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feeling-weirdy · 3 years

Note

I loved your Halloween fic!!!!

Would you consider writing a follow up where Wanda and Vision finally get to walk down the yellow brick road 😉😉 once trick or treating is done and the kids are asleep? Maybe they have to take a shower to get all the makeup and stuff off???

Love everything you write!!!

Make sure you check out part 1 first!

Explicit for suuuuure

"Looks like the kids are down for the count. I never thought a sugar crash would be our saving grace, but there you have it." Vision plopped himself on the bed, straw pieces littering the bed with every movement. He and his costume had been positively spent and he found himself no longer caring where the bits of his costume fell. “The night is officially over.”

Wanda came in from the bathroom, meticulously removing both of her earrings with a thoughtful glance. "That wasn't too bad now was it?"

"You do have to admit...” Vision grunted softly, pushing himself up so that he was leaning on his elbows against the bed. “Your costumes are a bit...outdated." His face scrunched at the word, his lips tugging outwards as his eyes scanned her perfect form. The blue and white checkered pattern suited her quite nicely, a small slip of fabric hugging her waist together in a most delicious way that only stopped once it twisted around itself to form the bow that sat at the small of her back.

"Outdated?” She scoffed, making her way towards him. Placing the earrings on the nightstand, she leaned over him and placed one delicate kiss on his lips. “I think you look quite handsome if I do say so myself."

"Mm, thank you, darling." As she pulled back, he followed her sneaking in one last kiss before she stood up straight. “Yours is definitely worth all the fuss. I think I could get used to seeing you in little numbers like that.”

“Oh yeah?” She giggled, sauntering toward the bathroom with exaggerated movements. Her hips swung back and forth as she peered over at him with a loving glance. "Maybe you should help me get this little number off then. Find something else you'd enjoy more?" Wanda leaned against the bathroom door, daring him to follow after her with teasing eyes.

Vision cocked his head to the side, a knowing smile gracing his lips.

"Pretty sure we're supposed to follow that yellow brick road, hm? You wouldn't want to keep me from finding my way home, would you Mr. Scarecrow?"

Vision chuckled, pushing himself to his feet as he closed the distance between them. "I'm pretty sure we can drop all that, yeah? Maybe it's not quite as sexy as I thought it was." Slipping his hand around her waist, he used his right to trace the edge of her jaw, pulling her lips up to meet his.

"Worth a shot." Wanda shrugged, grinning up at him. "Maybe we should just...take this off and put things back in order."

"I think that would be for the best."

They kept their eyes locked on each other. Wanda reached around her back, slowly undoing the bow that kept her little dress tight around her body. She turned, silently asking for help with the zipper. Vision complied, brushing her hair out of the way as he steadily pulled the zipper all the way down her back.

Slipping his hands beneath the fabric, he ran his cool digits along her skin, tracing the indentation of her back until he reached her shoulders. He flicked the straps off of her shoulders allowing the entirety of the dress to fall to the floor, revealing her voluptuous body.

He allowed his fingers to explore her skin, tracing over the patterns of her black bra. With a soft sigh, she turned in his arms, stretching her arms around his neck and pulled him down for another kiss.

"No fair," she breathed against him, peering down at his still clothed body.

Vision laughed. " I wouldn't even know where to begin to take this thing off." He raised his arms slightly, feeling as if he had been sewn inside this blasted thing, and as the person who did the sewing, she knew full well what she had done.

"Can't you just...?" Wanda's eyebrows danced, moving in all sorts of directions in implication. "Plus...you gotta change...all that anyway." She circled her finger around his face, a dazzling smile crossing her face. "If I'm going to make love to my husband then I'm going to make love to my husband."

"Ah...right." His human disguise dissipated, giving way to the reddish-purple tint of his normal outward appearance. Changing forms gave himself the opportunity to shed his costume, leaving him in nothing but his black boxers. His wife gazed up at him, her approval evident.

“Much better...”

Vision set to work where he left off earlier in the night, peppering kisses along the nape of her neck. Teasing his cool fingers along the sides of bare skin, eliciting all sorts of sighs and squeaks as he made his way around her body. He could feel Wanda’s warm fingers make their way along his hard chest, the temperature difference sending shivers through his very core. Soft moans escaped her lips, nagging him on until it was his tongue trailing along her soft, delicate skin. While he couldn’t taste in the same way a human could, he could still feel the metallic tang rest along his tongue. He could take in her heat if nothing else, only growing more pronounced as he made his desires known.

Not allowing himself to rush, Vision took his time as he worked his way up her neck drawing out all sorts of delicious noises from Wanda’s lips as she wrapped her arms around him. Her fingertips scraping along the sensitive part at the base of his neck only driving him mad.

Finally making his way to her mouth, Vision crashes his lips to her, his hand trailing back down to the tip of her waist as she pressed against him. The passion between them built by the moment, pulling each other closer until air no longer existed between them.

Wanda hops and wraps her legs around his waist and he carries her to the bed, stripping off her panties in one quick motion. She arched her back, hurriedly removing her bra, never breaking their kiss as he climbs on top of her. Tossing her underwear to the side, she allowed her fingers to explore his body once more, reaching down to tease him through his boxers. A powerful feeling exploded within him as she ran a finger along his cock, coaxing him forward.

Happily obliging, Vision pressed himself against her center, teasing the folds with the bulge keeping them apart. The feeling of her warmth against his swollen muscle drew him, easily phasing through the last of his clothes until he was completely engulfed within her.

Despite her attempts to keep herself quiet, Wanda’s whines dripped from her lips unashamed as he buried himself within her. She bit her bottom lip, digging her fingernails into the plates on his back as she braced herself for the friction that built up between them.

He kept a steady rhythm, her warmth drawing him deeper as he gripped the sheets beneath them. Wanda traced her fingers along his cheeks, pulling him down for another hungry kiss.

They moved together, keeping a uniformed pace as he closed the distance between them again and again.

Vision could feel as she reached her climax, her walls tensing against his member as she tried desperately to keep herself quiet for their children’s sake. She never could quite get that right, though they had been lucky those same children were hard sleepers. He hurried his pace, hoping to help her along as she fell over the edge.

Her breathing staggered, her heart rate increased as she began to convulse, biting her bottom lip to keep herself from screaming as he chased his own release. Vision was never far behind, her soft and desperate expressions only pushing him faster towards his own convulsions.

His systems erupted with pleasure as his programming replicated the experience of an orgasm. The intense feeling overtook him, squeezing his eyes tight as he allowed it to wash over him. Wanda’s fingers danced along his arms, determined to catch her breath as his movements slowed.

Vision kept himself towered over her as she caught her breath. She leaned her head back for a moment, sweat peppering her brow. “Now we’re definitely going to need a shower. Care to join me?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Vision answered, pressing his lips hard against hers one last time into a deep kiss. Even after all this time together, her kisses sent electricity throughout his entire system. They spent a moment just absorbing each other in a truly blissful, happy moment. With a smile and a quick kiss on the nose, Vision pulled away from her as she giggled beneath him.

Following her to the bathroom, the two spent the night consumed with one another.

Check out my other drabbles here or feel free to request some!

#scarletvision #wandavision #the vision #wanda maximoff #rini drabbles #scarletvision smut #sitcom au #look this is your one smut prompt for now #don't test me #writing smut makes me so nervous lmao

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mcwriting · 4 years

Text

The Marriage Project (6)

Heyyy guys! Sorry this has taken so long to get out. Even though I have a lot of chapters written, I’m in the process of overhauling some later chapters and I’m trying to make sure I don’t conflict anything in these earlier chaps. Also I’ve been sooooo busy :(

Also: if you haven’t seen my recent kim possible au, definitely check it out!

Story Masterlist

Word Count: 2307

Warnings: none that I can think of this chapter

% Approximately the 2nd week of October %

Monday you continued to shut down and deflect dumb rumors about you and Tom. The rumors had exploded over the weekend since some had noticed the way Tom pointed you out before his game and walked with you after.

But it was all innocent, right?

In home ec, you started a sewing project of making a pajama set.

As always, Mrs. Flynn had tied it into the marriage project, requiring that couples sewed each others’ garments and made the fabrics compliment each other. If everything turned out right, the couples would have to wear them during their final presentations.

You laid on the floor over the fabric you’d chosen as Tom marked your hem length for the pants, the main part of the pattern already cut out.

“This Friday is your last home volleyball game, right?” Tom questioned as he rubbed chalk on the fabric.

“Yeah, I know. Crazy, right? It’s been half of my school life longer than I’ve known you. Just like that, it’ll be pretty much over.”

“Have any big plans for your senior night, then?”

You sat up and got off the fabric so Tom could cut it.

“Well, I’m probably gonna do my hair and makeup since they’ll take pictures before the game, and then after we win I’m going out to dinner with my family. My extended fam is coming to town. If they weren’t gonna be here I’d drive over to the football game.”

You laid out the fabric for Tom’s pants and waited for him to lay on it, preparing to do the same as him.

The football game was against the other public school in your town, which was essentially your biggest rival, and this year it was at their field.

“You won’t get to see me win, princess? That’s just sad. I’ll be at your game for at least the beginning. I just have to be over there an hour and a half before kickoff, but it’s not till 7:30. My mom wants to shoot pics so you’ll probably see her.”

Tom laid down.

“Oh yeah? Based on the football pictures I’ve seen, I’m excited for her volleyball shots. By the way, how did the pictures she took this weekend turn out? I haven’t had real pictures like that taken of me since I was probably 3.”

You leaned forward to mark the fabric, but first had to move Tom’s leg to the right position.

“Haven’t seen them. She never shows me pictures until she’s done editing. I also can’t relate to the other thing. She’s had a camera pointed at all of us since the day we were born. I get it, though, it is her career.”

Tom got up and you both went to sit by the sewing machine you’d set up, pinning the fabric cutouts into individual pant leg tubes.

“Tell her I’ll be her subject matter any time, champ. I actually had a lot of fun doing it.”

“WIll do. And you’re really gonna stick with champ?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Kinda rolls off the tongue.”

By the end of class you’d both finished and tried on the pants, and you were surprised at how well Tom had done on yours.

Wednesday, you made the shirts, which, since they were custom made, fit just about perfectly, too. As per usual, you got an A.

Friday morning, you dreaded and looked forward to the afternoon. Like, yeah, you were excited to be recognized for your years of hard work, but you didn’t want it to be over either.

You looked in the mirror, butterflies in your stomach.

Since it was chilly, you wore some ripped skinny jeans and a dressy long sleeved top with pink flowers. Your hair was straightened and glittery makeup adorned your face.

You were interested to see how people would react to the more traditionally “girly” side of you at school.

Even your parents were surprised to see you all dressed up as you said your goodbyes and headed out the door.

In the halls, people pointed and stared, but it wasn’t accusatory like the prior week. Instead, people complimented the look and congratulated you on the upcoming evening.

You walked into calculus, flicking your hair over your shoulder as you sat down next to Tom.

“Wow. Finally decided to go for it, huh?”

“Yeah, well. I thought about our conversation a couple weeks ago and decided to dress for myself. It’s been pretty well received so far.”

“Princess, I’m pretty sure people are gonna like you no matter what you’re wearing.”

You smiled and rolled your eyes, preparing to reply when you were cut off by the bell and the start of announcements.

As your game got closer throughout the day, the pit in your stomach grew deeper. You spent the entire free period talking to coach in her classroom to get your mind off the upcoming game.

“Y/n, I know you’re nervous, but this is going to be the best night of your entire volleyball career. I know you and know that you’re gonna crush it. That whole team looks up to you and Anna. I haven’t seen a pair of such magnetic personalities leading my team in years. I’m proud to call myself your coach.”

You gave a watery smile.

“Thank you, coach. I’ve loved having you mentor me these last four years. I promise I won’t just forget about you after tonight.”

“Well you better not. We still have regionals and state the next two weeks,” she joked. “Now bring it in, kid. I don’t want anyone seeing me be a softie.”

You quickly hugged. Once separating, she took on a serious face.

“Now go run along, eat a snack or whatever it is you do before games,” she said seriously, before cracking one more smile and tossing you a wink.

You stood outside the gym nervously, flanked by your parents.

They were about to walk you out and present you for the final time.

Anna was walking through the gym now with her parents and siblings as people cheered in the stands, and there were nervous flutters in your stomach.

Finally, someone waved you along. You stepped into the large gym and saw the massive crowd cheering and clapping. All of your friends and family were in the stands.

You also noticed Tom in the crowd. He wasn’t overtly clapping and yelling like everyone else, but he did put up a thumb and shoot you a wink when you made eye contact.

As the announcer listed off things from the senior night sheet you had filled out, you found yourself holding back tears, thinking about all the memories you had of the sport.

A few slipped out and you quickly wiped them away so Nikki could come take a couple pictures of your family.

After the announcer finished up, your parents went to join your extended family in the stands as you warmed up on your home court one last time.

After winning the first two sets, you sat on the bench, ready to win one last one as you noticed Tom slip out the gym, giving one final wave.

You quickly pushed his absence out of your mind however, when you got behind the back line and put an ace down on the first serve.

Sam opened his front door for you the next day.

Of course, you had won the night before, shed a few tears, and enjoyed the time with your family, who you’d said bye to before going to the Hollands’.

“Hey, y/n. Good game last night. You and Anna crushed it.”

“Thanks, Sam. Julia was amazing, too. Without her, we’d never have good passes to set and hit.”

Sam agreed and talked to you for a little bit when you thought of something.

“Oh, hey. Where’s your mom? I wanted to talk to her.”

“Um, I think she’s in her office. Let’s go check.”

He led you to a part of the house you’d never been, and sure enough, Nikki was sat in front of a large desktop computer, a picture of you jump serving on the screen.

“That’s an incredible shot!”

She startled a bit and turned her chair to face you.

“Oh! Y/n, you scared me. Come on in! I was just going through the pictures I took at yours and Tom’s games last night. While you’re here, let me show you the ones I took last Saturday.”

She minimized the tab she was working on and pulled up a file, the first picture being a black and white shot of you looking down at a notebook, writing.

“Woah. That’s beautiful,” you breathed, looking at every little detail.

“Thank you, that means a lot. You can scroll through them all, if you like. I’m going to go find Tom, I think I heard him and Harry arguing not too long ago.”

You chuckled as she left, looking at each photo. Some she kept in color and others were in black and white. You stopped on the picture of you and Tom laughing at each other.

Your faces were lit up in genuine happiness, and you felt a pang in your chest as you burned the photo into your memory. You quickly changed it when you heard footsteps approaching.

“Hey, sorry. Harry was being an ass. You like the pictures?”

“Yeah, they’re incredible. I’d love to have some of them.” you said, scrolling through the last few.

“I’ll ask her to put some of those on the flashdrive she’s making you. She was planning on just putting all the pictures from last week to tomorrow on one if you’re good with it.”

“Oh, yeah. No rush. Ready to go upstairs?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied as you picked up your backpack from the floor and followed him. He continued. “So I hear you guys won last night. Way to end on the best note possible.”

“Yeah, it was a bittersweet night. What about you? I never heard anything about the game.”

“Oh, we won. Not much to it, but it was a tough game.”

Tom closed the door behind him and immediately went to his desk. He pulled out a piece of chocolate and tossed it to you as you sat down.

You worked together for a while, then decided to take a break, just sprawled across the floor on your backs a couple feet apart.

You glanced over at Tom, who was messing around with his necklace.

“Can I ask you something?” you said quietly.

“Hmm?”

“What’s with your necklace? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take it off.”

Tom was quiet for a few minutes, rolling his plastic ring in his fingers.

“My grandad, my dad’s dad, gave it to me a few years ago before he passed. It’s just a saint’s symbol for protection. It was basically his way of saying he’d always be there for me. He was one of the best people in my life, and I wear it to remember him. It also helps me stay grounded sometimes, when I’m anxious or sad.”

You listened intently and looked at Tom for a while, who was just staring straight at the ceiling. There were tons of questions racing through your head, but you narrowed them down to one.

“Why did you put your, uh, ‘wedding’ ring on there, then? I don’t feel like I deserve to be next to him.”

Tom smiled and let out a breath through his nose, then looked right at you.

“Well I definitely wasn’t going to wear it on my finger. At first, I did it just to piss you off, because I could tell that you didn’t like it. But… I don’t know, I just… kept it as a reminder of everything we’ve been through. We still call each other enemies but honestly, I’ve started to consider you one of my closest friends.”

You scanned his face, grinning slightly. Over the past week and a half his bruises had pretty much faded, a little bit of yellow lingering around his cheek and his lip pink with new skin.

You noticed his hand close by and laid yours on top of it, stroking your thumb over the tops of his fingers.

“Yeah… yeah,” was all you could manage to whisper out loud.

After a few moments, Tom flipped his hand, pressing your palms together and curling his fingers around yours. All you could manage to do was stare at each other in silence, unsure of what to think or how to act.

You were startled out of it when there was a knock at the door. Your hands quickly pulled away from each others’ as the door creaked open and you sat up. It was Nikki.

“Sorry to bug you two, but I was just gonna come ask what time would be good for you tomorrow, y/n? We need enough time to get there and take the sports pictures during the day but I think golden hour would be perfect if you wanted to bring another outfit and take regular pictures.”

“Okay, yeah. Whatever time you think. I’m free all day.”

“Well I was thinking we leave here by two so we get there at three and have plenty of time before it gets fully dark around eight. My parents would love to have you for dinner, too.”

“Sounds good with me. I’ll make sure to pack a dress or something to change into.”

“Alright, well I’ll let you get back to it, just wanted to ask before I forgot again.”

Once she shut the door, you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. You looked to Tom, who seemed just as uncomfortable about everything as you were.

“Okay then, let’s finish up,” you suggested, waking your computer back up.

A/N: once again, so sorry it has taken this long to upload ch 6! I’m so excited for y’all to see ch 7 tho like I literally love it. Anyways, I really want to get on a more consistent upload schedule but I also want this story to be the best it can be and school is making that so hard rn

Don’t forget to check out my new work and hopefully I’ll have another one-shot out soon, too!

Send a message or ask if you’d like to be added to my permanent or series tag lists so I can verify you’ve been added!

Story Tag List: @jackiehollanderr, @one-big-fangirl, @l0lmk, @primadonnasdream, @bookworm06, @thenoddingbunny-blog, @agentnataliahofferson, @spider-babe, @stxfxniexreads

#The Marriage Project #tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland story #tom holland imagine #tom holland oneshot #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #tom holland x reader #harry holland #sam holland

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crybabyjam · 4 years

Text

nobody like you

for valentines day

ship: bakudeku

rating: t

summary: Izuku takes Katsuki on a date to a parfait shop.

content warning for (light??) heavy petting/making out. age difference.

available on ao3

---

Katsuki grunts on impact as Deku barrels into him excitedly, like a giant puppydog that doesn't know its own strength.

