionally it's doing 'nature, malevolent, inexorable, and artificial' in man-versus-nature, and winning, which is like. Just a really fun flavor even before you do the step-out to its boundary-blurring role of acting in the name of the reader.

Am I making any sense?

[purplemanbehindtheslaughter]

not a simp

here have something I drew 

ok so i know the title is super sus like “ya you are” trust me i’m not a simp for blue fuzzy stick i just like playtonic (i can’t spell ok?) huggy x reader things cuz they damn cute bruh-

so imma write one cuz why the hell not? I don’t see anyone stoppin’ me  *shrugs*

FBI OPEN UP

me: Holy shi- 

So. 

Again, with the factory of playtime co because some rando sent you a sus af letter that was the same handwriting and spelling you had in pre-k.

You were standing here in front of the MASSIVE Huggy Wuggy doll-statue thing. Yeah, you weren’t sure what his deal was, but you really wanted to hug him. He gives good hugs (or at least you assumed; it was his namesake, after all). You stared at him, then at the key in his raised, velcro hand, which you remembered always getting stuck on your clothes when you played with the small plushies. You were the youngest to work at the place, and that made you handy for all sorts of different jobs, but you also got distracted really easy. That never really changed though; no matter how old you grew, you were a child at heart with a soft spot for toys. Probably why you came back.

You pulled the trigger of the grabpack down hard, trying to grab the key in Huggy’s raised hand. It didn’t work though, because even when you did get a solid grip, you would always slip and either let go or the key just refused to leave the fuzzy blue 10-ft. tall creature’s hand. Eventually you just legit gave up, wondering if it would be a better idea to cut your losses and go home. Wouldn’t be a bad idea, and the thought sounded pretty damn stable the more you thought about it. But the moment you stood up to leave, they key, previously gripped tight in Huggy’s hand, fell straight onto your head, scaring the ever-loving shit out of you. It fell into your own hand, which confused you to no end. But now, you had no excuse for leaving, and you weren’t really a quitter when you had a chance. So, you unlocked the door you needed the key for, and was able to fix the wiring, which made everything infinitely better, because now you could see what the hell you were doing! Yay! Except...

it wasn’t 

not in the slightest

explanation?

When you returned to the main room, Huggy was nowhere to be found, which creeped you out to no end. He was just a doll, right? He shouldn’t be able to move! You calmed yourself, taking a breathe.

“Okay, maybe someone’s playing a prank on me. Not likely but, it’s more probable than Huggy moving on his own...” You spoke quietly to yourself, remembering all the times you’d his behind the door to give poor Laith Pierre a good scare, despite the poster of Kissy Missy telling workers specifically not to, but hey, like hell were you gonna listen to some sign of a toy you couldn’t ever take seriously. To be honest though, you couldn’t really take any of them seriously, besides maybe Poppy, who’s life-like eyes never ceased to creep the ever-loving shit out of you. Every. Single. Damn. Time.

But all joking aside, this was pretty damn sus, and you were starting to get slightly creeped. You started questioning you sanity and if you were the victim of a cruel, elaborate prank as you continued onwards, going back home through the front door seeming more and more like a great idea. Occasionally you’d think you saw a long, slinky arm retreat behind a door, only for it to be locked, and another time, when you hot the red hand, you could’ve sworn you saw a blue, devilish grin from a vent before it closed, right before you got the red hand of the grabpack. You were wondering why you stayed.

Eventually you made it to the build-a-friend part of the factory, where you pulled a bunch of levers and shit and assembled a catbee toy (more or less; all you actually did was pull levers and the machine did the rest). Anyways you watched the odd plastic (or was it?) hybrid go through the prosses, taking a moment to gawk at it’s flawlessness before putting it on the tray. The sign said “no one leaves without a toy!”  which you had laughed at.

“Haha, jokes on you, I’m leaving the damn thing here.” You had begun to march defiantly out the door, when footsteps other than your own made you open your eyes to see the possibly over 10ft tall Huggy Wuggy, walking towards you with a crazed looks, it’s mouth full of razor sharp teeth. Didn’t help that it almost looked like he was drooling.

“Oh HELL nah!” You cried an ran as fast as you could in the other direction, looking for a hiding place until you found your sanctuary in the vents. Thinking you were safe, you sat down with a huff, the initial shock of Huggy walking toward you like that taking more breath than your frantic running. 

This didn’t last however, as the convyor belt below you started moving, taking you though the vents. You started cussing loudly when you heard clanging in the vent next to you and looked through the grates to see Huggy Wuggy, who glanced at you before running somewhere down the vent in the direction the belt was heading.

“Ahh shit. Damn toys, why the hell can’t you ever stay where you’re supposed to be?” You complained as you walked down the vent, knowing it was very possible you’d die. You jumped with a shriek and started running in the other direction, slipping into a small vent opening when Huggy turned out to be waiting in a turn the belt was trying to lead you.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit-!” you cussed under your breath as you ran as fast as you could. Eventually you had fallen out of the vent, onto a nice catwalk. The vent door opened, Huggy Wuggy getting ready to finally end you, when you noticed a big box. If you were quick enough, maybe you could grab it. This slight moment of hesitation was one moment tooo long, as you felt yourself be picked up, hoisted high into the air. You sighed, rolling your eyes as you willingly accepted for the pain of your untimely demise, but were surprised when that never happened. But what surprised you the most was that not only were you still alive, but the big blue fluffy stickman was hugging you, making a sound in his chest that sounded a whole lot like a cat purring. You made a slightly surprised sound, then giggled. He held you out, tilting his head in confusion. It was actually really fucking cute, making you giggle a little more, petting his head. Or at least trying to, but your arms were no match for his, and you barely managed to brush some of the fur on his face. He held you a little bit closer so you could actually pet him, and made content cat-like noises as you rubbed his head.

“Aww, you’re not baddie. You’re just a lonely little kitty.”

So yeah, apparently you have an overgrown blue pet now.

[winzenni]

butterfly (nakamoto yuta)

Summary: when your secret tattoo is discovered and you're scolded during dance practice, the nice Japanese boy group trainee can't help but interfere.

Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort

Pairing: trainee!yuta x trainee!reader

Word count: 1.9k

Author’s note: trigger warning! unwanted touching? also, we all know that yuta respects women af so i thought this would just be something he’s probably done

“and uh 5, 6, 7, 8.”

“smoother movements, people.”

“y/n, you’re late on the third count.

“one more time from the top.”

“y/n, fix your left arm.”

“last time from the top.”

It was just another day in the practice room, preparing for your next dance evaluation, but today’s practice felt a little harder than usual. Maybe it was the fact that it was over ninety degrees outside (a typical summer day in Korea), or the fact that you were wearing a fairly thick T-shirt with long sweats that were made for chilly weather.

When you woke up from your nap two hours earlier, you had completely forgotten about the group dance practice scheduled in ten minutes, and grabbed whatever clothes you saw first in your closet before dashing to the practice room, where your trainee friends were already warming up with the teacher.

“Ok, 10-minute break. Get some water and come back ready to clean up your moves.” said the instructor, Mr. Kim.

The trainees scattered from the center of the room, with some girls leaving to stop by the water fountain, some guys grabbing a towel to wipe their sweat, and some just plopping down on the floor to catch their breath.

“It’s so hot, Jiwoo. I think I might faint from heat exhaustion,” you tell your friends. Like you, Jiwoo has been training under SM for the past two years. Though make and female trainees were often divided during the training process, today, all trainees, both male and female, were learning the same hip-hop routine for the monthly evaluation.

“It's not that hot though? Maybe it's because you're wearing fleece sweats. Y/n, you really are going to pass out if you keep wearing that. I have extra shorts that you can wear.” Jiwoo pulls out a pair of black athletic shorts from her duffel bag and hands them to you.

“Really? Oh my god, Jiwoo, I don't know what I would do without you.” You take them from her, standing up. “I'll be back, I'm going to go change.”

--

The shorts definitely helped with the heat, but Jiwoo’s size and proportions were a little off from yours. She was a little shorter than you, which made the shorts barely reach halfway to your knee, yet the shorts were a little loose around your thighs, allowing the fabric to fly up each time you squatted or jumped. Nevertheless, it was better to show some skin than pass out from heat exhaustion.

Still, you didn't want the male trainees to see anything that you didn't want them to. And in particular, you didn't want anyone to see the tattoo on your inner thigh.

Not only were tattoos considered ugly and immature, but they were also a nuisance to makeup artists and stylists. Just knowing that you had an inked design on your body would make you less eligible to debut.

So to prevent the shorts from rising up and revealing your tattoo, you put less energy into the jumps, but this compromised the appearance of the performance.

“Ok, everyone stop,” said Mr. Kim. “Y/n, why are you jumping like a half dead frog? At this part, everyone needs to jump up like a spring, a slinky! You're a rusty wire right now, fix it.”

“Sorry, Mr. Kim. I’ll do better.”

