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decayandfanfics · 4 years ago

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The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut later.

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken. Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen.

____________________________________________________________

Chapter 2 / Chapter 3

Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.

“I need your laptop.” Shigaraki states like it’s the most natural thing to say after some moments of him watching you clean some dishes.

The apartment is full of take-out packaging over the counter and the tables. The smell of food still lingering in the living room where Toga, Magne and Twice watch some Netflix, while Mr. Compress uses the shower. Spinner and Dabi smoke outside in the balcony.

You shake your hands trying to get rid of the water on them, before turning yourself to him.

“are you going to dust it?” you ask hoping he doesn’t do it, because you can’t afford buying another one.

“It is call decaying, and no. I need to make some research.”

It was definitely the hands you think looking at his face. He’s young, maybe a year or two younger than you, maybe older. You cannot truly tell. Now that the disgusting hand lies hidden in his pocket, you feel more at ease in his company, yet you cannot stop your brain from analyzing the dry patches in his face with clinical curiosity.

You dry your hands before heading to your room, taking the laptop with you, a pencil, and a little notebook, before presenting the items to him.

“I didn’t ask you for a pencil or a notebook.” He shots you a suspicious glare.

“No, but…i assumed you could need one.” You sound unsure, but every bit trying not to cross him “I mean…I thought maybe you’ll need to write down something or…if you are doing…some research…of the sorts.” You voice dies slowly on your throat not sure if you offended him in some way. He just looks at you before inspecting the little pages, just to find some old grocery shopping list scattered inside.

“hmm…I guess you are smart.”

You take a look to your now invaded home.

This is weird in so many levels. What would you do If some hero or the police caught a bunch of villains living in your house? Would you be labeled as an accomplice?

“Are you okay?” Jin asks you to get your attention. “You look sick.”

“I’m��I…I’m just a little…surprised. That’s all.”

“She just let a bunch of murderers into her home, Twice. It’s not that difficult.” Dabi answers entering the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t be scared of us, big sister! This is going to be fun!” Toga claims from the couch.

You shrug with a sigh, trying no to read too deep on it, but you need to speak about this. Grasping all the courage you have left; you direct your attention to the leader of the merry band.

“Shigaraki-san.”

“San? Well, that’s new.” he doesn’t look at you, focus on something in the screen with a smirk plastered on his face.

You ignore his comment and try again.

"Shigaraki-san"

“hmm?”

“I-i have no problem with all of you staying. I assume this is something neither of you had planned, and I really, really don’t want to get in trouble with any of you, but…If you are going to stay, I need to stablish some…rules.”

That’s it. You are going to die now. At least you died standing your ground.

Dabi lest out a mocking sound and Spinner winces ready to see you become a pile of dust.

Shigaraki looks at you like you just said something utterly fascinating, not sure if he should laugh at your bravado, just kill you or to respect you for it, his hand already scratching softly over his neck as an amused smile curve his dry lips upward.

There was a time when he would had just lashed out at you, but since his master and Kurogiri went gone, something in him just went…calmer. It was difficult to explain, and he was barely aware of his own change, but he knew he needed to be smarter now. For his sake and everyone’s sake…

Besides, you were cooperating. Maybe you could be useful in more than one way. A valuable asset.

“…okay. Let’s say I want to hear these rules of yours.” He speaks and you can hear the danger in his tone. He’s allowing you to speak at the same time he’s threatening you indirectly. “C´mon…I’m not getting any younger.”

But you are still alive somehow, so you better spit it out soon.

“My home is clean” you begin swallowing hard “it should stay that way, that includes no smoking inside the house. I’m not asking you to clean, but to keep it like it is.”

He looks unimpressed arching a brow “that’s it? Sounds fair.”

“Second” You continue “I’ve worked hard for everything I own. Who breaks pays and I don’t want anyone taking anything from this house without my permission or prying into my stuff.”

“So, no stealing nor breaking.”

“Exactly. Third, no fights nor insults. Fourth, I’m by no means rich, so the eating must be kept in check.”

“well…aren’t you a demanding little thing?”

He stands and circles around you like a predator watching a little bunny, measuring you like you are some rarity, waiting for you to wince or retreat, but you are none the wiser. You won’t give him, any of them, the satisfaction. So, you stay put, weirdly proud in your stand, your eyes fixed in the wall in front of you.

“Tsk. Lucky you I’m not interested in taking hostages, so i guess we have a deal.”

“You seriously are going to take what she says like she’s calling the shots?” Dabi snorts.

“No. I will agree on her terms in exchange of food, bed and bathroom. Besides, her knowledge in medicine will be useful. We are trading something and she’s not asking for anything extraordinary.”

“and she’s my friend.” Twice adds merrily.

“yeah…that too.” Shigaraki states rolling his eyes, siting again in front of the laptop.

“Well. I just want you to know I don’t give a flaying fuck about your rules.” Dabi spits boringly, before storming out, a cigarette in his lips.

“Excuse Dabi, dear. He’s kinda…rough around the edges” Compress admits leaving the bathroom, freshly showered, wearing some old t-shirt and some joggers.

“Why do you have clothes that big again?” Spinner asks suspicious.

“My dad died two years ago. I still have his clothes.”

“ow…I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

“My turn! I’m dying for a bath.”

“Hey, Toga-chan…here...” you revolt one drawer in the bathroom looking for something. “I always have some spare toothbrushes. You can have one too, Compress.”

“My dear…aren’t you sweet. Thank you very much.” He winks at you.

“it’s nothing. Make yourselves comfortable, I guess… I’ll leave you the big bedroom, you’ll have to share, there are more blankets in the closet. I’m calling it for the night.”

“Leave your door open.” Shigaraki ordered.

“Shigaraki that’s inapro-“

“she could try to scape through the window.” Shigaraki cuts Toga midsentence.

Your eyes met his gaze. It made sense, really and you couldn’t blame him. Neither of you could actually trust the other, so you just nodded and retire to the spare room, thinking that if they tried to kill you, you were too tired to care. After all, is not like you would know it once you were dead.

Chapter 4

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farfromsugafanfic · 4 years ago

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Pas de Deux

Genre: Nutcracker AU, Swan Lake AU, slight Fantasy AU

Pairing: Jimin/Reader

Warnings: mild depictions of violence

Synopsis: When you were just a baby, Herr Drosselmeyer cured your feet. Becoming a dancer, some believe your ability is related to his magic. Even your dance partner, Jimin. Herr Drosselmeyer comes the Christmas Eve night before your performance in Swan Lake, a turning point in your career. After a frustrating rehearsal where you and Jimin couldn’t get the lift right, you find that the nutcracker gifted to you by Herr Drosselmeyer may be just as magical as the man himself.

Note: Hello, Tumblr! I’m Alyce and I normally write on Wattpad, but I decided to start crossposting my imagines and one shots here. And, maybe move towards making Tumblr my main platform. Bear with me as I learn how to use Tumblr. I may change up things or make some mistakes (such as the dividers in this post are likely not centered lmao. Enjoy!

✦✧✦✧

Your godfather only came into your life every few years. He always brought with him gifts from around the world, little worlds on their own. You remembered how on your eleventh birthday he brought you marzipan from Germany, alpaca wool mittens from South America, and sesame snaps from China. He had not come to visit since, although you'd heard of him throughout the years.

He'd made the emperor of Japan disappear for ten minutes. Your godfather turned sawdust into wooden planks in America. But, most famously, your godfather mended your feet.

✦✧✦✧

You were born on the night before Christmas Eve. Snowdrifts reached the eaves and your father had spent most of the day shoveling the door while your mother cried out. Her labor had begun in the early hours of the morning, but neither the doctor nor you had arrived by evening.

The doctor arrived after dark and Herr Drosselmeyer appeared just before ten o'clock. Herr Drosselmeyer rarely attended births in the village, but your mother, despite her sweaty brow and exhaustion cried out when she saw the man.

Herr Drosselmeyer rarely attended births in the village. His abilities were better suited for other matters. Yet, occasionally, a child was born that summoned the magician. Most believed that destiny controlled the man, a truly divine being on Earth. If you asked Drosselmeyer, he would say that he knew all along where he would end up, but there was always a glint in his eye that told otherwise. The man's excitement and surprise astounding even himself.

"I feel your child will dance," your future godfather said. "One of the best dancers in the land. I have no idea why such a thing should concern me." He stood in the corner of the room, his height caused the crown of his head to nearly touch the ceiling.

You were born about a half hour after Herr Drosselmeyer's arrival. Your parents relaxed as you began crying nearly immediately. Their fears that the magician's appearance meant your death or eternal ill health ceased.

"A girl," the doctor said. He cleaned you off and he brought the rag down to your feet and paused. "Herr Drosselmeyer, I believe I understand why this child requires your presence."

Your parents, the doctor, and the magician gathered around you. You already had sprigs of thick hair that stood up on your head and your eyes were wide as if you were trying to memorize the four faces in front of your own.

Your mother gasped when she saw your feet. They curled in on themselves and each toe was crooked at a different angle. You didn't seem to notice, no pain crossing your features as the doctor felt your bone structure.

"The child will certainly never walk," the doctor said. "She's lacking many bones of the foot and I suspect her muscles would never fully develop this way."

Your parents looked to the magician who looked down at you with the same interest he would study characters of an unfamiliar language. His hands replaced the doctor's, except that he placed his palm flat against your heel, the only part of your foot that appeared intact.

"Your observations were astute," he said to the doctor. "But, this child will dance one day, not just walk."

✦✧✦✧

For the first two years of your life, you're told that Herr Drosselmeyer visited you every week. He would place his palms against your heal and close his eyes. You never cried at his touch. Most of the time you simply looked up at him with wide, clear eyes.

For the first few months, he would place his hand against your tiny, slow-growing foot. No magic appeared to take place, but he told your parents he was gaining an understanding of how your bones worked. How they curled in on each other and formed intricate spirals. They were as fragile as a horse's leg, a break of one bone would mean losing all the others.

When you were five months old, it was the middle of spring and you always smiled at Herr Drosselmeyer's appearance. It was most likely because of the chorus of violins that played from the music box he'd gifted you on your first Christmas when you were just two days old. It played music whenever he arrived.

At that visit, what looked like thick, red liquid passed from Drosselmeyer's hands and wrapped around your fragile foot. There were no visible changes until you were one year old when the arch of your foot became visible. You had unusually high arches with the peak of your arch not touching the ground if you laid it flat on the ground.

As expected, you did not start walking at the usual time. You tried, your formed heels and arches allowed you to stand, but your curled toes and balls sent you toppling over whenever you tried to take your first step. Whenever this happened, your mother would rush towards you and make you promise to never try again, yet, you always did.

✦✧✦✧

Just before your second birthday, your parents took you to see the orchestra. As the music started, you sat forward in your chair, your feet kicking outwards. The horns and the flutes and the harp hypnotized you. You hardly realized when your arms swung above your head and you landed on your heels in front of your seat.

Your mother reached for you, but something stopped her as she noticed the natural way you found balance on your heels like a flamingo in water. Surely, balancing on the back of your feet was not the standard form or practice, but there was grace as you brought your left foot up above your shoulder. If you'd had toes, they would've been at a perfect point.

Herr Drosselmeyer came a few days later on your second birthday. As usual, he laid his hands against your arch and heel, the red colored magic encompassing your foot. This time the ball of your foot formed, only your toes remained at odd, crooked angles.

After his treatment, he presented you with the first present you remember receiving. He'd wrapped it in a petite box and it was wrapped in a silk cloth. You opened the box and unwrapped the cloth to reveal a wooden nutcracker.

The nutcracker was about a foot tall. He wore a green colored uniform and black tufts of hair stuck out from beneath his soldier's cap. You looked at his wooden skin and blue eyes, not having the vocabulary to explain how beautiful you thought he was. That night, your mother placed him on your vanity and he stood guard over your bed for the years to come.

✦✧✦✧

Jimin's hands touched your waist as he lifted you higher than you could jump during the first lift of the pas de deux. The move was simple. Jimin holding your waist and lifting you as you lifted your legs in a flowing motion You'd completed it plenty of times with other dancers. Yet, every time his hands brushed your waist, you landed hard on the heel of your foot, occasionally feeling your knee knock, threatening dislocation.

"Damn it, Y/N," Jimin said, "if we can't do this how are we going to dance at all." He ran his hand through his hair. "You need to get a hold of yourself. Focus on the landing."

You scoffed. "I am! You're holding me too tightly!" To prove him wrong, you performed the move on your own, leaping in the air with your legs out in front of you. You landed on your right foot and performed a pirouette only to show that it couldn't possibly be you.

"Your shoes don't even fit right," he said, gesturing down to your ill-fitting pointe shoes. "That's probably causing all of this."

You stayed silent, knowing that he brought up a solid point. Every night you soaked your bruised, raw feet in warm water and soothing salts, sometimes falling asleep in the chair. Pointe shoes needed to fit well, if not for the quality of the dance than to spare the dancer's feet. Every ballerina knew the perils of aching feet and blisters, but non-fitting pointe shoes only made them worse.

"I'm working on it," you said, sitting down beside him and doing some stretches. "You know it's not exactly easy finding shoes that fit."

While your godfather mended your feet by the time you turned four and could begin ballet, pointe shoes never fit completely right. Sometimes, when you pushed yourself too far during practice, you'd see your toes curl inward and you'd feel panic rise in your chest until you were able to extend them on your own.

Jimin didn't say anything more, but you suspected he didn't quite believe you. All of your fellow dancers knew of Herr Drosselmeyer and how he had fixed your feet. Some believed that he was the one who was responsible for your talent, your grace. That when he mended your feet he'd somehow infused an inherent gift for ballet.

You weren't sure where Jimin stood on the rumors. While you were certain that he held some resentment for you, he'd never contested you gaining the lead opposite him in Swan Lake.

"Let's start from the beginning," you said. "We have to get the pas de deux right." You stood up and took the beginning stance, waiting for Jimin to join you. This was the moment that the audience realized that Prince Seigfried is being deceived when Odile is introduced, when the true reality of the story begins to unfold. What starts as a love story becomes a tragedy.

He stood across the room from you and the music started. You bounded towards each other as the choreography dictated. Everything went smoothly as you approached the first lift. Jimin's hands came to your waist and the move was completed. Yet, you still came down a bit too hard on your feet. While you should vary the technique to play the black swan, hinting to the audience the difference in character. Even so, your technique should still be good. You should still appear graceful and lithe like a swan, not coming down too hard on your feet.

"Fuck," you said, leaning down to massage your feet through your slippers. You tied them tighter and adjusted the fit. "Let's go again."

The music started and you ran towards each other again. The familiar feel of Jimin's hands on your waist and the gentle grip as he lifted you in the air. You landed softer this time, albeit it not with complete grace.

"Opening night is in two days, Y/N."

"You don't think I know that?" You sighed and unfurled your hair from its tight bun. "This is the most important dance of the entire ballet. I understand the stakes, Jimin."

Ballet was about pushing your body to its limits. Feeling like your entire body would snap back like a rubber band, your vision going fuzzy because you felt dizzy from turning so many times, your knees constantly bruised. You were going to get this right, get over whatever was causing you not to land a simple lift. You tied your hair back up, tighter this time and glanced over to Jimin.

"Let's practice the other lifts," you said. "We need to make sure we have them all." He nodded as the two of you took your places on opposite sides of the room. You still landed a little shaky on the first lift, but it was getting better. The two subsequent lifts were simpler and you and Jimin completed them without issue.

Yet, the rest of the lifts were more complicated. As you danced on your own while Jimin rounded the room, you dreaded the next one, the one where he lifts you high with his arms completely extended. You needed to have enough force on your jump or else Jimin's arms would wobble. While you required his arms to stabilize you, you were responsible for a majority of the lift.

You leaped into the air with Jimin's hands on your waist, feeling his grip tighten as you reached the peak of your jump and extended your leg outward. As the descent started, you began to shake and Jimin's fingers loosened, sending you tumbling down on top of him.

His chest rose against yours as he huffed and grabbed onto your shoulders and rolling you off of him. Jimin sat up and rested his weight against his palms. "You can't be serious," he said. "I don't think you're ready for this. We'll have to bring in the understudy."

You sat up and met his eyes. "No," you said. "I'll get it. Maybe I just need to eat something." Your limbs were still shaking and you had practiced all day, not remembering when you last ate.

"I do believe I can be of assistance then," a voice said. Your eyes lit up as you stood up and run over to your godfather who stood at the edge of the studio as if he had suddenly materialized in the space without knowing himself.

He carried a bag on his shoulder like he always did and he let it slip off his shoulder as you hugged him. Your godfather always felt a little magical, like touching him would transport you to another world.

"I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow," you said, thinking of the pre-debut/ birthday party you were holding for all the dancers.

"I felt the urge to come a bit early." Herr Drosselmeyer reached into his bag and pulled out a parfait topped with fruits you'd never seen before. "I know it's not my normal treats, but I know you need to eat well before the debut performance."

You nodded and took the lid off the parfait before you felt a gaze on your back. "Oh, Herr Drosselmeyer, this is my partner for the production, Park Jimin."

He approached and your godfather held out his hand. Jimin reached for it hesitantly and shook it. You could see the way Jimin raked his eyes over the other man, having only heard of his myths and never seen the man.

"You two look tired. I won't keep you too long as I'm sure you still have a lot of practicing to do."

"Yes," Jimin said. "We do."

You caught the glass shards in his voice and knew Herr Drosselmeyer did as well. His eyebrow arched in curiosity and his fingers twitched.

"I'll take my leave then. I will see you at your birthday party tomorrow and I look forward to the show." Your godfather left with the wind, you and Jimin blinked as he faded from your view.

You momentarily forgot about your dance partner as you once again grew used to the nearly empty dance studio. Drosselmeyer could make the dustiest rooms turn into fantastical wonderlands.

"Y/N? Are you ready to start again?"

You looked back and met Jimin's eyes which were surprisingly soft. He never normally looked at you like that and it made a spark run down your spine.