He was underneath the awning of Aldera Junior High, one of the last students there besides the sports kids and the class reps who had to do whatever bullshit it is that they do.

Still, they were all inside the building. So it's quiet enough that, when Deku takes a moment to nuzzle his face against the spiky softness of Katsuki's hair, Katsuki can hear Izuku's heartbeat.

Strong and steady, a deep 'thump, thump, thump' that makes Katsuki's own pick up in speed.

He hears it more clearly in his wrist when Deku lifts his hands to lay them gently across the back of his neck and trace his thumb along the jaw, until Katsuki's nose flares and he can feel his cheeks flush.

Fucking romantic. It made Katsuki want to swallow his entire mouth so that he can chew his own heart out.

(read more)

"Kacchan, are you ready?" Deku asks, peering down at Katsuki from his bullshit height of 6'4''. Second growth spurt at the end of his first year of high school. Asshole.

Katsuki'll catch up or die trying.

"Yeah," Katsuki grunts, ducking his head down to dodge the kiss that Deku tries to stick on his cheek.

Deku, undeterred, lets it land instead on Katsuki's hairline. The thinner, more bristly hairs near his sideburns tickle Deku's lips, and Katsuki is left with a vibrating laugh ringing in his ears when Izuku pulls away.

"Let me hold your bag?" Deku asks as he reaches out to grab it anyway.

It's just a briefcase, smaller than Deku's yellow monstrosity by a large margin. But he's learned that Deku will get annoying if he doesn't let him do some 'boyfriend' things, so Katsuki lets him grab the briefcase and hook it over his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah, pack-mule. Where are we going?"

Deku hooks his arm over Katsuki's shoulder and begins to gently lead him along down the sidewalk. With that same hand, he pats along Katsuki's chest until he snags his phone with a grin and unlocks it.

For as many times as Katsuki has threatened to change it to lock him out, he never has. But Katsuki almost regrets giving him the code, just because of that giddy look.

"It's not far," Deku is saying, gesturing with one finger towards the left as his thumb runs across the map on Katsuki's phone. "It'll be nice and quiet like you like. They even have booths."

"Took one of your other boyfriends there?" Katsuki huffs.

Deku looks at him, bemused. "You're the one who made me choose something private! I would have been happy announcing how much I love my Kacchan to the entire world."

"'Cause you're a fuckin' embarrassment."

And, as if that was a compliment, Deku perks up and says, "Oh, right!"

Deku tucks the phone back in Katsuki's pocket and sneaks his fingers, instead, to his backpack. It takes a bit of struggling because he refuses to let go of Katsuki's shoulder while he does it.

Katsuki ends up in a bit of a chokehold, and he elbows Deku in the gut. It feels solid, a literal wall of dense muscle. Katsuki digs his pointy elbow in meanly, until Deku curves his tummy away with a grunt and a laugh.

"Here!"

A gaudy red object is shoved in his face, distracting him from his attack.

Katsuki snatches it away from Deku's scarred fingers and squints at the thing.

A teddy bear. Red, fuzzy, and tiny. In its arms is a stuffed heart, and on its back is a box of chocolates (heart-shaped, of course) that overshadows the thing by about 300%.

"I would have gotten orange, but you don't like orange-flavored candies, right? This is a variety pack instead. Although, I know you don't really love chocolate— so it might be kind of a waste. But it's a holiday! And Kacchan deserves a nice Valentine's box, after all—"

"Looks like roadkill." Katsuki thumbs across the sewed nose of the thing, and the button eyes that feel like marbles. The fur is soft, and doesn't shed even when Katsuki scratches at the scalp of the thing.

And the box itself isn't bad. Covered in transparent, plastic-like paper and, beneath that, the box itself is outlined in white lace. Kind of dainty for a guy like Katsuki, but he couldn't say he didn't like it.

Deku always did have a different idea about him than everyone else, anyway.

Deku's shoulders drop, relaxed. More of his weight leans on Katsuki, and he throws his head back with his belly laugh.

"Does that mean you like it?"

Katsuki tucks the bloody-colored bear under his arm, careful not to ruin the packaging of the chocolates too much. It jostles noisily, and Deku looks half a second from stealing it back from him just to carry it again.

So Katsuki nods. "It's… good."

As if he'd just gotten powered by the sun itself, Deku's smile brightens by megawatts. He gets these ridiculous dimples when he smiles like that, deep and perfectly pokable.

Katsuki resists, and instead turns to face the sidewalk as if he was the one leading the way.

Deku sneaks a kiss to Katsuki's cheek, close to the edge of his mouth. It was purposeful, too, because Deku tugs his arm away and runs a few steps ahead to walk backwards as he leads the way.

Katsuki stuffs his hands in his pockets and glares at the ground even as he fights the grin off of his face like he's fighting a dragon with a shield made of paper lace.

The grin wins.

---

They make it to the little venue Deku had chosen for them.

And, of all places, it's a parfait shop. It's darkened glass windows to keep the inside cool on hot days, and small; cornered and squished by taller buildings on either side. Across the small street is a busier shop that's stuffed full with a line out the door— a bakery.

Katsuki squints at Deku, and Deku gives him a coy look in return.

"C'mon."

He leads them up the two short steps and Katsuki holds the door open for Deku's wide ass backpack.

The inside is even smaller than it looks. Overfilled with pillows and stuffed animals and floral banners announcing the Valentine's holiday, it was like Katsuki had been dropped into a love commercial.

But it's quiet, and there's only two workers and one other customer in the entire shop. Deku leads them towards a booth to set down their things, and the cushioned seats creak when Katsuki flops into it.

It's too big of a booth for just the two of them. Curved in a corner, faced in a way that they're hidden unless someone walked right in front of the table.

It smells like a park in spring over in their corner. Mixed with something sweet in the air, it's like he's floating on cinnamon-sugar clouds.

"Can I order for you?" Deku hums, chewing on an open straw even though there's no drink in front of him. "There's a cake I think you would like."

"Mm." Katsuki cursorily sweeps his gaze across the menu, though there aren't many pictures to bely what the snacks would actually taste like. Just flowery descriptions that use the word 'decadent' way too much, in his opinion.

"I'll also get us a parfait. To share?"

Deku's eyes are hopeful. Way too fucking green and bright for his own good. His gaze is impossibly soft, and Katsuki feels like he just got wrapped in silk and laid in satin.

He scratches at his skin to keep himself from looking too excitable. But he does nod. "We can share."

Deku waves down a waiter.

Katsuki watches how his school uniform shifts with him when he raises his hand up, how it strains at the shoulders. He'd really filled out over the years, and it seems his clothes couldn't really keep up.

Deku catches him looking and winks, face turning pink like a freshly blossomed flower.

The waiter arrives, interrupting Katsuki before he gets started.

Katsuki tugs off the jacket to his own uniform as Deku lists off a few items to the worker.

It's cool inside, as expected, but Katsuki always ran hot anyway. So that it doesn't drop on the floor and get dirty, he stuffs it behind Deku's bag, which is between them in the booth like a boulder stopping the flow of a river. He's careful not to squish his chocolate box, moving the bear to the empty spot of the booth opposite of Deku, on top of the table.

Katsuki leans across it, ignoring the poke of utensils and notebooks, and blinks his eyes slowly as Deku laughs at something the worker says. It's a muted sound, polite so that he doesn't disturb the literally only other patron in the establishment.

His lips look soft when they part in a smile like that. Smooth and dusky and plush.

Katsuki hides his own against the sleeves of his button up, suckling the lower one between his teeth to mimic the way Deku likes to nibble on it when he's in a tease-y mood.

"Kacchan?"

Deku blinks at him, just noticing the shift in positions. The worker bows their head quickly as they leave, still smiling, but Deku's focus has entirely shifted to Katsuki. As it always has and always will.

Deku scooches closer, so that he eclipses the other side of the bag. Katsuki gets shadowed along with it, and he has to pluck his head up to continue looking Deku in the eye.

A hand hovers close to his brow, and he eyes it carefully before he nods and lets it comb through his hair. Deku focuses on the tangles, first, and then lets his fingertips focus on the temple worriedly.

They're cold, colder than the restaurant. Bad circulation from turning his bones and his veins and his nerves to dust too many times.

"Tired?"

"Sick of your bullshit," Katsuki says, with no venom whatsoever. Deku can tell, because his eyes just (somehow) soften even further.

As if Katsuki is actually asleep and he's afraid to wake him, Deku lays the lightest kiss on his skin. Across his temple, warm to replace the cold.

"Sorry, Kacchan," Deku says, teasingly. "I think you'll always be sick of me."

Impossible, but Deku didn't need to know that. Let him figure it out on his own, when he needs to.

"But it's okay because I'll always be there to get on your nerves even more, Kacchan."

Katsuki snorts. It's a jarring sound, rising above the lilting music playing in the background. Inside, his heart is hammering at the declaration. What a fucking dumbass.

Only Deku could make a stupid sentence like that affect Katsuki so much.

He grabs Deku's wrist and shoves it against his cheek, squeezing it between that and his shoulder so that it gets trapped there.

"Yeah, well. You're fuckin' stuck with me, too. Forever, asshole."

The words are growled, said too fast and awkwardly. Like Katsuki had dropped them in a pile at Deku's feet and hastily picked them up to show them off.

Deku accepts them graciously. As if the words were dipped in gold and sprinkled with diamonds.

His face goes from pink to red, and Katsuki is reminded of the awkward kid that used to walk him to and from elementary when Deku was just beginning junior high.

He'd been lanky then, like Katsuki is lanky now. All bones and jumpy like a skittish rabbit perpetually in the middle of a street.

He'd always had a red face back then, too. Maybe from crying, or from laughing too hard when Katsuki would steal his homework to try to do it instead, maybe three years before he'd learned the material.

"I'm glad, Kacchan," Deku says, eventually. His fingers curve against Katsuki's skin, warming up pleasantly. Katsuki's own are sweltering. If they got any hotter, they'd ignite and explode like fireworks.

Katsuki swipes his palm across his pants to clean them. Squeezes the loose material between his fist just to steel himself.

Deku glances down at the motion, and brings his other hand up to press it against Katsuki's face. To comfort him, maybe.

Katsuki interrupts by shoving his own against Deku's face first. It's awkward, and he does it too fast because there's a soft 'plap' sound when his clammy palm connects with Deku's cheek.

Still, it fits there comfortably. Deku's chubby cheeks curve into the space of his palm like he's about to roll a ball of mochi.

Dumbass was built like a brickhouse and still had the babiest face.

Katsuki relaxes when Deku doesn't shove him away. Not that Deku ever would, not when Katsuki's heart was about to shove it's way up his throat and make good on that chewing promise from earlier.

Deku's hand, which had been hastily shoved out of the way so Katsuki could grab him first, comes to instead rest atop Katsuki's own.

He presses it firmly against Katsuki's, fitting his fingers between Katsuki's smaller ones and curving towards the middle so he can tickle at Katsuki's heart line with the tips.

"You make me so happy," Izuku mumbles, against Katsuki's palm.

As if he'd been released from chains tying him down, Katsuki knees the schoolbag fully out of the way, shifting up onto it so that he can atleast match Izuku in height.

"Deku," Kacchan says between his teeth, just before Izuku pulls him forward to kiss him silly.

Izuku always likes to build up to kissing. Likes to leave his touch across Kacchan's skin so that it can tingle and thrum with the feeling it leaves behind. He likes leaving a trail of kisses up his neck, across his chin, and just a bare brush of lips across lips. And he likes how Kacchan looks when he does it, eyes half-lidded and dark, mouth dropped open with the barest hint of a smile, cheeks flushed.

But, right now, he can't help going straight for it. Kacchan doesn't mind either way (or, atleast, says he hates when Izuku teases him, wants him to just get on with it), so he's already there with an open mouth and a moan.

Izuku is quick to shush him, feeling along Kacchan's shoulders and noting how the muscles beneath his button-up tense and subsequently relax. Izuku curves the touch lower, fitting his arms beneath Kacchan's so that he can rest them, crossed at the wrist, against the small of Kacchan's back.

They fit there nicely, especially when Kacchan climbs into Izuku's lap to take up all the space between his belly and the table.

Izuku tugs him closer by that hold, sinking down low so that Kacchan, for once, has to dip his head down to kiss him back.

Their lips move across one another, connecting them together more solidly than a red thread of fate could in that moment. Kacchan is concentrating hard on the moment, Izuku can tell because he begins to minutely rock back and forth the motions of his breath. He always kissed Izuku like he had something to prove, but Izuku was just happy to hold him. To love him.

Still, Kacchan kisses him so deeply, like he's trying to transmit every one of his thoughts directly into Izuku's temporal lobe, that Izuku gets lost in the current that is Kacchan's desire.

Static from the seat zaps the back of his neck when he slides in the booth more, gathering it by his hair rubbing against the leather. He pulls his hand away to pat at his nape, but Kacchan tugs it back before it gets very far.

He encourages Izuku to grab a handful of his thigh, lifting up a few inches so that his fingers can curve comfortably around the underside. For himself, Kacchan busies himself with sneaking his fingers beneath Izuku's blazer to try to fit it past his shoulders.

Izuku doesn't realize he's still sliding down the seat until his feet hit the other side of the booth, and he breaks the kiss to laugh when Kacchan flinches at the dull noise.

"Sorry," Izuku whispers, leaning over to glance past the barrier of the booth. "We should probably slow down before we kicked out before you even get to taste—"

"Shut up," Kacchan says, also in a whisper. His soft fingers come back to Izuku's cheeks and press them in so that Izuku's lips pop out.

Izuku laughs again, and it gets muffled when Kacchan kisses the noise away.

Warmth furls around Izuku's chest, like love had grown a physical form and decided to wrap itself around his ribcage as the first thing it did. He can't breathe in too deep, or else he's afraid he'll melt right in Katsuki's hands.

He feels along the cascading dip of Kacchan's spine, all the way up to the shoulderblades. He's been working out recently, eager to join Izuku at U.A. and surpass him before Izuku graduates.

It's been paying off, little by little. He's still tiny, not that he'd ever say so. But it's true, especially when he fits himself in Izuku's arms and lets himself get cradled there as he swallows down his soft, breathy sounds.

Izuku writhes in his seat. He blinks his eyes open to find Kacchan already looking at him with a grin.

"You get like this just 'cause of one little kiss? Virgin."

Izuku doesn't mention that they took each other's virginities.

Kacchan's face is bright red, lips not exactly kiss-swollen but close enough. Still, his smirk is wide enough that the tips of his sharper teeth peek out between his pink lips.

"Kacchan," Izuku huffs. Kacchan settles his weight fully on Izuku's lap, carefully angled away from that spot with a quick pat on the hip from Izuku's hand.

They were already being too forward as it is.

Still, Izuku shifts upwards so that he's sitting correctly in his seat, just so that he can peck Katsuki across the lips properly.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Kacchan."

There's the gentle clack of hard-soled shoes across the floor as the waiter approaches with their food, and Izuku hurriedly shoos Kacchan back into the booth as he takes off his jacket like Kacchan wanted.

Though, unlike what Katsuki is expecting (which is him hiding his kiss boner with his wadded up uniform), Izuku drops the jacket across Katsuki's shoulders and tucks the sleeves firmly across his lap.

The waiter arrives just as Izuku has smoothed out his own shirt again, swiping his big hands across his curly hair to fluff it out.

Katsuki buries his face against the collar of the jacket. It's warm like he's a tea kettle over a freshly stoked fire. It's a good thing his belly is empty or else— pfft no.

Izuku is once again making nice with the waiter as they explain the order, handing off two long spoons to each of them. Izuku already has his own shoved between his lips before Katsuki even grabs for his.

He lays it on the table, resting his chin in his hand as a large slice of cake is slid in the empty area of the booth opposite of them. In front of the red bear that is laying half on its side, kept upright only by the heavy chocolates weighing it down.

With a snort, Katsuki sidles closer to the school bag to get back on his portion of the booth.

Izuku reaches out to stop him, bowing his head in thanks to the waiter as they head off.

Katsuki, just to tease, dodges the touch and only gets two paces further before Izuku whines and drags him back, leaning his full weight across Katsuki's back to smother him in butterfly kisses.

They focus mostly on his jaw, unable to get at his face with the position, but Izuku takes what he can get and peppers each smooch thoroughly across Katsuki's skin until the latter shrieks like a banshee between his laughter.

"Idiot, you just said you didn't want us to get kicked out!" Katsuki gripes, twisting in Izuku's grip just to grit his teeth right in Izuku's face.

Izuku lets his hold loosen, one arm behind Katsuki's back. Katsuki trails his own across Izuku's and tucks his fingers in the back pocket that's closest to him.

"I can't help it when I'm with you, Kacchan. All I wanna do is kiss you!"

"I hate you," Katsuki says, resolutely. He leans his head against Izuku's shoulder and gestures at the parfait in front of them. "Now let's fuckin' eat this junk already."

It's tall, with mostly pink fruit to keep up with the theme of the holiday. Strawberries and syrupy peaches cover the top of the pink ice cream, color offset by white powdered sugar and dark brown chocolate shavings sprinkled on top. The cup itself is lined in chocolate drizzle, in a wavy pattern that gets a bit smeared when Izuku pokes his spoon into the top.

There's also a little heart shaped cookie on top.

"Look how pretty it is, Kacchan!" Izuku says excitedly. He carefully wipes excess whipped cream off of the rim of the tall glass and laps it off his thumb. Some smudges at the edge of his lip.

Katsuki lets out a fond sigh and gestures him forward.

Izuku comes to him willingly, always happy for whatever it is Katsuki gives to him.

Instead of kissing him again, Katsuki swipes the whipped cream up to instead smear it directly across Izuku's freckled cheek. Only two of his more prominent ones get covered completely, but it dissolves the two of them into a fit of giggles anyway.

"Kacchan!" Izuku wipes off the mess with the back of his sleeve, completely disregarding the perfectly good handkerchief he has tucked in his back pocket. Katsuki can feel it brushing against his fingertips when Izuku shifts forward to 'ooh' and 'ahh' at the parfait again.

Katsuki watches him for a moment, and feels his insides shift with a bursting need to tell Izuku right now that he loves him so much that his very soul belongs in Izuku's strong, mangled, soft, gentle hands.

Somehow, the idiot has powdered sugar in his hair.

Katsuki grabs for his briefcase and flicks it open as Izuku takes his first bite, chirring happily like a bird that just learned how to fly.

When he pulls out the small chocolate box, Izuku cuts off abruptly.

"Kacchan?" The name is garbled around the spoon, but the inflection is clear. Hesitant, yearning. Disbelieving. It's just a simple box wrapped in a ribbon, but Izuku wants to treasure it immediately like it's his first autograph from a hero.

"Made this for you," Katsuki says, gruffly. He shoves it across the table, and it slides right into Izuku's hand.

Despite the size, the box is a bit heavy. Izuku weighs it for a moment, eyes already brimming with tears.