In the next rounds of dancing, you decided to put your all into it, fearing a scolding from the teacher. Hopefully, no one would pay attention to you enough to notice what was under your shorts.

“From the top to the second jump,” Mr. Kim ordered.

1-2-3-4, 5-6-7-jump. 1-2-3-4, 5-6-7-jump. You counted in your head, focusing on only the dance and your movements.

1-2-3-4, 5-6-7-jump. 1-2-3-4, 5-6-7-jump. In this moment, you only noticed yourself, your swaying motions, your posture, your expressions.

1-2-3-4, 5-6-7-jump. 1-2-

“STOP!” Mr. Kim roared.

Everyone's eyes widened, unsure if they were the ones going to be scolded. At this point, it had been a longer practice than usual, and as practice dragged on, Mr. Kim’s mood and tolerance dwindled exponentially.

“Y/n. Step up.”

Your heart suddenly began pounding a mile a minute. What did you do wrong? You could have sworn your movements were perfect. You stepped forward from the grid formation, to the front of the class with your back facing them. In the mirror, you saw your fearful face in front of all the other trainee’s wide eyes and pitiful stares.

“Y/n. What is this?” Mr. Kim pointed to your right inner thigh, right where the fabric of the shorts ended and revealed a black mark on your skin. “Lift up your shorts.”

With shaking fingers, you slightly pull up the edge of the shorts to reveal a small inked butterfly on your thigh, just a few inches wide. In your peripheral vision, you could see the other trainees, sending looks of surprise? shock? confusion? to each other.

“Y/n……” the edge of Mr. Kim’s lips slid upward, almost laughing in your face to mock you. “You've been messing up all day and now this. You really continue to surprise me.”

He pulled up the edge of the shorts once more to get a glimpse of your tattoo, his foreign touch on your thigh making you flinch.

“If you're going to be a rebellious bitch and get a tattoo, at least make it creative!” He laughed. “A butterfly?”

At this point, you looked down at your feet in the mirror’s reflection, too embarrassed to face how the other trainees were looking at you. You blinked quickly to prevent any tears from falling. Would you have to get the tattoo removed to keep training? Or worse, would you maybe even be kicked out? Having a tattoo was one thing, but you had been causing some trouble during today's practice with your mistakes.

Mr. Kim’s scolding continued in the back of your mind, but you tuned it out with the clouded thoughts of what might happen to you. You were brought back to the current situation when Mr. Kim’s hands pulled up your shorts again to see the tattoo, this time a little too high, revealing a sliver of your black underwear. You took a step back.

“Hey!” A new body appeared in your field of vision, pushing away Mr. Kim’s hand and stepping in between you and the teacher with his y'all figure.

“M-mr. Kim,” you started.

“Hah, look at this-this,” Mr. Kim didn't know where to start with cursing you. “Y/n, you're dismissed. Leave now. Yuta, get out of my way and go back to your position.”

It took a minute for you to process Mr. Kim’s words. Dismissed from practice? Dismissed from the monthly evaluation? Dismissed from the training you had put the past two years of your life into and given up academics and friends and good food for? With all these thoughts in your mind, you couldn't help but let some tears slide down your cheek as you left the room and went into the hallway. You couldn't even hear the roaring voice of another teenager behind you.

“You can't touch her like that! That's not-"

--

Sitting in an empty recording room, you couldn’t help but let the tears run down your face.

You had worked so hard for so long to get to where you were, and you might have just lost it all because of a stupid butterfly tattoo you thought would be cute a year ago. In your head, you could only hear the sound of your own crying and the troublesome thoughts plaguing your mind.

A boy sat next beside you. Looking at you through his straight blond bangs, he says, “Sorry about what happened to you back there. That wasn't cool at all.”

You try to even your breathing and control your tears for a moment to respond. “Thanks, but it wasn't your fault so you don't need to apologize. Why are you here? Aren't you going to get in trouble for leaving practice?”

“Well, I just didn't think it was fair for you to be treated like that back there,” the boy says, looking down at his feet. “I-I wanted to see if you were ok. Oh, and I'm Yuta by the way. Nakamoto Yuta. Nice to meet you.” He offers a hand to shake, and you grasp it weakly to give it a friendly shake. 

“I'm y/n,” you say in an almost silent whisper. “You should go back. One dismissed trainee is enough.”

“No, I'll stay here until you stop crying,” Yuta declares firmly. “I-I just really think it was so unfair for you to go through that. It's so dumb, like honestly, it's just a tattoo! It's no different from… from me wearing this earring or choosing to have blond hair!” He says, readjusting the beanie around his bangs. 

After a moment of silence and looking down at your shoes, your sweaty legs and tired ankles, Yuta gently breaks the silence.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You hesitate for a moment, wondering if it will be burdensome to release your tensions and worries into this stranger you've just met today. However, his aura radiates a warm, welcoming feeling, like a close friend you've reunited with after a long time.

“I just… I just did so much to get here. I don’t think I can live with myself if this is what gets me kicked out.” Your mind reverts back to flashbacks of all the meals you skipped, tears you cried, hours you danced, and sleepless nights you had dedicated to your journey to debut. To throw that all to waste over sweating a little too hard and changing pants at dance practice -- it would be a burden you would not be able to live with. 

Coming to terms with the tragic future you’ve set up for yourself, a tear slips from your eye down onto your shoes, not going unnoticed by Yuta. 

“Hey, hey, y/n, look at me,” he says.

You look up to him from under your tear-stained eyelashes, meeting his honey-like gaze.

“You’re not going to get kicked out. It’s gonna be ok,” he says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and squeezing it comfortingly before sharply retracting his arm. 

“S-sorry, I… is it ok if I put my arm here?” He asks.

You nod, leaning into his touch and putting your head on his shoulder. 

You sit together for a while like that, without exchanging any words. Though he doesn’t say anything besides softly rubbing circles into your shoulder, Yuta’s mere presence and the warmth radiating from his body brings you a sense of consolation. 

“I think it’s cute,” Yuta says, after what feels like ten or fifteen minutes of silence.

“Hm?” you say.

“The butterfly,” he explains. “I think it’s cute. Don’t listen to what others say about it. I think it’s really cute.”

“Thanks. It’s supposed to represent, like, hope and endurance,” you say. “I got it a few months into training because it was a difficult time for me. So whenever I mess up, I just look at it and think about…. I guess, I remind myself to keep going.”

Yuta nods, processing the symbolism of it and how much it must’ve meant to you. “I’ll be your butterfly,” he chimes in quietly.

“Huh?”

“You’re going to keep training here with me. I’m not going to let you quit now.”

Though his words sound motivational, you wonder, what power does he have over this? Well, whatever happens, you’re glad you were able to make a new friend. Little do you know that Yuta’s father has some... connections with the company.

[ghostlyhamburger]

Under Agreste: The Show

Rating: T

Pairings: Adrienette, Adrigami

Read on Ao3

Chapter 1

“Paris’s hottest young bachelor, Adrien Agreste, is ready to settle down. But being a full-time model and the vice president of the fashion brand Gabriel doesn’t leave him much time to find a wife—so we’ve decided to help him. Twenty-five of Paris’s finest single women will meet him, get to know him, and at the end of ten weeks, one lucky girl will be his wife. Welcome, Paris, to Under Agreste!”

“Cut!”

Alec Cataldi sighed as soon as the cameras stopped rolling. “Are we really calling it Under Agreste? What happened to Model Romance?”

A production assistant ran up to the TV host with a fresh cup of coffee and explained, “The kid came up with the name, so we’ve got to use it.”

Alec sighed. “All right, fine. I’ll be in my trailer till you need me.” He took the coffee and walked away, crossing the grounds of the large mansion that would be used for filming this reality show. It looked less like an opulent paradise and more like a work in progress with large cameras, wires, and lights everywhere one looked, but it was going to be home for a film crew for the next few months.

“Okay, everyone!” cried a producer. “Moving on to introductions with the girls! Get them ready, and someone find Sunshine!”

**

Adrien Agreste was not ready to get married. But it wasn’t really his choice—his father thought it was time for him to find a wife, and if he could capitalize on his fame at the same time, all the better, right?

He stood in his trailer, straightening the tie of his suit, preparing to meet the girls whose hearts he was going to have to break. Maybe he’d be lucky and find The One, but more likely he’d find a girl he was kind of okay with, marry her, and quietly annul it after the cameras stopped.

He heard a knock at the trailer door. “Adrien, you’re on in five.”

“I’ll be right there,” he called back, running his hand through his hair one more time, getting the perfect tousled look he knew his fans went crazy for. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before heading out to seal his fate.

**

Adrien stood beside Alec in the opulent entry hall of the mansion.

“Each of our lovely ladies was told to bring something that represents who they are,” Alec said. “Now, Adrien, are you ready to meet your future bride?”

He wasn’t, but he knew his role. “I can’t wait, Alec.”