✦✧✦✧

"Your guests will be here soon. Are you sure you want to do this now?" your mother asked, pouring the salts and herbs into hot water.

"I have to," you said. "I don't think I'll walk otherwise." Slowly, you lowered your feet into the tub and relaxed as the water stung your red, raw toes.

"Will be okay for the performance tomorrow?"

"Of course," you said. "And, if I'm not, I'll figure it out. Maybe Herr Drosselmeyer can help."

Part of you didn't want to use Drosselmeyer's magic to ease your pain, only giving into the rumors that he was the only reason for your success.

Your mother nodded. "I'll come get you when everyone's here." She left the room with her frown lines becoming permanently etched in her forehead.

When the door shut, your shoulders relaxed and you allowed yourself to enjoy the pleasant hum of the salts and herbs on your muscles. Your eyes wandered to your vanity which held all of your jewels and trinkets for the performance. White feather hair clips for the white swan and a black diadem with a large diamond that dripped onto your forehead when you became the black swan. Eventually, on the opposite end of the vanity sat your wooden nutcracker.

He was turned slightly towards you. He still looked the same as when Herr Drosselmeyer had first given him to you. The green uniform still the color of evergreen trees in winter and his dark hair hadn't fallen out, even when you'd attempted to brush it when you were five.

"Nutcracker," you said. "Will you bring me good luck?"

As always, the nutcracker didn't respond, but something about the juxtaposition of his rigid stance and soft eyes always made you feel at ease. You failed to notice the small difference. The painted ring around the black pupil was no longer the vibrant blue, but the same shade of brown as the vanity itself.

"I don't know why I can't get the lifts," you said. "Maybe I really am a fraud. Maybe I'm only good at this because of Drosselmeyer's magic." Your head came to rest in your hands. "It's too late to give up the part, Nutcracker. What am I going to do?"

The nutcracker watched as you fell asleep with your feet submerged and your head having fallen to rest on your pillow. Inside the tub, your toes curled backward and your heel shifted positions before going back to normal. You seemed to feel no pain as your slumber continued. That, or you were simply used to it.

✦✧✦✧

"Y/N," your mother said. "Your guests have arrived."

You shot up, not realizing you had fallen asleep. Taking your feet out of the water you attempted to stand up, immediately falling onto the wood floor.

"Y/N!" Your mother's hands were on your shoulders and pulling you back up. "You know you can't stand right out of the tub." She helped you sit back on your bed as your feet throbbed back to life. Carefully, you slipped your feet into your clunky boots, which you wore when outside of your ballet slippers. They were heavy, but provided you the extra support to maintain your feet for the performance.

By the time you got down the stairs, you'd gained control and no one could tell you'd been so unsteady on your feet. Your friends, fellow dancers, and family each wished you a happy birthday and good luck on the performance. Hors d'oeuvres were passed around: chocolate-covered strawberries, peanut brittle, and frothy, fruit drinks. You couldn't stomach any of them.

"Have you see Jimin?" someone asked. You shook your head, realizing you hadn't seen your partner. While the two of you had practiced into the early hours of the morning and he'd seemed somewhat frustrated with you, you hadn't expected him to miss the party. Your brow furrowed in curiosity.

Before you could wonder further, all the room's eyes turned to the doorway as music played. You recognized the familiar sound of violins indicating Drosselmeyer's arrival. You smiled.

The crowd gasped as two life-size dolls walked through the door. They were dressed in the costumes you and Jimin would wear during the pas de deux. You watched as they performed the dance that you and Jimin could not, executing the lifts without issue.

Halfway through the doll that represented you, disappeared down the hall, just as you would dance backstage. When the doll re-emerged, the costume had shifted from Odile's black, to Odette's white. The partygoers oohed and ahhed, all taken with the two dolls. Your brow furrowed again.

✦✧✦✧

The festivities ended and the exhaustion settled into your limbs. Climbing the stairs to your room, a chill came over you. You sighed, opening the door to your room.

Inside, your things lay ransacked. Clothes strewn around the room, your bed covers lay on the floor, necklaces broken with their pearls spread out across the room. Everything on your vanity was missing, except for the nutcracker. The little soldier had fallen on his side and you grabbed his hat and gently stood him back up.

"Attack!" A shout rang out with the nutcracker still in your grasp. You fell backward, the nutcracker tumbling with you.

✦✧✦✧

When you opened your eyes, you were sprawled on the wood of your bedroom floor. But it was not your bedroom that surrounded you. Tall pine trees erupted from the ground beneath your back and snow seeped through the cloth of your dress. You shudder as the cold reached your skin, causing you to sit up.

"Stay down."

Your back hit the snow.

You turned to see Jimin standing above you, a sword at his hip and wearing a soldier's uniform. The uniform was a little big. The sleeves ended just below the wrist and the coat dwarfed his hips, even the hat lay lopsided.

It was then you saw the brightly colored gumdrop come towards you. It landed with a loud bang a few yards away, snow and pine needles flying into the area. The ground shook beneath you and you spotted all the soldiers in the distance. Gingerbread men?

"Y/N?" Jimin's voice was hushed as if the two of you were hidden. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," you said. "Where are we?"

"I don't know."

The gingerbread soldiers drew closer and you spotted another army in the distance. This one made of rats who stood on two legs. At the back of their convoy, the king sat on a palanquin, looking as if he were sailing on a sea of his soldiers.

Swords clashed. You stood up, ready to run. Only to tumble back down into the snow. You knew your feet were failing you and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

"Jimin, I can't run."

His dark eyes met yours and it was then you recognized them. They were the eyes of the nutcracker from the night before, looking at you and begging you to notice.

"It's okay," he said, drawing the sword from his belt. He held it awkwardly in his hand and his palm barely wrapped around the girth of the hilt. "It's just like dancing."

A rock sat in your stomach as you watched your dance partner stand in front of you with the tip of the sword pointed diagonally towards the snow.

Before any words of protest could come out of your mouth, the fight began. Jimin's sword clashing with a gingerbread soldier's. Another soldier approached you and you kicked at him, knocking it to the ground. Using the strength you had, you brought your feet down on the cookie's chest, breaking it in half.

With your attacker no longer a threat, you turned to find Jimin still clashing swords with the gingerbread soldier. The cookie had taken a few hits, frosting leaking from his wounds. Jimin's sword swung and sliced off the soldier's right arm. The candy sword falling to into the snow, turning it a faint pink. With one final swipe, the soldier crumbled.

Hope swelled in your heart at his first success. You shuffled your legs, trying to stand up. You couldn't feel your feet, as if they were frozen.

Just past Jimin, the rat soldiers battled the gingerbread men. The rats devoured the soldiers until they were crumbs in the snow. At first, you believe the rats would provide a reprieve. They decimated the gingerbread soldiers with ease.

Your hopes were dashed as one of the rats swung at Jimin, cutting through the fabric of his shirt. His shoulder staining a deep red. You noticed the small golden crown sitting on the rat's head. The Rat King.

"Jimin!" You tried your best to stand, making it to your feet for a few seconds before falling over again. This time you landed on your stomach and you crawled towards the battlefield. While your feet certainly hurt often and caused you to fall, you'd never experienced this.

What did the Rat King want with Jimin? The two of you suddenly thrust into the fight. Although, it was

At the call of his name, Jimin looked back at you, causing the rat to slice at him again. The slice hit his chest this time, more blood seeping through the deep green uniform. He fell to his knees and the rat raised his sword above his ears.

"No!" You twisted to sit straight in the snow and you unlaced your boot as quickly as you could. Your fingers were stiff and wet, but you managed to untie the lace of your right boot and fling it at the Rat King.

The heavy leather boot hit the King's head, knocking off his crown. It took a few moments, but the Rat King fell back in the snow. Red stained the snow around him, but his whiskers still twitched.

Jimin--despite his injured form--took the opportunity and picked up the sword and brought it down swiftly. The Rat King was dead.

✦✧✦✧

The rest of the rats retreated after their king was killed. While the feeling in your feet hadn't returned, you shuffled on your knees to Jimin. He'd collapsed on his back and his chest rose and fell quickly.

"Hey," you said. "Steady your breaths. Come on, like you do when you dance. Count." You started counting and following the beat as you examined the cuts. The one on his shoulder was mostly superficial and the bleeding already slowing. Blood still flowed from the one across his chest and you pulled up his shirt to see it was much deeper than it looked.

You bit your lip, not sure where to start. While you were in a pine forest covered with snow, your bedroom was still beneath you. If it was still in its ransacked state, you knew you could easily find something to stop the bleeding. Digging through the snow, your hand eventually landed on fabric and you pulled it up.

It was the white swan costume. While the outside was covered in beading and feathers, the inside was soft silk. You turned it inside out and held it firmly against your lap, ready to rip the fabric when Jimin's hand grabbed your wrist.

"No," he said, his voice labored and sweat sticking to the ends of his hair. "You need that for tomorrow."

"Jimin, I need you for tomorrow."

You winced as you heard a ripping sound. You'd managed to remove half the lining. Pressing it down on Jimin's wound, it immediately became soaked.

"Y/N," he said. "I'm sorry."

You paused, meeting his eyes.

"For what?"

"For not believing you."

You shook your head. "Forget it, Jimin," you said. "You're going to die if I don't stop the bleeding."

"I don't even think this is real. One minute I'm going to bed and the next I'm your nutcracker. And, then I'm battling gingerbread men and mice. Y/N, do you think it's him?"

He didn't need to clarify for you to know who he meant. Herr Drosselmeyer. While you hadn't had time to stop and think about how you ended up here, the only explanation was magic. And when there was magic in your life, it always traced back to your godfather.

"I don't know."

The fabric was saturated now and blood covered your hands. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, knowing there was nothing more you could do. Even if he didn't say anything, Jimin faded fast. His eyelids drooped and sweat mixed with blood.

"Jimin, you can't leave me like this," you said. "We're going to debut tomorrow. We're going to get all the lifts right. We'll get a standing ovation. They'll pick up our production for a world tour. You can't die. Jimin, please."

"Y/N, stop." He placed his hands over your own. "It's okay. Everything will be okay. You're going to do great tomorrow." His breaths slowed and your own picked up.

"No, no, Jimin. I can't let this happen."

"Shhh." His hand came to your cheek. "It's like the end of the show. Just don't jump in after me, okay?"

His eyes closed. His breathing stopped. And the feeling and your feet came back.

✦✧✦✧

"What is this, child?"

You lifted your head. You'd stayed on your knees by Jimin's side, your head resting on his chest. Tear tracks stained your face and your eyes red. A woman stood above you. Her bright red hair contrasted with the purple ball gown she wore.

"What happened, my sweet?"

"The gingerbread soldiers and the rat king and I couldn't run--"

The woman smiled. "You have no reason to cry. Valiant death is always rewarded." She crouched down beside you and Jimin. She held out something and you soon noticed it was a small, round plum. "Split it between the two of you."

The woman disappeared when you blinked, much like how Drosselmeyer was prone to do. You looked down at the small fruit and bit into it. The purple juice ran down your chin and it tasted like sweeter than any other plum.

Swallowing, you place the other half in Jimin's mouth. You weren't sure how it was supposed to work, but after his mouth closed around the fruit. The world spun.

The snow swirled around you and you held onto Jimin's shoulders to keep from feeling dizzy. Somehow, you'd ended up on your feet, with the feeling of nothing solid between them. You closed your eyes and felt as Jimin's hands gripped your waist.

The world turned from pine trees and snow to the more familiar setting of a dance studio. It wasn't your usual studio though. The floors were perfectly waxed and there were no dents from when Jimin dropped you.

"Jimin?" you asked, feeling his grip tighten around you.

"I'm here."

Your feet touched down on the floor. It felt odd and you looked down to see black ballet slippers tied around your ankles. In fact, you were perfectly dressed as the black swan and you noticed that Jimin was in his matching outfit for the pas de deux.

"Dance for me," the woman's voice sounded. The music from the ballet played, no orchestra in sight.

You and Jimin exchanged a glance before taking your places and beginning the dance. Hesitance bubbled in your stomach as you ran for the lift, feeling Jimin's hands take hold of you immediately. This time he did not let you drop, nor did you lose your focus or form.

When he placed your feet back on the ground, you threw your arms around him. He reciprocated and the music without a source stopped. No more voices sounded, no more soldiers came out of the woodwork, Jimin no longer felt rigid.

Your feet lifted off the ground as the world shifted again. Jimin's lips connected with yours at the same moment. You weren't sure if the dizziness you felt was from the spinning or the kiss as he pulled away and your feet once again touched solid ground.

✦✧✦✧

You cradled a bouquet of roses in your arm as you came off stage. You couldn't stop smiling, even as the cold air rushed in from where families entered to greet the dancers.

Jimin wasn't far behind you and you soon felt his touch on your lower back. His touch had become so familiar now, nearly as much as your own.

"You did well out there," he said. "I don't think you missed a step."

"I think you made the audience cry at the end. Everyone believed you sacrificed yourself for a trick, for love."

Jimin's lips perked up at the ends. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"You'd jump into a lake for me? Even if it meant dying?"

"Absolutely."

#bts imagines #bts fanfic #jimin #jimin fanfic #bts fanfction #bts fan fiction #park jimin #bts jimin #bts au fanfic #bts au fic #farfromsuga #originally posted on wattpad #bts #bts black swan

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twinkle-320 · 5 years ago

Text

Mommy-to-be

Pairing: Drake x MC (Riley Nevin Walker)

A/N: I wrote this for something fun and lighthearted. I am currently working on a TRR AU that has me stuck and feeling sad so I needed some fluff in my life. Baby showers are perfect for fluff.

Warnings: Language

Word Count: 2513

Tag list: @kingliam2019 @batgirlassociationofgothamcity (If you only wanted to be tagged for mood boards, let me know.)

Rain pelted against the glass ceiling of the solarium in Valtoria, where Riley sat surrounded by her friends trying to keep up with their chatter.

“It should definitely be an apple theme,” Hana said in her usual calm, gentle tone.

“Oh please,” Olivia scoffed. “Practically every woman in Cordonia has a ridiculous apple themed baby shower. At least try to be original.”

“Well, do you have any ideas?”

“I think...”

“Don’t say knives,” Savannah interjected.

“Don’t be such a simpleton. I was going to say axes...you could make that work with apples if you must.”

“How about we ask Riley what she wants...it’s her shower,” Savannah suggested.

All eyes turned to Riley, who was staring out at the rain, lost in thought. Olivia snapped her fingers practically right in Riley’s face. “Riley...earth to Riley...are you still with us or did the baby get the last of your brain?”

“Hmm...what? I’m sorry, what were you asking?”

“Themes,” Hana said. “For your shower.”

“Yes, because that’s what good ‘friends’ do, we ask you to plan your own shower,” Olivia quipped.

“Oh, umm...well, I love Disney,” Riley said.

Olivia looked at her disgusted. “Disney? That god awful amusement park with the oversized rat and screaming demon children? Sure, that would definitely be better than axes.”

Savannah rolled her eyes at Olivia. “Disney could be cute and if Riley likes it, that’s what important.”

“Guys, I’ll be fine with any theme you want, really. My only request is that we have games.”

“You Americans and your games,” Olivia scoffed.

“Games and Disney. Don’t worry, Riley...we’ve got this. It will be perfect,” Hana assured her.

—————————

As Riley inched closer and closer to her October due date, the day of her shower finally arrived. Everything had been planned with her knowledge so she could be prepared. It wouldn’t due to have a Duchess show up to her own shower in leggings and a hoodie. Select members of the press would be in attendance and a photo shoot was planned. Hana had helped Riley select an elegant, ivory lace maxi dress that perfectly hugged her bump. Her hair cascaded down her back in elegant waves and she wore rose gold flip flops to accommodate her swollen feet.

When Riley stepped into the gardens behind the estate, she was in awe. Soft pastels of pink, blue, green, and yellow accented the clean white color pallet. There was a giant balloon arch featuring all the colors set up over the dessert table. Hana had worked with a local baker on not one, but two perfect cakes. One was a two-tier cake in soft pinks and blues with Mickey and Minnie accents. The other was a nod to Riley’s favorite princess; a small replica of Cinderella’s coach also done in pink and blue. Elements of Disney were subtle and tasteful including Mickey silhouettes made of branches, vines, and flowers. Each table was named after a Disney character and featured lush centerpieces with hidden Mickey’s, lanterns with glittery rose gold Mickey heads hand-painted on the glass, and a Disney story book for those at the table to sign as a guest book. With over twenty tables, all the books would be the perfect start to a baby library. Tears sprang to her eyes as she took in the beautiful work her friends had done. All that was needed now was for the guests to arrive.

—————————

Drake spent the morning working in the nursery away from the hustle and bustle of party set-up. Once her classes had wrapped for the semester, Riley finally settled on decor and gave Drake a to do list a mile long. Rustic woodland animals was the chosen theme. Riley thought it would be easy to add to after the baby arrived; floral elements if it was a girl or more woodsy elements if it was a boy. The walls were a soft ecru with an accent wall done in reclaimed barn wood. When Drake finished assembling the simple white crib Riley had chosen, he moved it into position against the wood wall and admired his efforts. In his pocket, his phone chimed, alerting him it was time to get ready for the party.

Once he was showered and changed, he headed to the gardens and found Riley standing over the dessert table. Sneaking up behind her, he wrapped his arms around her and her growing belly. “Lay off the cookies, Nevin. Those are for the guests.”

Riley jumped and giggled. “Cookies weren’t my idea, Drake...Bean wants one.”

“Just like Bean wanted ice cream and s’mores last night?”

Riley turned in his arms and wrapped her arms around his neck. “This little one has a sweet tooth, what can I say.”

“Like mama, like baby,” Drake laughed. “So, this looks pretty awesome out here,” he said, turning to take in the set-up.

“Right?!?” Riley exclaimed. “It’s fucking amazing.”

“Duchess Riley...language!”

Riley turned in the direction of the voice scolding her and wasn’t surprised to see Bertrand and Savannah approaching with their arms full of gifts.

“Holy shit guys, did you buy out the store?”