Katsuki grimaces, turning away to tug the parfait close to himself instead and swirls up a bite of strawberry flavored ice cream with one of the peaches, shoving it in his mouth instead of explaining further.

"Can I…" Izuku pauses to wet his lips, and they're doing that thing where he's caught between a smile and a grin; between overjoyed and overwhelmed. "Can I open it?"

"Just said I made it for you," Katsuki mumbles, swallowing the ice cream down too fast. It melts in his throat and leaves an empty spot that fills with tense nervousness.

He takes another bite of ice cream to fill it as Izuku carefully unravels the present.

And, on the inside of the simple black box, is a plain chocolate. Homemade, of course, and hard-shelled. It was a bitch to temper, but the shine came out well if Katsuki did say so himself.

The top is outlined with a white chocolate heart, and the message inside of it is a mix of white and dark chocolate— because Izuku didn't actually like the taste of white chocolate. Katsuki taste-tested it a million times to make sure he couldn't taste it more than the rest of the chocolate but…

Katsuki rubs his sweaty palms across his thighs again.

The message simply says, 'To my Number One hero.'

Because Katsuki wasn't… couldn't actually convince himself to do the lovey-dovey shit. The heart shape was pushing it but… he knew Izuku would do something that would make him feel like this, so. He had to.

Katsuki bites his tongue to quiet his own nervous thoughts. Shit, he was hanging around the nerd too much.

Izuku likes it, though. Because he's crying harder, laying the box on the table so that he doesn't crush the edges when it becomes too much for him.

"Kacchan, you're—" Izuku interrupts himself with a sniffle. And then a soft sob.

"Deku, don't fuckin' cry," Katsuki says, only mildly panicking.

He's just begun preparing himself to crawl back in Izuku's lap and kiss the tears away himself when Izuku finally swipes them away with the edge of his already dirtied sleeves.

With a quick nod, he centers himself and looks Katsuki directly in the eye.

"I won't let you down, Kacchan. I'll become the Number One for real, soon."

He was still only in high school, but Katsuki had a feeling that this was a promise Izuku wouldn't break.

Katsuki had a lot of catching up to do, but he didn't really mind. Not right now.

Instead, he gestures with his spoon towards the homemade chocolate.

"Yeah, yeah. Better fuckin' hold onto it while you can before I take my title back."

"Of course, Kacchan." Izuku is grinning, and his face is red like it always gets (after crying, after laughing, after kissing). "I look forward to it."

Katsuki shoves another bite of parfait past his lips, and, when Izuku drops a kiss to his cheek for the umpteenth time that day, he lets a full smile grace his lips.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Deku."

ao3 link

#bakudeku #bkdk #bnha #boku no hero academia #long post #writing tag #fanfic

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casualmaraudering · 4 years

Note

Do you have any hcs on Lyall and Hope? I’d love to know what your personal characterization of them is.

Hope comes from a very big family - she has three sisters and three brothers, and she's the youngest of the bunch. kind of chaotic with so many people at home, so she's been out and about the neighbourhood and the woods ever since she was little

Lyall has an older sister, but they're not really that friendly. they are friends, it's just usually they do their own thing without interacting much

they met when they were in their young teens and Lyall hated Hope at first

she was a bit of a troublemaker, she had a skateboard, she was bold and very much out there. Lyall was a quiet boy who very much kept to himself and he didn't appreciate the noise that came with her

ofc that didn't last long. sooner rather than later Lyall would look forward to that noisy girl driving on the pavement right below his window. and Hope loved to throw pebbles at his window just to annoy him

they started dating when Hope was 16 and Lyall 15, and they had Remus about a year, year and a half after that (shit happens, whoops)

Hope actually didn't know Lyall is a wizard until she was pregnant. he kind of panicked and whatnot. she took it well tho (and she took advantage of him having magic, of course. she came to really love that just a flick of a wand did the dishes)

despite being very young parents without much of a plan, Hope was very optimistic about the situation. they lived at Lyall's parents (Hope's family wasn't very happy about her having a baby without being married. they'd only get around when Remus is a couple years old) and yeah it was a bit cramped and a bit confusing, but they were happy together

Lyall took a job with the ministry, and Hope started studying magic theory. not something muggles would usually do, but she couldn't find anything better to do and she didn't just want to sit at home and take care of the baby

and she was quickly very brilliant and the theoretical aspect of magic. Lyall got her books, and was her lab rat in case she needed someone with magic to test her theories, but she was really good at understanding everything. she became very successful at spell creation and modification - kind of a private profession, people would come to her if they needed her services, you know the deal

they had a little secluded cabin in the woods. not that much space, but it was cosy. they had enough money to pay the bills, they weren't exactly Comfortable, but it's not like they cared. they had each other, and that was important

any money to spare, they'd put away for when Remus would be older

Lyall isn't really that good at expressing emotions. he's very much what boys were brought up to be - stern, quiet, doesn't know how to express positive feelings or love. He'd take care of Remus when Remus was a baby, yeah, but Remus would run to Hope first if needed a hug or cuddles or whatnot

but still, he's not a bad dad, he's doing his best ok. he sometimes took Remus to the ministry with him to show him around, and he was always the one to check for any monsters in the closet or under the bed. After the werewolf incident, Remus was afraid of the dark, so Lyall made him a little handmade magical lap (basically lumos in a little cute jar - & Remus added some glitter in there too)

and of course, no matter what, they both really love Remus, he's their pride and joy, despite any hardships

Hope got a motorbike from one of her siblings when Remus is around 5 years old. she loves tinkering with it, riding it (Remus and Lyall were both scared of it) - her dad is a mechanic so she loves cars and bikes. said bike will, one day, be given to a certain boyfriend of Rem's 🤔

Lyall was taught how to knit and sew by his mother and sister, so he's usually the one to fix or alter clothes. (and he'd make baby clothes for Remus sometimes, as a side project)

Hope and Remus are basically best friends. they live in the middle of nowhere so Remus has no one to talk to but his parents, so if he's not out in the woods, he'll be with his mum and dad. when it comes to Lyall, their little activity to do together is being in the woods and trying to catch fairies (usually frogs, but sometimes they'd spot some fun magical creatures)

Lyall is much more distressed about Remus going to Hogwarts than Hope is. the werewolf thing and whatnot, and he's worried Remus won't make friends, and also Remus is a part of their life and now the house will be so quiet and sad.

Remus sends them both letters, though. Hope answers for them both but Lyall keeps Rem's letters and rereads them a lot, especially during the fulls

and they're still quite young, so they also travel a bit when Remus is at school. ofc there's not much money to travel to exotic places, but even just taking hiking trips around the country, or walking through the woods

they buy a dog when Remus moves out. it's huge and white, it sheds like crazy, it barks a lot, but at least it helps a little with the void that is their son being an adult

(the next bit is more specific to my personal rem hcs - trans bi remus - so this is just free real estate for those who like that)

they don't really bat an eye when, after second year, Remus comes home with shorter hair - it's not quite down to his shoulders, but almost there. Remus very excitedly tells them about his friend, Lily who helped cut it. then he asks to be taken to the barber and get it cut shorter - "like a boy's". they don't mind either, it's just hair

Remus never grows his hair long again, and after he's back home before 4th year, he tells them everything. says he doesn't like his old name, that Remus is what he wants to be called, that he doesn't want the girls' uniform or the summer dresses.

Lyall is a bit confused at first - he slips sometimes, but he tries his best. and Hope smacks him if he happens to use the wrong name

Hope goes all out, ofc, she's just that kind of person. within a few weeks, Remus's name is officially changed, all of his clothes are replaced (most of his old ones, he gives to Lily). no matter what, she wants her boy to feel loved at home

Remus dates Lily in sixth year - Hope and Lyall can't be happier. they've both met her plenty of times, she's a lovely girl, would make an excellent daughter in law, all that. sometimes, before going to sleep, they'll jokingly talk about little ginger grandkids

in seventh year, though, Remus dates a boy. Sirius Black, who has long hair and dresses like a punk and has a tattoo and bulky combat boots. he's loud and brash and walks around with far too much confidence in his step

Lyall doesn't like him

and Hope adores him

Sirius, sooner than later, becomes a permanent addition to their little family. Remus makes it clear that they're together for the long run. Lyall doesn't like him any more than at first, but he tolerates him. Hope treats him as her second son, gives him her old bike, jokes about marriage to Remus any occasion she gets

there's plenty of times Hope and Lyall will sit in the lounge, or the kitchen, or talk before bed, and share their worries about Remus. there's just so many hardships for this boy. his identity, being a werewolf, and now dating another man. they sometimes wish there could be something to do to protect him from the world. whisk him away to their little cabin, where no one can hurt him again

but they can't do that. so they just try to be a steady support for him, no matter what he decides to do or who he is

also as much as Lyall doesn't like Sirius - he's enamoured when him and Remus have kids. Sirius has good genes, the babies are adorable with their bushy black hair and Remus freckles and stubborn little chubby faces. you can't not love them

#Lyall Lupin #Hope Lupin #Remus Lupin #Sirius Black #wolfstar #minimal but still there #it turned a lot about Remus dhdkdhdj #trans remus #my tag #headcanon tag #rily #ask tag #anon tag #anyone catches the parallel of hope and Sirius and then Remus and Lyall????

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c4pricornc4ts · 4 years

Text

Where are Your Parents? - Sbi Au Chapter 7

Read it on my ao3 here

-----

The sky was gray and heavy with snow that day but Tommy didn’t really care. He just sat against the trunk of a fir tree and laughed with his brothers. It doesn't take long for Techno and Tommy start fighting with the utensils until an exasperated Wilbur breaks them up.

For a moment, Tommy thinks he’s actually upset. But Wilbur’s laughing at how guilty they both look.

Tommy wakes up first, he sits up and yawns before jumping a bit when he notices someone else sleeping next to him. He crawls over to the body and sees what he’s pretty sure is his older brother’s messy brown hair. Just to be sure however, he pushes the other person's hair out of their face and turns their head towards him.

He jumps a little when Wilbur wakes up from the sudden disturbance and sits up on the bed. Tommy thinks he should have a lot of questions about why Wilbur ended up here too, but he can’t think of any right now. “Wilbur?”

The older boy blinks and runs his hand through his hair tiredly. Wilbur never really was a morning person like Tommy and Techno, but Tommy was feeling pretty patient this morning so he just sits criss-cross on top of the covers and waits for his brother to say something.

“We need to talk Tommy, I want to explain what’s happening before we leave this room and see Phil.”

“What do you mean ‘what’s happening’ Wilbur? I feel like something’s always happening.” He mumbles and looks at his hands.

Wilbur goes on to explain about the shed and how he spoke with Phil last night and arranged for them to stay here. Tommy leans back a bit, trying to take the new information in.

“What about Techno? How will he know we're here?” Techno had just left that morning, Tommy didn’t want him to think they left him out in the cold.

“We’re gonna go back to the woods and collect everything we can. You'll leave him a note and if we see any of his friends we'll tell them too. He’ll find us Tommy.” Tommy watches from his spot on the bed as Wilbur gets up, unsure if Wilbur wants him to follow.

He squeaks when Wilbur locks his arms under Tommy’s shoulders and lifts him up off the bed. “Come on now, let’s go help with breakfast.”

“What was that for?” He questions while trying to get his balance back from the sudden movement. Wilbur laughs before walking out the room. Neither of them had changed from their casual clothes, Tommy hoped Wilbur had been able to bring their outfits.

Their door opens to the living room where they see Phil already up and reading the paper. He quickly sets it down and stands up off the, in Tommy's opinion, ugly floral couch.

He worries that they had slept in late, but the living room clock says it's 7am. Phil must have to open the shop soon.

The boy climbs up on the unoccupied side of the couch and tucks himself in the corner tiredly. He closes his eyes as Wilbur and Phil talk about their plans to go back to the woods today.

He can't be bothered to listen to them, instead he just leans into Wilbur when he sits in-between him and Phil and starts running his hands through his hair.

Though he's worried about Techno, he doesn't quite mind the shed itself being destroyed. Phil's house was nicer. Not that he would tell Wilbur and Techno that.

He feels the couch shift as Wilbur stands up. He's taken by surprise when he's suddenly lifted off the couch and carried to the kitchen.

"Wilbur!" He shouted, surprised to be getting tossed around yet again so early in the morning.

He's set down at the kitchen table, facing the oven where he sees Wilbur open the top cabinet and pull out some bread and jam. Tommy considers going to help him but he's still waking up and the cold feeling of the kitchen table was way too nice on his face to leave.

So he just presses his cheek against the table and watches Wilbur put the bread in the oven and walk over to him and set the jam down on the table.

It was a fairly well kept kitchen, especially for a single person to have been keeping up with. It had red counter-tops and white cabinets. It definitely matched the living room.Tommy thinks if he had a house it'd have more pastel colors. All the dark colors and patterns hurt his head a bit.

"You okay there Tommy?" Phil asks, coming into the kitchen and setting down the newspaper.

"I'm just sleepy still." he mumbles against the table tile.

"You're usually so energetic in the mornings." Wilbur says before coming over to him and putting a hand on his forehead.

Tommy guesses that with the way Wilbur seems more relaxed after checking his temperature, that he doesn't have a fever.

"So the one time I'm not yelling by seven I'm sick?" He laughs and Wilbur smiles too before pulling the toast out the oven.

Phil puts on his shoes and adjusts his outfit. "Alright, I got a store to go open. See you both in a few!"

"Okay, we'll be down in a moment." Wilbur says and Tommy just waves as Phil heads down the stairs.

A slice of bread cut in two triangles is placed in front of him and Wilbur starts putting jam on it.

"I took what was important already. We're just going to see what else is salvageable. And you can leave a letter for Techno okay?"

"Wilbur." He says very seriously as he picks up one of the jam covered triangles.

"What is it Tommy?"

"I can't write the letter. I’m ten how do you expect me to- to just-"

He struggles to explain. His face feels hot, he is upset that he can't write it himself because of course he wants to be the one to write the letter for his brother but Wilbur seems to have forgotten he can't.

To his surprise, Wilbur starts laughing. His shoulders shaking and his curls bouncing. Tommy tilts his head, not really sure what's so funny.

"Toms, I know you can't write yet. It's okay. I'm gonna write what you say to him plus the important stuff like the address. There's no need to be upset."

"Oh, that's a good idea. I like that." With that resolved, Tommy finally starts eating his toast.

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

They're on the way to the shed, Tommy kicking the pebbles on the path and gripping the coat Phil gave him tightly. It was November now, Thanksgiving was a week away.

Tommy didn’t miss much about the orphanage, but he really loved celebrating the holidays with such a big group of people. He regards last year’s Thanksgiving as his favorite since it was the first one since befriending his now older brothers.

He remembers getting upset and insisting he sat with the older kids to the point Wilbur and Techno just snuck away and sat outside with him instead.

For a moment, Tommy thinks he’s actually upset. But Wilbur’s laughing at how guilty they both look.

Wilbur always seemed to get sad in the cold. He had gotten better with it now that they lived outside, but he never was fond of playing in the snow like Tommy was. So it's no surprise that after Wilbur breaks them up they’re walking back inside to join the other kids. He and Techno stayed in the common area while Wilbur went to his room, mumbling some excuse about needing to write an essay for history.

Tommy wished Wilbur knew that he didn’t have to lie about wanting to be alone.

He hoped Phil celebrated Thanksgiving too. Maybe he’d ask when they were back to the bookstore. “Wilbur? Is it rude to ask someone if they do Thanksgiving?” He feels nervous to bring it up, but he might as well make sure he won’t embarrass himself asking Phil. He'd understand if they weren't, no one in America was really having the best circumstances right now.

“What- no Toms almost everyone does. Even if they don’t have a lot of food to cook.”

“Is that why there’s so many signs about it everywhere?”

“Yeah, you’ll be seeing headlines about it in those papers of yours before you know it with it being so soon.”

Tommy nods, and they both stop walking when they see the half destroyed shed before them. The river is still rushing beside it, the fire pit of rocks Tommy and Techno worked so hard on remained unharmed as well.

The world around the shed would make you think nothing ever happened at all. Tommy could see the remains of the shed, but he had a hard time feeling upset. Perhaps since he hadn’t seen it fall.

However when he sees the troubled look on Wilbur’s face, he realizes how bad this must’ve been for him. Having to decide what to take while the place itself is collapsing would be a hard choice for Tommy. He thinks he would’ve taken something replaceable like their coats.

To be fair, the documents and other things Wilbur was smart enough to take with him to Phil’s were on a shelf Tommy couldn’t reach. So even if he had thought of it, he wouldn’t have been able to retrieve it in time. Especially with how little time his brother had to get out.

He feels guilty about it but, he's grateful Wilbur was home alone instead of him, he couldn’t imagine how scared he would’ve felt if the shed had collapsed and he was the one who didn’t know where Wilbur was or what to do.

Wilbur makes no move to start going through what’s salvageable, still just staring at the place. Tommy takes his hands out of the over-sized coat pockets and walks into what's left of the shed.

The blankets and Pillows are all still wet, and dirtied from the water rushing on the ground.

He picks up a smaller blanket, a blue one with a silky trim. The others were too large or damaged beyond what Techno’s sewing skills can repair.

He takes the baby blanket in his arms, making sure his hands are covered by it. Before walking over to see what Wilbur was doing.

“I think we can save this one.” He holds out the blanket for Wilbur to inspect. He feels a little hurt when Wilbur gives him no response but a nod before picking up a bucket and start walking away.

“Wha- where are you going Wil?” He wraps the blanket around his shoulders before hurrying after him. There wasn’t much to get since there never was much to begin with, but Wilbur isn’t headed towards the bookstore.

“I gotta reset the traps.” Wilbur tells him, his voice didn’t sound right. It sounded shaky like Tommy’s when he was trying not to cry.

“Wilbur, are you sad?” He asks without thinking. He regrets it immediately when Wilbur stops in his tracks and takes a deep breath.

He takes a deep breath too, copying his brother while looking up at him. His brother wasn’t looking back, his eyes were closed while he stood there,

“No… not sad. Just- I don’t know. I feel a lot of things right now.”

They keep walking. Tommy looks at the ground, trying to think of what to say. When he doesn’t know how he feels he just starts shouting till someone figures it out for him. Wilbur isn’t like that though. He doesn’t think yelling is what Wilbur needs to do.

“Overwhelmed. That's how I feel. You were right earlier, it does seem like something's always happening to us huh?” Surprised by Wilbur’s voice, Tommy looks up to see Wilbur sitting fiddling with a ground trap. His coat hood is pulled up and it makes him seem so much smaller as he faced away from Tommy.

He plants himself down next to Wilbur and tentatively hands him the blanket. “Does this help?” He hopes it does, he sees Techno holding the blanket sometimes, especially when he's upset.

He watches as Wilbur covers his mouth with one hand while the other just holds the blanket. “Yeah, I think it does.”