The door opened, and the first woman stepped inside. She was tall, piercing green eyes and short black hair, and wore a slinky, low-cut green dress.

“Hello,” she said, greeting him with a smile. “I’m Simonette.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” he replied.

She reached into a small bag she carried and, with a flourish, handed him a small toy car. “This is to represent me.”

Adrien took the car, holding it up to take a better look at it. “Uh—how?”

She leaned close to him, murmuring just loud enough for his mic to hear, “It’s because everyone wants to take a ride with me.”

He blushed, and once again regretted being part of this show.

The girls came quickly after that, each saying hello, each giving him some random item and explaining why it represented them. His head spun with all the names.

CamilleMireilleAlixChristineGenevièveSabrina…

A goth girl gave him a guitar pick. Juleka.

A blonde gave him a worn copy of Les Miserables. Stephanie.

A shorter girl with shockingly rainbow hair gave him a paintbrush. Mylene.

He met a Cherie and an Elaine, and then—“Chloe?”

“Adrikins!” the blonde cried, immediately engulfing him in a hug, kissing both cheeks in greeting. “You’re so glad to see me, aren’t you?”

“It is nice to see a familiar face,” he admitted. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“Of course I am,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I make the most sense to be your wife, you know. I’ve been your best friend since we were kids!”

“Well, yeah, but I never really thought of you that way,” Adrien said.

Just off camera, a man groaned. He stepped forward, seeming out of place wearing jeans and a T-shirt among everyone in formal wear. “Hey, dude,” he said, slinging an arm casually over Adrien’s shoulders, “you want this to work, right?”

“Uh, sure,” Adrien replied. “Who are you?”

“Nino,” he said. “I’m one of the producers. And my job is to make sure the things you say sound right on camera. So, you’re going to give your friend here a chance, right?”

“Right.” Adrien sighed. “I can do that.”

Nino gave him a pat on the back. “Cheer up, dude. I’ve seen the girls you’re meeting, and you’ll definitely find someone you like here.”

Adrien nodded and straightened himself before turning back to Chloe. He flashed her his usual Model Smile as Nino left the set.

“I’ve never thought of you that way,” he said. “but I suppose I’ll have to start seeing you differently now.”

“I hope so,” Chloe said, giving him a simpering smile. She held out a small figurine of a bee. “Here. Because you know I’ve always been Queen Bee.”

Ondine, Arlette, Rose passed by, each of them pretty in their own way and completely forgettable to Adrien.

Then the next woman presented him with a katana.

“My name is Kagami,” she said. Everything about her seemed sharp, from her gaze to the short bob of her black hair. She didn’t smile—and Adrien could agree with the sentiment. “The blade represents my warrior spirit.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I look forward to getting to know you better.”

Her lips quirked into a smile. She leaned close and whispered, “The katana actually represents the executive producer’s racism. I wanted to give a fencing foil.”

He grinned. “Maybe we can have a bout later.”

“I look forward to it.”

Josie, Esmee, Kara (who stood out due to her purple mohawk, but heaven help Adrien if he tried to remember a word she said), Roxanne, Sophie, Suzanne, Aurore passed through the entrance hall.

He appreciated that they weren’t all carbon copies of each other—some women were thin, some not, some pierced and tattooed, some with crazy hair, even one with a green and black cane. At least that would help him remember all their names.

“Last one!” Nino said from beside the camera with an encouraging thumbs up.

A woman with straight brown hair and an orange dress came through the door. She smiled, and Adrien felt something twist in his gut.

“Lila,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

“It’s good to meet you too,” he replied, plastering his smile on his face while he searched her expression, trying to figure out why his senses were saying no, not her.

“I’m sure we’ll be very close,” she murmured. “I brought you this.” She handed him a small figurine of a fox. “It’s kind of like my spirit animal.”

He kept his face still, despite the eyebrows he wanted to raise at her. “Thank you,” he said politely. “I look forward to getting to know you.”

“Cut!” Nino cried. “We’re good, let’s get the girls settled in the house and get the cameras on them!”

Adrien sighed as Lila walked away. Maybe he was just tired from greeting everyone. There was probably nothing wrong with her.

**

The contestants milled around the house, drinking, talking, and getting to know each other. Cameras followed their every move, hungry for some scrap of drama.

One camera was trained on Lila as she stood by Chloe, the two of them watching everyone else as they drank.

“None of these girls are Adrikin’s type,” Chloe said with a smirk. “It’s barely a competition.”

“Most of these girls aren’t anyone’s type,” Lila said, glancing at two of the heavier contestants. “How did they even get on the show?”

A woman sitting nearby scoffed, not even looking up from the book she was reading. “Same way you did. Auditioned and someone thought they’d be interesting.”

“It’s just so sad,” Lila replied, her tone immediately switching to a sympathetic one. “They can’t possibly win, so why are they going through this public humiliation?”

The woman, previously introduced as Christine, put down her book, fixing her gaze on Lila as the cameras zoomed in. “Why do you think they can’t win?”

“It’s obvious,” Chloe said. “Just look at them.”

“You mean because these girls aren’t skinny white bitches like you?”

Lila stepped forward and slapped her across the face, the sound ringing out and causing other conversations to die down. A record scratch sound effect would definitely be added later.

“How dare you!” she cried. “We were just trying to be nice, you skank!”

Much to the production team’s delight, Christine slapped her right back. “Touch me again. I dare you.”

Lila gasped and started to sob, crocodile tears rolling down her face. Chloe started to slink away from her.

The door to the room opened, and Adrien walked inside, a smile on his face that faded when he saw Lila crying.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, crossing the room to her. “Hey, what is it?”

Lila sobbed harder, seemingly unable to speak.

“She was insulting the other girls here and slapped me when I called her out on it.”

Adrien turned. “Christine, right?”

“Right.”

“Can you make sure everyone else is okay? I’m going to talk with her.” Adrien gently moved an arm around Lila, steering her out of the room.

Tension in the room seemed to ease as soon as Lila was gone. The cameras turned off, and the women started to actually get to know each other.

Outside, under a gazebo lit with beautiful fairy lights, Adrien sat down with Lila. “What happened in there?” he asked, concern evident in his voice.

“Oh, they’re so mean to me,” Lila said, her bottom lip quivering in the perfect pout. “I was just saying that I hope I’ll win, and that girl called me a bitch! And slapped me!”

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” he said. “I really hope everyone here will get along with each other.”

“I—I’ll do my best,” she said, dramatically wiping her eyes.

Adrien gently leaned forward and hugged her before murmuring in a low voice, “And Lila? It might help if you don’t attack them.”

She stiffened and pulled away from him. “You’ll fall for me eventually, Adrien,” she said. “I know you’ll see reason.”

She walked away, and Adrien just put his head in his hands, once again regretting every life choice that led him to this moment.

“Adrien?”

He glanced up to see an angel staring at him—or maybe it was just the way the set lighting illuminated her from behind. She didn’t look familiar, black hair with blue eyes and a sweet smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t remember your name.”

She grinned and took a seat beside him. “It’s Marinette. You haven’t met me yet, so don’t worry about it.”

“Oh,” he said with a small laugh. “I thought you were one of the girls who—”

“Oh, no!” she replied. “I’m flattered, but, no, I’m one of the producers. I saw you talking with Lila, and it looks like it didn’t go too well?”

“Not really,” Adrien replied. “I think I’m just a little overwhelmed with everything.”

She nodded. “Is—can I hug you? Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied with a grateful smile, then he was suddenly swept into her arms, her head resting against his shoulder.

“I know it’s a lot,” she murmured. “I know. But we’re all here to help you find true love. Isn’t that what you want?” She pulled back to wait for his answer, still giving him that same smile.

He could only shrug. “My father wanted me to do this.”

She sighed. “Well—can you try? A lot of people’s jobs are riding on you. You don’t really have to do anything but smile and look good—we can figure out who you choose each week, if you want.”

“Well, I already know one I want to get rid of,” he muttered.

Marinette winced before saying, “You can’t get rid of Lila.”

“Why not?”

“She’s what we call Final Girl material, unfortunately,” she said. “That means it’s great for ratings if she stays till at least the final three weeks.”

He groaned. “So you even have who wins picked out already?”

“No, no!” she cried, waving her hands in front of her. “We have some of the girls cast as characters, sure, but ultimately the girl you choose is the one you want. There’s only two Final Girls here, but the rest, and who you choose to marry, are all your choice, if you want to make it.”

“Who’s the other?”

“Uh, Chloe.”

Adrien groaned again. “Of course she is.”

Marinette reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, I want to be honest with you. If you choose Lila, I get a huge bonus, so it’s my job to make her seem likeable. Even if it’s a really big job…but more importantly, you really should choose who you want. You’ve got some time till the ceremony—why don’t you spend some time deciding what you want to do for this one? Just one step at a time.”