“You just can’t stop yourself, can you?” Bertrand asked.

Riley shrugged. “Nope. And no one’s here yet to hear me so stop fretting, Bertrand. Drake, don’t just stand there...help your sister,” she said, nudging him forward. Once the gifts were safely placed on the gift table, the group stood together chatting as other guests slowly started arriving.

“You and Hana did an amazing job,” Riley said to a beaming Savannah.

“I thought Liv helped too?” Drake asked.

“She did...a little,” Savannah replied.

Riley laughed. “Should I be looking for hidden daggers in addition to the hidden Mickey’s?”

“No, we managed to keep daggers out of the decor. She had proposed a sword wielding Mickey ice sculpture but thankfully the sculptor refused for trademark reasons. We ended up putting her in charge of the food.”

“Great,” Drake groaned. “Can’t wait to see what kind of fancy crap she planned.”

Bertrand groaned and shook his head, looking like his head was about to explode. Savannah wisely took his hand and led him away to their table.

Ana de Luca quickly took their place at the happy couple’s side and ushered them deeper in to the garden for a quick photo shoot and interview before the festivities began. Riley was able to approve the digital proofs on the spot and an elegant black and white of her cradling her belly was chosen for the Trend cover.

When they arrived back at the party, nearly all the guests had arrived and things were in full swing. Drake was pleasantly surprised to see the buffet spread of comfort foods. There was a carving station with whole roasted chickens and herb crusted filet, and sides of garlic mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and steamed vegetables. Olivia’s personal touch was obvious due to the chefs wielding larger than necessary ornate knives for carving.

Hana was the perfect hostess, keeping things orderly as each table took their turn through the buffet. As guests filled their plates, she announced the first game...a Disney match game matching Disney characters to their parents. There was a print out at each place setting and guests could complete it at their leisure to turn in by the end of the meal.

Riley had taken a plate with a little bit of everything and promptly ignored it while she turned to the game with hyper focus.

“Nevin...are you gonna eat?”

“Huh...oh, yeah, I will. I just wanna get this done first.”

“Are you even allowed to play the games at your own shower?”

“Of course I am, silly!”

When the meal was over, Hana had everyones game sheet and tallied the answers. “And the winner is...Duchess Riley,” she announced to the crowd.

Most in attendance cheered or applauded politely but Riley heard the groans among her friends at her table.

Guests took the opportunity to mingle while Hana got set-up for baby shower bingo. Mingling was the perfect opportunity for the ongoing game of “Don’t say baby”. Each guest was given three clothes pins when they arrived. If they said the word baby at any point in a conversation, someone could steal one of their pins. Whoever had the most pins at the end would win a prize.

When Hana called for everyone to take their seats, Riley returned to her table with at least twenty-five pins clipped to the ruffle of her dress. Savannah and Maxwell sat giggling while Olivia rolled her eyes. “Really, Riley...you can’t be serious? You’re competitive nature is occasionally admirable but this is bordering on ridiculous,” Olivia sneered.

“What?” Riley said sheepishly. “People can’t help saying baby to the pregnant lady, that’s not my fault!”

“I somehow doubt it was as simple as that.”

“Well, I may have practiced saying nothing but Bean or infant for the last week but still...I won these pins fair and square.”

After everyone had a chance to fill out their bingo boards with baby items, Hana began calling out items at random. It only took seven items before Riley was on her feet, holding her belly while she jumped up and down yelling ‘bingo’. The groans that had been contained to her friends earlier now rippled through the other guests. Olivia forcefully grabbed the bingo board as Hana made her way to the table.

“Riley...I um...I think maybe you should give someone else a chance to win the game prizes,” Hana whispered hesitantly.

“But...”

“Blossom, Hana’s right,” Max said gently.

“For once, I agree with these fools,” Olivia interjected, still clutching Riley’s game board.

Riley pouted as Drake put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “You and Bean get to leave with all the presents, let the guests have the prizes, Nevin.”

“Ok, fine,” she conceded.

Hana turned back to the crowd. “Duchess Riley has graciously forfeited her win so we’ll continue with this round.”

Two items later, Liam stood and called out Bingo.

“You’re welcome,” Riley whispered as Hana handed Liam one of the bottles of whiskey Drake had selected as ‘manly’ prizes. Liam smiled at her affectionately and laughed.

Two rounds later, Kiara and Emmeline had each won a prize and Hana announced it was time for presents.

Riley sat on a throne decorated with vines and flowers with gifts piled all around her. She took care to read each card and announce the gift giver and show her appreciation. There was everything from the simple: blankets, layettes, and plush toys; to the extravagant: tiaras, crowns, scepters, and crystal rattles. It felt endless and overwhelming in the best way possible. Riley was sure she had opened something from everyone in attendance but there was still a large pile unopened.

“These are from your family,” Hana explained. “Since they’re visiting when the baby arrives, they couldn’t make it today but they sent these over.”

Riley resisted the urge to steal one of Hana’s pins as she smiled gratefully at her. Her heart swelled with each gift she opened; her family knew her so well. There was a baby book that matched her woodland theme that had pages already filled in for her side of the family tree, complete with photos and memories about her mom, whom Bean would only know through stories. Riley felt the tears pricking at her eyes and they finally broke free when she opened a blanket that her dad had custom made out of some of her mom’s clothes. He took care to chose the softest sweaters in colors that would compliment the nursery. It was the closest Bean would come to feeling the embrace of their grandmother and it took everything in Riley not to ugly cry.

After a minute to compose herself, she moved on to the next gift. It was from Drew. The card said that he wanted to get something just for her because he knew that Bean would be getting more than enough. When Riley opened the box she began to giggle through her tears; it was just the humor that she needed.

“What is it?” Drake asked.

“I’m not sure I should show it to everyone,” Riley laughed. “There doesn’t need to be a picture of this in Trend.”

“Just show us then, Blossom.”

Riley’s friends moved behind her and she lifted out a t-shirt with the front facing away from the guests. It was red with short sleeves and in bold white print it read ‘I’m a drop the F-bomb kind of Mom’.

There was laughter among her friends as Liam said, “Well your brother certainly seems to know you well.”

“Is that really the kind of thing you should be advertising?” Hana gasped.

“I see no problem with it,” Olivia stated matter-of-factly.

“It’s definitely funny, but Nevin’s gonna be watching her language once Bean arrives.”

Riley dropped the shirt and turned to Drake with her mouth agape. “Do you know me at all?” she exclaimed.

“Come on, Nevin. You don’t want him or her copying you.”

“Bean will just have to learn what I did growing up...do as I say, not as I do; no copying Mommy.”

“I hope its that easy, Nevin.”

“It will be,” she assured him as she pulled him down for a kiss.

With the last of the presents opened, guests were invited to enjoy the dessert table and the party began to wind down. Gladys and a few members of the staff started taking the presents in to the nursery and Riley made a beeline for the cookies she had been eyeing.

As the sun started to get low in the sky, they said their goodbyes and made their way into the estate.

“Why don’t you go up and get comfortable...I’ll make us some popcorn and we’ll watch a movie,” Drake suggested.

“Sounds perfect.”

When Drake finally got upstairs, he found Riley standing in the doorway of the nursery, clutching the blanket from her dad to her chest. “You okay, Nevin?”

Riley nodded and wiped away a stray tear. “I just can’t wait to hold our baby, Drake, and...and I hope I’m a good mom.”

“You’re gonna be a great mom, Nevin. An amazing fucking mom.”

Riley turned to him with a big smile on her face. “Ssshhhh, language Daddy.”

“You’re a piece of work.”

“I am,” she shrugged. “But you love it.”

“Damn right, I do,” he said as he pulled her into a passionate kiss and guided her to their room.

Exhaustion took over and Riley was a sleep in minutes. Drake ate the popcorn and watched Riley’s chest gently rise and fall as he rubbed her belly. “Hurry up and get here Bean, we can’t wait to meet you.”

The once grumpy commoner felt the last of his walls break down when his loving words were rewarded with a kick. Everything he never knew he wanted was right there in his arms...a family of his own to love and protect; all because he walked into her bar.

#drake x mc #trh #trh baby #trr mc #fluff #just for fun

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inspired-by-the-music · 5 years ago

Text

For You: 4 O’Clock

Chapter 3: Secrecy

Taglist: @jineunwootrash

I walked downstairs with the reasons why I shouldn’t be required to attend Donghae’s birthday party pressed on the tip of my tongue.

The Reasons:

I saw Donghae so often that seeing him for a split second at a work party (where he would dash from guest to guest) seemed kind of ridiculous

SuperM was setting out on a world tour at daybreak, and I couldn’t afford to lose hours of sleep. My face was already swollen, drowsy from staying up all night playing Truth or Dare with the guys.

I was still working on the third reason, but it would probably be something along the lines of “What’s the point in going to a birthday party if I can’t even eat cake because of this stupid diet?”

I didn’t get to voice any of my reasons to convince Mom to let me stay home, though, because I dropped my jaw on the floor when I found her sitting on the living room couch. She was still wearing the red tracksuit she wore when she drove me home from the campsite. She wore a pale green clay mask.

“What are you doing?” I checked my phone because if Mom was laying around, I must have been mistaken about the time. Nope, the screen said, I was right. “Donghae’s party starts in 30 minutes.”

She joked, “Oh, you don’t like my outfit?” before registering my unamused expression. “I’m not going, Lei. I’m sick.” She forced the least convincing fake laugh of all time, and I rolled my eyes. How gullible did she think I was?

“Fine.” I plopped down onto the couch next to her, saying, “Then I’m sick, too.” I didn’t go so far as to fake a cough, but I doubt she would have been convinced even if I had been truly unwell.

“Oh, no.” Mom kicked me off of the couch with her (mismatched) socked feet. “You used your fake flu excuse to get out of ‘Knowing Bros’—”

My entire body cringed at the mention of Heechul’s variety show. I loved Heechul, but that show— with great effort, I had managed to have a successful career without appearing on a single episode, and I planned to keep it that way.

“You need to go to Donghae’s party, anyway.” Mom lectured with facts I already knew well: “He’s never been anything but kind to you, so grab his present off the kitchen table. There’s a car outside waiting for you.”

Just to be clear: I wasn’t trying to weasel out of going to the party because I didn’t want to see Donghae or celebrate his birthday. I never would have said this out loud for fear of sounding like a total freak, but I really, really hated work parties. Although the atmosphere was always uncomfortably formal, even for birthday parties, boys (namely, Sehun) tried to blur the lines in strictly professional relationships.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so bothered. Maybe I should have tried to understand that they were grasping at romance the only ways they could— even if it was a fake, pseudo-romance explored in the shadows of an S.M. banquet hall. But I was bothered, and I didn’t understand, and I didn’t want to go.

And, more pressingly, I didn’t want to see Taemin again. Except I did. Just not so soon, and not before I could figure out how to thank him for his jacket. Not before I understood why I wanted him to smile (the real smile) at me. Not before I understood why he wanted my ribbon.

Wanting to avoid Taemin wasn’t just cowardly; it was impractical, considering that I would have to see him every day for the next few months on our North American tour. I would have to face him sooner or later, talk to him sooner or later, and there was no point in delaying our next conversation.

I opened my mouth to complain— or least to ask how I was supposed to get home after the party— but Mom had turned her attention back to the paperwork in her lap. Maybe she was genuinely too busy to go to the party, even though it was for work, even though it was hosted on Donghae’s behalf. I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to ask if she was still avoiding Donghae.

I felt like the longer I stayed with her, the likelier I was to ask if she was the idol who never debuted. I didn’t see what good could come from asking, so I ran out of the room, grabbed the small wrapped gift from the table, and crawled into the back seat of the company car in the driveway.

“Damn, Lei,” Lucas whistled when he found me in the corner of the banquet hall where the light didn’t quite reach. “You look good!”

When he tried to pull me into a hug, I swatted him away. “This is why we have dating rumors, Lucas,” I scolded, knowing that he would shrug my concerns away while laughing.

Lucas’s eternal smile broadened as he teased, “If anyone figures out where Taemin got his bracelet, your dating rumors won’t center around me anymore.”

The only comfort was knowing that even if my blush broke through my makeup, Lucas wouldn’t have been able to see it in the dim lighting. “Stop saying that. There’s nothing like that there.”

“That’s what you keep saying.” Lucas raised a disposable red cup to his lips, so his next words were muffled. “But that dimple in your chin— the one that only deepens when you lie— says otherwise.”

Cupping a hand over my chin, I hissed, “There is no dimple!”

Lucas laughed at my reaction, and I realized that he was just messing with me. While these dating rumors were my greatest source of stress, they were just another thing for him to laugh about. I never wanted to be the reason Lucas’s laughter died, so I had to learn to play along.

This was the issue: Lucas understood my point of view; he just didn’t share it, and I couldn’t force him to.

Once he realized that I couldn’t force laughter, Lucas tried to get our conversation back on track. “Anyway, you called me over here to talk about Mom and Donghae. Does that mean there are updates?”

I shrugged and shuffled closer to him so I didn’t have to speak louder than absolutely necessary. “I still don’t know why she’s avoiding Donghae, but she didn’t come to the party—”

My attempts at secrecy were thwarted when Lucas repeated, loudly, “She didn’t come to the party?” He clamped a hand over his mouth when I cut my eyes at him. As he should have in the first place, he whispered, “She didn’t come to the party?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, tucking behind my ear a curl that had escaped my bun. “She even faked some kind of illness. She did one of those lame coughs—” Lucas hacked frailly into the sleeve of his shirt— “Yeah, exactly like that. She’s definitely not sick.”

Lucas’s brow furrowed so tightly that I imagined steam might blow out of his ears from over-exerting his brain. “But why? What could Donghae have done?”

Before I could say that I had no idea, a voice spoke from the deeper shadows, “I can find out if you want.” Sehun stepped into the light.

As I rolled my eyes at the sight of him— the second to last person I wanted to see that evening— Lucas snorted into his drink.

“What do you say, Lei?” Like a character from a movie— some kind of spy film whose plot I couldn’t quite follow no matter how hard I focused— Sehun offered his hand to me. “I’m close to Donghae. I can ask him what’s going on with him and Momager if you really want to know.”

I shook my head at the offer. Dropping his hand to his side, sure to slap it against his black dress pants, Sehun drew his eyebrows together curiously as if to ask, “Why do you always reject me?” The words didn’t have to leave his mouth; he asked them frequently enough while making that face— brows arched more than usual, lips pressed in a thin line— that I knew when they were blaring in his mind.

Unable to bear the silent exchange, Lucas tried to explain to Sehun, “She doesn’t want to owe you any favors, dude.”

I know it sounds cynical, but Lucas was right. Nobody liked to admit it, but in the entertainment industry, nobody does anything for the sake of accomplishing a good deed. Everybody is always looking to get ahead somehow, usually by performing these little favors, and I never wanted to be involved in anything like that— especially not with boys (like Sehun) who only wanted to see how close I would get to dating them.

Sehun rolled his eyes at my cynicism like he always did. “How do you know that I’m not offering out of the goodness of my heart, Lei? You know I would do almost anything to make my fans happy.” He smiled at me, and my heart might have fluttered if I harbored the slightest budding feelings for him. As it was, my glare hardened, and I wanted to slap Baekhyun for telling Sehun that he was my bias.

Shaking my head, I brushed past Sehun to find Donghae. I thought that after wishing him a happy birthday in person, I could have justified leaving the party early.

I wasn’t surprised (just disappointed) that Sehun trailed closely behind, asking, “Why am I your bias, anyway, if you dislike me this much? Is it because of my visuals? That’s it, right? I’m the most handsome guy you’ve ever seen.”

“As a matter of fact,” I rounded on Sehun, frustrated that he grinned at the attention as he held his hands up in mock surrender, “it’s your eyebrows. I like your eyebrows.”

“Oh.” Sehun laughed, leaning against a nearby table. “So this is what we’re doing? We’re listing what we like about each other?”

“No,” I said sternly.

I knew that the more I resisted, the more he would pursue me. This was a game. I hated it, and I hated that my natural temperament made it drag on forever.

“I don’t dislike you, Sehun, but when you act like this—”

“Like what?” He smirked. “Like the man of your dreams?”

“Like the total opposite,” I replied maybe a little too harshly. The festivities around us died down as some guests tried to listen to our conversation and even more relocated to carry on joyfully without having to hear us.

I always felt bad at this part— when I snapped because I felt cornered, and Sehun stood still, staring at the ground like I had drawn blood. If I hurt him, then why did he keep flirting me? If this wasn’t a game, wouldn’t he get tired of rejection?

If it was a game, it wasn’t fun for me. I didn’t like rejecting Sehun, and I didn’t like that I had to avoid him at events like this, but the fact remained: I wasn’t interested in him like that. I didn’t know how else to tell him. I didn’t like that he made me into this villain— or, worse, this unattainable ideal— just because it made me more interesting to him.

I wasn’t something to chase: I was a person. Why couldn’t he understand that? Did I really have to explain it to him?

Sehun met my eyes when he said, “I won’t give up,” for the thousandth time.

I started to beg him to give up— or to at least stop blurring the lines between fantasy and reality— or to at least outright say that he liked me if that was the problem— but I didn’t get the chance. Donghae, Heechul, and Baekhyun crowded around the table, so I swallowed my concerns.

“Wait a minute.” Heechul’s gaze flickered between me and Sehun. Dimples formed in his cheeks. “This isn’t the boy I usually see you with, Lei!”

Baekhyun laughed. Nudging Heechul, and, cupping around his mouth as if he was divulging a secret, Baekhyun explained, “This is another one of Lei’s suitors. Apparently she and Lucas are ‘just friends,’ much to the fans’ disappointment, and Sehun is ‘just her bias,’ much to Sehun’s disappointment.”

Sehun and I, at least, were united in the simultaneous rolling of our eyes as Baekhyun and Heechul cackled together.

Sehun promised, “I’ll text you later, Lei,” and stalked away without responding to Baekhyun’s and Heechul’s harmonizing whistles.