Tommy lets Wilbur have his strange moment with the blanket before Wilbur’s draping it back over his shoulders as it had previously been and pulled Tommy into a hug. He hears Wilbur sniffle and tries to recall what his brothers do when he cries.

“It’ll be okay. I’d feel overwhelmed too if I was the one alone in that storm.”

Wilbur pulls away. “I’m glad you weren’t the one alone. I’m glad you have so many people- good people at that, looking out for you.” Tommy can tell he’s about to cry again by the way his lip trembles when he looks at him.

“You have people looking out for you too. Techno and I are the greatest people! Plus Phil but I still think we’re better.” This earns a laugh from Wilbur. “Don’t tell him I said that though okay?”

“Alright, your secret’s safe with me Toms.” Tommy smiles with relief to see Wilbur finally sound normal again. “Enough with these traps, let’s go write a letter to one of the greatest people.”

He accepts Wilbur's outstretched hand and lets himself be pulled up off the grass. “So, I think we need to start the letter with Dear second greatest person..."

#c4pricornc4ts #sleepy bois inc #wilbur soot #philza #tommyinnit #runaways au #fanfic #technoblade #techno

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taliaquinn · 4 years

Text

Why Me!? Chapter 12

Mass Panic immediately ensued following the texts.

Rose couldn’t help but tear up at the thought that she won't be wearing the beautiful new dress she designed with Marinette. Alya was panicking because she knew how much Marinette's MDC dresses cost. Yes, she stalked her website, but only to trash talk it with Lila, Lila even told her how some of those designs were her idea and Marinette stole them.

Adrien decided to try and call his ex-classmates but was shocked to find that he was blocked . He decided to try calling Marinette but was even more shocked to find that the line was disconnected.

Alya finally had enough of the chaos and decided to try and get control of the room again. She blew a shrill whistle “EVERYONE QUIET, Look we lost only a few people, most of them bullies, we don't need them together we can handle this”

No one would admit the queasy feeling they got at the pit of there stomachs. They knew Marinette might've been a bully but she was an excellent president.

Gotham Airfield Gotham City, U.S.A 7 a.m

Marinette stirred and was shocked to find that her parents were up and getting there carry on luggage. Quickly glancing out her window she was shocked to find that they Landed in Gotham. Eep. Quickly gathering her art supplies she followed her parents down the steps.

Suddenly she heard a squeal “Oh my gosh she’s so adorablleeeee, Bruce are you sure this is your kid?”, she looked up to see a blonde girl jumping up and down while clinging to another boys arm.

Mr.Wayne seemed to have a look of eternal suffering etched on his face. “Yes Stephanie I'm sure, How’d you even know we were going to be here ?”

“Tim told me” The guy she was clinging to slightly grimaced while side-eyeing Mr.Wayne who was giving him a glare.

“Of course”

‘MARIBUGGGG” Dick quickly ran towards the steps and scooped her up and twirled Marinette around. Marinette couldn’t help but clutch to her supplies for fear of dropping them while giggling.

“Hi Dick,really happy to finally be here” She hugged him back, while he put her back down. Suddenly Dick was abruptly shoved away

“My Turn” Suddenly Marinette was engulfed in by a blonde tornado.

“Steph you’re suffocating her let her goooo” The guy Tim said as he was approaching them.

“But shes to adoranble~” the blonde said, still holding Marinette captive. Why was it always the Blondes who tried to kill her?

Oblivious to her plight her parents went on ahead and greeted Bruce and Dick who had to stumble back to Bruce's side after being viciously shoved.

“Bruce I want to say a huge thank you, We can’t wait to get Marinette situated and head back to Paris,” Sabine said making sure to quickly shake his hand and giving Dick a quick hug.

“Ha, I swear all three of us eventually dozed off on the flight,” Tom said while moving to do the same.

After a few more seconds Stephanie finally released Marinette.

“Oh gosh, you’re too adorable for words~ My name is Steph” Wait did Bruce have a second daughter? Marinette thought he only had one other daughter, Cassandra?

“Are you another one of Bruce's kids?”

“What!? Oh gosh,you’ve only been here for a few minutes and you already recognize that Bruce has an adopting problem, pfft luckily I am not one of those poor suckers. I am just here to eternally annoy them plus I’m besties with Cass, Bruce’s other daughter” Stephanie explained.

She quickly pulled Tim towards them. “This is one of those poor suckers, Marinette this is Tim Drake, He’s constantly sleep-deprived and suffers from severe caffeine addiction”

“It's not severe”

“Yet”

Marinette couldn’t help but snort. Being a Fashion designer/superhero/ highschooler, Marinette has learned how to make a dang good pot of coffee. Also how to tell if she’s hallucinating or not from lack of sleep. Seriously there was this one incident where she was seeing hamsters take over the school's library, there was also that one time where she saw a mob of pigeons chase a man, but that turned out to be pigeon man who got akumatized again.

“A fellow addict, nice to meet you,” Marinette said.

Stephanie suddenly started looking at two before seemingly coming to a startling revelation

“ OH GOD, THERE'S TWO COFFEE ADDICTS NOW!!!” She yelped. She suddenly scurried away in a desperate attempt to call Alfred and warn him about the new incoming addict.

Dick glanced down and noticed that Marinette dropped a few of her pens and markers. He knelt to pick them up quickly he handed them to Marinette.

“You like to draw?” He asked giving her another quick hug

“Yeppers I mainly focus on designing outfits and making them as well, where’d you think your jackets came from?”

“ No way, I thought you bought them!!! I love mines and I know for a fact Bruce loves his.”

“Well yeah I make a lot of my clothes, I have a website where I sell some of the clothing, I also do commissions” suddenly Dick was once again shoved away.

“MDC!!” Tim exclaimed

Marinette jumped back a few steps before suddenly realizing that he was a fan.

“M.D.C are your initials, I knew I recognized the Jacket from somewhere”

“Yep based off another Jacket I sold on My website, except some of the detailing is different”

“You’ve gotten recognition from Audrey Bourgeois and Gabriel Agreste,” Tim gawked. Dick was busy grumbling complaints “What is it with you two and shoving me”.

Marinette quickly went over to help him up. She quickly got one of her suitcases and opened it up pulling out a few articles of clothing. Quickly she handed Tim his jacket, and since she wasn't aware of Stephanie's existence she settled with Handing her a Trench Coat since it was cold.

Stephanie immediately shed her current coat and shoved it at Tim to hold. She put on the trenchcoat and admired the embroidered birds around the sleeves.

“Oh my gosh, you have such a good eye”

Stephanie immediately shed her current coat and shoved it at Tim to hold. She put on the trenchcoat and admired the embroidered birds around the sleeves.

“Well duh kinda necessary” Marinette teased

“Wait you didn’t bring any of your supplies?” Dick responded, noticing that Marinette didn’t bring Big enough suitcases to carry some of the bigger sewings and designing supplies.

“Well, we had to kinda leave in a rush so…. I didn't have enough time to pack some of the bigger supplies”

“I have an idea! We can go around Gotham and buy some of the supplies!” Dick suggested.

“Maybe on the weekend Dick, We gotta take her to the manor and let her and the Dupain-Chengs meet the rest of the family,” Bruce noted joining them. Honestly, though Bruce was more worried about a certain butler ripping him a new one for taking so long to introduce him to his newest granddaughter.

College Francis Dupont Paris, France 8:30 a.m

People walking into Bustiers Class couldn’t help but be disconcerted at all the empty seats the next day. They all decided to sit on the right, some glancing at the empty seats on the left.

Lila finally walked in and with the flip of her hair, she strolled straight and made sure to take a seat next to Alya. Right in Marinette's old seat. It was odd seeing someone else sit there. Eventually Madame Bustier walked in and only took a momentary pause upon seeing the small class size.

Adrien slowly walked in and lightly jumped at the new class size. He took his usual seat next to Nino. However, it wasn’t too long before he felt a tap on his shoulder. Both he and Nino turned to face Alya and Lila.

“Hey, Adrien you mind switching seats with me? I wanna sit to Nino” Alya announced. Adrien, however, didn't miss Nino’s slight grimace. However, Lilas's look of pure hopefulness was the thing that made Adrien slightly grimace as well.

Regardless of how Adrien felt he knew he had to say yes.

“Sure”

Meanwhile in Mendelievs….

“I call dibs on sitting next to Kagami!!!” Chloe loudly exclaimed and made a mad dash towards the empty seat next to Kagami.

Nathaniel immediately moved to sit next to Marc. Sabrina sat next to Juleka. Ivan decided to sit next to Max. At first, it was a slight adjustment getting used to Mendelievs class, she taught and had control over her class. No way was she going to permit and outburst or arguments when she taught. However, she did permit them to talk whenever she was done teaching.

“Marinette just quit ?” Probed Aurore. She was furious at the fact that Marinette was essentially driven to quitting.

“Yup” Chloe responded popping the p, “But now she’s staying with Family in Gotham for a bit, she even texted to mention how she might transfer schools and stay in the states”

“B-but sweet Marinette in Gotham, don’t they have like a gajillion crazy villains? At least the Akumas’ damage in Paris can be reversed and they're only temporary” Aurore mentioned

“Marinette is tough, plus she’ll be away from this crazy school” Nathaniel offered while finishing up a sketch for his and Marcs’ comic

“Plus Marinette said she’ll call us once she’s comfy and everything” Chloe finished.

“Poor Marinette”

Wayne Manor Gotham City, USA 9:00 a.m

Marinette knew Mr.Wayne was rich but holy cow, he makes both the Agreste and Bourgeious fortune look like pennies. She never understood how rich he was.Seriously he has a fleet of luxury vehicles in his garage. The inside of the manor looks photo-ready, AND all of his kids have gone to a 30k a year school. Thank God she was going to a Normal School.

Mr.Wayne made sure to take Maman and Papa to a luxury hotel suite to get them settled before bringing them back to the Manor. She quickly said goodbye and gave them big kisses on their cheeks.

Marinette was occupied still gaping at the giant Chandelier when suddenly she was face-to-face with two teenagers.

Dick immediately noticed that there was an awkward staring contest going on and moved in to ease the awkwardness.

“Marinette this is Cassandra shes the fourth oldest,” Dick said while introducing the two. Marinette was occupied gaping at Cassandra. She was so pretty. Cassandra took a quick step forward before quickly putting her hand on Marinette's shoulder.

“Cass” She gently chided.

Marinette only slightly stumbled before yanking out a sweater from her duffle bag and practically shoving it at her. Sue her she was intimidated and impressed.

“Me?” Cass was surprised. She took the sweater but couldn’t help but hold it close to her. It was so soft. Marinette made it for her, and she didn’t know her!!! Cass couldn’t help the grin that was overtaking her face. She made sure to get closer to take a long glance at Marinette who was giving a cynical Jason his own sweater, along with gloves. Nervous. jittery. uncomfortable.

“Huh, you are most definitely too sweet for this family" Jason couldn't help but coo at the sight of the petite blue-eyed girl.

"I'm Jason Todd, technically dead and black sheep of the family. Whenever you get tired or pissed at Bruce, trust me that is a guarantee, feel free to crash at my place.” He piped. While shrugging off his leather jacket and putting on his new turtleneck sweater. Holy crap was it soft.

Technically Dead? What in the world!? Are they choosing to ignore that!? Marinette was so confused. Seriously first off Cass has the biggest grin on her face and seems to be studying Marinette, Jason Todd just admitted he’s still technically dead!? Are all siblings this confusing? She’ll have to ask Luka. Seeing as he seems to be the only one in their friend group who has a sibling.

Taking a glance around the entrance. Marinette noticed that she suddenly had older siblings and even a younger one. One week was all it took. Marinette took a glance at Cass she mirrored her grin. She realized one thing.

THIS FAMILY IS INSANE!!!

And now she's a part of them. Crap.

Tag list:

@another-fan-of-anotherplan @damianette-is-life @amayakans @parallelparabox @miukiiu @valeks-princess @toodaloo-kangaroo @vixen-uchiha @thezestywalru @dreamykitty25 @souleateralicestein @thestressmademedoit

A/N:

I hope that all of you lovely peeps are staying healthy and safe. Please enjoy todays chapter. Feel free to reblog and leave a note <3.

#miraculous ladybug #mlb au #maribat #batfam #marinette deserves better #damian wayne #dick grayson #tim drake #jason todd #bruce wayne #class salt

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onthepyre · 4 years

Text

rest your bones next to me (part 3)

SORRY ITS BEEN FOREVER I DIDNT FORGET I PROMISE

1.4k, swearing, prinxiety, playing into stereotypes for sympathy,

The floor was cold when Virgil woke up. The fall chill had seeped through the walls of the apartment overnight, and he realized with slight alarm that he was alone. Roman was no longer snoring next to him and the bed inches away was empty. He wondered, mind thick with sleep, what time it was, and what his parents were doing. It was a sore spot in his mind, but he poked at it anyways like it was a bad cavity — just to make sure it still hurt.

His back cracked when he stood. Virgil glanced around the room looking for a clock, but he could only judge by the sun through the window. It was probably past eight, at the least. He ventured into the kitchen, only to find it empty except for Roman, who sat at the table with a glass of water and the same book Janus had been reading last night.

“What time is it?” he asked, blinking away the last remains of grogginess.

“Uh, 10:30-ish, I think. Patton left for work about two hours ago.”

“Don’t you have something to do? Why didn’t you wake me up?” Virgil sat down across from Roman, forcing him to put down the book.

“You deserve some sleep after everything. First night’s always the worst one.” Roman smiled gently, a knowing warmth in his eyes.

“So it does get better?” Virgil asked, voice soft. He traced the lines and chips of the table with his nail.

“It still hurts, but you kind of get used to it. You find ways to deal.” Virgil nodded. He spent a moment taking in the walls of the apartment, the old furniture, and chilly air. The idea of calling it home for a while didn’t hurt too much, if he had Roman there to fall asleep on the floor with him and say annoyingly reflective things. Roman broke the silence, finally. “Do you usually eat breakfast? Because none of us do, but I don’t want to suddenly cut your diet in half or anything, so I can make you coffee or some toast if you want.”

“No, that’s okay. Even if I did, it would be too late to eat, anyway.” Virgil stood and leaned against the chair. “Didn’t Patton say you were taking me shopping?”

Roman rose and began walking towards the door, and Virgil followed behind him. “Well, ‘shopping’ is a liberal word. Have you ever stolen anything before?”

Virgil shot him a concerned look as he opened the front door. “No? I mean, when I was a kid, but never intentionally.”

“Awesome! There’s a first time for everything—” Roman turned to wink at him “—and I’m glad to be here for yours.”

“Shut up,” Virgil mumbled, feeling his face grow slightly hot. He fumbled for a way out. “Does Patton know about this?”

Roman grimaced. “Eh, sort of. He knows we do it, but he hates it, so he just doesn’t ask. It saves money, though, so he can’t really complain. I usually just tell him I’ve got enough cash with me.”

“What about Janus?” Virgil knew his attempts were futile, so he kept his gaze focused on the ground.

“He’s proud of us. Logan and I have gotten pretty good at it, actually, and Janus thinks it’s great.”

Virgil nodded, lips pursed. “Alright, then. What are we stealing?”

“Scrap fabric, basically. Something to patch your jacket with. Pat’s got a sewing kit at home, so we can fix it up pretty easy.” They stopped at a crosswalk, and Roman seized his opportunity. “You’re not from this part of the city, right?”

“No, my parents live North of here. We’ve been to Manhattan a few times, but we usually stayed out of the city. It was always too loud for my mom.”

“Okay,” Roman began, “So, the Goodwill we’re going to is about three blocks from here. The laundromat is four blocks in the opposite direction, and then one more is the dollar store where we buy groceries, and there’s a park I play guitar at a few streets behind the apartment. And then the theater Remus and I work at is a little past that.”

Virgil nodded. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to remember all that.”

“That’s alright,” Roman said with a chuckle. “You’ll pick it up. Plus, you’ve got me to guide you.” He threw an arm lazily around Virgil’s shoulders in a sort-of hug, but didn’t drop it until Virgil moved away. They made the rest of the trip in relative silence until Roman stopped them on the street corner just before the store.

“Alright, here’s the plan,” he hissed. “We’re on a date, you find whatever you want, we pretend to make out in the fitting rooms, you tie it around your waist or something, and then we just… leave. It’s like acting. Are you ready?”

“Where the hell did you come up with this plan?”

“Sounds good, let’s go.”

Roman grabbed Virgil’s hand, swinging it a little as they walked. Roman’s grip was firm, probably to make sure he didn’t try to get out, but Virgil couldn’t bring himself to be bothered. It was kind of nice, really.

Roman started giggling before they were even inside the store. “This is going to be so fun!” he exclaimed, voice an octave higher than normal.

“Yeah,” Virgil agreed, trying to mask his confusion. “I’m so excited.”

Roman dragged him to the t-shirts, where he dropped Virgil’s hand to sort through the racks. “You’re gonna look so cute after I give you a makeover, babe. What about this?” He held up a neon pink crop-top with a moustache on it. “Very 2012.”

“Uh… I think I’ll pass.” He busied himself with the array of bright colors in front of him.

“Wait! What about an oversized shirt? That would be so fab!” Roman reached for his hand again, then leaned in close to whisper. “Plus, it’s more fabric to work with.”

“Yeah, that sounds alright.” Virgil let himself be pulled along, again letting go of Roman’s hand to look through the rows of clothing.

They searched quietly for a moment before Virgil removed something from the rack. “What about this?”

He held a flannel, purple plaid and practically brand new. It was good quality, thick enough to be worn in winter.

“Oh, that’s perfect!” Roman said, undertones of his natural voice audible beneath the falsetto. “You’ll look so good.” He grinned, wide, and to Virgil it seemed genuine. “Come on,” he murmured.

They walked to the fitting rooms, Roman snickering and Virgil doing his best to play along. Roman tugged them into the last stall, where he sat down on the only chair. It was a tight fit, even with Virgil pressed against the wall.

“The hell is up with that voice?” Virgil asked, hushed.

“Gay voice. You get more sympathy if you just go with their expectations. Give me that flannel.” Roman was back to speaking normally now, if more softly, and Virgil found a sort of peace in his gravelly whisper. He handed the garment over. Roman pulled a switchblade from his pocket and cut the tag.

“Okay, so I know not to make you mad,” Virgil said under his breath.

“It’s not for people, it’s a tool.”

“You’re a tool.”

“Just take this,” Roman hissed, holding out the flannel. Virgil shed his jacket to put it on underneath. Roman stood, leaving only inches between them. He reached up and ran his hands through his hair a few times, then did the same to Virgil’s.

“Hold your breath,” Roman said. “It makes your face red.”

Virgil obliged, and Roman copied him, silently competing to see who could go the longest without taking a breath; Roman won by a few seconds.