He nodded. “Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

“Good,” she said with a smile. “I’m usually in the production trailer if I’m not on set, so come find me if you need anything, okay? Anything at all.”

She squeezed his hand lightly before standing and disappearing into the mass of people and cameras that surrounded them.

**

The contestants were directed, on-camera, to choose their beds in dorm-like rooms set up in the mansion, while Adrien was sent to his trailer to get some sleep for the night.

“I don’t get an actual room?” he asked the producer leading him to the trailer. He wasn’t upset, but he did see the irony.

“Nah, you actually have the better deal,” she replied. “All the rooms in the house are shared, either the girls or the crew. You’re pretty much the only one who gets to have a place to himself.”

“Works for me,” he said with a smile as they arrived at his trailer. “Well, good night, then.”

“Night, Sunshine!” she said, waving goodbye as she turned and headed back towards the house.

He seemed to only sleep for a few minutes before he heard knocking on the trailer door, startling him awake. He dragged himself out of bed and opened the door. “Yeah?”

“Morning,” Marinette said, giving him a bright smile that almost shone in the darkness. She was loaded down with a bag full of papers. “Ready to pick your girls?”

“No,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “What time is it?”

“Four in the morning,” she said. “The ceremony is supposed to take place in the evening, but we need to get the girls you don’t choose set up in the hotel. So, just pretend it’s tonight, okay?”

Adrien yawned. “Sure. Whatever.”

Marinette chuckled. She placed a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing past him to enter the trailer. “You’re not used to waking up this early, are you?”

“No, I am,” he said, fighting back another yawn. “Sunrise shoots. I just usually get a little more warning…”

“Well, I can’t go back in time and warn you, but I can give you this,” she said, pulling a can from her bag. “Strongest iced coffee known to man. When I’m on a set I pretty much live off this.”

He accepted it with a smile before cracking it open and taking a sip. He coughed. “Wow. That is…strong.”

“You’ll be wide awake in like ten seconds,” Marinette said. She sat down on the small couch in his trailer and pulled out a stack of glossy headshots from her bag, spreading them out on the table. “All right. Four of these girls gotta go. Start picking.”

“Okay,” he said, sitting down next to her. The size of the couch meant that he bumped her with his arm as he reached for a photo. “Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Trust me, with how often you’re going to be in tight spaces or have a mic tucked in your shirt, you’re going to get used to my hands all over you.”

He blinked, not sure if he heard her right, and took another sip of the ultra-strong coffee.

“I mean!” she cried, her face turning red. “I—ugh, sorry, sometimes I say things before I think. Anyways, how about this girl?” She held up the headshot of a conventionally attractive woman with dark eyes and hair, a flower crown resting on her head.

Adrien shook his head. “I don’t actually remember her name…”

“Then she’s out!” Marinette said, flipping the headshot over. “If you don’t remember her, neither will the audience.”

“Isn’t that a little cruel?” he asked. “I can’t just crush some poor girl’s dream because I forgot her name.”

“Yes, you can,” she replied. She placed her hand on top of his, and he glanced at her, meeting her eyes. “Remember, the prize here is marrying you. Which means you need to cut anyone you’re not a hundred percent sure is right for you. Or you’ll be stuck with someone like Lila.”

“You sure I can’t cut her right away?”

Marinette shook her head. “Every show needs a villain.”

“All right,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s pick the rest to go.”

As they sifted through the rest of the headshots, Marinette asked, “So, what are you looking for in a future wife?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, putting the headshot of a girl named Josee in the keep pile. “Someone I can talk to, I guess. I don’t know if I’m going to actually fall in love with anyone, so I’d like to find someone I can be friends with, at least.”

“That’s all you want?” she asked, frowning.

He shrugged. “I’m not in a position to be too picky.”

She blew a piece of hair out of her face. “Yeah, you’ve got a point there. It’s too bad you didn’t fall in love with anyone at first sight.”

“I don’t even know what that would feel like.”

“It might just be a myth,” she replied, picking up Chloe’s picture and moving it to keep. “But hey, I’m a bit of a romantic. I always thought the first time you see your soulmate, there would be like, a choir of angels singing to let you know they were The One.”

Adrien laughed. “Yeah, didn’t see anything like that.”

“No angels?”

“Just you,” he said, gently nudging her side. “My guardian angel.”

Her cheeks pinked. “So—how about Mireille?”

**

An hour later, the contestants were all gathered by the gazebo on the mansion’s patio. All of them were dressed in beautiful formal wear, provided by the costuming department.

“So, Adrien,” Alec Cataldi said, talking while walking Adrien into the space, “you’ve had a chance to meet the lovely ladies here—but now it’s time to say goodbye to some of them. Are you ready?”

“I hate to break anyone’s heart,” Adrien replied. “I don’t think I’ll ever be truly ready for that.”

Alec stopped in the center of the gazebo, next to a pile of small cat plushies. “Can you explain what these are?”

“Yes,” Adrien said, picking up one of the toys. “Since the people here were kind enough to open their hearts and give me a gift that represented themselves, I thought I’d do the same. I’ve always admired how cats are independent and can get away with sleeping all day.”

Alec laughed. “All right, ladies! When Adrien calls your name, come up here. If you get a cat, you’re staying! If you get a kiss on the cheek—I’m sorry, but that means goodbye.”

Adrien glanced across the line of hopefuls and said, “Ondine.”

The short haired woman stepped forward, smiling when she got a plushie.

“Kagami.”

She kept a straight face, but the whisper of a smile crossed her lips when she received a cat. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“Geneviève.”

She stepped forward nervously. Adrien took her hands and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You do seem really nice.”

Geneviève sucked in a deep breath, the kind that was meant to hold back tears. She was ushered away by Alec.

Another ten girls were called, one being sent home.

“Simonette,” Adrien said.

The very first girl he met stepped forward, a smirk on her face that melted into shock as he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Are you kidding?” she cried. “I’m the hottest one here! You can’t get rid of me!”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “We just don’t seem like a good match.”

She huffed and stomped away as Adrien grabbed another plushie.

“Aurore,” he called.

So it went, down to the final two, a redhead named Sabrina—and Lila.

Adrien picked up the last plushie, already regretting the choice he had to make. “Lila,” he called.

She gave a self-satisfied smirk while the poor last girl, Sabrina, let her shoulders slump and her head drop.

Adrien walked over to Sabrina, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it’s going to be okay.”

She sighed, her voice thin and soft. “I only auditioned as a favor to Chloe, anyways. I just—I hoped I wouldn’t be kicked out first.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

She glanced up at him with a wry smile. “It’s fine, really. I’m gay anyways. I’ll probably have a good time at the hotel with the other girls, right? W-without Chloe? How is she going to do this without me?”

Adrien nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Chloe’s taken care of. I’ve been her friend for a while, I can handle her.”

Sabrina giggled. “Thank you.”

**

“Next time on Under Agreste: the girls get musical at the Paris Music Festival! Watch as they learn to live a rockstar’s life on the group dates with some special guests, and see which lucky lady gets a private concert date with Adrien!”

[smokeyloki]

“I deserved worse” with Andy and Cillian

*ka-thunk*

One boot went flying against the wall.

*whump*

The other bounced along the floor in close succession, the toe managing to hit the wall before it fell atop the first boot.

The man in the doorway, dressed in police blues, combed a hand through wild hair and shuffled to the kitchen in socked feet.  A blinking light by the phone alerted him to a new message.  He pressed a button and then went to the fridge.  There was some pizza in here from last night...

“Hey..Cillian...it’s Adeema.  Your sister.  I still exist, you know-..”

Cillian closed the fridge door, munching on a cold slice of pizza while he listened to the message. 

“..Just wanted to check in and remind you that we’re still scheduled for lunch tomorrow.  I know...something bad happened and your impulse is to become a hermit in your own house.  But if you miss our lunch, you’re a dead little brother.”

Cillian couldn’t help a tiny smile at that last phrase.  Ah...Adeema.  What would he do without her..?

A loud, plaintive *mrooooooooooowr* sounded from the floor.  Cil glanced down at his feet, where a large cat rubbed against his legs, looking up at him with large, pleading eyes.

“No.”  Cillian shoved the pizza into his mouth and chewed loudly.  “You’re a fat, stinky cat.”

The cat glared at him with an air of silent indignation.  Then he bounded from the room, and Cillian followed him, a tired frown stealing his smile.  He knew where the cat was going...down the hall to the one guest room.  The only room in the house with a shut door.

“What is it, Slinky?”

The cat looked up at him, tail twitching.

“There’s nothing in there, Slink,” Cil explained in a sour tone, though he moved to open the door.  As soon as the crack between the door an the wall was large enough, Slinky slipped through, followed closely by his distraught owner.

Cillian was right, for the most part.  The room was empty, save for a small mattress, a few boxes of miscellaneous junk he hadn’t unpacked since the day he moved in, a floor lamp, and what looked like a sleeping person propped up on the mattress.  He didn’t stir when the door was opened, didn’t open his eyes when Cil made his way to the bed, and didn’t acknowledge Slinky leaping up onto the mattress beside him to tuck his head against one of the man’s still, cold arms.