Donghae, who had been shifting uncomfortably since arriving at the table, asked the dreaded question, “Where’s your mom?” while Baekhyun and Heechul were too busy harassing Sehun to notice.

Whatever he had done to upset Mom must have been an unwitting accident; Donghae smiled at the mere mention of her. For a second— a split second— I hated Mom for sending me into this situation where I had to break Donghae’s smile by answering, “She’s not here. She, um, isn’t feeling well.”

“What?” Donghae, Heechul, and Baekhyun asked in unison.

Heechul slipped away from the conversation without arousing Donghae’s or Baekhyun’s attention; their wide eyes were too focused on me to notice anything else. I wondered how mad Heechul would be when he drove to my house just to find Mom sitting (perfectly healthy) on the couch, probably watching episodes of their drama without him.

“She’s not feeling well?” Donghae repeated. Tiny dimples formed in his chin as he realized, frowning, “She’s never missed one of my parties before. This one year, she came even though she had the flu, and I had to beg her to go home!”

“It’s very unlike her to miss a work event.” The sadness in Baekhyun’s voice was so exaggerated that I met his gaze anxiously. What was he up to? Mock concern flooded his eyes as he said, “She must be really sick, huh, Lei? Coughing and everything?”

Oh. I realized when the corner of Baekhyun’s lips twitched upward that he overheard my conversation with Lucas. I guess he had already proven through his successful kidnapping plot that he could keep his big mouth shut when he needed too; now, he proved it again by quietly eavesdropping on me and Lucas and using his knowledge to make me squirm.

Note: Baekhyun was dangerous not just because he was cute. He was also sneaky.

Unsure of how to maintain Mom’s lie when Baekhyun knew the truth, I nodded subtly.

“It’s so weird how health can take such sudden turns for the worst.” Baekhyun shook his head and pounded his fist on the metallic navy blue table cloth. “Momager seemed fine when I talked to her earlier—” he paused to stage a dramatic gasp before asking, “You don’t think we’ll have to postpone the tour, do you? If Momager is sick, how can we leave first thing tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning?” Donghae’s eyes rounded as they looked to me for confirmation. “You’re leaving on tour tomorrow?”

I nodded, and I would have apologized to Donghae— even though I couldn’t explain why I was sorry— but Baekhyun interrupted by asking, “You don’t think she’s faking, do you? Do you think she had a hot date or something?”

Donghae gasped, “What?”

Glaring at Baekhyun, I answered through gritted teeth, “My mother would never prioritize any date over her work obligations.”

I didn’t expect Donghae to react by dropping his gaze somewhere on the table and wheezing, “I’m more than a work obligation, right?”

“Yes, of course, absolutely,” I wanted to tell him. “You’re so important to us— to me and to Mom. You are a member of the first group she helped debuted, and you have been such a fixture in our life, and you’ve never been anything but kind and—”

Oh. My stomach tied in knots as I understood why Mom didn’t want to come to the party. The knots tightened as I realized how similar Mom and I were. Neither of us wanted to worry about anything other than performing our jobs well. Neither of us knew how to respond when somebody tried to cross that line between colleague and— I don’t know— boyfriend, so we always ran away.

Oh. My heart sank as I wondered if I ever made Sehun frown the way Mom made Donghae frown with her mere absence. I doubted it, but the thought was still sickening. Maybe— maybe Mom thought that Donghae wouldn’t notice her absence among all the other party guests, but that misunderstanding didn’t lessen his very real disappointment right before my eyes. Maybe— maybe you don’t have to try to break a heart.

Baekhyun must have been oblivious to mine and Donghae’s shared discomfort. He rattled on, “Maybe Momager isn’t as virtuous as you, Lei.” Although Donghae and I bore into him with our glares, Baekhyun suggested, lips pressed out in a tiny pout, “Maybe she’s more like the idol who never debuted.”

“This again?” I set my jaw and narrowed my eyes at the ceiling before telling Baekhyun, “I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on believing that my mom is some failed trainee, and I don’t know why you’re stupid or cruel enough to keep saying it right in front of me, but you’re really pissing me off.”

Storming out of the party after yelling at my leader the night before our world tour was probably the worst thing I had done in my entire career. I knew that even as my pulse sounded angrily in my ears, but I was too angry to swallow my pride and apologize to Baekhyun.

Maybe I thought that the cool Autumn air outside would soothe my temper and enable me to do what would encourage a peaceful tour with SuperM. Maybe I knew that I wouldn’t return to the party no matter how many hours I wasted under the stars, trying to throw away the feelings I couldn’t express.

Whatever I thought would come from running from my explosive emotions, I didn’t expect Donghae to find me. I didn’t expect him to say, wearing the same gentle smile as always (as if he hadn’t been frowning just moments before), “Come on. I’ll drive you home if you really don’t want to be here.”

I stared at him, unable to blink, because those were exactly the words Taemin said by the lake last night before untying my wrists. I stared at him because I was trying to map the similarities between Donghae and Taemin. I couldn’t quite articulate it, but the same thing that made Donghae’s eyes tender made Taemin’s smile brilliant. What was it about them that I couldn’t understand— that I wanted to understand?

Had I been thinking clearly, I might have been able to understand. I might have considered that Mom probably didn’t want Donghae near our house; then, I wouldn’t have accepted his offer to drive me home.

Often, I wonder what would have happened if Donghae hadn’t forced his way past Heechul into the house. I wonder if the truth would have come out some other day— some other way— instead. I wonder if events played out as they should have. I wonder what I could have done differently.

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writing-prompts-for-friends · 5 years ago

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Notes on Robert McKee’s “Story” 22: How to Create a Riveting Plot

There are five parts of any story:

The Inciting Incident

Progressive Complications

Crisis

Climax

Resolution

I covered McKee's advice regarding the Inciting Incident in my previous post, and today I'll be focusing on the next part: Progressive Complications.

This section relies on your understanding of the concept of "The Gap," which I covered in this post. I highly recommend you take a look at it.

This is the arc of events that starts with the Inciting Incident and brings us to the Crisis/Climax of the final act.

To "complicate progressively" means "to generate more and more conflict as they face greater and greater forces of antagonism, creating a succession of events that passes points of no return."

Points of No Return

When the Inciting Incident happens, the protagonist starts on a quest for a conscious or unconscious Object of Desire to restore life's balance. At first, he takes a minimum, conservative action to provoke a positive response from his reality. But the effect of his action is to arouse forces of antagonism from inner, personal, or social/environmental Levels of Conflict that block his desire, cracking open the Gap between expectation and result.

When the Gap opens, the audience realizes that this is a point of no return. Minimal efforts won't work. Henceforth, all actions like the character's first effort, actions of minor quality and magnitude, must be eliminated from the story.

Just imagine your standard superhero comic/film or action anime and you'll quickly see what McKee is saying. Let's use Captain America because I'm feeling patriotic. He starts off fighting small fries, right? Slowly proving his strength and his capability. He goes up in rank, taking on more dangerous missions at the risk of losing his life and the lives of his comrades, and the fights escalate one after another until he is finally against his nemesis Red Skull.

If Captain America went from defeating an entire warehouse full of Nazis and then suddenly had to do the same thing again, with no added risk or challenge, what would be the point of it? What new risk is there? What progression in the character is there? It'd just be the same situation with different faces.

This is also why we see so many cool action anime series peter out after the end of their great big boss battle. We watch the characters progress, fighting progressively stronger battles, with progressively greater risk, and then they finally manage to defeat their arch-nemesis. The audience feels that the protagonist has gone on a journey and it has come to a well-deserved end. But then the manga publishers or whoever look at the dollar signs and say, "Well you can't stop now! Come up with another bad guy!" And we are forced to watch this character somehow start from scratch again, and more often than not, it feels artificial.

"A story must not retreat to actions of lesser quality or magnitude, but move progressively forward to a final action beyond which the audience cannot imagine another."

"How many times have you had this experience? A film begins well, hooking you into the lives of the characters. It builds with strong interest over the first half-hour to a major turning point. But then forty or fifty minutes into the film, it starts to drag. Your eyes wander from the screen; you glance at your watch; you wish you'd bought more popcorn; you start paying attention to the anatomy of the person you came with. Perhaps the film gains pace again and finishes well, but for twenty or thirty flabby minutes in the middle you lost interest.

If you look closely at the soft bellies that hang out over the belt of so many films, you'll discover that this is where the writer's insight and imagination went limp. He couldn't build progressions, so in effect he put the story in retrograde. In Act Two he's given his characters lesser actions of the kind they've already done in Act One--not identical actions but actions of a similar size or kind: minimal, conservative, and by now trivial. The writer is recycling a story and we're treading water.

The only way to keep a work's current flowing and rising is research--imagination, memory, facts.”

The Law of Conflict

☝ I tell you what, most live-action adaptions of manga/anime really suck, but the live action Rurouni Kenshin movies are better than the anime. Seriously, the fight scenes were AMAZING. 10/10.

This is a rule that many of us were taught in high school lit classes, but allow me to restate it:

Nothing moves forward in a story except through conflict.

“Put another way, conflict is to storytelling what sound is to music. Both story and music are temporal arts, and the single most difficult task of the temporal artist is to hook our interest, hold our uninterrupted concentration, then carry us through time without an awareness of the passage of time.

As long as conflict engages our thoughts and emotions we travel through the hours unaware of the voyage. ... The pictorial interest of eye-pleasing photography or the aural pleasures of a beautiful score may hold us briefly, but if conflict is kept on hold for too long, our eyes leave the screen. And when our eyes leave the screen they take thought and emotion with them.”

McKee stresses that the Law of Conflict does not apply only to literature; it applies to our own lives.

“Story is a metaphor for life, and to be alive is to be in seemingly perpetual conflict.

We live in time’s ever-shrinking shadow, and if we are to achieve anything in our brief being that lets us die without feeling we’ve wasted our time, we will have to go into heady conflict with the forces of scarcity that deny our desires.

Writers who cannot grasp the truth of our transitory existence, who believe that life is easy once you know how to play the game, give conflict a false inflection. Their scripts fail for one of two reasons: either a glut of meaningless and absurdly violent conflict, or a vacancy of meaningful and honestly expressed conflict.

The former are exercises in turbo special effects, written by those who follow textbook imperatives to create conflict, but, because they’re disinterested in or insensitive to the honest struggles of life, devise phony, overwrought excuses for mayhem.

The later are tedious portraits written in reaction against a conflict itself. These writers take the view that life would be really nice...if it weren’t for conflict. Therefore, their films avoid it in favor of low-key depictions to suggest that if we learned to communicate a little better, be a little more charitable, respect the environment, humanity could return to paradise.

Writers at these extremes fail to realize that while the quality of conflict changes as it shifts from level to level, the quantity of conflict in life is constant. Something is always lacking. Like squeezing a balloon, the volume of conflict never changes, it just bulges in another direction. When we remove conflict from one level of life, it amplifies ten times over on another level.

Life isn’t about subtle adjustments to stress, or hyperconflicts of master criminals with stole nuclear devices holding cities for ransom. Life is about the ultimate questions of finding love and self-worth, of bringing serenity to inner chaos, of the titanic social inequities everywhere around us, of time running out. Life is conflict. That is its nature. The writer must decide where and how to orchestrate this struggle.”

Complication Versus Complexity

At the surface level, both “complication” and “complexity” appear similar in meaning. But in the context of writing, they are two different technical terms, defined thus:

Complication: Refers to which of the three levels of conflict (inner, personal, or extra-personal) that are in the story.

A work that has complication has only one of the three levels of conflict. One that is Inner Conflict only would be a stream of consciousness work, free-form. A work with only personal conflict is a soap opera. And a work with only extra-personal conflict would be action/adventure, like James Bond.

Complexity: Refers to when all three levels of conflict are present in a work, often simultaneously.

Most of the stories we have read and movies we have watched have had complexity. Increasingly, we demand complexity of our characters. We want each character to be three-dimensional, with their own inner and personal conflicts, on top of extra-personal ones if applicable.

However, “complexity” doesn’t necessitate a cast of hundreds or scenes that span continents, per se. McKee gives us this advice when setting out to create a complex story:

“Design relatively simple but complex stories. ‘Relatively simple’ doesn’t mean simplistic. It means beautifully turned and told stories restrained by these two principles: Do not proliferate characters; do not multiply locations. Rather than hopscotching through time, space, and people, discipline yourself to a reasonably contained cast and world, while you concentrate on creating a rich complexity.”

Source: McKee, Robert. Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting. York: Methuen, 1998. Print

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thatwritingcorneroftheinter-blog · 6 years ago

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The Mistery of William Faraday

The characters in the following story - with the exception of Jonathan Caldwell, Elizabeth Caldwell and Dr. Willows - are original from Nerdcast, a brazilian podcast about all the nerd things (and RPG), mainly from the episode 549 - Call of Cthulhu 1: The Mistery of William Faraday.

As I write this down, I cannot believe I have been lead to do so. It is a strange story and if those words have any capability of translating what that night in the Newcastle Asylum was, so be it.

This story starts at Thomas E. Faraday’s home, an immense old English mansion, located at the very heart of London’s aristocracy nest.

It was 1936, and the horrors of the World War were not yet out of the good men’s mind. Still, we used to gather together at least once a year so that those memories could remain just memories instead of terrible cases of mental and body illness.

Every year, my husband and I would leave our home in Rye to meet with our comrades - or rather his comrades. Jonathan was one of the many men who fought the World War and by the time it was over, the trenches had given him good friends and horrifying stories to share with them.

Those meetings were not always merry in the ways their memories used to lead, but Jonathan needed them, as much as I needed them to keep Jonathan sane. So, I accompanied my husband for as long as he could, given the state of his leg injury, one of the many wounds that the War had left behind; being cut in the thigh by a treacherous enemy who had slipped under the camp’s barriers, Jonathan was never again able to walk without his cane and the conditions of the injury would not get better with time.

Eventually we were no longer allowed to travel away from home by Dr. Willows, which brought our friends to Rye two years in a row. However, third time was not a charm and Jonathan passed away, leaving me in a cold stone manor in the middle of nowhere, alone and unsupported.

At that time, turning to my own family was not an option, for they had never been too keen about my marriage with Jonathan; in their eyes, Jonathan’s low quantities of material possessions were certain proof of my lack of self-respect. The only ones that could continue to support me were Jonathan’s friends. My friends.

So there we were, gathered once again - this time in London, at Faraday’s.

Thomas Faraday was a man guided by Reason, with capital R. Professor at the University of Oxford, Faraday would proudly conduct me through corridors and corridors of British science history, discoursing about the novelties in America, with his basset Billy running around his feet. The proud owner of a small belly, Faraday was the absolute embodiment of a good living. I had been with him since Christmas; at the time, as if noticing my unwillingness to return to the country side, Thomas invited me to stay a few more weeks, at least until the meeting, to which I gladly agreed.

Pleasant reading days and slow walks amongst the trees at the Regent’s Park helped to keep away from my mind the upcoming reunion, the first one without Jonathan. Of course, they were all present at the funeral and aided me into my first days of grief, and surely, they have suspended the next year’s meeting to allow me more time, but they were not without judgment. I had been a widowed woman for nearly two years now, an individual to be reckoned with, and not just Jonathan’s wife anymore. I had no idea if that would change anything between our little strange group, but I was about to discover.

James K. O'Flanagan was strangely the first one to arrive. As Irish as an Irish man can be, O’Flanagan was a man of his own convictions; one could never argue with him without the impression of being left deeply insulted. A former red-haired man, he was now the bearer of a completely gray head and a very thick mustache, laid upon thin and somewhat mordacious lips, which was not able to turn his fit figure any less elegant. As I have mentioned, O’Flanagan had no filter when it came to the Great Britain’s way of life, being a fierce critic and feeding the wildest fire within his guts against the British Empire. Yet, somehow, he had managed to find accordance while being in the same room as Thomas Faraday, the personal representation of a British Golden Era of old family riches.

Upon O’Flanagan’s arrival, I could smell the Jameson emanating out of his pores. His first step into the Faraday’s mansion was followed by a nod to the butler, handing his wet hat and vest to a steward and sipping from a small liquor flask.

“Mrs. Caldwell! You have made it through this rain!”

O’Flanagan came to me with arms opened, as I did to him. Reaching for a reassuring hug, O’Flanagan kept me inside his arms for quite a while, before Faraday entered the room.

“I have been in London since Christmas, James, there was no need to worry”, I said, unable to retreat my smile towards the enthusiastic man. “Thomas has been a wonderful host, enduring bravely through all my complaints.”

“Quite the opposite, I would argue. You have been the most patient and condescending listener of all, Mrs. Caldwell”, Faraday replied, offering his hand towards the other. “Welcome, O’Flanagan. I take you had some trouble with the big city’s weather.”

“Ay, I had some trouble with the weather, but I would not go so far as calling a shite hole such as London a big city”, O’Flanagan retorted, shaking the offered hand.

“Boys, a little more civility would be desired, yes?”

As I tried to calm the nerves in the front hall, there was a new knock. The butler reached once again for the main hall door, welcoming a tall and slim figure, weathered to his soul.

Stephen H. P. Venkmman’s round glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, revealing a small quirk when he pushed up the frame with his finger.

“The skies are falling, I say”, Venkmman stated while handing the soaked overcoat to the steward, barely eyeing the boy at all. “Never seen a day in London when I could see the next step in front of me, there is always water gushing from the sky.”

“Oh, but it’s the big city’s weather, Venkmman” taunted O’Flanagan, making room on the large colonial sofa in the main living room. Raising a glass that was already somehow filled with Scotch, the Irish man let out a scornful smile, and drinking slowly from the golden liquid, O’Flanagan lost himself at the bottom of the glass.

Faraday took no more than a few seconds staring at the man sitting on the couch. Crossing the room and heading to the hall, he patted the good doctor on the shoulder.

“Glad to see that you have decided to come, friend. I have not received any news concerning your whereabouts in the last months, so I assumed tha—“

“I have been engaged in my most recent research, Faraday, I do not have time to spare when it comes to science, as you well know. Being as far as Africa goes, I got… caught up with... uh... work.” Venkmman cleared his throat and paced away from the hall.