“Are we good now?” Virgil asked. “Yeah.” Roman nodded. “Try to look giddy. In love. Whatever.” He gripped Virgil’s hand again and threw open the door, laughing breathlessly. Virgil pressed against his side as they walked, trying to make as much contact as he could. He smiled in his best attempt at shyness when they passed the cashier, and pressed the side of his head into Roman’s shoulder.

“Did you boys find everything?” The woman at the register beamed in a way that could only be fake.

“Yep, thanks so much!” Roman’s sickly sweet falsetto was back, and he threw up a hand in a wave. Virgil expected alarms to go off when they walked out the sliding doors, but none did. He looked up at Roman once they had left the vicinity of the store.

“Holy shit,” he said, “I can’t believe that worked.”

“It always does,” Roman said, almost wistfully. “What do you think?”

Virgil paused for a moment. “That was pretty fun.”

#prinxiety #roman sanders #virgil sanders #fluff #theft #fake relationship #fake dating #june's writing

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katehuntington · 5 years

Text

Title: Changes - part six Word count: ±5000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work together. Summary part six: Zoë remains one step in front Dean, which annoys the cocky hunter. As new details about the case unravel, both Winchester brothers find out that the independent woman is not planning to share. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. There are quite a few people I want to thank: @coffee-obsessed-writer, @soupornatural & @mrswhozeewhatsis, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish & @winchest09 who are deciphering the recent version. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

Dean squints when he steps into the light. A clear blue stretches out across the sky, the bright color gradually turning paler as it closes in on the horizon. He’s outside in the parking lot crammed with cars; the desk clerk wasn’t lying when he said he was fully booked. The place doesn’t have a sinister feel to it anymore like it did last night, allowing the hunter to let his guard down on this caffeine-deprived morning. The older Winchester brother needs a fix and he needs it badly. Sam drank all the instant coffee and he refuses to drink that shit from the machine in the lobby.

He expected it to be chilly outside, but the sun feels pleasantly warm. Sam woke him up, turning up the volume of the radio completely during the drum solo of a Guns ‘N Roses song. Not because his little brother likes that particular music, but he does like to watch Dean bolt upward in bed. Payback, because the older Winchester can’t deny that he pulled a similar prank on his brother more than once. Honestly, he’s glad Sammy is starting to mess with him again. It’s been a while since they acted like siblings. The joke was a good wake up call, too, he has to admit, but he still feels hungover: wrecked, tired and in desperate need of a cup of coffee, or several.

Traffic rushes by, most of the cars and trucks entering the city of Rochester. It’s a big town, big enough for people to disappear in without others noticing. For a moment, he thinks of those the shapeshifter already took. Sam found a string of at least three disappearances and that conclusion was drawn from the information he had access to offline while Dean was driving up north. These people could be anywhere. Dead? Probably. Going to die if they don’t find that bastard’s hideout fast? Definitely. But before he can work, he needs food, too. Dunkin’ Donuts, now that would be a treasure in this town.

When he asked Sam where Zoë was, all he got was “out”, followed by, “she’s already getting us lunch” when Dean grabbed his wallet and intended to leave. He went outside anyway, in need of some fresh air. His shoulder is throbbing, shooting daggers through his arm whenever he moves it, but as long as he keeps it still, it’s not too bad. In the bathroom earlier, he did peel the gauze back slightly to check the injury, and he has to admit that he was impressed. He might not be able to stand Zoë, but she did an awesome job removing that bullet and sewing him back together. Plus, the painkillers she offered are a God’s gift.

Slowly, he strolls towards his car. The pitch-black Chevrolet Impala blinks in the sun, chrome glistening. Dean smiles; what a sight for sore eyes. He’s honored to own the car Dad gave him a while back. Not just because she’s such a joy to drive, but because it was Dad’s first car. He kind of owes it to his old man to take good care of her. It’s what he expects him to do; to look after the family. “Hey, Baby,” he greets his Chevy, letting his fingertips glide over the trunk. “Since when have we reached the phase that you call me ‘baby’?”

Dean looks over the top of the Impala and finds Zoë’s Harley parked on the other side, but he can’t spot the owner. When he moves around his car he finds her, laying on her back underneath her bike. “Who says I was talking to you?” Dean returns, leaning against the hood. She crawls from under the Road King and judgmentally observes him for a few seconds, then she grabs a socket wrench and slips back under. “Right, men talk to their cars. I forgot they do that,” she nags.

Dean grins and decides not to respond; it’s still early and he’s not sharp yet. The rhythmical sound of the bolt being turned sounds like music to his ears and he has the sudden urge to pull his tools out of the trunk and get some work done himself. But Baby is fine, she doesn’t need any TLC right now. “What’s wrong with your bike?” Dean asks curiously. “I was in a bit of a hurry last night, probably hit a speed bump. It’s just the gasket, nothing serious,” she explains, keeping her eyes on the exhaust. “And what’s wrong with you?” he rephrases his question. “Excuse me?” Caught off guard, she pauses, but doesn’t make an effort to get out from under her Harley. Dean doesn’t bother to repeat himself. “You heard me.” “There’s nothing wrong with me, Shortbus.” Zoë continues tightening the bolt, faster than she did a moment ago, annoyed about the fact that she doesn’t know where he’s going with this. “Then what is that bandage doing there?” Dean asks smartly. Startled, Zoë sits up and hits her head hard against the chrome outlet of her bike, causing a loud bang. Cursing like a sailor she lands back on the ground. “Ow! Fucking hell!”

She didn’t realize her shirt crawled up. Dean smirks at the string of strong language, but hides his smile when she surfaces from under the bike. Irritated, she pulls down her buttoned shirt to hide the gauze through which a little bit of blood has formed a perfect circle in the shape of a bullet wound. She uncomfortably pretends like neither he nor she saw it and disappears under her Harley again. Dean, of course, isn’t going to let it go. “Did Sam shoot you?” “What?” “Last night he fired two bullets. Did he shoot you?” Dean repeats. The huntress scoffs. “Ha! Your little bro isn’t that fast on the draw.” “I’m not kidding,” he states seriously. “Someone apparently was.”

She gives the bolt one last turn and appears from under the bike, this time without hitting her head. Annoyed, she looks up at him, lightning in her brown eyes. Zoë is nowhere near admitting to him what went down. Shit. How the hell is she gonna talk herself out of this one? “Don’t worry, Sam won’t get the credit,” Zoë comments snarky, as she grabs a dirty cloth and cleans her hands, looking away. “If he didn’t do it, who did?” he interrogates, clearly not accepting a smart answer. “What does it matter? It’s nothing serious,” she mutters, getting up. “It is. You got shot, damn it,” Dean argues. “So did you. How’s that shoulder by the way?” Zoë quickly changes the subject, but Dean is smart enough not to take the bait. “No - no - no,” He shakes his head and grins. “I’m not gonna fall for that one. My shoulder’s fine, thanks, but you’re still answering that question.” She sighs; seems like there’s no way out of this. “It’s not that bad, it was a clean shot,” she assures, still avoiding Dean’s question. “Did you get the bullet out?” Dean asks, almost parental. Zoë narrows her eyes at him. “Of course I got the bullet out.” “Who shot you?” he asks again, slowly this time.

Zoë doesn’t answer and saunters up to him, after which she leans against Dean’s Chevy as well. Her hair, still damp from the shower she took earlier and seems black. Despite the crappy night, her natural tan gives her a healthy appearance. The only thing that gives away that she’s tired, are the slightly visible dark circles under her eyes. When she looks aside, she meets Dean’s gaze, who’s waiting for some kind of response. With a sigh, she gives him an answer. “The shapeshifter.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, needing a moment to analyze her words. He doesn’t know which question he needs to ask first. “You ran into him?”

Zoë averts her gaze, debating her conscience. Should she tell him? She knows he will keep digging until he does, but she could lie, obviously. Oh, what the hell. She might as well give him the whole story. “Yeah, yesterday evening. I had an appointment with a possible next victim, this guy called Cliffer. Turned out the son of a bitch already shed into him,” she explains. “Wait… Cliffer? As in Terry Cliffer?” Dean double checks. She suspiciously tilts her head while looking at him. “Yeah.” “Shit.” He rubs his face, realizing what is going on. “You’re Sharon Evans.” “What? How the hell do you know my alias?” Zoë asks with a tone. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think Sam technically did get you shot,” he starts off hesitating. “Beg pardon?!” she cries out, turning towards him, completely stunned. “We rang Cliffer around five yesterday afternoon, to meet up with him,” he admits. She stares at him as the missing links connect. She places a hand on her hips, switching her weight to one leg, radiating her attitude. “Let me guess! FBI?” “Yeah. He asked if Sam was Sharon Evans’s partner. We didn’t realize we were on somebody else’s case,” he admits. “You son of a…”

She swallows down another waterfall of curse words and turns around furiously. That’s why the bastard changed! She didn’t give herself away, those dumbass Winchesters did! It’s a bit of a coincidence that two federal agents call, being on the same case without knowing it. The shapeshifter was tailing Cliffer already, she was suspecting that, but when it learned about the appointments, it changed shape quicker than planned. The fucker knew there was at least one hunter in town. It was on to her! “Fuck!” she exclaims.

Furious, she turns away and walks back and forth between Dean’s car and her bike. Dean just follows her with his eyes, not saying a word. He knows that anything coming out of his mouth will only make her angrier, even if it’s just a smart attempt to lighten the mood. “What time’s that appointment?” “Five-thirty.” “Where?” “A bar. I’m not sure where.” “You don’t know?!” she snaps. “Sam knows. He made the appointment, not me,” he returns. Zoë rolls her eyes and forks her fingers through her hair, staring at the passing traffic for a moment.

“I don’t see why this is a bad thing,” Dean starts off, casually, but she doesn’t take it well. “You don’t see why this is a bad thing? It probably means the real Terry Cliffer is dead!” she hisses, lowering her voice when guests walk out the Motel Six. “You don’t know that. There could be two of them walkin’ around,” Dean argues. “The shifter doesn’t know that we’ve met. That gives us the advantage. It doesn’t know we know.” “What was your major plan then, Hannibal Smith?” she taunts. “I don’t have a plan. Like I said–-” “- Sam’s the geek, I know. God, seems like your folks saved the brains for the second child,” she huffs, turning on her heels as she crosses her arms firmly in front of her chest.

Dean glares at her, offended. Not that she notices, with her back already turned to him. She picks up the tools she used for the repair and puts them back in a small case, resting on the saddle. While she cleans up, Zoë tries to figure out some kind of plan, but if she’s not even sure who Sam actually made that appointment with, then how can she work out a strategy? Big chance that she’ll meet the shifter, but it could very well be Terry, so she can't actually go in guns blazing. Cliffer hasn’t been reported missing yet, even though he has a wife and kids. If he did disappear, they would have called the authorities and Zoë would know about that. Nothing is certain, which makes this job so much more impossible to work.

She stops what she’s doing and stares at the asphalt. Gears are turning in her head as she goes over every scenario. Dean observes her for a moment. “Did you eat?” he asks out of nowhere. “Or have coffee?” “No,” she answers confused; what does that have to do with anything? “Then how the hell can you think properly?” he wonders. She shrugs, only just now realizing that her stomach sounds like there’s a war going on inside. She could certainly go with a good latte macchiato to jumpstart her brain, too. It’s no fun to admit, but Dean has a point. “You’re right. I’m off.” Zoë throws her right leg over her Harley and lands in the black leather saddle. She picks up her old biker jacket from the handlebar and puts it on. “Can I come?” The way Dean asks is like a little boy would, innocent and hopeful, adding ‘pretty please’ with his green eyes without actually pronouncing the words. She chuckles and shakes her head. “Sorry, Dean. I fly solo.” Her engine starts with a satisfying purr instead of the louder sputter it produced earlier. Content, she smiles and puts on her helmet. Dean, on the other hand, looks at her just like that same little boy, disappointed, even though he tries to hide it. Without another word, she turns the throttle and exits the parking lot. Just before she turns on the parallel road to the 52 highway, she glances over her shoulder with a smirk from ear to ear. “Thanks for lunch!” she shouts, overruling the sound of her Harley.

Puzzled Dean watches her drive off. Lunch? What lunch? He feels his pockets, knowing he’s missing something. When the identical roar seems to come closer again; he looks up. The Harley Davidson isn’t exactly coming back, but drives up the ramp going to the city. She heaves her hand victoriously, holding his wallet as she drives by. Dean’s eyes follow her, his jaw dropping to the ground. That dirty little thief! She just stole my wallet! He gapes at Zoë, as she and her Harley merge into busy traffic in the distance. How could she…? When did this…? Stunned, he scoffs. Un-fucking-believable. He, one of the best goddamn hunters in the world, just got pick-pocketed. While shaking his head he turns around and walks back to the lobby, muddling softly. “Son of a bitch.”

An hour later, Zoë slips her key in the lock of room 82 and walks in like she owns the world, a straw coming from her iced latte on-the-go firmly between her lips. “Finally!” Dean complains. He made himself comfortable on the bed with his shoes on the bedspread again, sitting up against the back wall reading a magazine Zoë doesn’t want to know the content of. Sam is behind his laptop, not surprisingly. The older of the brothers smiles happily when he sees the Taco Bell symbol on the paper bags she’s holding. It might have taken her a while to get back, but at least she brought the good stuff.

Without responding to his comment, she throws him back his wallet without Sam noticing, who is occupied by research. Dean catches it with his left hand and answers her victorious grin with an unintelligible mutter. She sets down a small tray with two more coffee containers. “I didn’t know how you guys like your coffee, so I brought you both an Americano,” she says. “Francis over there prefers a half-caf double vanilla latte,” Dean comments, wiggling his eyebrows at his brother, who on his turn glares at him and takes his coffee. As if Dean hasn’t eaten for days, he attacks the burrito, quickly tearing away the paper wrap and taking a big first bite. Zoë isn’t surprised by his manners. Sam, however, can’t help but stare at his brother for a moment and clears his throat, disapprovingly. His sibling doesn’t seem to be bothered at all and lets out a satisfied ‘mmm’. “This is good,” he comments with his mouth full. “Thanks, Zo,” Sam says, after which he also takes a bite of his lunch. “Don’t thank me,” she nods at Dean. “He’s the one who paid.” The younger brother frowns and looks over at Dean for an explanation. Dean and paying the bill? That’s new. He doesn’t need to observe him for long before Dean stops chewing and his facial expression goes blank. Uneasy, he looks away and swallows his bite. Zoë watches him, too, smirking like a cheshire cat. “She - uh,” he pauses, studying his taco for a moment. “She kinda… stole my wallet.” Sam almost chokes on his food and laughs out loud, the action earning a lethal glare. He then continues to look the huntress up and down. “That explains the new jacket.” Dazed, Dean looks up. New jacket? What new jacket? Then he spots the black leather Harley Davidson bomber jacket on Zoë, brand new by the looks of it. “You didn’t,” he reacts, shocked. She grins at him, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh, I did.” He grinds his teeth, trying to keep calm. “How much was it?” “Not sure, actually. I didn’t bother to check the price tag when I slipped your card,” she returns, utterly satisfied. For a moment Dean just stares at her, his upper lip nervously twitching. What would that jacket be worth? 400, 500 bucks, maybe? “Oh, don’t be such a cheap jerk about it,” she comments, when she notices his expression, as if he has eaten something spicy yet disgusting. “You have at least a dozen more credit cards hidden in the trunk.” “How the hell would you know that?” Dean snarls at her.

As she takes a bite of her burrito, she looks up, digs deep down in her pocket and tosses him his car keys. While she casually continues with her lunch, Dean stares at the keys in his hand with his mouth agape, trying to figure out how the hell she got those as well. Sam has a hard time keeping a straight face, and who could blame him? There’s no finer entertainment than this: Dean is getting played. “You touched my fuckin’ car?” his brother hisses. “Obviously. I need to borrow this, by the way.” Zoë holds up a demon protection amulet. “Give that back, Zoë,” Sam demands, trying to be strict. “What else did you take?” “Some herbs, nothing expensive,” she admits, carelessly. “You fucking thief. What did you take, Sullivan?” It’s Dean who rises to his feet, holding his hand out to collect the stolen items. Reluctant, Zoë reveals a dried vine of Viburnum from her inner pocket. “Gardener over here -” Dean nods at Sam, “- went through a lot of trouble to get ahold of that dead plant you have there. I’d give it back if I were you.” “No. I need it,” she decides a matter of factly. Sam narrows his eyes at the huntress, trying to read her. Why would she need that herb? He stares at it, two dried out plants tied together with a double shoestring. It only works for one thing… “Not for yourself, I hope?” Sam asks, carefully. “A case I’m working on the side, actually. Can’t find the damn plants anywhere,” she clarifies. “Keep the damn twig, but I want the amulet back. Get your own supplies.” Dean ushers Zoë to hand the item over, which she does with a sigh. He snatching his coffee from the table and returns to the bed without thanking her. In fact, he’s not happy at all that she has been sniffing around in his car. The silence that follows is awkward, even for Zoë, and she decides to change the subject.

“I reckon you updated Sam while I was out?” Dean nods, taking a sip of caffeine. “In detail.” “Let me get this straight.” Sam, seated on one of the chairs by the table, leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The shapeshifter knows you’re a hunter.” “It does, but it didn’t know that at the time of the meeting. It knew one of the callers was out to kill him, but for all it cared, I could have been an FBI agent. The fucker shot me anyway,” she elaborates, finishing her drink and tossing it in the trash. Dean crosses his arms in front of his chest. “What’s your point?” “Her point is that if we go to Beetles Bar, pretending to know nothing, it won’t take any risks. If the shifter shows instead of the real Terry Cliffer, it will try to kill us both,” Sam understands. “You guys are not going in,” Zoë makes clear right away, taking a mental note of the bar’s name that Sam just mentioned.

“So, what then? Lure him out and shoot the bastard?” Dean suggests. “Not until I’m sure it’s the shifter, not Terry,” Zoë replies, as she walks over to the fridge. Two confused faces follow her as she opens the door and looks inside. “You’re not making any sense at all,” Dean returns, puzzled, after which he apparently gives up on the conversation and props his feet up on the bed again. “You might actually have made an appointment with the real Cliffer guy, not with that chameleon. No one would be able to tell, unless you shine a flashlight in his face,” she explains, as she takes out three beers.

Sam looks back at Zoë, who beckons one of the bottles to him, but he rejects it. Dean takes both the beers without hesitation. “You’re serious? You haven’t even been up for two hours,“ Sam scolds at the older Winchester brother, astonished by the both of them. “It’s happy hour somewhere,” Zoë defends, puts the bottle against her mouth and takes a swig, earning a grin from Dean. “Want anything else, Sammy boy? Some juice, or milk perhaps?” she coos cheerily as if talking to a child. Dean snorts, almost choking on his beer, but when Sam shoots daggers at him, he quickly takes another sip.