Cillian tapped a few fingers against his thigh as he looked the figure over.  Then he grabbed the head, ignoring the relaxed, calm features, and pulled it forward.  From this angle, he could examine the small hole in the nape of the neck, revealing a complex nature of wires and metal parts hidden under a realistic covering of artificial flesh. 

“...Oh..Andy..” he let the head go, and the android slumped back against the wall.  

How long had Andy been here?  A...it wasn’t even a week, now.  Stylianos couldn’t have a deactivated android sitting in his house, not with a baby like Max crawling around and wreaking havoc.  Cillian had volunteered, since the only alternative was getting rid of Andy and no one...no one had wanted that.  Android though he may be, he had been a wonderful friend to Cillian, Stylianos, Thomas...to..everyone he met. 

It was an Andy thing. 

“I...I don’t know what you want from us, Andy.”  Cillian knew he was talking to a deactivated piece of metal and wires.  But it wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“..I just had to sit there while you..”  Died? Was that how Cil would describe it?  It had certainly seemed like a kind of dying.  Andy had held him, desperately begging his friend not to get him fixed..not to leave him alone...

“And I know you didn’t want us to fix you.  You were scared of something.  You made me promise.  But...what did you want us to do?  Just move on?  Throw you away like..like a piece of garbage?”

Andy didn’t respond.  He remained in his sleep, beyond Cil’s shaking words and anxious twitches.

“..You know...I got a good life.  Good friends.  A fiance..a sister who thinks the world of me..I got Styl and Tom and I had you.  There were a lot of times in my life that I thought I deserved worse.  That...that I didn’t deserve all the good things in my life.  But this...”

He paused to take a breath.  Anger was leaking into his words, mixing with a deep ache in his chest.

“..I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve this, Andy.  You can’t...can’t expect me to do nothing about this.  To let you go when I can bring you back.”

Cillian rocked back, dragging his hands down his face with a slow, shaky sigh.  Slinky, seeming to sense his owner’s distress, stepped delicately away from the android and pressed himself to Cil’s knees with a soft purr.  Cillian scooped him up, glancing at Andy.

Promises or no, his mind was made up.

He would find a way to bring Andy back.

The world needed an Andy.

His friends needed Andy.

He needed Andy.

[seenashwrite]

Step Right Up (Part Four)

Status: Part 4 of 4   Word Count: 3.1K Category: Mini-series; Behind-the-scenes canon compliant; Mystery; On-the-case Rating: (Older) Teen & Up Character(s): Sam, Dean, various circus folk, special guest star Warnings: None Author’s Note(s): Post-story (lots of fun stuff!) Overall Summary: Sam is trapped in what’s left of a burnt-down circus while attempting to assist a tormented soul, when a mysterious ringmaster arrives.

* ~ * Series Master Post * ~ *

Only one area was illuminated, the large spotlights focused on the center ring. The rest of the tent was pitch with shadows. And there she stood, next to the high wire by one ladder, the ringmaster across from her, next to the other. His fists were clenched, and he was twitchy, and unkempt, his face and clothing smudged with soot, holes here-and-there where embers from the fire had landed. He was flushed, just seething with anger, and she couldn't have looked more relaxed, not a flicker of fear.

"Where is it?!" the ringmaster demanded.

"Far away from you," she replied, and laughed.

"Stash it someplace," Dean whispered to Sam, who quickly stuffed it in his back pocket.

“Stupid nit. This isn’t some game. I’m not in love with you, I never was, keeping me here won’t change that!”

“Oh!” she said, making her eyes wide, her lips forming an O, bringing her hands up to her cheeks in what was clearly faux shock. Then she twirled, came out of it to begin lazily skipping in a circle, arms out, like a little girl who hadn’t a care in the world.

And as she did, from all sides, forms were emerging from the darkness. The ringmaster was startled, began moving away from the ones behind him, closer to the center. Her clown family was nearest to her, and Sam began taking inventory of the others, those he hadn’t seen before.

There were at least------

"Two?! Two ghosts? Two ghosts, he said!" Dean hissed, and Sam gave him a look, then went back to his observing.

There were at least fifteen additional people, several more clowns, a few acrobats, mostly other performers. Some Sam took to be vendors, based on their uniforms. Another man carried a long whip, coiled in his fist, he and the woman beside him in safari-like attire. A tall, slender woman in a slinky dress had a boa - snake, not feather - wrapped around her shoulders. A quite large woman wearing a long, clearly fake beard held hands with a very tiny man, the latter of whom climbed atop one of the stands for the animal performance, a chattering spider monkey in a vest and bowler hat perched on his shoulder.

Two more men on the other side, standing near the clowns, were dressed in coveralls, one carrying a wide, long-handled broom, the other a mop and bucket - likely animal carers, if he had to guess. Then further behind them, there was the fortune teller, keeping part-way in the shadows, and out came the mermaid, walking slowly in her tight, tail-trimmed skirt. The wounds on their heads seemed sticky and fresh. It surprised Sam to see the teller put an arm around the mermaid, but then again, any bad blood didn't matter now; they were all united in purpose.

And though their clothing only showed signs of singes and ash, every single one of them were burnt, not one bit of exposed skin that wasn't melted and charred, faint tendrils of smoke still floating into the air as they moved. These were the people who were fighting to stop the blaze at the far end of the field, where the fire burned the strongest, where the animals were housed and the living quarters - the personal wagons - were located. Where the fire from the ringmaster's had been ignored, left to do away with the evidence of his crime, only to jump, seeking other tinder to consume. As it had only barely made it to the front, to the big top, the little butterfly was the only one who escaped without looking completely like a scene from a horror movie. Her, and the ringmaster.

"How did you die?" she asked, ending her skipping not far from the ringmaster, tapping him on the shoulder.

He'd been staring at the crowd behind him, and the tap made him jump as he whirled around. "Wh-what?" he stuttered.

She leaned in, whispered the question again in a loud, exaggerated way. "Howwwww did you diiiiiiiiiie?"

"I don't... I was looking for you... you weren't in your wagon or the dressing tent... weren't at the fortune teller's... but then I went to... went to... I wanted to leave. But I couldn't.... something stopped me..." The ringmaster trailed off, confused for a moment, then in a flash he was staring at her with tears in his eyes. "No. I did find you." He reached out as if to grab her, but she dodged. "Why did you get on the wire? After what you'd seen.... why would you DO that?!"

She dropped her girlish act then, eyes flashing, voice full of venom. "You were coming to kill me. The job was done for you. Why did it matter?"

"No... it was because.... because I thought to take you with me.... but then I saw...." He reached out again, to caress her cheek. This time she stayed put - and his hand went right through her. He gasped. "What is this?" He looked to the fortune teller. "You said things would be made whole!"

"You want to be whole?" the teller asked in response. "Are you certain?"

"I want to leave!" he yelled and, looking back to his former fiancée, said, "And I want you to leave with me!"

"You do not love me, you said so. You showed me so. You do not cry for me, you cry for yourself. And you do not want me - you only wanted me to lie for you. And when you saw I could not, you took the coward's way out."  She tilted her head, looking up, past the high wire, to the scaffolding that kept the big top erect.

There, dangling by the neck from a rope, was the body of the ringmaster.

He stumbled back, eyes fixed on his dead form. "No....no no no.... NO!"

"You are not leaving. None of us are leaving," she said quietly.

The fortune teller stepped forward now, and with a wave of her hand, the body fell, landing in a heap. She knelt beside it, waved her hand again, and a soft purple glow ran across it, then up, over, swirled around its ghost, and drew it back in. With a huge intake of air, the ringmaster found himself back in his body, flailing for a moment and then scrambling to his feet.

The group inched ever closer.

So did Dean and Sam. Dean began to pull out his gun, but Sam shook his head. Dean gave him a questioning look, but he acquiesced.

"I don't want to be dead!" the ringmaster said to the fortune teller, and then something seemed to occur to him. He stooped, picked up the top hat that had fallen with him, putting it back on, trying to seem put-together, in control, ever the huckster pitching a sale. "We can all be alive! You have magic, you can heal us all! The money, it must still be here - we can split it! You can undo everything!"

"Our time has passed," she replied. "You must pay for what you have done."

And just like that, the act fell away. "NO!" he screamed again, turned to run, but didn't get far. Dean punched him so hard, it knocked the top hat clean off, landing somewhere in between the seats. The ringmaster went to his knees with a yelp, holding his nose.

Everyone stared.

The fortune teller caught Sam's eye, raised her eyebrow, pointed to Dean in approval; Sam made a What are you gonna do? gesture and shrugged.

Dean noted the staring, frowned at them, then pointed at the moaning man. "Well, he's a dick!"