Stephen Howard Phillips Venkmman was, above all, a scholar. Graduated and mastered by the University of Oxford in Practical Physics, Venkmman started his academic life teaching and demonstrating the Laws of Nature, to which his interests developed to a more obscure outlook on science and lead him towards studying and researching about Parapsychology and unnatural events. Throughout the last years, Venkmman had been the last one to arrive at our reunions, always apologizing for his delays and never explaining the reasons for such lateness, restraining his narratives to the natural beauties of the uncharted lands he went to in his unknown studies.

Thomas would survey Venkmman’s works in secret, thinking that his own envy and childish quarrel were well hidden under his politeness and high breeding, but a mindful woman is always able to delve into a man’s ego and I can tell you, Faraday nourished some hatred against Venkmman. Theory versus Practice, Word versus Speech, Study versus Experience. I believed that confrontation to be more than natural in the Academy, given that they were both brilliant professors, however the intellectual strife shed through the Oxfordian walls, creating an endless sensation of unease between them.

Physically, Venkmman was a strange man. He had a long pale face, adorned by round golden glasses, with eyes mostly gazing away from the common focus. His lengthy body gave away the lack of commitment to a routine of physical exercises and his shoulders and back slightly arched forwards indicated nights of heavy reading. Overall, Venkmman was aeons away of being a horrifying creature to look at. The man was nothing more than peculiar.

After the guest and the host had traded subtle sparks, I approached O’Flanagan, circulating around the sofa and resting my weight against its backrest.

“What is your guess this time? The Luba tribe, the Mongo tribe, the Tigrayans, the Maghrebis?”, I questioned, nodding towards Venkmman, who was staring out the window, looking distracted by the flow of the rain. O’Flanagan sighed and drank the last of his whiskey.

“To be quite honest, I could not give any less fucks. The man is insane, dealing with savages, barbaric rituals and whatnot. It does not surprise me all the gibberish that comes out of his mouth.”

“Should you be judging the man? Were you not closing deals on armaments and fumes the last time we spoke?” I walked around O’Flanagan, sitting beside him. “You look insane to me, dealing with savages, contributing with barbaric rituals and whatnots. And the gibberish is called ‘science’, you should get used to it.”

“You amuse me, Mrs. Caldwell. You take me for a man that cares. For all I know, those African tribes could be putting my guns up their arses at this exact moment.” O’Flanagan turned to me with half a smile and took my hand on his calloused one, stroking it. “Your snarky comments have been dearly missed, Elizabeth.”

While we kept on with the amenities, there was one last knock on the door for the night. As we could all guess, it was Giácomo Di Monti, the last one of our small group of survivors.

Giácomo was an young Italian stud: tall, strong, built as a marble beam, he was on the top of the most influential boxers at the time, with the unbelievable score of no losses over the five years he had been on the business. Giácomo met my deceased husband first, while taking care of the wounded and arranging transportation for the dead. As a church-raised man, Giácomo went to war with the sole purpose of helping those who needed, secured from the real conflict by the Catholic Church, which kept him alive while he tended for the dying ones. Nevertheless, Di Monti saw as much terrors as any other man, witnessing in firsthand the bloodbath and helping Jonathan stitch and sew living and dead bodies.

Giácomo has always been a scenic man, which explains the constant need of shouting and speaking loudly. Entering Faraday’s living room – or any other room, for that matter - the first thing in sight was his broad shoulders, highlighted by the light-colored suit. Born in Italy, the Italian in Giácomo was mainly concentrated on his facial features, giving him a well-defined bone structure and tanned skin. Besides being strikingly handsome, Giácomo Di Monti was a sweet oaf in the way of dealing with people, at least outside the box ring.

“Were you all waiting for me? I'm here now, we can start with the dancing and the celebrating!”

“Unfortunately, times are not auspicious to dancing and rejoicing, my big friend”, Faraday warned, placing briefly his hand on Di Monti’s back. “If you could all take a seat, I have with me news that will require the attention and the sympathy of the whole room.”

(Continues)

#the mistery of william faraday #nerdcast #nerdcast de rpg #call of cthulhu #part 1 #help me write #horror #terror #cthulhu #lovecraft #lovecraftian #victorian

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ramblinganthropologist · 7 years ago

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Dossier: Angry Pink Monster

Summary: Alistair Shepard’s got a team to build, so he finds himself in a shitty underground Krogan wrestling ring. It’s time for a reunion, and if he’s lucky he’ll make it out without getting his shit wrecked. (Formal Bo Peep Shepard introduction I guess???) Word count: 1973 PS, Bo Peep Shepard belongs to @reallyfuckinggay, my chief enabler.

---

Somehow... this was in character for her 100%.

“And in the left corner, the undefeated champion of the ring, the biotic nightmare herself! Give it up for the Angry Pink Monster!”

A tinny voice crackled over a loudspeaker that was way too close to his ear. Alistair winced and one eye shut reflexively as the crowd around him erupted into cheers. Thanks to his seat, he had a great view of the ring below. It was a dirty thing, splattered with so many colors of blood that they had long since stopped trying to cover it up. The majority of it, however, was the rusty color that Krogans were so fond of spilling when you cracked them open.

It made sense; this was underground Krogan wrestling.

“Have you spotted her yet, Shepard?”

Miranda's voice oozed into his ear through the hidden piece he had stuck there before leaving the Normandy. Had he been in his regular armor, that would have been in his helmet. Problem was, he wasn't. The N7 might have stuck out among this particular crowd, particular because most of them were rather rotund and armor-plated.

Sometimes, it was better to dress down for these kinds of things.

“She'll be out soon.” Miranda hadn't even needed to say it, of course. Alistair's heart was pounding as he gazed down into the ring, waiting. Like always, he felt her before he saw her. A wave of energy crackled through the impromptu ring, popping some weaker lights in a spray of glass that bounced harmlessly off the hides of the fans. That was part of the show, or so the page had said.

Tonight only, the ring champ squaring off against one of the top rookies in his weight class. And oh, did the crowd cheer as their favorite fighter entered the ring first, coming from a side door towards the ring with quick, solid steps. Even out of armor, she was a marine.

The Angry Pink Monster as they called her was smaller and far more angular than most of her opponents by a good half head. Her eyes were focused on the door her challenger would come from, practically glowing in the light. Energy kept coming off her in waves, probably even without her really thinking about it.

After all, Bo Peep Shepard was known for being one of the most powerful biotics in the Alliance. This was child's play for her.

“She's 23 and 0. That's one away from the ring record.” Miranda sounded like she was reading off a stat sheet from how bored her tone was. “Going to let her go for 24?”

“Yes. I like living.”

Alistair knew better than to get in between Bo and her fun. Honestly, he felt kind of bad for the poor Krogan she was going up against as he came out into the ring. The guy barely looked old enough to be an adult, and now he was going to be smacked against the wall like an over-sized ping pong ball. If he was lucky, he'd keep half his quad in the process.

Wherever the announcer was, they sounded excited as they got way too close to their mic. Their voice came out as a screech that mingled with the roar of the crowd as a bell dinged somewhere.“Get ready... and fight!”

---

“Records said she lives close to the ring.”

At least, that was what Miranda had said before Alistair had 'accidentally' turned off his earpiece. He still wasn't used to having long hair again after all, so if he hit it while pushing his bangs out of his face it was only natural. He just hadn't thought to check if it was on. If there was any real trouble, she would be able to reach him.

Petty? Absolutely. Fuck Cerberus.

It wasn't hard to find Bo's apartment, though. She had always wanted an easy, quick way to get out if shit got bad. Using her own habits against her, Alistair found himself standing in front of a lonely door where the number had long since fallen into the dust. Number 7's occupant was home, if the sound of moving around was anything to go by.

He paused before he knocked on the door, frowning. “God, what do I say to her?”

Their last parting hadn't been the warmest to say the least. Actually, it was downright frigid since he had been punted out of the destroyed Normandy by that bitch herself, lady vacuum of space. One of the last things he remembered before everything got fuzzy was her trying to reach for him, eyes wide as she just didn't quite reach. Oh, he was going to catch hell for that one for sure.

Maybe he should have worn that armor...

Alistair shook his head as he focused back on the door. “Work on that later. Gotta get her now. Need all the help I can get.”

He would have knocked on the door, but it suddenly opened. There was Bo, out of her wrestling gear and looking rather annoyed. There was a bandage on her cheek – a souvenir from her 24th win – and behind her, the apartment was beyond messy. Actually, from the look of things she was packing up.

“Took you long enough. Get in here before somebody sees you.”

And then he was inside as she shut the door behind him. In fact, he nearly tripped over the heavy bag she had planted by the door, neatly zipped up and ready to go. Luckily, he landed back on the couch instead of flat on his reconstructed ass.

“I guess you knew I was coming then?”

Alistair couldn't help but smile as he removed his hat – someone had said it was polite once – and looked up at his host. Bo hadn't changed much in the two years since they had been apart. Maybe she had a few more scars and an extra inch or so of muscle, but the basic model was unmodified. Which was good... because that definitely wasn't the case with him. At least one of them was still the original edition.

Bo didn't answer. Instead, she headed towards what he assumed was her bedroom. She was soon out, holding something in her arms. This she handed to him without much ceremony as she stooped down to pick up her bag.

He had been given charge of a bear. Or, rather, Bear. The little teddy bear was as good as always, even had his own little backpack to go with the move. He matched his owner as she adjusted the heavy bag on one shoulder like it weighed nothing at all. For her, it probably didn't.

“Saw you in the stands. Nobody else likes the Luna Bats.” Her eyes found his. “Get over here. I want to see that fancy new eye of yours better.”

That wasn't an invitation for a hug – he knew better. But Alistair did indeed move into range, Bear still in his arms. Bo gave him a critical once over, pausing at various areas for unknown reasons. Well, not when she got to his hair. He knew that one all too well.

“Don't say it.”

“That has got to be a pain in the ass with a helmet on.” Bo's voice was dry as she finished checking her belongings. “Come on, let's get out of here before my fan girls realize I'm leaving.”

Then she briefly paused as she grabbed something boxy from a table near the door. “Handle this for me.”

And then there was a cage thrust into his arms just as he adjusted Bear. The occupant glared up at him with blue eyes while their furry little body buried deeper into the substrate. It was clearly past their bedtime and he was being a nuisance.

Because that's what he did with space hamsters, apparently.

“His name's Saren. Consider him a welcome back present.” Was all Bo said as she left her apartment, pausing only to lock the door. Alistair, eyes wide, was left standing there with his new little friend. Any show of gratitude was put on hold, however, as he soon had to scamper after her. Apparently, today he was the animal handler.

No sweat. Just like old times.

Still, even with the gift he wasn't off the hook completely. The pair stopped near the transport depot briefly. Maybe it was because Bo had to adjust her bag, or something had occurred to her. Those sharp eyes were back on him, and he was back under interrogation.

“Who put you back together?”

Alistair winced – oh how he had been dreading this. He nudged Saren a little to the left, just in case, as he stared out a nearby window. Ships of various levels of shitty were zooming by, making their way off to illicit ports unknown. Right then, they looked like toys someone had left in the dark and forgotten about when dinner time came.

This wasn't going to be pleasant.

“Cerberus.” Before she could react, he held up his hands. “I'm pretty sure I'm going to steal the ship once we're finished!”

If by steal, he meant dock it in alliance bay and run for his life, then yes. He was going to steal the fuck out of it. Still, it did nothing for the rage that filled Bo's eyes. At least Bear was there to relieve some of the tension. She gave him a quick squeeze, but he could feel her anger from a half foot away.

Maybe it was a good thing he had told her before she saw the ship.

“Cerberus put you back together?” She scowled. “And you want to work with them? They’re the fuckers who set that thresher maw on us!”

He nodded, a similar scowl on his own face. “I know. Believe me, it was on my mind the minute I found out. Imagine waking up in the middle of an outright takeover and there's Cerberus logos everywhere. Rude awakening doesn't even cover it.”

Alistair sighed as he leaned his chin on the small ledge in front of the window. Right then, he swore he could feel every one of his new, artificial parts. He still hadn't gotten the official count on how much they had replaced yet, and honestly he didn't want to know. Meat and tubes didn't sound good at all.

At least he still had his tattoos.

Next to him, Bo punched her fist into her hand with enough force to knock a Krogan back. “I assume we're going to fuck with them.”

“Well, yeah, I wasn't born yesterday.” Technically, two years ago, but same deal. “Right now I'm playing nice and trying to find out where the cameras are.”

At least that calmed her down. “We got a team or what?”

“Not yet, but after we get you settled there's an Archangel we have to check out.” When Bo snickered, he cocked his eyebrow. “Dare I ask?”

It was pretty rare to hear Bo laugh, after all. Usually it meant somebody was about to get their ass kicked. Hopefully, it wasn't going to be his. With a name like Archangel, he had to wonder if they might have met in the ring.

Great, just what he needed: a vigilante Krogan wrestler. Joker was right, he did collect weirdos. Maybe he should switch to plates after all.

“I'll tell you when we find him.” Bo picked up her bag again. “Come on, don't I have some Cerberus bitches to knock the fuck out?”

“Oh, you have no idea.”There was a surprising spring to Alistair's step as he followed after her towards the port that would take them back to the Normandy, Saren and Bear in tow. “Let me tell you about Miranda Lawson.”

#Alistair Shepard #Bo Peep Shepard #ramblinganthropologist's writing #Mass Effect #That's right folks two commander Shepards #Al is a paragon-sentinel #Bo is a renegade-vanguard

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rataprimus · 7 years ago

Note

Tell me about your OCs' greatest fears.

I skipped Zulaya, Sylvi, and Laxzzi because I haven’t completely solidified their characters yet, but here’s everyone who has one.

OaklinnaHer worst fear is, without question, losing control of herself. During everything with Mordremoth, she felt herself slipping, and more and more that happy, cheerful, energetic face she put on for the world became a front. Much as she tried to hide it, she was terrified she’d fall to Mordremoth too. Even now, with the dragon gone, the fear lingers, and it’s a struggle to keep putting on a smile every day.

QirriDeath. Born and living her life with a chronic illness that can cause her to struggle to breathe some days, she’s witnessed a lot of death. It’s partly why she took so much to Taimi on meeting her. She feels a kinship with her, and knows what it’s like to feel like your days are numbered, constantly doing one’s best to live in the moment. But Garrus falling to Balthazar shook her badly, and her fears of losing those chances to a random act have increased exponentially.

VezzLosing his small family. He lost a great deal during his time with the Inquest, from his parents and younger brother to the relationships he had with his krewe even up to the friends he made in the Inquest. So meeting everyone in his guild and with the Pact, finding and marrying the love of his life, and finding a purpose in protecting Taimi have given him a sense of belonging again. His greatest fear is that he’s going to make another mistake, screw something up, and lose everything all over again, hurting a whole new group of people in the process.

RhoslinnLosing herself to Nightmare. Though she never fully fell to Nightmare, Rhoslinn felt its grip creeping up her spine more closely than many who managed to get out. Despite managing to find a way back to herself and the Dream, she sometimes still feels like she can feel Nightmare’s pull, and she worries so much for the safety of Khaya and her friends should she ever be tempted again. It’s caused her to remain vigilant, but also very closed to those around her.

NaqaiBeing forgotten. Naqai has always been a silent face in the crowd. Smart but too clumsy, she was a loner by nature, and even works much by herself within the krewe she’s part of. She does her best to stand out, but it can be very difficult, and she sometimes feels like no one really notices her or cares whether or not she’s present at all.

PheazzaSomething happening to Kinna. After almost losing her to the Inquest, Pheazza’s probably a lot more protective than she would have been otherwise. That said, she tries so hard to not be overbearing. Any time Kinna’s gone for too long without letting her mother know, however, brings those old fears bubbling to the surface. She’s terrified that one day she’ll wake up and her daughter will be gone.

DeshaunaDisappointing her father. Deshauna is from a family that has managed to mostly stay within Elonian lineage since coming to Lion’s Arch as merchants over two centuries ago, intermarrying with other displaced families as they moved around Kryta. As such, Deshauna’s father is a strict man who expects his children to continue the family line and name exactly as he has. As the oldest, expected to take over her family’s wealth and business and see over it for her siblings, she’s got a lot hanging on her, from marrying well to producing an heir to carry on the family name.

AgaueBeing somehow subdued and taken back to where her mother escaped from. The daughter of a charr female who’d been born and raised to “serve” the Flame Legion, in the only way females were permitted, Agaue has spent a lot of her life more prickly than most, guarded against comments regarding her birth or where she came from, technically. And she has no intention of going back to the place of her mother’s birth unless it’s to find and free her blood sisters. But the thought of being caged, forced into servitude, hangs over her like a cold wind.

LiathObsolescence. As one of the oldest centurions still actively serving the high legions, having spent the majority of her life training and fighting in a world where humans and charr were mortal enemies, it has been difficult for Liath to adjust to this new world rapidly evolving all around her. Her greatest fear is to no longer be needed, considered too old to be relevant or trusted on the battlefield.

#oc asks #oaklinna #qirri tinkerfirst #blightcaller vezz #rhoslinn #naqai #pheazza #deshauna tahir #agaue whiptail #liath slaughterclaw

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realityextinct · 7 years ago

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Angsty Oikuroo fanfic prompt coming up. What if Kuroo and Oikawa were part of different groups that hated each other (werewolf/vampire for example), and they were forced to live together and at first they think lowly of each other but eventually they secretly start to see the good in each other but they know they can't be together bc of their differences.

This was such a long time coming…I am truly sorry, but I didn’t feel like writing for a while either.

Anyway, thank youf ro the prompt!! Hope you enjoy what I cooked up for it!! And I did not follow the prompt to a T. My apologies.XD

I also posted the oneshot on AO3. I hope it’s okay with you~

Word count: 1.694

Rating: NC-17-ish

Title: Of Mad Dogs and The Undead

He did not think he was going to ever wake up again. Having lost so much strength and blood, all he could do was collapse in the middle of the woods. The last thing he remembered was hearing footsteps approach him…and he knew at that point that he was at his enemies mercy. His life was over.