“Don’t call me Sammy,” he warns the huntress, continuing their discussion on the case. “So, there is a possibility that we might actually have a meeting with Terry Cliffer–-” “Okay, stop there for a second. Let me make something very clear: there is no ‘we’.” Zoë leans on the table, her knuckles resting on the surface. Her body language is strictly business all of a sudden; apparently she’s not very happy about Sam and Dean joining in on the case, especially not without her permission. Dean eyes her as he sits up. “You could use our help, Zo.” “Help?” She scoffs. “Thanks to the big ‘help’ you’ve been, I couldn’t finish the case last night!” “That happened, sorry about that. But as long as we’re here, we can offer a hand. Besides, we have an appointment with Cliffer,” Sam argues. “I don’t care. This is my hunt. I’m going to that appointment myself,” she clears up. A quick glance at the clock tells her that it’s a little past three. She still wants to dig up more information on her guy. The boys better get going. “No, you’re not. That’s our appointment,” Dean bounces back. “Seriously? You really wanna fight me on this?” she returns snappily, pushing herself from the table and crossing her arms in front of her chest. “That appointment that you scheduled fucked up my entire case! I was here first and I’m gonna end it!” “Oh, come on. How old are you? Five? Haven’t learned how to share yet?” Dean chuckles with an attitude, adding fuel to the fire.

Before Zoë can counter him, Sam comes between the two hot-blooded hunters. “Knock it off, both of you. It will be easier to catch that shapeshifter with three hunters than with one, Zoë. Why don’t we go there together? You lay low and when we find the shapeshifter, we shoot it. We know he’ll probably be in the bar anyway, either as Terry Cliffer or someone else.” “No,” she decides without any consideration. “I’m gonna deal with this alone and I do not need your help.” “I can see that,” Dean comments, nodding at her abdomen, reminding her of the bullet wound that’s covered by her shirt. “Who’s fault is that again?” she snaps. “I’m gonna say it one more time: I fly solo. I don’t do teamwork, certainly not with you two. End of discussion.”

She takes one last sip of her beer and sets the bottle down on the table with a loud bang. “Who do you think you are, ordering us around like that with your ‘end of discussion’? Our dad?” Sam bites back, defensive for the first time today. She freezes at the comparison and turns her head. The boys can see the fury burning in her eyes, as if they just lit the fuse of a bomb that’s about to explode. His comment stirred something inside of her they should have left alone. “I am nothing like your father!” she hisses. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean questions, offended. “Exactly what it sounds like, Winchester,” she counters with a tone. “What did he ever do to you? He exorcised that evil son of a bitch that was wearing you to the prom, for fuck’s sake.” Dean gets up and steps towards her, clearly not too happy about the way she’s talking about his father.

Trying to not lose her cool, Zoë chuckles sarcastically, looks away, and places her hands on her waist. “You owe him,” Dean pushes, halting before her. “I do not owe him a fucking thing,” she snarls fiercely, staring him down. Their eyes battle, waiting for the other to look away, but both Dean and Zoë are determined not to be the first. Her anger towards John Winchester radiates from her; the brothers can both feel it. They struck a nerve, that’s for sure. “I want you out,” Zoë declares without even blinking. “And I’m serious.”

Dean's jaw tenses as he grids his teeth. “Fine.” With a sigh, Sam gets up from the bed and grabs his duffel, Dean already on his way out. The younger brother doesn’t feel like leaving her alone on this case, but Zoë clearly isn’t going to change her mind anytime soon. “If you need us-–” “- I won’t,” she immediately intervenes. “If you do, we’re going south.” He leaves a card on the bed. “Don’t bother, Sam. The stubborn bitch won’t call us anyway,” Dean responds, holding the door.

She ignores his words, annoyed by the slightest sting that his bitter voice leaves. In a quick glance, Zoë sees two phone numbers written down on the card, but she doesn’t intend to pick it up. Sam looks over his shoulder, but he isn’t angry with her. His eyes ask her to please reconsider, but all she returns is a cold gaze. The door closes behind them and the brothers walk down the hallway. “Unbelievable,” Dean scoffs. “What a fucking waste of time.” Their footsteps echo through the hall as they pass the front desk. Sam nods at the younger guy who took over for the day when they exit Motel 6, and enters the parking lot. The sun is still shining and shimmers on the cars passing by on the 52 highway, tires rush over the blacktop. Dean halts on the driver’s side of his Impala.

“Where to?” he asks, opening the door to get in. “We’re staying in town,” Sam decides before he sits down in the passenger seat. “What? No! We have better things to do, Sam,” Dean argues, still mad at the huntress. “I know we do, but I have a bad feeling about this,” Sam admits. Dean sighs. “Here we go again with that feminine intuition shit.” Sam rolls his eyes at him, but doesn’t respond to his words. He can’t understand why, but somehow he has the urge to look out for Zoë, almost like it’s instinct. Unnecessary, of course; she has been fine by herself for four years. Why should today be any different? “Let’s just go. You said something about a possible case in Iowa yesterday? If she can handle this, why bother to stick around if we can hunt something else?” Dean reminds him. “One night. We book a motel, check on her, and if she nails it, we leave. She doesn’t even have to know we’re there,” Sam suggests. “I thought you were determined to find Dad?” Dean looks aside at his brother, waiting for a response. “I still am, but we have no lead, not even a single clue where he is,” Sam points out. “Hey, that’s what I’ve been telling you, but it didn’t stop you from looking. You were the one who was all, ‘I gotta find Dad, it’s the only thing I can think of,’ Dean bounces back, imitating his voice. “And now you’re ditching him for some chick?” “I’m not ditching him for some chick!” Sam denies. “Ah, come on. You like her and you know it,” Dean carries on. “I do not like her, Dean! Jess just died, damnit!” he exclaims.

Dean looks away and pulls at his bottom lip with his teeth. He knows he went too far, so he keeps quiet and turns the ignition. When he flips the key, the V8 motor under the hood growls, impatiently waiting for Dean to back up and hit the road. “You said it yourself: Dad doesn’t want to be found. I don’t see how it’s a bad thing to spend the night here, unless you have some kind of lead I don’t know about,” Sam suggests. “Fine, whatever. As long as that motel has a bed. I really need to get some sleep.”

He puts his car in reverse and looks in the rearview mirror as he guides her out of the parking spot. The shift of his body causes him to grimace, pain cutting through his shoulder. “Feeling alright?” Sam checks. “Yeah, just tired. I need more painkillers, that’s all,” he mutters. Sam takes out his phone and calls a booking agency he had listed in his contacts earlier. As the call goes through, he sighs. It’s going to be a difficult task to find a room with that poker event in town. He waits for someone to pick up on the other side, meanwhile wondering why Zoë got so worked up about their father. Dean has a point; John saved her from that demon, so how could she possibly despise him? Something must have occurred; maybe she crossed paths with him later on and John did something to upset her. She wouldn’t be the first to cross blades with him, after all.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page).

Read part seven here

The Sullivan Series tags: @a-gir1-has-n0-name @destielhoneybee @fookinghelljensensthighs @heartsaved @idksupernatural @laphirablack @magssteenkamp

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frownyalfred · 6 years

Note

ur ‘5+1 times alfred carried bruce’ fic was so good and heartbreaking and ever since then i’ve wanted more of alfred’s pov

Thank you so much, anon! Here’s an idea I was throwing at @batwayneman a few days ago you might like.

renewal, or five things Bruce doesn’t know Alfred taught him

Stealth

Six year-old Bruce Wayne ducks behind the hydrangeas, giggling loudly.

Alfred tugs the garden hose into a better position, keeping his thumb over the spout. He can hear the boy a few feet ahead of him and decides to wait, crouching between Martha’s rose bushes.

Sure enough, after thirty seconds, Bruce’s patience wanes. He pokes his head out of his hiding spot, looking around the empty garden.

“Alfred!”

The hose is ice-cold in his hands. Alfred steps around the rose bushes, head ducked low. Bruce’s back is to him–neck craned, still looking for his playmate.

“Alfred, if you’re not going to play–”

He grins as his thumb slips from the spout, sending water shooting across the garden.

Bruce shrieks, spinning around. He puts his hands up to block the spray, but it’s too late. His clothing is drenched, sopping wet with ice water. The look on the boy’s face is priceless.

“You–you–”

Alfred raises an eyebrow, and then the hand holding the hose. Bruce eyes it, pauses, and then makes a run for the garden shed.

Round two, the butler thinks, hefting the hose with a smile.

Negotiation

“If that hand goes back into the cookie jar,” Alfred says, knife stilling. “It’s getting cut off.”

Behind him, he can hear the rustle of Bruce’s fingers removing themselves. He resumes dicing onions, listening for the sound of the lid being replaced.

“Just one? Please, Alfred?” At eight, those blue eyes are deadly to everyone but him. Still, he doesn’t risk turning around. “You won’t hear from me until dinner.”

“Dinner is in one hour,” Alfred raises his knife, gesturing. “You’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll clean my room.” Bruce says, with a look of distaste. “And…make my bed.”

“Right before you go to sleep?”

Alfred waits, watching Bruce’s expression morph into a pout. “…tomorrow morning.”

“And the next morning?”

“I just want one cookie!” Bruce exclaims. “You’re making me do all this stuff for it. It’s not fair.”

“Exactly, Master Bruce.” Alfred grabs the next onion, chopping the ends off. “It’s not.”

Bruce considers this in silence. After a pause, he sets his hands on the counter, looking suspiciously like his father.

“One cookie a day,” he says, “And I’ll make my bed every morning.”

Alfred hides a smile, resuming his dicing.

“Deal.”

Resiliency

The car is frigid; his hands curl around the steering wheel, cold even with gloves, but Bruce doesn’t ask to turn the heat on. He is a smudge of pale skin and red eyes in the back seat, unspeaking and unmoving.

Alfred feels his own eyes burn, looking in the rearview mirror, and turns his attention to the funeral procession. Ahead, a sea of black coats and umbrellas file out towards the graveyard, braving the cold for one last chance to say goodbye.

He parks in the reserved spot, shutting the engine off. In the backseat, Bruce seems to wake up from his daze, blinking at the crowds. His expression is painfully young–scared, uncertain–as he realizes where they are.

“Alfred,” Bruce says, lip wobbling ever so slightly. “Alfred, I can’t.”

He ignores the urge to start the car and drive them away, ignores his outrage that a child so young has to do this. Alfred reaches for Bruce’s hand, grasping it in his.

“This will be hard,” he says, pausing as Bruce’s eyes fill over with tears again. “One of the hardest things you’ll ever do. But you can do it.” He smiles, knowing it’s a little watery. “I know you can.”

Bruce’s eyes close. He takes a breath, hand tightening in Alfred’s grasp. When he opens them again, his eyes are free of tears. They’re still red–still puffy and full of pain–but determined, now.

“Let’s go,” he says, and Alfred opens the door with a smile.

Suturing

“Why are we doing this again?”

Alfred ignores the obvious eye roll sent his way, threading his needle. “It’s good practice. You’ll never know when you’ll need to darn a sock until it’s too late.”

“I don’t need to darn socks,” the teenager says, grabbing the needle Alfred had set in front of him. “I’ll just buy new ones.”

“Thread it, sew a neat line, and we’ll be done.” Alfred says, turning over the piece of fabric in his hands. He holds it up to Bruce, revealing the row of perfect, even stitching. “See? Easy.”

The teen narrows his eyes, unwinding a spool of yellow thread. His first attempt at threading the needle goes poorly, and so does the second. On the third try, he finally ties it off. Alfred nods at the piece of fabric in front of him, waiting.

Bruce’s stitches are slow, and more than a little unsteady. He pricks himself more than a few times, but completes the row eventually. With a sigh, he holds it up to Alfred.

“Good,” the butler says. “But not good enough. Try again.”

“Alfred!”

Misdirection

“Thanks for picking me up,” Bruce says, climbing into the backseat. Lights were flashing behind him, music pounding through the estate as people ran across the grounds. “The party was getting a little crazy. You have good timing.”

Alfred nods, eyeing the line of paparazzi huddled at the edge of the grounds–hoping to catch a glimpse of how the richest teenagers partied, no doubt. “Ready?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

He shifts into drive, heading slowly towards the end of the drive. A gaggle of drunken teens run past the car, screaming. Alfred maneuvers the Rolls-Royce around them, hearing Bruce scoff in the back seat.

Together, they watch as one of the girls trips and falls, smashing her face into the concrete right in front of the paparazzi. Cameras flash as her skirt flies upward, legs and underwear bared to the world.

“Oh my god,” Bruce says, as the paparazzi go wild. His face is pressed ot the window. “That’s Carrie Jensen. We have to help her.”

The girl’s friends abandon her, running off toward the house. Alfred turns the wheel sharply, sliding the car between the cameras and the girl.

“Go talk to them,” he says, turning around to face Bruce. “I’ll take care of her.”

“What do you mean talk to them?” Bruce asks, frantic. “She’s hurt.”

“Yes, and if they don’t find something more interesting in the next ten seconds,” Alfred says, opening his door, “her underwear will be the news tomorrow.”

Bruce grimaces, sliding out of the backseat. He waves at the cameras, clearly forcing a smile onto his face. “Hey! Hey!”

Alfred gathers the girl quickly, sliding an arm under her legs. He picks her up, setting her in the backseat, still concealed by the side of the car. In the distance, he can hear Bruce laughing at a reporter’s comment.

“–think he’s a good choice for governor? Are you kidding me?” Bruce scoffs, playing up his disbelief for the cameras. He points at one. “My father had no patience for hateful rhetoric, and neither do I. Yeah, you can quote me on that.”

Alfred clears his throat. After a brief wave, Bruce walks back to the car, sliding into the passenger seat. The paparazzi were still going wild over his comment, screaming for him to elaborate.

“Hospital?” Bruce asks, turning to glance at the girl in the backseat. The charm and bravado he’d shown in front of the camera drains from his face; the change is almost startling.

“Hospital.” Alfred agrees, hiding a smile.

(+1) Renewal

In the backseat, Bruce has one hand around the boy’s head, tucking him against his shoulder. Dick breathes softly, exhausted by the events of the past hour and a half. There are still tear tracks on his cheeks.

They ride home in silence. Bruce stares forward the entire time, stroking Dick’s hair softly with a rough hand.

“Good,” Alfred says, as they pull into the driveway of Wayne Manor. “Very good, Master Wayne.”

#alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #requests #fic requests #myfic #theresurrectionist #fluff #tiny bit of angst #batfamily #batman #dc #gen

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thelastspeecher · 6 years

Note

13 with birb guck au?

Day 01 Day 02 Day 03 Day 04 Day 05 Day 06 Day 07 Day 08Day 09 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13 Day 14 Day 15 Day 16Day 17 Day 18 Day 19 Day 20 Day 21 Day 22 Day 23 Day 24Day 25 Day 26 Day 27 Day 28 Day 29 Day 30

13. Halloween costumes

Yesterday I wasn’t able to post a write for NaNoWriMo, but here it is, my fourth NaNoWriMo entry. Birb Guck AU Stangie and their babs doing costume stuff for Halloween.

Word count: 1463

Send me a number for a fall-themed prompt!

“Ow!” Stan hissed in pain as he pricked himselfwith the needle. Again. His fingertips were raw and red from themultiple accidental stabs he’d given himself, but at least he was almost done.

“You allright, darlin’?” Stan looked up. Angie had come into the living room at somepoint while Stan was sewing. She bouncedtheir youngest child, eight-month-old Emmett, against her shoulder. It was the only way that he could be soothedas of late.

“Yeah,just stuck myself is all,” Stan said. Angie sat next to him on the couch, adjusting her hold on Emmett so thathe was sitting on her lap. Stan pokedEmmett’s large nose playfully. “Heythere, sport.” Emmett snapped at Stan’sfinger, his tiny, sharp teeth catching on air. “Missed me. Better luck nexttime, kiddo.” Emmett warbled a series ofnotes eerily similar to the theme from CloseEncounters of the Third Kind. Stanfrowned. “When did he learn that?”

“It wason TV the other day.”

“But howdid he remember it?”

“Guckscan remember songs like nobody’s business,” Angie said proudly. She stroked the top of Emmett’s head, whichwas covered in a thin layer of gray down. Emmett closed his eyes, content. “Whatare ya doin’ there? Did the girlsaccidentally rip up yer clothes again or somethin’?”

“Nah. Just working on my Halloween costume.”

“Wh- Stan,the kids have to stay inside! They’re-”

“Partalien, yeah. But the girls can turnhuman now, and they’re going to kindergarten, and their friends have been askingabout trick-or-treating.”

“We don’thave any Halloween costumes.”

“Nope. But the girls don’t need costumes,” Stansaid. Angie cocked her head at him. “All they gotta do is wear their feathers,and they can go shake down strangers for money like any other kid.”

“Are- areyou suggestin’ that our half-alien children wander down the street withoutlookin’ human?” Angie asked. Shewhistled a few notes in worry. Stansmiled confidently at her.

“Thepeople in this town are idiots. Bigfootcould go knockin’ on their front door, asking to borrow a cup of sugar, andthey’d give it to him, thinking it was just a really hairy lumberjack. And it’s Halloween, babe. People will be expecting aliens.”

“But-” Angie whistled again. Stan stifled a laugh at her admittedly cutenervous tic. “But if we go out inpublic, and they have feathers, and then somehow, some way, someone sees me orTate or Fidds or the kids feathered later, they’ll know exactly who it is! And the FBI will be breakin’ down our frontdoor!”

“Babe, I’vegot this all figured out.” Stan restedhis hand over Angie’s. “If sometime,someone sees one of you Gucks in feathers, and it’s not during Halloween, they won’t think it’s you. Why? Because they saw you in feathers onHalloween! Everybody knows that peoplewho have something to hide will keep it hidden. Only dumbasses would flaunt the things they want to keep secret.” Emmett whistled three notes that sounded exactlylike Stan’s inflection on the word “dumbasses”. “See? Even Emmett agrees.”

“It- it is weirdly brilliant,” Angie saidsoftly. She swallowed. “But it- it goes against everything I’ve beentaught.” She stroked Emmett’s headagain. “Then again, our whole relationshipgoes against what I was taught as a Guckling.”

“Exactly.” Stan leaned over to kiss Angie on thenose. She chuckled. “And I’ll go out and buy some cheap chickencostumes or somethin’ for the boys. Babycostumes pretty much cover everything, except for the eyes, but they have humaneyes anyways. Trust me, I’ve got aplan. No one’s gonna think that you orthe kids actually have feathers.” Angie’sface was still drawn with worry. “Iwouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“Youtried to feed Danny worms when she was a week old.”

“Hey, I’vemade a lot stupider decisions than that,” Stan said firmly. “That one made sense. Baby birds eat worms. I thought that one through.”

“Did yathink this one through?”

“I’vebeen planning this for two months.”

“Thatlong, huh?”