The clowns began laughing, clapping, jumping up-and-down, a little too hard, all of it, though Dean seemed pleased they enjoyed his performance, giving them a slight bow in acknowledgment.

The clowns edged closer; Sam took a reflexive step back. And before either brother could react, with all the distraction happening, the ringmaster took the opportunity to snatch Dean’s gun from his waistband, and he came up behind Sam, gun pointed at the back of his head, and gave him a hard shove. Sam didn't speak, didn’t fight it, keeping his eyes locked on her, though she was still staring her enemy down.

“You want to fly away with him, I suppose, don’t you, Butterfly? ‘To think they could doubt my love, yet today my love has flown away’ - isn’t that how our song goes?!” the ringmaster asked, pushing the barrel into Sam’s head. “Too bad! Because I’m taking this and you can all burn again, in hell!”

He reached down to Sam’s back pocket, where the tail of the bright yellow scarf was protruding, and began to pull.

And he pulled.

And he pulled more.

And he kept pulling.

While the rest remained stone-faced, the clowns went borderline hysterical, grabbing their bellies, bent over with laughter, one even dropping to the ground and kicking his legs in the air.

The scarf kept coming and coming, kept growing, a puddle of rainbow fabric around the ringmaster’s feet. He had begun to sweat - and he had also started to lower the gun. Dean was able to come behind him and take it away without issue. The scarves having run out, the ringmaster knelt, pawing through the pile of silk, searching for the ring.

One of the clowns had laughed his way over to where the knife-throwing target was set up, set to juggling six of the knives from the nearby table. Another clown retrieved the top hat, put it on his head, then hopped on a chair, tipping it onto two legs, balancing expertly. A third jumped up a few rungs on the ladder to the high wire, swinging around, back and forth, honking a small horn. 

The two workers began spinning the mop and the broom, respectively, occasionally tossing them into the air, executing quick spins before they came back down, as if they were lightweight batons. The boa flexed its jaw wide. The monkey screeched. The lion tamers unfurled and snapped their whips. And the butterfly began to sing, twirling slowly in a circle around the sobbing ringmaster.

They asked me how I knew My true love was true

“Stop it!” he cried, bringing his hands to his ears.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Both brothers' heads jerked in near unison at the sound of heavy footsteps to the left, and the shadow cast by the lights outside revealed something so massive - make that two somethings -  it made their mouths fall open.

"Dumbo?" Sam whispered.

"And Dumbo's mom," Dean whispered back.

The crowd's advance halted, some shifting aside so that the juggling clown was front and center. The ringmaster was shaking as he climbed to his feet. He held up his hands as if declaring surrender, but the clowns kept laughing, the ones who'd been playing around now coming nearer to their juggling comrade. One by one, five of the six knives were passed off fluidly, and when the sixth came down, it was caught, flipped, and sent right into the ringmaster's thigh in one smooth movement.

He hit the ground, wailing, trying to hold the injury and slicing up his fingers on the protruding blade for his trouble. A lion's roar from just beyond the tent's entry briefly drowned him out. The elephants trumpeted, stomped their feet. Horses hooves pounded outside, from all directions, as if they were running a derby around the big top. The advance of the wronged upon the ringmaster resumed.

Dean and Sam now retreated themselves past the high wire, out of the center ring, their backs against the tent, as far removed as they could be - and no sooner had they done so, Sam spotted something.

"Dean. Don't. Move.”

"Not. Planning. On--- Oh."

They held their breaths as the tiger walked directly in front of them. It was so close that when its agitated tail whipped up, Dean felt the fur brush under his nose. It paid them no mind, fell into the routine with the rest, circling its prey.

"Good kitty," Dean breathed out.

A murmur went across the crowd, and other than the ringmaster's crying, everything - inside and out - went pin-drop quiet. Dean and Sam looked at each other, then to the others. Every eye was on them, and they had no idea what was going to happen next. The clowns were now in a line, shoulder to shoulder, and their butterfly was center front.

"It is time," she said.

"We, um.... we can go," Sam offered. "If you don't need our----"

"My ring, please."

Dean and Sam shared another glance, and Sam said to her, "I don't know where it went, it was----"

He cut himself off because the spotlights flickered, the tiger growled, the wind picked up and shook the entire tent, horses whinnied, and the lion slowly strolled through the entry, two lionesses close behind. The lights came back with a fury, showing that every face had grown dark, eyes sunken and cloudy, skin showing signs of rot. And worst of all - worst for Sam - were the clowns.

They were now advancing on him, creeping forward, all sneers and bared teeth - until she scurried ahead, and stood between them. They blinked, shaken out of their trance-like attack, some even hanging their heads apologetically, all shuffling back to join the rest. She turned to Sam.

"I.... I had it,” he said. “I don't understand what----"

"Shhhh," she said, putting a finger to his lips briefly. Her finger was cold. So was her expression, her demeanor. But he felt safe. Safe enough not to need to plead for his and Dean's lives.

She placed a hand over her heart, and her eyes left his long enough to glance at his jacket.

With a slight frown, Sam reached inside, feeling around in the breast pocket, and then he smiled - a nervous, relieved smile. He pulled out the ring, saving wondering how the clowns had pulled off that trick for another time; or, possibly never. He held it out to her, and she took it, turned away; but almost as soon as she had, she turned back part-way.

She seemed to have a silent conversation with the fortune teller, who gave her a nod, then turned fully to again face Sam. She reached out, took his left hand, raised it, and slipped the ring onto his pinky, where it fit just above his knuckle. Then as before, she threaded her fingers through his, gripped tight.

They stared at each other for a few moments before he said, "We'll give you time to do what you need to do. But when we start----"

"I know," she said.

He nodded. "I wish... I wish I could've saved you."

She released his hand. "You did."

Dean and Sam carefully navigated around the ring to get to the exit, giving everyone - and the animals - a wide berth. There was no grace period, no waiting for them to leave before beginning to take turns at the ringmaster. But somehow, cutting through it all, over the gaily laughing clowns and the screams of agony, way across the field, even as they entered the fog, was the sound of her singing.

Now laughing friends deride Tears I cannot hide So I smile and say When a lovely flame dies Smoke gets in your eyes

The fortune teller had been right; the ring wasn't real gold, not even close. They'd waited about an hour, which - if Dean's calculations were correct based on how long Sam had been gone - gave the troupe a solid eight to finish their business. They were sitting on a fallen log, watching the last of it melt away in the salted fire, when Billie appeared.

She walked over, held up a folder. "Found the file." She tossed it into the fire, then leaned against a tree across from them.

Dean gave her a look, and Sam's forehead creased; he’d have to ask later.

"So how'd it feel to save a bunch of clowns, Sam? The exposure therapy work?" asked Billie.

"That... that couldn't have been what all this was about... was it?" Sam asked, incredulous. "The ringmaster had said he was allowed to contact us, that I'd been recommended for it, but that would be---"

"Stupid," Dean interjected.

"Not so stupid," Billie said. "Maybe it was good for you to get to know someone who grew up around what frightens you."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, somebody who had a mish-mashed family full of interesting folks, some who were scary-seeming to others, but they were family, and they were always on her side. And they were always on the move, on the road. Most all of them - in some ways - always on the run. Definitely misunderstood."

A smile, albeit a somewhat sad one, began to appear on Sam's lips.

"They wear greasepaint and costumes, all kinds of obvious masks, some with outward oddities that can’t be hidden. Hunters have their scars that are tough to hide, too, you know. Their masks are more subtle. But it’s still there, that proof of life. Under the smoke and mirrors. And they can all put on a hell of a show---" a glance to the smoldering ring “---or, when needed, be showstoppers."

"Well that was poetic. And subtle," Dean said flatly.

Billie ignored him, still looking to Sam. "Well? What's the verdict?"

Sam took a moment to think of his answer, then said, "I'm... reconsidering clowns. Some clowns."

Billie grinned. "Fair enough." And then, she was gone.

Dean exhaled loudly, clapped his hands together as he stood. "Wheeeew! So! Another one for the books." He pulled out his keys, shook them at Sam. "Ready to get the hell out of here?"

Sam glanced back at the field, a real smile now coming to his face. "Yeah," he said softly.

In the car, as their path was about to turn from dirt to pavement, Dean hesitated for a moment, asking, "You need for us to stop, grab a beer? Find a motel and crash for awhile?"

Sam shook his head, not looking at Dean, but staring out the window. "No. I want my own bed."

Dean watched him for a few moments, waited, knew his brain was chewing on something else.

Now Sam met his eye. "Can I tell you about her?"

Dean nodded, turned down the radio, and pulled onto the road. "Shoot."

"So she lost her parents when she was really young, but she gets taken in by another family, this group of clowns, and they...."

The small fire died, the smoke left the field, and the hunters drove off into the sunrise.

See Nash Write : Master  /  See Nash Write : Mobile

🏷️🏷️Wanna be tagged? Hit me up! 🏷️🏷️

Feedback is fuel! ❤ I hope you enjoyed!