What surprised him was…the fact he opened his eyes the next night again. Despite all odds, he survived. Was it a curse…or a blessing? He didn’t yet know. Perhaps he was going to be put through trial, it could be the only reason as to why he was allowed to open his eyes - to be made a spectacle of, a warning for all the other kindred.

And yet, that was not the case either. He found himself being able to move freely, finally sitting up and looking around this unfamiliar place. The windows were patched up so he could not see where he was, but from the contents and the temperature of the room on an autumn night, he knew he was in a shack. The smell of damp wood made him believe that he was still somewhere in the forest.

But…Whose shack was it..? None of his allies owned any secret lairs in this are…if they did, his safety was more than certain.

In fact, the only reason he risked his life, gambled it by escaping to this area, was because this was an unknown territory. Yes, it was all coming back to him now and the stench proved it.

This was a lair of a mad dog.

But…this brought about more questions than answers.

Answers he was likely going to get the second he heard heavy footsteps and the front door opened, revealing a mess of brown hair and sharp cold eyes directed right at him. The weather was cold and every single breath this dog in a form of a man took, was clear. Despite the coldness, he didn’t seem to care for he only had a pair of pants on.After the door was shut behind him, at which point the guest could decipher that he was, indeed, unwanted, the beast finally spoke up, “You should be thankful. I got rid of the trail and rushed your pursuers off.”

Taken slightly aback by this, the other man’s eyes widened just a bit, but his expression remained unchanged beside that, “I am, in fact, very grateful for your help. But…to what I owe such an honor? I do not remember having gained a favor from a wolf in my endless lifetime.”

A snort had to escape the werewolf as he took a seat on the floor beside the door, leaning his back against the wall with his head slightly tilted, as if listening for any sign of movement outside, “Typical of your kind… But perhaps you should consider I am gathering future favors from the undead now that a favorable situation presented itself before me.”

The vampire frowned suspiciously, but also took a seat back down on the mattress he previously occupied, “In this moment in time, being a runaway that I am, you should be clearly aware I have nothing to repay you with. You would have benefited much more if you gave me away to my pursuers.”

“That is true,” the werewolf looked back at the vampire, a hint of mischief in his bright eyes, “But where would the fun be in that?”

There was a pause from the vampire as, instead of finding this entire ordeal amusing, he tried to read this character…and he had to conclude one thing, “Seems like we could be similar in nature,” he looked over his healed body in thought, before voicing his thoughts out loud, “It seems I should thank you for feeding me too. So…what is it that you want from me?”

The vampire knew a few things of their arch enemies. It was an honor for them to bring forth the body of an undead just before it crumbled to dust, as a sort of prestige among the pack. In which case, this dog would surely benefit from his death more than his life.

And it came back full circle. Fun or not, there was no reason he could think of as to why he was still conscious.

“I was curious…” the werewolf scooped closer to the unmoved vampire each time he spoke, mischief and amusement never once having left his eyes, “I heard so many rumors and stories about your vampire ‘kisses’, so for a very long time, almost to when I was just a foolish small cub, I wished to know…what it felt like. And whether it was really as amazing as the rumor claimed,” the smirk was too obvious as he crawled over to the vampire, a hand on each side of his thighs, pinning his gaze onto the pale white face.

The vampire remained sited, knowing fully well he was at this creature’s full mercy, his pride not allowing to look away from that gaze full of life he has long lost, “And did you like it?” he had no recollection of having bitten the werewolf, but he seemed to be alive somehow… So unless…

“Ah, I was saving this for when you woke up. One-sided lovemaking is not fun…and isn’t this precisely what it is for you, vampire?” he raised his arm to show a trail of a cut, making it clear to the vampire that he fed him without direct contact with the flesh.

At this point, even the vampire had to hum, an amused smile gracing his lips, “Perhaps…or perhaps not. Do I get to know the name of the one I am about to succumb to lust with?”

The werewolf looked triumphal and took a seat beside the vampire instead, “Oikawa Tooru. And who may you be, o’ graceful one?”

“Kuroo Tetsurou,” Kuroo paused, “Are you not afraid of me going too far?” he showed off his fangs, “These may kill you.”

As far as Kuroo was concerned, this entire situation was far more beneficial to him. Not only did he miraculously survive, but he also got to gather his strength. And also, this was a werewolf… And drinking the blood of a werewolf was a great rare privilege he knew only the elite, powerful kindred managed.

Oikawa’s reasonings were strange, laughable in fact…but who was he to question or say no to this?

“You can’t…and you won’t,” was Oikawa’s confident response as he smiled, almost softly, and bore his neck to Kuroo.

Kuroo wasn’t sure how many times this actually happened in his endless, prolonged lifetime. How many times has he seen humans bare their necks before him, how many times has heard them moan in pleasure, practically begging him to end their lives in this blissful orgasm of a lifetime. How many times has he seen eyes roll back as they lost consciousness from both pleasure and blood loss. How many times has he seen them wake up happy next.

But this kind of pleasure…was extraordinary. Something otherworldly. With the throb of the pulse, he could feel everything, every single powerful feeling coursing through this powerful body beneath him. Pitiful human moans and gasps of pleasure paled in comparison to this, the boner inside the thin fabric was begging for release…and shamelessly, Oikawa grabbed for it without a second though. When Kuroo felt it was more than enough, as the amount of excitement coursing through his dead body started to make him feel unbearable, he pulled away, only to receive a gasp and a pitiful whimper from the most powerful creature that was actually alive in this world, “P-please, don’t stop!”

“Stop being foolish! You can lose too much blood!”

“Hah, I don’t…mmph..care! More!!~~ More!”

But Kuroo didn’t comply fully…he only bit into the same spot without drawing any blood, no matter how much his canines begged for it, until this shameless dog orgasmed, his body shuddering in the climax.

Kuroo licked the wound, making sure the mark would disappear as he watched Oikawa come down from his high.

The slightly sweaty body was not an unusual sight to Kuroo, but the smell of sex that came from Oikawa was overwhelming. He momentarily wondered how many other dogs or even humans could withstand it without jumping him.

“Mmm…damn, that was amazing,” Oikawa traced his neck with a couple of fingers, still dazed as he licked his lips, “Probably the best orgasm of my life,” with those words, he looked up at the vampire with innocent honest eyes, smiling, “I feel jealous of your lovers.”

Kuroo actually laughed at that, but said nothing more.

They spent a few more hours like that, just talking, with Kuroo’s hand gently gliding through Oikawa’s messy hair, before Oikawa finally said, “You should probably go now. While your kind can’t pick up your trail anymore, my family can smell you out easily,” rolling over, the werewolf sat up, looking almost like a sad puppy.

And right then and there…there was one thing Kuroo was certain of…Oikawa belonged to him. Was this actually…how their bond worked? Was this the result of this seemingly pointless encounter?

Although there was no longer a reason to call it pointless.

Kuroo was glad he seemed to have found a flawed dog. Or…was he falling into his paws instead, by complying with all his wishes?

For now…he was not going to find out it seemed.

Kuroo strolled over to the door and opened it, allowing the cold air to ease the density that seemed to have accumulated inside. Looking back at Oikawa one more time, he added, “Come and find me sometime, puppy…that is, if you survive trying to explain what happened here,” and why you let a vampire escape.

Oikawa shrugged and waved him off, “Be concerned about your own survival more than mine, you sexy bloodsucker.”

With a small laugh, Kuroo was out the door, paving his way through the woods, thinking back to Oikawa and vowing that if he survived this, he would be able to see the werewolf once more.

And it would no longer be a pointless encounter.

The End.

#farmjew #oikuro #oikuro fanfic #oikuro au #oikawa tooru #kuroo tetsurou #haikyuu

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daebakinc · 8 years ago

Text

Mercy - Pt 2

Please have mercy on me. Take it easy on my heart. Even though you don’t mean to hurt me, you keep tearing me apart.

Pairing: Jungkook x OC Genre: College AU, angst, romance, Summary: After a homework mix-up, you agree to tutor Jungkook in math in exchange for him tutoring you in dance. In more ways than one, you get much more than you bargained for. Parts: 1, 2 A/N: Some swearing. Also, I’m really sorry this has been delayed! I had some writer’s block&even after I finished, I couldn’t get to internet to post it. It’s one of the downsides to living more than 30 min from civilization. TT-TT

That night is indeed the start of a chain of events. The primary one of those events is that you and Jungkook spend almost every night of the next three months together. The only exception is game nights when he devotes himself to video games. However, even on the weekends, you somehow wind up spending several hours with him in that small studio.

Normally, your non-existent social life confines your comfort zone to your single room. That’s not to say you’re a crotchety hermit. You do have a few friends you love dearly, but most of the time you prefer your own company. But for whatever reason, Jungkook renders that rule null and void.

When you could spend time by yourself, you find you’d rather spend that time with him. Jungkook practices almost all hours of the day when he doesn’t have class, but he doesn’t mind you perching in the corner on the mats to work on your own things while he does so. He often forgets you’re even there. His eyes are fixed on his body in the mirror, following its movements, fine tuning them to be a perfect physical manifestation of the music.

It’s one of the most mesmerizing things you’ve ever seen. You learn for every ounce of talent he has, Jungkook puts in just as much hard work to honing it into true art. His dedication, his drive for constant improvement is just one of the many aspects of his you grow to genuinely admire. So too is his ability to give.

Mutual tutoring still happens, just not every day. You quickly discover alternating how you devote your time works better. One night for dance, the next for math. Trying to fit both in equally in one involves too much clock watching for either of you. Still, Jungkook makes sure that for every minute you help him in Pre-Calculus, he oversees your dancing, especially during midterms, which you both do passably well on.

Although your arrangement is casual, he still takes his teaching seriously. He goes as far as to devise floor exercises specially for you to practice a specific element. As he said the first night, he focuses on “baby steps.” Engrain the basics in your muscles so they become the building blocks of second nature. Sometimes you see Jungkook get frustrated, but he never verbalizes it. He just gives his head a jerky shake to roll it off and moves on. He’ll either demonstrate the correct movement himself, slowly, or guide your pliant limbs through it. The smile he gives you when you succeed on your own is worth every pull of sore leg muscles and drop of sweat.

After your respective sessions, you usually stay there to do other work as well. The long trek to your dorm is off-putting in the face of the studio’s coziness.

You’ll sprawl out side by side on mats you dragged onto the floor. Snacks litter the space between you, within easy reach and shared indiscriminately. After all, everyone needs breaks to focus on something else.

When you are working on math, you share a book. It makes helping Jungkook through trouble problems easier. At first, you keep a certain distance, never allowing your head to brush his as you both huddle over his paper. Within the second month of your friendship, that habit flips on its head.

Jungkook crosses the invisible wall he unconsciously presented first. You’re doing some reading for English while he’s reading for his history. You don’t pay attention when you see him wriggling around. Then a weight settles on your back. Small but worthy of notice. You stop mid-sentence in your notes and look back.

Jungkook’s head is settled in the at the bottom of your arched spine. His lips move as he reads, the fringe of his bangs half-covering his eyes, completely unself-conscious. A heat like the first sip of hot chocolate, burning hot then gratifyingly warm, bursts into bloom in your heart and overflows to settle in the pit of your stomach. You hurriedly look back at your notes before you can think about it too much.

What you thought was a fluke turns into new routine. One of you is always leaning, lying, or touching the other while studying. The relaxing power of simple human touch is one you always underestimated, but no longer. Resting your head in Jungkook’s lap or propping your back against his makes you feel homely, or in simple language, just plain good.

That should have been your smack in the back of the head. You should have seen it coming, but the most troubling development of your new friendship nonetheless catches you off guard: you fall in love with Jungkook.

It isn’t the kind of realization where the heavens open up with a blinding ray of sunlight to enhalo your enlightenment. It’s more like a jigsaw puzzle, minute pieces of his character coming together to overtake your heart.

Jungkook’s passion for everything he loves, from dancing to video games. His cute bunny smile that crinkles his eyes and is at odds with the rest of him. His humility despite his accomplishments so that a compliment from you still makes him blush and cast his eyes down. His little acts to take care of you when he thinks you won’t notice. Bit by bit, you unknowingly give your heart away.

You are very good at keeping this secret from yourself. Denial is key. You tell yourself he is only a friend. You tell yourself the little shiver you now feel wherever Jungkook’s hands cover your skin or his chest presses against your back to demonstrate a movement is imagined. You tell yourself you catch yourself looking at him too long because any warm-blooded female would.

But then, Jungkook does something that has your heart pounding too loud for you to ignore.

During one of the rare times you aren’t in the studio with Jungkook, he slips in a puddle of sweat and falls. Luckily, he only twists his ankle. But it’s bad enough that the doctor wraps it and gives him crutches to use for a few days. He grumbles about it, but for fear of the wrath of his dance professor, he uses them.

Crutches mean dancing is off the table. Despite how close you’ve become, you still partially expect this to also mean you won’t see Jungkook as much. Instead, the same day, he shows up at your work during the last few hours of your shift.

You look up to greet the customer when the bell dings. The words stick in your throat at the sight of him. He waves at you and parks himself at a small table tucked in the corner by the coffee machines with his books. You hurry to chalk your suddenly irregular heartbeat to too much caffeine and return your attention to the line in front of you. No time for that.

When the stream of customers lulls, you slip out from behind the counter with cleaning rag and coffee in hand. Jungkook jumps when you set the coffee in front of him. “Columbian, iced, no milk, with a dash of sugar. Am I right?”

He nods and sets his phone down. He looks nice and snug in a black and red striped sweater that half hangs off his shoulder. Smiling he says, “I can’t believe you remembered that. Thanks.”

You laugh and tap your head. “It’s literally my job.”

“And you’ve got an elephant brain.” Jungkook takes a sip, giving an appreciative sigh. He glances at you with a frown. “Is it alright for you to do this?”

“It was time to brew a new pot.” You shrug. “It would’ve gone down the drain anyway. Besides, it’s not like you were going to buy anything.”

“I could’ve.”

“But you weren’t going to.”

He drops his indignant expression under your skeptical gaze and laughs. “You’re right. You’re right. I just needed to get out of the room and no one else is in theirs.”

“In other words, I was your last option. Thanks.” You huff in pretend hurt and turn away, secretly grinning when he grabs your arm.

“You know that’s not true,” Jungkook whines playfully. You can tell without looking he’s pouting in that nearly irresistible way. He doesn’t intend to be charming. It’s just a fortunate, or maybe unfortunate, effect.

Chuckling, you shake him off and stick your tongue out at him. “Yeah, yeah. See if you get any more coffees on the house out of me now, kid.”

Jungkook waits until you’re behind the counter again before calling your name. When you look up, he wiggles finger hearts at you with both hands. It’s a herculean effort not to giggle helplessly. Clearly taking your smile as forgiveness, he flips to thumbs up and returns his attention to his phone.

As both of you knew, your threat proves empty. Every new brewing means a refill if he needs it. You keep your eye on the math homework spread before him as well. Jungkook does do half of it, but once he gets frustrated with a problem, his phone is in hand two seconds later. The way his eyes dart around the screen clues you in that he’s playing a game. When he catches you catching him, he gives you a sheepish smile and goes back to the homework like a scolded schoolboy.

After the fifth time you find him playing a game, you glance at the clock and tell him, “It’s only ten minutes until we close. If you want, just leave the rest and we’ll do them in my room.”

“Oh, thank god,” Jungkook sighs. “I don’t even know if I did the ones I did right.”

“Pack up your stuff. I’ll carry it for you when we leave.” On second thought, you look around to find your coworker. Maybe she’ll let you leave early if you promise to do the same for her another night. Instead, you see someone you’d rather not heading for the door.

Many of your regulars come in solely for the coffee, wifi, and peaceful atmosphere. All they want to recharge their batteries in peace. They’re generally polite and don’t give you any trouble.

Nick is one of those regulars who’s the exception to the rule. He’s a graduate student, something he never fails to mention at least once a visit. Regardless of who serves him, he always has a sly comment that he obviously thinks is charmingly flirty. The predatory gleam in his eye makes them anything but. However, he carefully toes the line of harassment so a complaint won’t be taken seriously by management or the school administration. You wouldn’t exactly call him rude or even ugly, but the word ‘slimy’ comes up often when you and the other female baristas complain to each other about his latest advance.

Another frantic look around confirms your coworker must be in the back. Swallowing your discomfort, you plaster on the ‘I must be nice because you pay my bills’ smile anyone who’s held a job in customer service knows.

“Good evening, Nick. You’re cutting it close,” you say. You hide your hands out of sight, clenching and unclenching your fists in an attempt to relieve the anxious discomfort in your chest.

“Working on that masters’ thesis,” he replies smoothly. He leans an elbow on the counter and smiles at you. “But I hit a block and decided I need caffeine and a beautiful face to get myself around it.”

You subtly shift away and ignore his comment. Keeping your eyes on the register to avoid Nick’s, you ask, “The usual?”

“You know it, babe.”

When you tell him the total, Nick already has a large bill ready. It’s a fight to keep from shuddering at how his fingers drag along your palm as he hands you the money. He does it again when you give him his change. You really want to scrub your hands clean after.

Since you’re still by yourself, making his coffee provides a reason to turn your back on him. You still feel his gaze boring into your back. Jungkook catches your eye when you go back to the machines. There’s a small frown on his face that lets you know he heard the conversation. He knows you aren’t comfortable someone using pet names with you unless you’re extremely close. After so many nights observing your body, he can read the tension bunched in your shoulders as well.

You look away and focus on making the coffee.

Nick’s voice grates your nerves when he unexpectedly says, “Hey, love. I’ve got a question for you.”

You add some extra flourishes of your hands so he’ll think you can’t look away from your work. “Yes, sir?”

“Please, ‘sir’ is my father. There’s only one situation I like being called that. Here, I’m just Nick.” His chuckle invites you to laugh at his wit. When you give him a half-hearted laugh, he continues, “I’ve been thinking, and I’ve come to the conclusion we should go on a date, so I’m going to need your number.”