“Yeah.” Stan looked down at the mass of fabric in hislap. “I know you wanna keep the kidssafe, and I do too. But we have to finda balance between keeping them safe and letting them be kids, y’know? We can’t just keep ‘em inside all the time. I figured that Halloween would be the big thingthat we can use to ease them into human interactions.”

“They goto school.”

“Thenstraight home, once they’re done with class for the day.” Stan met Angie’s eyes. In her natural state, they were pure black,as dark as obsidian. But she was in herhuman form right now, and they were sky blue, churning with anxiety. “I know that when you were a kid, you had tobe inside whenever any human was within spitting distance of the farm. I wasn’t raised like that, though. I grew up breaking curfew and bein’ a generalhoodlum.” Angie managed a smallsmile. “It’s good for kids to spend timeoutside with other kids, not in school.” After a moment, Angie nodded.

“Okay.” Her voice was soft. “We’ll- we’ll take ‘em trick-or-treatin’.”

“They’llbe over the moon.” Angie noddedagain. She rubbed her eyes. “I promise, it’s gonna be fine.”

“I’llhold ya to that promise.” Loudscreeching emitted from the nursery. “Emory’sup.”

“Yep.” Stan set down his costume and held out hishands. Angie gently deposited Emmettinto his waiting arms. Emmett looked upat Stan with wide eyes. “Your old man isgonna hold you now. You all right withthat?” Emmett whistled the theme from Close Encounters of the Third Kindagain. Stan whistled the themeback. Emmett’s mouth dropped open inshock. Angie chuckled.

“I thinkyou just blew Emmett’s mind.”

“Yeah. I should whistle more.”

—–

“My mom’sgonna be happy we’re using the stroller she sent us,” Stan remarked as he buckledEmmett and his twin, Emory, into the stroller. Both infants were wearing bird costumes that covered their inhumanfeatures.

“Daddy,you look so much like us,” Daisy said, stroking Stan’s costume. Stan turned around and kissed the top ofDaisy’s head.

“I’mpretty good at sewing, yeah. And I usedfeathers I found laying around the house, which helped.”

“That’swhat happened to all the shed feathers,” Angie remarked. She was adjusting Danny’s coat so that it wasn’ttoo tight. “I thought it was weird thatI didn’t need to vacuum last week.” Shestraightened. “Do you have your buckets,girls?”

“Yep!”Danny and Daisy said together. Daisythrust her jack-o-lantern-shaped basket in front of her proudly, hitting Stan’sknee.

“Careful,honey,” Angie said. “Don’t beat up yerfather.”

“He cantake it,” Daisy said. Stan laughed. He ruffled Daisy’s head feathers.

“That’smy girl.” Stan looked over atAngie. She gave off an anxious air, madeobvious by the way her canary-colored feathers were fluffed up. “Ready to go trick-or-treating, Ang?”

“As readyas I’ll ever be,” Angie replied, her voice shaking. Stan moved over to her, dragging the strollerwith him. Emory giggled and clapped hishands. Stan put a comforting arm aroundAngie’s feather-covered shoulders.

“It’sgonna go great, babe. You know that,” hesaid softly. Angie nodded. “If it goes south, somehow, I’ll make adistraction so that you and the kids have time to get away. But it won’t.” Angie nodded again, this time moreconfidently. “Hit the button, girls!” Danny and Daisy jostled for the honor ofpressing the button by the door leading inside. Danny was successful; upon pressing it, the garage door creaked open. Trick-or-treaters wandered the street withparents, running from house to house as they tried to collect the best possiblecandy. One of the neighbors, theLawsons, stopped in front of the open garage.

“Is thatthe McGucket-Pines family?” Mrs. Lawson asked.

“Pines-McGucket,”Stan said. Angie rolled her eyes.

“Yourcostumes are great!” Mr. Lawson said. “Wheredid you get them?”

“Stanmade ‘em,” Angie answered.

“Wow! We should ask you to make our costumes nextyear, Stan,” Mrs. Lawson said.

“It’llcost you,” Stan said.

“Maybenot, then,” Mr. Lawson said. Hechuckled. “Have a fun Halloween!”

“You too,”Angie said. The Lawsons walkedaway. Stan grinned at Angie.

“I hateto say ‘I told you so’, but…” Angieshoved Stan playfully.

“Oh,please. You never hate sayin’ that.” Shegave him a peck on the cheek. “Let’stake these lil buggers to get some free candy from strangers.”

“Yeah!”Danny and Daisy shouted, running out of the garage. “Free candy!”

“God, Ilove those kids,” Stan said proudly. “They’vegot their priorities straight.”

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arsonforcharlie · 6 years

Text

a very late fuck squad update: “i had a really good cliffhanger written but then you guys yelled a lot.”

sorry i’m late on this! i was finishing off some notes for tomorrow and realized i never actually posted a summary for last week. whoops

Started the recording just after Saida started saying ”that’s gonna be the name of my chick punk band.” Lost whatever gem that was to the ages.

Saida: “So I have a confession. [fills mouth with cake] Iunno how to play this game.”

“Stop being so fucking mirthful in my house.”

Saida: “I’m sorta resentful that I rolled so good.” ”Those stats represent, like, who you are as a fucking person.” Saida: “YOU’RE who you are as a fucking person!” “…. yes! Technically!”

Yoni: “I have an 18 in Wisdom!” Saida: “So what’s your excuse?”

We finally started playing a solid 9 minutes into the recording. Christ.

Saida: “Did the thing i said about all the pie I eat make it onto the recording?” “It’s on there now.”

First roll of the session is to determine how hungover Sergei and Saida are. This is how our game is going.

Saida’s first action having turned over a new moral leaf is to go through Enro Monsterblower’s pockets, shake him awake and kick him out of the hotel room.

Saida: “now that I know I’m good at everything I’m willing to try things.”

I made some truly fantastic snoring noises that convinced Rhonia and Sergei that there are werewolves in Chillwater.

“I’m gonna wake him up and make casual conversation about all the murder.”

Saida: “How did you get here?” “You… you invited me back here.” Saida: “That sounds like something I would do.” “It was, you did do that-” Saida: “I don’t need your backtalk.”

Saida: “I handcuff him.” “Do you have handcuffs?” “I 100 percent do, I’m Macgyver. Actual handcuffs, I stole them from Lord Acotar.” “Right… You’re not Macgyver at all, you’re a thief! That’s not what Macgyver did. Hey, I’ll make a grappling hook by stealing this grappling hook!”

Harde messages them to point out that maybe they shouldn’t be using official channels to plan drunk roller coaster adventures. Saida: “I write ‘Uh oh.’”

Harde and Narder have not made much progress on tracking down Cheeda, the maid who was fired. She didn’t show up at home and they haven’t found any records of her looking for a new job in town. Having discovered one fact about the case, we return to the Case Of Saida Invited Some Dude To Stay The Night And Then He Did That.

Rhonia: “I see if the snow is magical!” “Presumably you’re detecting magic and not just, like, tasting the snow to see if it gives you magic tingles.” Saida: “I wanna do that!”

Rhonia is wrapped up in a big hotel comforter and she goes to Saida’s room to get her out of having to deal with the dude she just slept with. Saida throws his pants at him and tells him to get out of her room. She also tells everyone about the magic snow.

“Oh, before breakfast I was gonna go help shovel the snow-” Saida: “IT’S MAGIC SNOW”

Saida: “I think I either have an apology letter to write or someone to avoid. One of the two.”

Maddela’s new sexual partner, Idina, who invented cigarettes, starts smoking, and when asked to stop, just puts it out on the back of her arm. “She’s my new favorite character, fuck all you guys.”

Saida: “I’m gonna try and look presentable just in case.” Rhonia: “I’m still in the blanket.”

“We need to know what your hairstyle is, Saida, it’s really important to the plot!”

Saida: “Any land deals? Developers? Do they exist?” “No, and no developers. We own most of this mountain.” “Smart business move.” “Owning a mountain? Yes.”

Yoni: “Alright I think i cracked it. It’s ecoterrorists.”

Rhonia eats the snow. A 9 perception reveals that it tastes like snow. And her mouth is cold now.

Saida: “It’s amazing how more together I look when I’m not drunk and you’re you.”

Saida: “Well as long as we can dig a pathway we’ll be alright.” “Oh, you’re going to help dig a pathway? “[scoff] of course not.”

Rhonia and Yoni get sent over to interrogate Tarand. He doesn’t know who cast the snow spells, and is kind of indignant at the assumption that he would.

Saida: “I’m judging him for the fact that he almost married me. Dumbass.”

“She’s making jokes about not knowing how to play Pathfinder.” Yoni: “I don’t need to joke. I’m living it.”

Rhonia: “There are… some things…. it would be handy to have a wizard for…. Do you know any necromancy?”He doesn’t know any real necromancy. Saida writes in the book that she’s been drunk for two days so now Harde and Narder know. Also a bunch of insults.

“Dates don’t exist, this is fantasy time!”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell.” Saida: “Is that because she said gnomeface instead of his actual name?”

We renamed the himbo Garfunkel because I kept forgetting his name.

Tarand met both Shareena and Garfunkel in the hotel bar, didn’t have much contact with them outside that. Yoni goes back to the table and Rhonia continues the interrogation. She finds out that Tarand could potentially try to stop the snow, and that teleporting objects is possible.

“He has two plates. One has pancakes, one has waffles. He’s rich. That’s what being rich means.”

Rhonia then gets a 30 to intimidate Tarand, takes his waffles, and walks away eating them.

A very long discussion where we all try to do math trying to figure out how to burn their way through the snow.

Saida: “Did you people not hire a fake fantasy civil engineer?”

Rhonia: “Are you gonna Legolas it?”

Sergei casts Featherstep which lets Pashmina walk on snow, and Garfunkel is out there putting blankets on the horses, having waded through the snow.

Saida draws a dick in the notebook and tries to frame Yoni for it.

Sergei and Pashmina bound out over the snow to the equipment shed to get the plow and snowshoes for everyone. Saida sews herself a coat out of a blanket for herself, Yoni, and Rhonia.

Saida: “It’s almost like someone came prepared for this winter resort.” Maddela: “No, I just steal shit.”

Saida: “That sounds arbitrary. Like, Canada 1969 abortion laws arbitrary.”

It was established that Tarand is powerful enough to do all the magic they’ve seen so far.

Saida: “I don’t understand why he was in a snit about the fact that I was drunk for two days!”

Due to forgetting horse terms, Sergei gets “debriefing his horse” and chats with Garfunkel.

Saida: “It’s not a heavy petting zoo!”

Sergei tries to push off blame for the Saida situation despite being an instigator, tells Garfunkel that Saida didn’t kill Shareena.

“I remember she was causing a scene as she went out- I heard she was yelling, and throwing things. I think Tarand has a type.”

Sergei: “She was a…. professional.” “Professional? Professional what? I don’t think she was a lawyer.”

Yoni rolls to snap her fingers, rolls pretty low, and gets covered in leftover syrup from Rhonia’s pancakes.

“I’m gonna let you guys take 10 on snapping your fingers.”

Sprit doesn’t know of any gnomes in the area, and she didn’t know that Cheeda didn’t show up at home. She lets them see her teleportation charm, and reveals that there are more in Llydor’s office.

A request has been made to meet Scrote the Ogre but that’s gonna require one hell of a GM bribe. There was a break for Rhonia’s player to tell us the story of a GM who named his world Anustear by accident. Whoops.

Sprit says she didn’t see Laurelia before she died, but gets caught out and admits that she was paid to deliver a letter. She had been asked not to tell.

Yoni: “I’m lying that she can trust me!”

“It’s weird that you’re trying to ingratiate yourself to a woman you’ve had sex with by acting like a child.”

Saida uses her gauntlet to read one of Sprit’s memories. She doesn’t do a hit. Sprit has been asked to deliver notes to Scrom in the past from a mysterious person that she doesn’t know.

Yoni: “We’ve got it, Bobbie, Bobbie’s the murderer!” “You’ve solved it, you’ve found me out, I murdered my own characters and you’re next!” “What if I don’t believe in god?” “I’m gonna double murder you because you’re a cleric.”

They get Llydor to show them the extra teleportation charms, and it’s revealed that two are missing. He also agrees to bring up the guestbooks from the past month, and tells them that he doesn’t have contracts for all the employees. Saida brings up that Llydor is treating his employees badly. Then they all go to dinner. Everyone discusses the questions that they meant to ask and then forgot to do.

“On tumblr I just reblog posts at random, which honestly would explain a lot about my blog.”

Maddela breaks into Llydor’s office, and digs around for clues. Among many other things, they find letters from Llydor’s kid, which prompts a resounding “EWWWW” from around the table. Sorry Llydor Philkirk canonically fucks.

“Roll for it to make sure you don’t completely fuck it up. Oh. Oh, that was a facial expression you just made.”

Maddela “Actually…. I’m gonna go… and not steal the carpet.”

Under the carpet is a large brass key, and Maddela uses her key blank to copy it. Like a proFRESHional. She’s seen coming out of his office by an approaching servant, but otherwise it’s a flawless crime. Meanwhile, Llydor hasn’t yet shown up to drop off the books. They summon Sprit, who tells them that he left some books at the front desk for her to drop off because he had some other business.They send Sprit to go find Llydor but also to get a bottle of champagne and some snacks first. Saida reads through to see if she recognizes the handwriting in any of the books from the note she saw in Sprit’s memories, but she doesn’t.

“You need to learn to count to three to play Pathfinder.” Saida: “Well you need to learn to read to GM Pathfinder.”

RUDE

“You try to track down Llydor.” Sergei: “Yeah!” “What are you doing to try to track down Llydor?” “……..”

“He does have a distinctive cologne. Scent, for dudes.”

Sergei rolls really well and finds that Llydor went outside, but loses track of the trail because he took the well-shovelled path. Saida has spent time looking up AA quotes and plans to drop them whenever she feels it’s appropriate.There’s also a subplot where Yoni is convinced that Pashmina was pregnant and had an abortion. The less said about that the better.

“You guys, I’m in AA, not NA. There’s a whole world of drugs out there.”

Yoni, Saida, Maddela, and Sergei visit a bar called the Jeweled Bitch, which is explicitly there for rich people to feel like they’re slumming it. At the bar, people knew Shareena- she had a gig where she posed as a hotel guest to get into the hotel bar to find clients. They often had to kick her out of the hotel bar, though. Maddela also hit on the bartender.

“You found a book. A self-help book. The Fantasy-cret.”

They meet at the hotel bar, where Krash is drinking and they have a pretty awkward conversation.

“Who are the bartenders? How many are there? What are their names? What are their backstories?” My players are trying to kill me.

Saida: “Do we know what Sharona looks like?” “Do you know Shareena’s name?”

The bartender, Veldahar, reveals that he doesn’t know much that they didn’t already know, and then says some shit about orcs so Rhonia intimidates him.

None of my friends can snap their fingers and it’s very funny.

Suddenly, Sprit goes to find them to let them know that Llydor Philkirk has been murdered and abandoned in a garbage chute, and it looks like he has frostbite on his fingers and toes.

“I’m not comfortable being down here with the body. It’s creepy.” “This is a murder mystery!”

“You know, if you keep talking about the murders like they’re good things, people will keep suspecting you.”

They inform Harde and Narder that Llydor is dead and also immediately start planning to take over the resort and start a sex cult. “I think Bobbie is crying.”

#the fuck squad #fuck squad recaps #no sex cults

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glitchinthesystemspiderbyte · 7 years

Text

Glitch Interlude - Halloween Terror

By E. A bit outside of our established timeline. Thanks for everyone’s costume suggestions. I included them all in some fashion :)

Happy Halloween! _

“Are you ready?” Sombra asked from the bathroom, making a few last-minute adjustments to her costume before the big reveal.

“Oui,” Widowmaker replied, lounging on the big comfy chair in Sombra’s bedroom.

“Here it is!” Sombra announced, stepping out in the costume she had labored over the past three weeks. Crafted meticulously from an old bedsheet and several discarded articles of clothing, she’d put together a colorful dress cinched at the waist with a bright red ribbon. To top it all off was a giant floppy hat, covered in feathers and flowers and shaped a bit like an umbrella with fringe on it.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough. Sewing was far from Sombra’s strong suit - in fact, if pressed, she’d be forced to admit she knew almost nothing about it - but handmade costumes were invariably better than store bought, and she’d had to try her hand at it despite not possessing any of the requisite skills to create one.

Besides, she figured - how bad could it be?

“Oh,” Widowmaker replied, answering her question in one succinct phrase as she looked conflicted staring at Sombra’s patched-together costume.

“What?” Sombra asked, side-eying her suspiciously.

“Nothing. It is cute. You are cute.” She stood up and ducked under the brim of the hat to place a kiss on her cheek, wrinkling her nose slightly as the fringe tickled her forehead.

Sombra crossed her arms and looked up suspiciously. “I don’t believe a fucking word out of your mouth, araña, but I like it when you call me ‘cute’ so I’m gonna let it slide.”

“That is a lovely hat,” Widowmaker said, trying her hardest to keep from laughing at the sad excuse for headware.

“It’s from La Calavera Catrina,” Sombra replied, shifting it more securely on her head. It was easier said than done; she should probably have used a more sturdy material than felt and plastic. “What are you dressing up as?” she deflected, giving up on the hat.

“A sniper.”

Sombra frowned at her. “You can’t dress up as a sniper, Widow. You are a sniper.”

“Yes, well it will be an easy costume then, no?” she replied, doing her best not to make eye contact with the dapper skeleton before her.

“Widow,” Sombra sighed, the sides of her hat flopping around her ears, “the party is today. It’s the biggest event Talon hosts all year, save for the fanfare it puts behind murder.”

Widowmaker shrugged, avoiding eye contact, and suddenly becoming very distracted by Toulouse as he wandered around with the special black and orange Halloween pumpkin collar Sombra had made Widowmaker buy him the last time she was out.

“Widow,” she said again, hands on her hips as she stared incredulously at the sniper. “Did you get a costume? Gabe told you to get a costume. Akande told you to get a costume. I told you to get a costume.”

Widowmaker stood up, letting Toulouse wind around her ankles. “I did not have time?”

Sombra narrowed her eyes at the spider and slowly, threateningly removed her hat, setting it on the bedpost where it hung like a sad, limp basket. Walking over to her, Sombra gently took the sniper’s hands in hers and looked the her dead in the eyes.

“Get your coat. We are going costume shopping.”

The costume shop, as it turned out, was having a Halloween event, and was packed with those there for the festivities as well as last minute shoppers. Furthermore, there were children everywhere, running around in all manner of costumes from lions to superheroes to historical figures from years past.

Sombra grinned at one as he ran by, dressed up to look like none other than Reinhardt Wilhelm, foam axe in hand and all.

“Cuidado, niño,” she cautioned him as he tripped over his oversized boots, dropping his weapon in the process. Sombra leaned over to pick it up, handing it back and adjusting his crooked helmet before sending him back out into the fray.