Author’s Notes:

🤡 This started gestating forever ago, and I talked about it in spring of this year, so if some stuff seemed familiar to you, that’s why - see here and here.

🤡 You can learn more about Joseph Grimaldi here, and about the London version of the celebration “The Funeral of Grimaldi” here. I love this dude:

I will never write anything as grand as “pugilistic vegetable”.

🤡 On the subject of the song --> I promise you’ll recognize it when you hear it. It’s “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” (apropos, yes?) and chances are you’re most familiar with the more modern versions, specifically the one by The Platters (1957). And you may be thinking “Nash! You whiffed! You’ve got this story taking place in the 40s!” Friends, why do you doubt me? It’s from a play in the 30s, and you can hear a lovely by the name of Gertrude Niesen (1933) sing it here.

I also highly recommend you take a few minutes to watch the following and have yourself a giggle. Judy Garland made no secret of the fact she did not care for this song, even though she sings it beautifully (I mean, she sings everything beautifully), so it was probably a “Huh?” for the audience when she launched into it on her TV show in the 60s. Be on the lookout for a special guest appearance by a (sort-of) moose. Damn, I love it when things come full circle:

🤡 On the topic of Romani circus performers, you can learn about one very special family, the Bougliones, via the obituary of one Rosa Bouglione, their matriarch, who died in September at the age of 107. She was a badass:

🤡 Honk-honk:

 @butiaintgonnaloveem   @impandagrl    @waywardjoy  @jalove-wecallhimdean  @jame-sbarnes  @just-another-busy-fangirl  @amanda-teaches  @fanforfanatic  @salt-n-burn-em-all  @idreamofhazel  @cyrilconnelly  @rozadolphin  @theblackharrystyles   @carryonmycobaltangel  @ilsawasanacrobat  @klaineaholic  @helvonasche   @ericaprice2008  @amionthetumbler  @tankcupcakes  @littlegreenplasticsoldier  @emlostinwonderland  @michellethetvaddict  @theoriginalvicki  @ellen-reincarnated1967  @copperseraphim  @mrswhozeewhatsis  @crowleylovesyou  @bumbleball13  @anticipate1003  @sixtysevenandwhiskey @raspberrymama  @lastactiontricia  @babypieandwhiskey  @winchesterprincessbride   @gripmetight-raisemefromperdition   @roseblue373   @thisismysecrethappyplace  @fandomismyspirit     

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@waterfeenix137  

[ridleytheknight]

Parker Luck Part 4

           Peter shot up, gasping in oxygen greedily in lungs that worked just as they had before he’d fallen asleep. Unpierced. Uninjured. Perfectly fine. Only the phantom memory of pain that still lingered in mind from the nightmare. Sweaty hands gripping his blanket to his chest protectively. Shaking and shuddering as any traces of linger aches faded from reality. The burning in his chest cooling as air, deep and stuttering breathes swirled into his lungs. Soothing them.

           Fine, he was fine.

           The air was cold on his skin and his blankets were soaked with sweat and too hot. But Peter only pulled the blankets closer to his chest, where his heart still hadn’t calmed fully yet. Still racing underneath his skin. God, he was such a mess.

           How could he be an Avenger when he could barely handle his own life and what he’d faced as just plain Peter? When he could barely save and protect himself and the ones he loved? When there was blood on his hands. How could he be trusted with other people lives that never asked for it. Innocent people. Innocent lives.

           He could have their blood staining him too.

           He couldn’t.

           Shaking his head, Peter pulled the covers away slowly from his body. Pushing it off his legs and slipping to the floor silently. Light footsteps used to reach his backpack and pull out his booklight and his chemistry book. Peter withheld a bemused smirk. He was a nerd. Reading chemistry to calm him down and for fun. Peter pressed the thoughts away. Holding the items to his chest and crawls up towards the ceiling, using his web shooters to quickly form a threading to keep the book up right as Peter settled into his own upside-down place. Which wasn’t anything new. Peter rarely-if ever- took off his web shooters. It felt weird to take them off. It made him feel-bare; vulnerable- without them.

           Peter shoved the thoughts down before they could blossom further. Focusing on his chemistry book and partially failing as the thoughts poked at him. Trying to pull and prod him in all the wrong directions. His eyes constantly drifting back down so his gaze brushed the clock. 5:48 in red blaring letters.

           Time was going about as slow as the school lunch line.

           Though, Peter was surprised at how maybe only twenty minutes after he’d settled on the ceiling (twenty-three actually). There was the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Stopping just in front of the door to his room.  His heart restricted and Peter held his breath behind tight lips. No. No, no, no.

           The breath fell in a relieved sigh from his lips the moment the door creaked open. Letting the yellow glow of the hallway light flood into the room and making way for Tony’s head to poke and peek his head through the door and squint into the room curiously. Until Tony’s eyes flood with realization and his gaze shot up to the ceiling.

           “FRIDAY said you weren’t in bed. But when I think of a teenager not in bed I think of sneaking out usually. Not a very goody two shoes under-roos sitting on the ceiling and reading a text book. Which brings me to why are you using a book light?”

           “I didn’t want to bother you, also it gets a little too… bright. Especially when I get as close as I do on the ceiling. My senses go a little hay wire and I started to get overwhelmed and tuning everything out gets hard. I learned book lights are my best bet when I want to go on the ceiling.” It clicked in Tony’s head immediately. Sensory overload. It was a common symptom of anxiety, which Peter had quite obviously. And then you mix in his spidery sense and other body changes. It struck Tony like a slap to the face.

           Enhanced senses. However cool and useful. Had to suck.

           Tony had a new project now at least.

           “We’ll work on fixing that when me and Pepper customize your room and get everything settled here. FRIDAY, make a note for me, please? Light dimmers and sound resistant walling, we’ll figure out the rest we can work on later. For now how does some early morning breakfast sound?”

           Peter nodded immediately with a wide grin, gently separating his hands from the ceiling first before he dropped to the ground. Flipping onto the tips of his toes and fingers just moments before hitting the ground. The shock was absorbed through his muscles and his balance corrected itself more naturally than any regular human’s might have. Peter glanced up at his chemistry book, which was still stuck on the ceiling. The webbing should dissolve by the time Peter ate breakfast and it would fall onto the bed again, so it was no real worries there. Peter looked back to Mr. Stark, who was just standing there and staring with an unreadable expression.

           “Are we going to…?” Peter’s unsaid sentence was interrupted.

           “Yeah, yeah, alright show off human slinky. Let’s go get something from the kitchen.” Peter smothered a bark of laughter. The insult didn’t sting like it should have if any other person would have said it. The teasing smirk on Mr. Stark’s face and the affectionate nudge of their shoulders deflecting the hit before any impact could be made-besides if anyone was a show off between the two you could guess who it was-. The teasing remark only left Peter warm.

           Stumbling out of his room, shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Stark. He adjusted to the light in the hallways with rapidly blinking blue eyes. Squinting and staying a mere breath’s away from Mr. Stark until his vision had adjusted and he could see shapes as more that fuzzy blobs. The sharp and clear shapes of very expensive furniture and equipment made the thought hit Peter. He’d just slept over in the Stark Tower like it was no big deal. He was getting breakfast with Mr. Stark. Like it was no big deal.

           Ned was gonna flip.

           Peter took a seat on one of the barstools as they entered the kitchen, his long and lanky legs still being barely able to brush the rung closest to the floor when they dangled uselessly at Peter’s knees. Peter didn’t pay it much mind however as Pepper seemed to materialize from nowhere as she always did. Though, even Peter hadn’t expected her to be awake this early. She scowled at Mr. Stark.

           “Tony, stop infecting Peter with your early mornings and screwed up sleep schedule, teens should sleep in while they can. It’s a teenage right.” Pepper glided forward, her kitten heels clicking in a very familiar tack-tack sound in Peter’s ears. Her warm hands grabbing onto his shoulders as she leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Leaving Peter to almost melt into a pile of goo and warm fuzzies on the barstool, the affection however subtle turned something in his chest into a coal or an ember. Burning and glowing, spreading like a fire into a gushing warmth and pleasant feelings. Mr. Stark just rolled his eyes at his steady partner. Making Pepper scowl at him, before her face was forced into a small, fond half smile, before she turned her full attention and full smile to Peter.

           “Morning hun, I’ve got some paper work and a skype meeting with a few of our partners in the European branches and companies. But, I’m sure Tony will get you taken care of and fed before you two go back to your natural habit in the lab. I’m still only a phone call away if you need anything. Like beating sense into Mr. I-can’t-take-care-of-myself over there.” Peter grinned widely in reply. Nodding happily. Turning Pepper’s genuine, but tired smile. Into a sweet and relaxed smile instantly.