Your hand jerks. Milk drips down the side of the cup and onto the counter. His demand surprises you, but at the same time, it doesn’t. You just really wish he hadn’t said anything. Conflict, or even the possibility of it, sets your stomach churning and your body trembling every time.

Taking your time, you wipe off his cup and securely place the lid on it. Your best work smile is back in place when you turn around and hand his drink to him. “I’m sorry, Nick, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

Nick frowns, recovering quickly. He doesn’t even look at his drink. “Why?”

“It wouldn’t be professional behavior. I’m sorry, but no, thank you.” You turn your back on him again to start cleaning the splattered milk and coffee.

Nick follows you, leaning against the small glass partition. “Come on, just write it on my cup or something discreet like that.” His tone grows annoyed as he says, “If you didn’t want me to ask you out, why’re you always flirting with me? Men don’t like it when women string them along like a stupid tease.”

“It’s called doing her job.” Jungkook suddenly slides himself in front of the other man, forcing him backwards and away from you. Even leaning on one crutch, he cuts an intimidating figure.

“Are you her boyfriend?” Nick asks cautiously, eyeing the lines of muscle Jungkook’s T-shirt expose.

“No.”

The haughtiness returns to Nick’s voice. He puffs his chest and says, “Then this is none of your business. Butt out.”

You glance around, glad it’s almost closing so the shop is empty. Heart beating and clamminess taking over your skin, you whisper, “Jungkook, you really don’t have to. It’s okay.”

“If he’s harassing you, you shouldn’t have to put up with it.” Shifting his attention back to your suitor, Jungkook gives him a cold look. You’ve never seen such a look on your friend’s face. “She’s in the customer service industry. She has to smile and be nice to everyone or she’ll get reprimanded. Don’t you think it’s hard enough for her to act happy all the time to creeps like you who make her uncomfortable by coming onto her? Whether or not she has a boyfriend shouldn’t matter either. If you only respect her right to say ‘no’ because you think she’s another man’s property, no wonder you don’t have a girlfriend. Go educate yourself and get a fucking life.”

Your and Nick’s jaws drop. You manage to snap yours back into place, but Nick’s stays open like a suffocating fish’s. He stares at Jungkook a second longer before grabbing his order and slinking away with slumped shoulders.

Jungkook keeps his eyes on Nick’s back until the door closes behind him. He then turns to you, concern filling his gaze as he studies you. “Are you okay?”

You nod, hoping the wonder you’re feeling isn’t showing too badly. “Yes. Thanks. Really, you didn’t have to though.”

“Yes, I did,” Jungkook says firmly. “No one should get away with behavior like that.”

Intellectually, you know that. But standing up for yourself is a habit you’re still working on, and someone else defending you is unprecedented. His actions make you feel special and loved, another sensation you’re unused to. It’s indescribable. Before you cry from gratitude and emotion, you nod again and rush to lock the door so you can clean up, close up, and spend more time with Jungkook.

You’re both quiet on the slow, chilly walk back to the dorm. It reminds you of your first walk together. This time though, Jungkook takes the initiative and speaks first. His light-hearted recounting of a botched routine he and his friend Jimin made is clearly an attempt to make you feel better. You’re thankful for it and play along until you are calm and happy again.

A few hours and hot chocolates later, when your heads are hitting the paper more often than your pencils, it’s finally time to part company. You follow Jungkook to the door after he packs his things into his bookbag, stopping short when he turns around. Jungkook props one crutch against the doorframe and pulls you into his chest.

“Tell me if that guy ever bothers you again, understand? I’ll take care of it,” he says softly into your hair. He squeezes you tighter. “You deserve better than that.”

Although you’re unsure if you can keep that promise, you reply, “I will. Thank you.” You let yourself nestle closer into his soft hoodie and the safety of his arms.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

After you wave goodbye and close the door, you slump against it. Your heartbeat ripples through your body from head to toe. It disturbs the long-asleep butterflies in your stomach and sends them into flight. Your mind buzzes with what you’re finally admitting to yourself. Jeon Jungkook is most definitely nestled in your heart with no intentions of leaving. And you have no idea what to do about it.

‘Torturous’ is the only word that can describe the consequent debate you have with yourself. To tell Jungkook or not to tell Jungkook, that is the question. You’ve witnessed firsthand how flustered he gets when a pretty girl so much as walks past him. His mouth seals up like a safe. Suddenly, he studies the floor like it has all the answers in the world. For Jungkook to close himself off from you in this manner all because you strung three innocent words of a confession together would break you.

But to open the door for your relationship to become something more…. To be able to hold his hand when you walk together, to kiss his nose just because you feel like it, to curl up in his lap during late night movies. Your dreams may be small, but they are more tempting than all the treasure of Ali Baba’s forty thieves. Maybe you are greedy or weak, but those small things are all you can think of. Their constant invasion of your conscious makes you distracted, enough so Jungkook comments on it during your tutoring. You brush it off as being tired or thinking of an assignment, breathing a sigh relief when he lets it go each time.

By the end of the week, you can’t take it. You are going to tell Jungkook. You have hope if it doesn’t go well, he won’t abandon you. It’s in your prayers every night.

You’re still building up the courage to follow your decision when, one night, Jungkook bursts through the studio door. He looks bewildered and a little shell-shocked.

“Are you okay?” You rise from your seat on the mats immediately.

He nods his head but says, “No.” Jungkook drops his bag right at the door, strides over to you, and collapses. He closes his eyes as he leans against the mirrors. “You’re never going to believe what happened.”

“What?”

Jungkook sits up to look at you. “A girl just asked me out to the winter dance. Me!”

“Oh.” Your heart stops. You suddenly feel queasy.

“I know, right?” His words come faster as he babbles, “She’s an upperclassman and super hot too. Really, really good ballet dancer. We don’t even have a class together. I see her sometimes when I go talk to Professor Duncan, but I hadn’t even talked to her before now. It’s crazy.”

Already dreading the answer, you ask, “Did you say ‘yes’?” You hold your breath waiting for his answer.

He shrugs. “Well, yeah. How could I say no?”

“Yeah.” You shrink into yourself, a fist pulverizing your heart with each breath. Still, you smile through the pain and give him a forced, “Congrats.”

“Thanks, I think.” Half of Jungkook’s mouth turns upwards. He leans down to rest his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, cocking his head to study you. “You really think it was a good idea to say ‘yes’? What if I screw this up?”

“You won’t. It’s only a dance.” But in your mind, it’s much more. It’s your chance to reveal your feelings to Jungkook slipping away like quicksand.

His smile becomes whole and turns into a grin. “You’re right. It’s only a dance. Not like I agreed to marry her,” he giggles. “Wait til I tell everyone else an upperclassman asked me out!”

The thought makes you want to vomit but you laugh along. You don’t even know this girl but you envision her being everything you are not and everything Jungkook could want. All your plans and hopes are being dashed. Yet because Jungkook seems happy, you have no choice but to stand there and watch them turn to dust underfoot.

#jungkook scenarios #kpopwritingnet #bts scenarios #kpop scenarios #jungkook #bts #jeon jungkook

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bethofbells · 8 years ago

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Solace - A Criminal Minds (Derek/Penelope) fic

On FF.net | On AO3

(I’m rewatching the series and I’m like mid season three and my morcia shipper heart is getting to me)

At the end of a long hard day of seeing the worst humanity has to offer Penelope Garcia likes things to be soft and sweet. Old romantic comedies are a go to on nights when she can’t get graphic images out of her mind. She puts them on, turning the volume down to a pleasant murmur in the background. She likes the sound of people falling in love while she’s cooking dinner, early nineties soundtracks filling her cluttered apartment as she chops up veggies.

Her favorite is You’ve Got Mail. There’s just something about the texture of the film, Meg Ryan’s soft blonde bob and her decidedly taupey monochromatic wardrobe are soothing in a way. It’s the complete opposite of Penelope’s own bright and flashy sense of style, but it fits the character so perfectly she doesn’t mind. It’s comforting when someone leans into their own personality.

She contemplates the seemingly endless monochromatic collection of turtlenecks and slacks that the character owns, getting lost in the feel of the movie. She’s grateful for that. The BAU’s last case, while not the most horrific one she’d ever been subjected to, was so just unrelentingly sad. It had made her feel heavy waking out of the office tonight, melancholia clinging to her like a wet blanket.

She’s half way through a pint of her favorite Ben & Jerry’s, watching Meg Ryan happy-cry into Tom Hank’s arms when her door buzzer sounds. It’s only then that she realizes she’s crying right along with the movie, moving to dash away the moisture running down her face.

A quick glance at the time tells her it’s past midnight, and she can’t help the little thrill of fear that trickles down her spine. It hasn’t been that long since her apartment building was a scene of mayhem, a man hell-bent on killing her stalking the halls. She can still feel the cold metal of the gun Derek had pressed into her hands for protection. Shuddering, she moves to see who’s buzzing.

Her finger presses down on the button, only a slight tremor revealing her anxiety. “H-hello. Who is it?”

”It’s your knight, coming to release you from your tower.”

She smiles, the fear draining out of her completely. “I like my tower just fine, thank you very much. It has high speed wifi and a well stocked freezer.”

She buzzes him up before waiting for a reply, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. It strikes her as odd, but she shakes it off, attributing it to the fact that Derek has never really been to her home when circumstances weren’t dire.

He’s knocking on her door in minutes and she doesn’t have to fake the bright smile that splits across her face when she swings it open.

He’s come straight from the airport, and he looks tired, his travel bag hanging on his shoulder, eyes not their usual brightness. It worries her for a second, but she’s no profiler, doesn’t want to be, so she chalks it up to the exhausting nature of a transcontinental flight and invites him the rest of the way in

”Not that I’m averse to inviting a deliciously handsome and roguish looking gentleman into my boudoir in the middle of the night, but what are you doing here?”

It’s not normal, and they both know it, but Derek has a look on his face that Penelope’s not used to. It’s sad and tired. She has the strongest urge to step forward and wrap her arms around him.

After a long pause, he answers. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

It’s something of a lie, and they both know it, but his expression begs her to accept it and so she does. He moves further into her apartment, dropping his bag on the hardwood with a thunk. “This is the first week the teams been gone since…” He trails off, the mere mention of her attack seems like just one more thing that makes him sad and tired. “… and I know you were probably a little edgy the whole time.”

Somehow they’ve migrated into her little kitchen area, Derek leaning against her island in an almost obscene display of his natural tendency to strike a modelesque pose. Her eyes involuntarily give him a once over. He’s another one of those people who really leans into the image they present to the word. His dark fitted tee accentuating the line of his pecs, the sleeves cutting across his arm in the perfect place to make his biceps seem enormous. Internally she fans herself like a southern belle suddenly accosted with a bout of the vapors. Externally she’s as cool as a cucumber, a slight bite of her bottom lip the only sign of her inner struggle.

Of course he notices the small movement, one of his perfectly sculpted eyebrows arching upward in amusement. He leans forward, reaching up to catch her bottom lip with his thumb. “You alright there, Pen?”

She smiles at him, adopting her most sultry gaze. It’s her only defense against Derek’s charms, to play along with this game of his. It had been like this from day one. She knows his flirtation is not serious, so she responds flippantly. “Oh, I’m more than alright, Agent Morgan. Just enjoying the view.”

It has the desired result. His eyes crinkle at the corners and he lets out an amused laugh, moving in to land a smacking kiss on her cheek. The strange tension is broken, and he moves toward her fridge to rummage through it for leftovers. “I’m starving, baby girl. The jet of ours is seriously lacking in snack department.”

She moves him out of the way, digging around and making him a plate of what she’d had for dinner hours ago. In minutes they’re sitting side by side on her couch, watching the opening scenes of her second favorite romcom. Harry and Sally are arguing when Derek sets his empty plate on the coffee table, a satisfied sigh escaping him.

She catches him staring, a strange feeling fluttering in the pit of her stomach. For the millionth time since she met him she thinks about how unfair it is, the way he can unthinkingly melt her into a gooey puddle and just go about his life like it’s no big deal.

But he has an unusual expression on his face this time, like he needs to say something but just can’t find the words. He opens his mouth, but closes it, awkwardly waiting a second before he tries again. “I missed you.”

It’s her turn to feel awkward. Things have been different between them since her attack. The deep cut of hurt she’d experienced when he’d seemed skeptical about her romantic life was still in the back of her mind, and she’d definitely been calling the other agents more frequently with information when they were out in the field. She couldn’t help it, there was still a thin film of embarrassment. He’d been right, and god her cheeks still flamed when she’d thought about how angry she’d been at him. It was, she knew, a very revelatory response, one that she knew Derek (one of the bureau’s he’d profilers) had picked up on.

”Derek, look, I’m sorry. You were right about Battle. I just–”

”No, stop. You have nothing to apologize for. I, uh, wasn’t exactly using my abilities as profiler when it came to him.”

”Huh?”

”I was being selfish, I think.” He frowns, trying to articulate what he means. “I felt defensive when you told me you’d met someone, like it meant whatever our thing was might have to change.”

”Our thing?” The hope that springs in her chest momentarily takes her breath away.

”You’re my best friend, Pen… kind of all I have.”

”Oh.” It’s a quiet response, accompanied by a mixture of disappointment and affection. She hates the lonely note in his voice.

“…and when you said you blew him off… I was so relieved I said the first stupid thing that came into my head. It had nothing to do with you.”

She doesn’t have a response. Unspoken is the idea that he was possibly jealous. It sends a thrill through her, but she does her best to tamp it down. “Well, I am sorry too. I have a few sensitive spots, and you just… sort of accidentally found one.” She sighs. “And it’s not like you were wrong.”

She’s staring at the screen now, avoiding looking directly at him. That’s how she feels his touch against her face before she sees him move. His fingers slide under her chin, making her look at him. “Look at me, angel.”

She does. His eyes, when they aren’t sparkling with amusement are always so sincere. It’s no different now, and she feels the remnants of whatever made her cry earlier stir in her chest.

”He was a scumbag, yes.” Derek continues without relinquishing her gaze. “But I’m so lucky that you’re the one who’s on the other end of the lin when my phone rings, that you’re the one I get to come home to after spending a week in a strange place with horrible people. I don’t ever want that to change.”

She smiles, leaning into his embrace. “It’s not going to.”

”Promise?”

”Promise.”

And that’s how they sleep together the first time. Innocently. Penelope’s head tucked under his chin, her ear pressed against his heart. Whatever nightmares lie in wait for the both of them are shoved to the periphery, the sound of people falling in love coming from the television as the two drift into unconsciousness.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #morcia #morgan x garcia #Derek Morgan #Penelope Garcia #(I've already got a couple chapters for this thought out in #my head)

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beltain · 8 years ago

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30 Character Questions

1.) Describe your character’s relationship with their mother or their father, or both. Was it good? Bad? Were they spoiled rotten, ignored? Do they still get along now, or no? Ilyrrath didn’t know her parents growing up. She was raised by her uncle, aunt, and their immediate families. But she didn’t mind, because throughout childhood, she was lavished with compassion. She could honestly say that her relationship with her relatives was one of love and respect. Her uncle wasn't the most talkative or jovial man, but he worked hard to ensure for his family a secured livelihood and supported his niece’s wishes of becoming a ranger. If one didn't know her well enough, they'd sooner assume Ilyrrath's aunt to be a fishwife than a noble's housemaid. She was wider than she was tall with lungs that could outwit the cleanest foghorn. Once she acted up, proper manners subsided and her lowborn dialect grew thicker. Her index finger and tongue were her favorite weapons and she'd wag both at the drop of a hat, especially when it came to matters of men and her niece: “Never let ya' knickers down, girl. Them boys be nuttin’ but trouble! They be chasin' ya’ like foxes in tha' fields soon enough!” “That makeup’s as thick as your uncle's spackle! You look like a trollop! Want ta' be treated like one, too? Wash tha' offa’ ya’ this instant!” 2.) What are your characters most prominent physical features? Silvery hair, tapered ears, and freckles. 3.) Name one scar your character has, and tell us where it came from. If they don’t have any, is there a reason? There is a sliver of dark pink and shiny tissue about a couple of inches in length along the inside of Ilyrr's right forearm. It was unintentionally self-inflicted when she shot an elven bow for the first time without wearing an arm-guard, and the bowstring burned against her flesh. 4.) How vain is your character? Do they find themselves attractive? She personally doesn't find herself all that pretty to look at, which is why she’s occupied with things that are, such as flowers and satin and lace. 5.) What’s your character’s ranking on the Kinsey Scale? Abysmally abstinent. 6.) Describe your character’s happiest memory. One of Ilyrr's happiest memories would have to be when she finally met her birth parents after two decades. 7.) Is there one event or happening your character would like to erase from their past? Why? Nothing. She wouldn’t be who she is now if her life didn’t happen the way it did, both bad and good. 8.) What’s your character’s favorite ice cream flavor? Color? Song? Flower? Ice cream flavor: Pumpkin and ginger. Color: Sunsets. Song: Elunite choirs Flower: Roses (especially peach, yellow, and pink), cherry blossoms, and wisterias. 9.) Who does your character trust? Herself. 10.) Can you define a turning point in your character’s life? Multiples are acceptable. The moment she opened a book as a little girl fantasizing about monsters and heroines. 11.) Is there an animal you equate with your character? A manasaber for her ferocious protectiveness, and a monohorn for her gentle elegance. 12.) How is your character with technology? Super savvy, or way behind the times? Plain scrolls or gnomish teleportation? Ilyrr's technological knowledge stretches about as far it will allow for her to operate a gun. Even then, she's preferred the bow after having adopted some of the high elves’ customs. 13.) What does your character’s bed look like when he/she wakes up? Are the covers off on one side of the bed, are they all curled around a pillow, sprawled everywhere? In what position might they sleep? Much to her own surprise, Ilyrr isn't a squirmy sleeper. She may turn here and there to find a comfortable position, but she usually ends up on her stomach with both hands tucked under the pillow. When she rouses, the blankets have barely moved from their position when she fell asleep. Ilyrr tries to make her bed every day just so that it's that much nicer to slip back into later. 14.) How does your character react to temperature changes such as extreme heat and cold? If it's not in the form of beverages or ice cream, then keep it far away from her. Simply, Ilyrr loathes the cold. When stuck in it, she becomes irritable and uncooperative. Most everything she adores is warm: laughter, Springtime, blankets, and stew. 15.) Is your character an early morning bird or a night owl? Even before she visited to Darnassus, Ilyrr stayed up late and slept in late when she could. Then after the move, she adjusted to a completely nocturnal lifestyle in order to accommodate her kaldorei associates. 16.) Are there any blood relatives that your character is particularly close with, besides the immediate ones? Cousins, Uncles, Grandfathers, Aunts, et cetera. Are there any others that your character practically considers a blood relative? Definitely. Namely, her paternal uncle and aunt who took her in and raised her as their own when her birth parents followed their leaders through the Dark Portal. 17.) What’s your character’s desk/workspace look like? Are they neat or messy? Knickknacks. Knickknacks everywhere! Llo is a clutter-bug.

Though, to her credit, her work spaces are not dirty as she does keep up with dusting to compensate for the bric-a-brac that are prone to collect it. The rooms are decorated with living plants such as ivy vines that crawl along the windows and lace interweaving patterns across the ceilings. Tokens like crystals, shells, and shed antlers that Ilyrr found on her travels are proudly displayed wherever there is room for them, whether they have business being there or not. Somehow, she manages to also fit a collection of books and art utensils, like paintbrushes in assorted cups and paint tins. When the weather's nice, Ilyrr will leave her windows and doors open so that benign animals could come and go as they pleased. One Spring, she even found a bird's nest that had been built in one of her potted plants. The birds were welcome to continue their nesting until the chicks had hatched and were ready to fly back into the wild. 18.) Is your character a good cook? What’s their favorite recipe, whether they’re good or not? Although Ilyrr loves the idea of baking and eating the products of such even more, let's just say she's been tempted to give Nomi a run for his money. 19.) What’s your character’s preferred means of travel? Usually by flight, riding on the back of her companion and hippogryph, Skydancer. This is the more efficient means as it bypasses many obstacles born on land. But if she wishes to take a leisurely stroll through the countryside, as she often does, she might have her trusty Quel’dorei steed, Silverlance, accompany her and share in the pleasure. 20.) Does your character have any irrational fears? Betrayal and abandonment. 21.) Does your character have a tattoo? If they do, does it symbolize anything important, or was it for fun? If not, what would they get and why? She doesn't have any tattoos, but if she did she'd probably get cherry blossoms with loose petals flowing down her arms and over her chest as a representation and reminder that life is both overwhelmingly beautiful and tragically short. 22.) If your character could time travel, where would they go? Ilyrr would rather not mess with time travel if she could help it (she's looking at you, bronze dragonflight). At first, she thought she'd like to see Azeroth in its infancy, when it mirrored its original blueprint that is now preserved in the Emerald Dream. She's been told by druids that at one point, there were flora and fauna that had long ago gone extinct, and the continuation of their existence lies only in the Dream. But really, she couldn't imagine being born at a different time and it's not like one moment was better than others. Each one has suffered their own trials and tribulations, as well as blessings. So she agrees with fate's decision of choosing the one it did for her. 23.) Is your character superstitious? No. Not since childhood. The harsh reality of the world that became apparent to Ilyrr while entering adulthood had parted those mists from her eyes. They continue to do so with other angles of her perception, as well. 24.) What might your character’s ideal romantic partner be? If there's one thing Ilyrr can't tolerate, it's infidelity. She's been cheated on and taken for a play-thing by reckless suitors with no self-discipline nor respect for her. She knows better than to blame love itself for her hurt, for what she had endured was not the fruit of love, but lust. Yet repeated failures of this nature has convinced her that while love does exist for some people, she must not be one of them. An ideal romantic partner would have to remain patient and steadfast to convince her otherwise. They would also need to be willing to bring forth their inner child on occasion, and have a decent sense of humor, just none that would involve love games. 25.) Describe your character’s hands. Are they small, long, calloused, smooth, stubby? They are small and seemingly delicate with soft, translucent skin. Her little finger usually erects itself involuntarily while the others rest in an arched curve possibly influenced by Ilyrr's artistic pursuits and frequent handling of writing utensils. They have little to no callouses. Her nail growth is weak, which may be a sign of deficiency in fiber. So she keeps them filed just beyond the cuticle but makes sure they're presentable with fresh polish and trimmed hangnails. 26.) Favorite comfort food, favorite vice, favorite outfit, favorite hot drink, favorite time of year, and favorite holiday. Comfort food: Pandaren cuisine like red bean buns and yak cheese curds. Vice: Animosity (i.e. burning bridges, holding grudges) Outfit: One of the first gowns she bought in Darnassus, elven-made and tailored in leafy, frosty pink gossamer and sequins. It fits sleek and rests low but elegantly over the chest and trails beyond the ankles and down the arms. Unfortunately, it would make for impractical apparel, so Llo hasn't had much opportunity to wear it. Hot drink: Hot cider & pearl milk tea Time of year: Late Spring - early Summer Holiday: Noblegarden & Lunar Festival 27.) Pick two songs that describe your character at two different points of their life, and explain why you chose them. I've never been one for character "theme songs", but should Ilyrr have one, it'd have to be "Let It Be" by Blackmill. I find it beautiful and bittersweet in its message as it's something Ilyrr, in all her labored optimism, has needed personal reminders for.

youtube

Some fans have speculated that the song's about a long-distanced relationship that failed. For Ilyrr specifically, I'd like to think that it's a lesson in learning to love from afar (whether the object's a person, place, or thing), and be content in forfeiting touch or intimacy because it's the only realistic option she has, however humbling that may be.

28.) If your character’s life was a genre, what would it be? Philosophical or dark comedy 29.) How does your character smell? Do they wear perfume or cologne? Ilyrr enjoys collecting perfume bottles for their aesthetics, but she really has no need for the perfume itself. With a flip of her hair, sweet and fresh aromas waft from the living flowers that encircle her crown. 30.) And finally: Write a letter to your character, from yourself. Dear muse, You can do this. Remember not to fall for the old tricks again, okay? But even if you do, know that I got you. With love, Your mun

#creations #questionaire

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wildwoodgoddess · 8 years ago

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The Problem Finale: Thoughts on Sherlock “The Final Problem”

This is probably going to get long, but I don’t really want to split it into two posts, so just brace yourselves.

I’m planning to cover the following:

1) What TFP Got Right (in my opinion) 2) What TFP Got Wrong (also imo) 3) About Johnlock 4) Some personal thoughts on #3 and the series as a whole

You won’t find wank or hate in this post. Quite the opposite. And I’m hoping it will be accessible and interesting regardless of your opinions on Item 3.

I’ll do my best to respond to any asks, but I am headed into a writing deadline of my own and need to switch my attention to that for the next several weeks, so I might be a little slow on replying. Please feel free to get in touch, though. Would love to hear from you.

So here we go…under the cut:

What TFP Got Right:

The entire show, as stated in ASiP, was aimed at showing Sherlock’s progression from a “great” man to a “good” one. In the context of the show, this meant becoming more socially aware and embracing emotions as good and healthy, allowing himself to love, to have a family.

And it did that. I thought it was key in TFP that Sherlock flat out insists that John remain during Mycroft’s explanation of Eurus because John IS FAMILY. Compare that to ASiP where Sherlock is barely willing to acknowledge Mycroft as his brother.

TFP makes it very clear that emotions, especially love (of all kinds) are the key to solving the final problem. Without understanding emotions, Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to avoid shooting Mycroft or John. It was his insight into Eurus’ own emotions that made him realize that threatening to shoot himself was the only way to get her to stop. And it was his own ability to show her compassion that allowed him to be able to save John.

That message is pretty hamfisted, in my opinion, especially in how Mycroft speaks, compared to how Sherlock reacts. But it’s there, and Sherlock’s ability to show Eurus compassion and grace is the culmination of that transformation.

I did like that they had Sherlock “rewrite” his memories of his childhood friend because he couldn’t deal with the murder.

And I really liked that the writers have said that these 4 series turned into a sort of origin story for how “our” Sherlock went from a cold-blooded faux-sociopath to a truly loving, caring human being that would be—if the show goes forward—more like the mature, good-hearted person in the ACD stories. I can get on board with that, and I think the 4 series did well with that progression.

Other small things I liked: Eurus giving Sherlock violin lessons, Mycroft being disguised as the old man (paralleled TEH where John thinks his elderly patient with the porn videos is Sherlock), Sherlock playing with Rosie at the end, the fact that Mycroft had such a weak stomach when it came to shooting someone himself, Mycroft trying to goad Sherlock into shooting him by insulting John, Sherlock spotting that immediately, and making Mycroft sit in the client chair.

What TFP Got Wrong:

Where do I begin? *sigh*

A lot of people are talking about plot holes and implausibility. And in spite of the larger-than-life nature of the show itself, I think a lot of stuff in this episode does strain credulity, basically, because Eurus is—as another article said—almost comic-book super villain. The rocky island prison was practically Azkaban, and her abilities were nearly magic. I believe that the writers definitely intended it to be taken as in-world fact, but it did seem to be a bit much.

I would have been able to accept it as plausible in this story world if Eurus had been a looming presence in some form over the course of all 4 series. The attempt to tie in Moriarty to her seemed a bit forced. Moriarty was set up from episode 1 as the arch-nemesis, and I felt all along that killing him at the end of series 2 didn’t make a lot of narrative sense. Eurus felt to me like an attempt to fill in that gap, but it would have been much more effective if there had clearly been a shadow presence even beyond Moriarty from the very start. The audience didn’t have any emotional connection to Eurus because she really only showed up for like 30 seconds at the end of TLD and then for TFP.

And the analysis I read (and reblogged) about Eurus being treated like a Victorian woman put into an asylum because she was too clever was very insightful. I really like SO much of Moffat’s style of storytelling, but it’s pretty hard to defend him against all the charges of misogyny when he keeps stepping in it over and over.

Because of the lack of build up to the Eurus reveal, the emotional arc of the episode felt rushed. Too much plot, not enough space for reactions. The fact that John was saved by being thrown a rope, and somehow the chain disappeared, and the immediate aftermath of that rescue wasn’t shown—not only were these plot holes, it was supposed to be the climax of the episode and it lacked strength and emotional resonance because it was rushed.

I am constantly telling my editing clients that they have to show the emotional response of their characters. It’s one of the most common writing mistakes that I encounter. And this episode made the exact same mistake—which is painfully ironic considering that the importance of emotions was the theme of the entire story.

But because the story needed so much flashback and exposition and plot, the emotional journey of the characters was glossed over, rushed. That’s another reason why it felt implausible. I strongly suspect that if the characters had been allowed enough space in the story to react, to respond to the plot, the plot itself would have felt more plausible, even if the plot holes remained. That’s how story works—if the story can show the characters’ emotions well enough, you will connect with them on that emotional level, and you won’t mind the plot holes so much. I think the story failed on that point because it chose to center plot over character.

That may have been the fault of the writers, or it may have been the fault of the director/editor. Just keep that in mind—an editor can change the entire tone of a story just by removing space between lines or choosing one shot instead of another.

I could probably nit-pick more, but I’ll stop there. I really wanted to like this episode, and I did to an extent, but I could have been completely transported by it, and I’m sad that I wasn’t.

About Johnlock:

I find myself in the truly wonderful position of having a lot of new followers in the past few weeks. And some of them don’t ship at all, others ship John and Sherlock, and others prefer other pairs. I love that I have such a variety—thank you to all of you for giving me a try.

With that in mind, I want to address the Johnlock people and then the not-Johnlock people.

First, Johnlock people and TJLC’ers:

You weren’t wrong. You weren’t seeing things that weren’t there. I thought some of the subtext analysis was a stretch, but not all. Not by a long shot.

I ended up joining Tumbler after TEH aired. It was the first episode I saw, and then I went back and watched all of S1 and S2. But what I saw in the flashback of the Fall made me think “are they putting John and Sherlock together romantically?” And that started me Googling, and that led me to Tumblr Sherlock meta, and here I am three years later.

I have repeatedly said that John and Sherlock’s relationship follows a classic romantic story arc. But I’ve also said that this formula can also be used for platonic friendships (The King’s Speech is my favorite example of that). It’s just not as common.

In this case, I think it was perfectly reasonable to suspect and predict that they’d get together. And I was disappointed from a story-telling standpoint because I think it would have made much more sense for them to go ahead with a romance.

First, they have explicitly demonstrated that neither John or Sherlock can have a romantic relationship with someone else because the two of them together just isn’t compatible with a trio. There won’t be anyone else for either of them.

Second, they’ve never given any good, compelling reason why they wouldn’t get together, other than John’s protestations that he isn’t gay (which, hello bisexuality) and Sherlock’s belief that he can’t have relationships because of The Work, which has been effectively destroyed.

Instead, we are being presented with the suggestion that Sherlock and John live forevermore together in domestic 221B, totally platonic bliss, raising their daughter together.

That would work, I suppose, if Sherlock was portrayed as completely asexual as just his natural orientation. But he’s not. He’s shown as someone who suppressed emotions for the sake of reason (and now, because of the trauma he experienced at the hand of Eurus). But he’s changed now, and the show has gone out of its way several times to point out that romance is a lack in Sherlock’s life. Whether or not John is right that romance would complete him is debatable. And maybe even after Sherlock’s inner transformation, he simply doesn’t have sexual or romantic desires. But that idea rests completely on speculation. It isn’t addressed one way or another in the show itself.

So keeping them from being a couple does seem to be an unnecessary contortion.

The only defense I can make of it is that I believe the show’s in-world truth is that John loved Mary in a flawed but real way. And TFP takes place not so very long after Mary was killed. John may not have been emotionally ready to begin a new romance, no matter how much he truly loves Sherlock.

But it’s a pretty weak defense, and it just seems to me that since they clearly aren’t going to do another trio by giving either of them another partner, there really isn’t any good story-telling reason to NOT do a romance. I’ll let others speculate about why they chose not to, but I think it was a poor creative choice.

However, they DO end up together and happy—even if it’s in a way that feels a bit like a story-telling cheat.

So for people who are sad, disappointed, angry, and feeling betrayed by this creative choice, please know that you weren’t totally imagining things.

I also want to encourage you, as others have already done, to channel those emotions into positive and productive energy. Create the stories you are asking for—whether books, film, or other media.

If you can’t create, then find ways to support people who can. And not just Sherlock fan creations. There are web series worth supporting on crowd-fund sites, there are authors who would appreciate if you spent a couple bucks on their books. If you don’t even have a couple dollars, at least offer encouragement. Offer to beta read. Volunteer as a personal assistant to an author or artist who needs some administrative help. Be the loudest megaphone to help promote these works so that others who can afford to fund will do so.

To Non-Johnlock people:

Be considerate. Please. I haven’t seen anyone on my dash being rude or mean or even gloating. That’s lovely. Keep it up. Understand and remember that a lot of people looked to the show to offer a positive reflection of themselves. A lot of people need to hear that not only are they ok, they are heroes. And if that is what you are longing to hear and have been getting hints of, to have that taken away is really hard. Have compassion.

Personal Thoughts:

Stories are important, stories are life changing. Even without John and Sherlock becoming a romantic couple, this show has changed my way of viewing stories. It’s made me more empathetic. Not so much because of the show itself, but because of the analysis and historical context I’ve gained from Johnlock people.

No matter who we would like to see together, we ALL need more empathy and to understand different perspectives.

And yet, at the same time, it is ONLY a story. It shouldn’t be your identity. It shouldn’t be what you live for. And it shouldn’t be something that ruins your relationships with other people—even ones on a blog site.

Live for something that you can create for yourself—your own life, your relationships, your career, your passion. Enjoy the creations of others, but don’t let that be your foundation. Create—and live—your own story.

Don’t put creators on pedestals. But don’t be mean to them either. They are fallible human beings, just like the rest of us. Believe me, I know. We have things we don’t understand. We have biases. We sometimes fail to communicate clearly. We can be assholes. I really don’t think that anyone involved with the show intended to hurt or disappoint anyone. Why would they? There’s no incentive in that. They may have screwed up or disappointed you, but they aren’t evil.

I just want to say a big thank you to the Sherlock fandom—you’ve inspired me, challenged me, and taught me so much. You’ve helped me see areas in my own writing that I need to grow in—as far as representation, getting out of my own comfort zone, being more aware of the impact that the way I tell my story can have on my readers.

And going forward, no matter what the Sherlock creators plan to do next, I can tell you what I’m going to do:

I’m going to do a better job at representation in my books. I’ve been wanting to, especially with LGBTQ+ characters, for some time, but I knew there was a lot I needed to learn and understand first because I really want to get it right and my upbringing and younger experiences didn’t prepare me at all for that. I’m getting there, and you all are helping so much with that, and I’m very grateful.

I’m going to keep learning, and I’m going to continue trying to find and then promote stories that offer the representation we all need to have. Marginalized people need to be represented. But I also need them to be represented, whether the diversity represents me or not. I need to have those stories normalized. I need it because I need to get rid of my own biases and misunderstandings. I need it because I need more empathy. I need a broader perspective.

This is what story is supposed to do—provide validation, challenge ideas, help people grow, inspire them, give them hope. Bring about greater justice and compassion and empathy.

Time will tell whether or not Sherlock accomplished any of this, or even meant to.

But I think we all can take away a few lessons from it that ought to be applied to real life as well as the fandom:

Compassion, not cleverness, matters in the end.

Love—in all its forms—is more important than being right.

Emotions, connection, relationships are life-saving, not a liability.

Forgiveness is healing.

Hugs and love to you all! I’ll be a bit quiet after this because of my writing project, but I’m not going away entirely, and I’m looking forward to where the conversation heads from here.

#bbc sherlock #meta #spoilers #tfprob #s4 #story structure #storytelling

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