           Pepper always liked Tony’s protégé. He was smart for his age. Mature and responsible-most of the time- sweet, pure, and honestly just had this air of innocence about him. His sense of justice and how he was so driven to protect anyone and everyone. Even the bad guys. Pepper couldn’t help herself. Couldn’t tear away her eyes or get rid of the urge and need to watch him learn and grow. See him blossom into a handsome, beautiful, and gentlemanly young adult. Couldn’t help but spoil him in attention and affection whenever she could. The gratitude and grin she’d get in return was always more than worth it. It really gave meaning to the saying of something being ‘the world’. Peter’s smile meant that that boy was happy and healthy. And that meant the world to Pepper.

           Peter liked Pepper just as much and maybe more. She was also so kind and so sweet to him. Doting over him and making sure he was in good health and happy. Asking him about school and how Ned was. Making sure she was informed of Peter’s life and that he could always talk to her about anything (the stab of guilt that he never told her anything really was not slight, but it was ignored). She always smelled like coffee to, strange because she never drank it, but it was nice. Familiar.  It made Peter feel easy, comfortable. It didn’t smell like coffee anywhere else.

           The woman ruffled his bed hair affectionately and laid another kiss on his cheek before she hurried off. Heels clicking loudly in his ears, His enhanced senses making the sound all the more loud, but the sound was present everywhere Pepper had been so Peter had learned to not mind just how loud it could be when he couldn’t tune it out. Mr. Stark just huffed.

           “She acts like I’m going to starve you or poison you. Which I’m not! Frozen waffles are completely edible and completely safe food, right?”

           “Frozen waffles actually hold little to no nutritional value-“ Mr. Stark glared up at the ceiling speaker and the AI went quiet, with the feeling that the AI was silently judging Mr. Stark’s choices. Leaving said male to grumble as he rummaged through the freezer.

           “Why are all my AI’s sarcastic or back talk me?” Peter shrugged. He liked the AI’s personally as they were, they felt almost human to him. It was almost like having someone, a relative, at home constantly.

           A disembodied, artificial family member, but still family all the same.

           KAREN was honestly and probably the best thing about the suit if Peter had to pick-not that other things weren’t great- she was greater though. In a way that was a little hard to describe. She was probably the AI that felt the most human to him. KAREN was always ready to talk with him. Sassy, a little pushy, but she always listened and after advice (mostly to tell Mr. Stark) It really felt like she was attached to him and cared about him.

           It was an absurdly pleasant feeling.

           Either way the frozen waffles were plopped into the toaster regardless of FRIDAY’s and Mr. Stark’s comments. Leaving the smell to infect the kitchen with the smell of coffee and motor oil that only got stronger when Mr. Stark started brewing his own cup. Grinning at Peter when the cup was finished.

           “Just eat healthy with that hot aunt of your later yeah?” Peter gave a tight smile that could be easily misinterpreted as discomfort at the joking pass on his aunt. His body was tempted to tense and curl in at even the thought as everything he’d been ignoring bombarded his head. The coil in his chest squeezed hard enough to take his breath away, leaving him slightly dizzy. It was probably the uncertainty that what Mr. Stark had said that was freaking him out. What if he never ate with May again? What if she never forgave him? What if she just, never let him come home? Or if she just… left?

           No, May wouldn’t just abandon him… she wouldn’t?

           No. No, it was just a stupid nightmare. May had never laid a hand on him ever. She never would either. She didn’t believe in physical punishment. She wouldn’t ignore and punish him forever either. She was just frustrated. Peter could understand that. He’d always been a handful and hard to handle for a kid. She never stayed angry for long.

           Still, the fact he had no clue when he’d see her again or when they’d have their usual movie nights again. The ones when Peter had gotten a good grade or for a special occasion where they’d bring out all the blankets fresh from the dryer and set up camp. May on the recliner and Peter on the couch as they’d rotate between their choices for the night. Often falling asleep there. The scarier thoughts that dominated his head, not knowing when he was going to eat or how he’d survive should it get colder or -god forbid- stormy out. It scared him that he didn’t know. He had never quite been good with uncertainty and instability. It sent a nervous twist into his stomach.

           Yet, he smiled.

           Cause that wasn’t now, and Mr. Stark had more important things to worry about than a teen getting a well-deserved punishment and being upset about it. Besides, who knew if Mr. Stark would agree with May -she had a good point- and kick him out. Though, Mr. Stark knew the whole truth of why Peter was sneaking out. He built the suit after all.

           That didn’t mean that Mr. Stark still couldn’t be agitated with him...

           The toaste made a loud ding, startling Peter out of his thoughts. Tony quirked a brow at Peter’s sudden skittish and jumpy behavior but brushed it off. He was a teen, he’d probably been zoning out or nodding off (despite being awake doing chemistry, thought Tony had no clue how long Peter had been awake doing that). Shoving waffles in front of Peter instead of questioning him. He didn’t want a repeat of last night, no matter how odd it seemed to Tony in the light of day -how did a teen forget to eat? He remembered basically devouring the entire fridge without Peter’s metabolism as a teen- It was as much as a passage into teen hood like sleeping in.

           Then again, Peter wasn’t him. Peter was a good student and an anxious one, Peter always got nervous for tests, incessantly worrying about everything in general honestly and wasn’t in the best financial situation. Not eating as much because he was so nervous he got sick or because he didn’t want to worry May or their budget made perfect sense thinking about Peter.

           When would the kid get some kind of sense of self-preservation?

           After the kid was done practically inhaling his breakfast like it would be the last thing he ever ate -teenagers + metabolism = human garbage disposal- they got back into the lab and worked until late afternoon; when they finished the final trials of testing Peter grinned widely at him. Blue eyes practically sparkling.

           “This is so cool!!! I mean, no loss of aerodynamics and the integrity of the suit is still the same and running at equivalent power, but we’re able to store enough to power the back up with the-“ Tony watched Peter ramble and trip over his own words in his excitement, struggling to get everything he was thinking out of his mouth. Arms flailing to get his point across and expend a little more of the boisterous energy as concepts and terminology too advanced for his age passed his lips.

           God, this kid was brilliant, Tony felt a sense of great pride puff up in his chest, warm and real even though he had no credit or rights to Peter’s academic prowess or ideas (like that genius web solution, Tony was still amazed that every trial to improve it failed exponentially). Yet that is.

           Another thing they’d work on together.

           When Peter had finally ran out of breath and all of the dirty tools were cleaned and put away Tony grinned at him. “Why don’t you go give her a real test run with a patrol? But don’t stay out too late, your aunt gets worried and as much as I know it’s a weekend, I don’t want a news report of Spiderman collapsing from exhaustion alright?” The tightening in his chest was shoved away but sheer excitement. It still surprised and hurt him that even one small indirect mention made the chasm widen and spread apart his ribcage all over again. Peter grappled at the distraction Mr. Stark had presented him, nodding with a half-smile.

           He’d be fine. After all, he did to this to himself, right? He deserved it…

           If he told Aunt May he realized his faults would she bring him back? Had she heard his messages yet? Was she missing him too?  (Probably not, who would miss him anyway? All he did was cause trouble for anyone near him. Parker luck)

           Peter slipped on the suit again, the buzzing in his head quieting as he settled into the suit like a second skin. The bravery and courage having a mask gave him returning immediately and giving him a pleasant tingling feeling under his first skin. The urge to go and swing through the city scape was stronger than ever, making his heart thud in his chest. A relaxed smile lifting behind his mask.

           He was Spiderman too. Not just Peter Parker.

           Of course, he’d be fine.

           And he was off with a small fair well to Mr. Stark, crawling down the Stark Tower and flying off into the world. Watching as the skyscrapers of Manhattan bled and melted into the familiar streets of Queen with a giddy grin. The gnawing ache and guilt ebbing away for the satisfaction and purely good and heady feeling that came from helping people as Spiderman.

           But eventually even that had to end as the sun started dipping low into the sky. Mr. Stark’s warning about staying to late ringing into his ear. Peter sighed, there was also the fact he needed the light before it was dark so he could do his homework. He didn’t have much charge on his phone, nor a charger on the roof so using his phone for light wasn’t really an option.

           Wait. Shit. Wasn’t his backpack at Mr. Stark’s?

           It didn’t matter too much he guess however. His energy levels were starting to dwindle and Peter wasn’t quite sure how much he could gain back by just sleep and whatever food he could get his hands on. Not to mention passing out was disorientating and scary, not to mention Peter wouldn’t have Mr. Stark there watching over him if he passed out mid-air or some random street of New York. There would be no one to save him.

           So, Peter swung back to his hammock, feeling satisfied, but also a little hollow. It would be the first time he’d come home from patrol without his bed or one of his Aunt May’s voice telling him ‘welcome home’. He wouldn’t get a cup of hot chocolate or smell fresh sheets when he collapsed and finally fell asleep. The thoughts dispersed as soon as his feet touched the pavement of the roof however. Any adrenaline he had left drained into nothing.

           He was so tired. And it hurt too much for him to care.

           Tomorrow was another day anyway.