“I never considered you one for children,” Widowmaker commented, looking decidedly uninterested in the horde of minions laughing around her. She was standing beside the hacker, still and uncomfortable as they perused the racks of overpriced, poorly-made costumes for something suitable.

“Kids are ok,” Sombra shrugged, reaching into one of the gratis buckets of candy scattered throughout the store, flipping a handful of chocolate into her mouth. Widowmaker eyed her suspiciously.

“They are ok?” she asked, slapping the next piece of candy from Sombra’s hand before she ate the entire pumpkinful.

“Yeah. They’re ok. Like little blank slates of potential. Kids believe anything, you know?” she replied, eyeing at the bucket of sweets and trying not to be obvious about it. “You can train them up to be whatever you want if you’re quick enough about it.”

Widowmaker nodded, one eyebrow raised. “You like children,” she said slowly, “because they can be more easily manipulated than adults?”

“In not so many words - yeah,” she replied, snatching another piece of candy and shoving it into her mouth before Widowmaker could stop her. “Now stop procrastinating. We’re not leaving until we find you something to wear.”

Widowmaker groaned, rolling her eyes so hard Sombra worried she might hurt herself, and followed the hacker back into the aisles. They were narrow and claustrophobic, mixed fabrics catching on anyone who passed so that the entire row was in a near-constant state of swaying back and forth. It would have been great for hide and seek; not so wonderful for a stress-free shopping experience.

“How about this?” Sombra asked between choking laughs from an aisle over. Widowmaker turned the corner to find her halfway inside one part of a two-person spider suit, wiggling its abdomen around in amusement. “It takes two, araña.”

“No,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“You can be the head.”

“No.”

“Spoilsport,” Sombra said as she shed the costume and tossed it back on the rack. Before Widowmaker could respond, she’d disappeared down another aisle, leaving the sniper to her own devices.

The hacker peeked through the costumes periodically, surreptitiously watching as Widow wandered around, flipping unenthusiastically through costume after costume. Periodically she’d pull one out, inspect it, frown, and put it back. Sombra would poke her head around the corner from time to time to remind her that the clock was ticking, and that she may as well pick something so they could leave.

“It doesn’t have to be fancy, Widow. You could dress up as anything and still turn heads.” Holding out a simple vampire costume for her approval, the hacker shrugged.

“Attention is not always flattering, cherie,” she replied, dismissing the suggestion out of hand. Reinhardt ran by again, more dexterously this time, and Widowmaker watched the small child with curiosity. “And if I am going to do this, I am going to do this right.”

“Sure,” Sombra said, quickly producing a replacement for the rejected vampire. Widowmaker leveled a withering look at her, and she tossed the nursery rhyme Miss Muffet costume off to the side.

“All right. I’ll leave you to it then.” Turning with exaggerated affront, Sombra vanished back into the maze of the shop, busying herself by browsing accessories and occasionally sniping another sweet. The shop was larger than she’d originally realized, and there was an whole section in the basement dedicated entirely to masks and makeup that she happily vanished into until Widowmaker was ready to go.

“I am ready,” came Widowmaker’s droll, exasperated voice from upstairs a half hour later. Sombra turned from the elf ears she was trying on to see the spider standing by the door, arms laden with bags of purchases and frowned.

“You already checked out?” she asked suspiciously, running up the stairs and reaching for the bags to see what she’d bought.

“Oui,” Widow replied, shifting out of her reach.

“Well what is it?” the hacker asked, hands on her hips.

“You will see.”

“Seriously?”

Widowmaker smirked and headed for the exit.

“Excuse me ma’am?” a small voice called out as they were about to leave, and both women looked down to see a small child dressed as the Hulk peering up at them curiously. “How did you get your skin so blue?” he asked, gaping at Widowmaker through his mask. “It looks real.”

Widowmaker smiled in the most deeply patronizing way, leaning down so as to be at eye level. Sombra bit back a laugh at the kid’s expense. “Constrict blood flow to the body by slowing down the rate at which your heart beats,” she replied casually. “Extensive invasive bioengineering.”

“Oh,” the boy replied, blinking, looking down at his patchy green skin. “I use Mehron.”

“Looks great. Gotta run,” Sombra said, pushing Widowmaker out of the store. She snatched a final candy on her way out.

“Peanut butter cup?” she asked, holding it out without any real expectation that the sniper would indulge.

Widowmaker snatched it from her hand without so much as a word, smiling as she popped it into her mouth and headed down the street.

They had less than an hour to prepare for the party when they got home, and Sombra ushered Widow into her room to change before she could muster up a reason to skip. The sniper acquiesced, closing the door and refusing to let the hacker see her until she was dressed. When Widow stepped out of her room, Sombra gaped.

“Are you fucking kidding me, araña?” she asked, knowing full well that this was no joke.

“I am not,” she said, straightening her eyepatch and adjusting the blue-rimmed hood over her forehead. “Is it bad?” she asked in a sudden fit of self-consciousness.

“Bad? Widow, it’s brilliant.” Laughing, Sombra walked up to her and straightened the collar of her jacket. “But where did you find an Ana Amari costume?”

“It is a combination of three different pirates, a hockey player, and something labeled a wasteland wanderer.” She turned to look at herself in the mirror, allowing a small, self-satisfied smile to take up residence across her face. “Your small Reinhardt friend gave me the idea.”

“That explains the size of the bag you left with,” Sombra smiled, still beaming at Widow’s ensemble. “God, you are so fucking petty. I love it.”

“It is ok?” Widow asked cautiously.

“Yeah, it’s great. Gabe’s going to shit.” Standing on her toes, she grabbed her lapels and kissed the spider twice, letting the last one linger a bit longer than was responsible for the time constraint they were under. “I feel kind of strange being attracted to Amari, though?”

Widowmaker smiled sardonically, watching her through her one usable eye. “You’re going to be okay,” she said in a poor imitation of the older woman’s accent.

“Ugh,” Sombra groaned, rolling her eyes and walking toward the door. “I’m going to get dressed. Be ready in fifteen?” she asked, hands on her hips.

“I’ll be downstairs.”

They arrived at the ball fashionably late, pausing at the top of the grand staircase to look down at the collection of their colleagues - Talon’s best, dressed to kill, and ready to do the opposite for just one night. It was a tactical disaster having most of the company together in one place, but it was likely there was nothing more well-protected than the mansion was that night. Sombra had seen to the security herself.

Besides - it was Halloween. Everyone was too busy having a good time to worry about murder and machinations for once.

“Look, Gabe’s here,” Sombra said, tugging on Widowmaker’s sleeve and pressing close against her. “He’s got a pumpkin on his head.”

“That was his costume last year,” Widow mused, watching the man mingle uncomfortably. He was too high-ranking to skip out on the evening, but the only person who liked small talk less than Gabriel Reyes was Widowmaker. Luckily Sombra was more than willing to do the talking for her. “Akande is here as well.”

“Boring,” Sombra sighed, frowning at the tall, well-dressed man in his suit and a top hat. The only thing festive about him was the white skull bowtie he wore around his neck. “Hard to be mad at him, though - he’s devilishly good looking in that thing.”

“Shall we?” Widow asked, nodding at the milling crowd. “I could use some wine.”

“As always. Hold on,” Sombra said, adjusting her hat. “Time for the finishing touch.”

“Finishing touch?” Widowmaker asked, tilting her head in curiosity.

“You didn’t think this was it, did you?” Somra said, grinning. “Mira.” Running a finger along the inside of her hat, she was suddenly illuminated in black light. At the same time, she activated her camo just enough that she seemed, on closer inspection, to be translucent save for the glowing Los Muertos tattoos along her face, chest, and forearms.

“La Calavera Catrina, indeed,” Widowmaker exclaimed, a slow mixture of amusement and affection coloring her expression. “You always have something up your sleeve.”

“Be my date?” Sombra asked, holding out her arm.

“I would like nothing more,” Widow replied. Taking her outstretched arm in her own, they descended the stairs to join the party together.

*Read from the beginning or check out our intro post! All stories tagged under #glitchfic

#spiderbyte #widowsombra #sombramaker #sombra x widowmaker #widowmaker x sombra #sombra #widowmaker #amélie lacroix #olivia colomar #overwatch #overwatch fanfic #overwatch fandom #overwatch fic #fanfic #glitchfic #glitch in the system

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birdscreeches · 7 years

Text

Mr. Monster Maker’s Menagerie || Aisha R.

The last monster left in the ruins of Mon Ocampo’s home was, ironically enough, not one he created himself.

It sat, silent, locked inside a wooden chest by his bedside. The chest was wrapped in chains held together with a thick, rusted padlock. Dusted over and almost forgotten, he used the chest as a table for a simple altar; a small crucifix, a barely opened prayer book, and a Santo Niño statue. He slept next to it, unafraid, because it was easy to forget that it was anything more than a table. The monster inside the chest was always so quiet and still. Never did it snarl or roar. Not once did it ram against the confines of its dark cage. It never even tried to give him nightmares.

All monsters, even those who did not intend it, gave humans nightmares.

In his hand, Mon held the key to the chest.

“The art of monstercraft is, by far, the most human artform of all.”

-Jean Dupérey, High Renaissance monstercrafter

Mon named his first monster Luna.

It had all begun with a fear.

He then had started to sketch. Erratic little lines dragged over the backs of his homework. After studying, he’d sharpen his pencil and he’d draw a monster. Big luminescent eyes. Claws. A tail that rattled. Fur as black as darkness. When he was satisfied with the design, he acquired the materials. He found two shards of a broken mirror and jagged pieces of what once was a porcelain plate. He filled a small candy box with pebbles and taped it shut. With his mother’s garden shears, he cut huge, uneven patches of shadow from under his bed (for it was the darkest place he could think of, then). He nicked pieces of wood from the carpenter next door.

In the garage, he began to put her together. He worked the wood into limbs that could move. Tied it all together with twine to become a skeleton. The pebble filled box was nailed to the tail. The porcelain pieces were glued as claws. The biggest challenge was covering the whole thing with shadow, for shadows were slippery and hard to work with. Mon had kept the dark expanse in place with safety pins while he sewed his monster shut with wobbly backstitches. His mother had told him it was the strongest type of stitch.

The final touch were the eyes. He set the mirror shards out on a full moon, and when the light hit, he quickly covered the shards so that the light may not escape.

When he unwrapped them the next day, they shone. He glued them on, and Luna was alive.

She was a slow and clunky little creature. Just about the size of an askal. Her limbs were hard to bend and hard to move, so she toddled into the walls of his home, into the legs of the furniture, sending vases crashing. Her tail rattled, but it was also heavy, so she rarely bothered shaking it. It dragged behind her instead, thunking and thumping. Her claws caused her to slip with sick screeches that sounded like nails against a chalkboard. Her eyes could not blink and glowed constantly. When the lights were off, one could not see her at all save for her jagged, misshapen, shining eyes.

Luna was a clumsy attempt at monstercraft; a child’s vision made by a child’s hands.

She was also the most beautiful thing Mon had ever seen.

He released her in the hallways of his school. Luna had ran off, well aware of the job she was created to do, and disappeared into where one couldn’t really see her. She went to the corner of one’s eye, always just a little bit out of sight. Filled with worry, dizzy from excitement, he went to bed that day wondering if Luna would succeed. If he would succeed.

Tossing and turning, sleep took him much like how a frustrated mother struck her child.

The next day, all of his classmates had professed their newfound fear of the dark.

“The lifespan of a monstercrafter is interesting. Half of us die before we turn twenty five, and half of us live to be so damn old! It’s either we drop like flies or we become the cryptkeeper, I swear.

Why? Why does this happen? Well, it’s because of the whole fear thing, yeah? We can’t really feel it anymore. The guys who don’t fear death end up dying doing something stupid like crossing the road. The guys who don’t fear life end up living for-fucking-ever.

Which type am I? Take a lucky guess, fellas. Do I look like a young guy to you? Christ.”

-Ralph Steele, comedian, contemporary monstercrafter

For years, a historical debate raged on about one thing in particular: the world’s first monster. It was an impossible endeavor. Imagine trying to find the world’s first painting, but this painting lived, died, and left no ruins for anybody to remember it by. Monsters of the past only ever lived through the accounts of humans, and everybody knew just how reliable those were. Researchers continued to speculate anyways because Mon assumed they had nothing better to do.

Something a bit easier to find was the world’s largest monster. The largest monster was built to swallow the moon. The ingenuity of its construction would have been monumental. Astronomical. Even now, modern monstercrafters could not fathom how it worked. Countries scrambled to take credit for it, but there was never enough evidence. There were accounts and legends strewn about all around the world about the moon-eater, but they were all only stories until they could be proven.

Mon always believed it the Philippines made it. The Bakunawa.

He could only imagine what a sight it was. The moment the last scale was hammered into place, the Bakunawa would’ve cracked its eyes open and taken to the sky. When it swallowed the moon, it must have been the second most terrifying thing the world had ever seen, preceded only by one thing.

The only thing scarier than a giant serpent devouring the moon was the fact that eclipses happened before its creation anyways.

“Monstercraft, while an incredible and respectable form of art, is also archaic. Outdated. We are past the days of having to fear lightning or predators because we have explained them through thoroughly. It may be sad, but the fact stands: humans no longer need monsters because we do not need fear.

Fear is irrelevant when, with knowledge, we create bravery.”

-excerpt from the introduction of The Death of Fear (2006) by Alexei Hudson, PhD.

Mon only ever created monsters of his own.

While he met many other crafters during his career, he only let himself admire the designs, suggest improvements where he could, and move on. He never accepted monsters as gifts, which was something that happened often after his brief rise to fame, and he never purchased any as well.

This, like many of the things in Mon’s life, changed. His rules were shaken from their foundation when the world progressed in ways Mon didn’t want it to.

In 2009, surrounded by his empty cages and empty aquariums, by his dusty corners and dimly lit workshop, by the barren desk out front and quiet garage out back, he made a call.

The name Mon Ocampo, while long forgotten by many, still had sway in certain circles. He made a call, arranged the delivery and shipping costs, and bought a monster.

He bought it from a Russian monstercrafter, a stoic, unassuming man from St. Petersburg who specialised in monsters that made one fear the forbidden fears, the type that, if manufactured on a large level, could decimate cities. These were the kinds of monsters that crafters spoke in hushed whispers about. Banned. Illegal. Terrifying.

It arrived long after he had sold his workshop in Santa Elena—the new owners were going to turn it into a Japanese surplus store—so it ended up on the doorstep of his home.

The monster was in a medium sized chest roughly the size of a table, covered in chains held together by a thick, rusted padlock.

Mon took the chest inside and wore the key to it around his neck.

"Monstercrafter Quentin ‘Mon’ Ocampo’s dead body salvaged from Marikina river”

-headline from ABS-CBN news (news.abs-cbn.com/), September 25, 2017

His business reached its height, its magnum opus in the 80s. It was then that his name became a known one.

When he started making monsters in his teens, classmates looking to rile him up called him Monster Boy, always uttered in a derisive sing-song. Eventually, it was shortened to Monster, because they were all only just children and children liked to rush even insults along, shedding the unnecessary words like heavy bags. Monster was then shortened to Mon, because he liked it better than his real name. He liked the idea of his identity completely defined by what he did.

He was Mon Ocampo, the Marikina Monster Man. The best monstercrafter in the monster capital of the Philippines. The best crafter in Manila. The sign that flapped above his door said Ocampo’s Professional Monstercraft. It was the name murmured by mothers wanting to teach their kids a lesson, exchanged by pranksters looking for a good scare.

Mon’s office was located in Santa Elena, near the palengke, right next to a boutique that sold second-hand clothes. A single floor lot with a receiving area in the front and a warehouse turned workshop out back. It was in the workshop where Mon put together his creations, and it was also there where he kept them in birdcages or old fishtanks until they could get picked up. Inside their little homes, the monsters shrieked, barked, howled, screamed, moaned, or groaned. They walked the length of their temporary prison, always pacing, uneasy, restless to get let out to do their job. They would constantly ram themselves against their walls, clanging the bars. Silence was nowhere to be found.

Kids in the neighborhood often dared others to sneak into the shop at night, but none of them ever actually did it. Mon never even bothered with locks. Nobody would enter, let alone rob, a warehouse full of monsters.

Before, he used to work alone; receiving commissions, toiling in the shop, arranging the pickup. When his business boomed, it simply wasn’t feasible, so he went and found anybody who could work under the cacophonous conditions of the menagerie. Mon found a secretary, Cora, who puzzled out all of the logistics of deadlines and materials and orders. She was the one who spoke to the customers so Mon could work in peace creating the products. Benny, the delivery man, was in charge of carting off the beasts to wherever they needed to go, all so that Mon wouldn’t have to waste his time on the road, and could instead use it on the next project.

The setup worked well. He went to the shop, worked, and then went home. His life became a continuous hum of another monster to make.

Of all the countless monsters he made then, he had, of course, much like a painter who made duplicates of his work, favorites.

There was Kidlat, a popular monster among mothers who didn’t want their kids playing out in a storm. Built like a spider, it crawled around walls and ceilings, waiting for its prey. With the flashbulb attached to its back, a bright light would flicker, and Kidlat would rapidly fall from its perch, creating a loud, incongruous boom.

Stranger was one Mon was quite proud of, as it was one of his more clever designs. Stranger was to create the fear of unknown men and women, so Mon had to model it after humans. He had cracked a full length mirror and propped it up in front of his office, people passing by every moment. Afterwards, like Michelangelo and his sculptures, he carved the ever changing reflections out.

He had made many revisions to his design of Luna. Sleeker, faster, more a wisp than anything else really. He once made a monster that was just an invisible mist that suffocated its victim. There was another that was just a claw that grabbed on ankles when the victim was on a high place.

Mon designed new monsters and innovated old ones. The work was fulfilling. The money was good. The monsters were incredible.

Then days passed.

“We aren’t fearless, oh no. At least not really. I assume that somewhere, in our brain, there is fear. Our only problem is that we can’t feel it. I mean, how could we? We spend day in and day out toiling, working, crafting beasts that create fear. Our understanding of the machinations of fear is so intimate, I guess you could say we’re desensitized. We know too much to feel fear with the childlike wonder needed to truly experience it.

This is a big problem for us, you know? As a crafter I know the importance of fear. We need it. We’ve always needed it. Monstercrafters are martyrs, like this. In the process of creating fear, we lose the capability to feel it.

I almost didn’t step out of the way of a car coming straight at me. Logically, I knew that I had to get out of the way, but the urgency wasn’t there.

I couldn’t feel afraid.”

-Vivien Tan, poet, painter, contemporary monstercrafter

The key caught, rust against rust. The padlock opened and the chains dropped.

Mon, with his time weary hand, marred by wrinkles and weak bones, lifted the lid of the chest. Slowly, the monster spilled out from its prison like smoke, or perhaps, like water. It spilled and spilled and spilled until he could not tell where the monster was and where it wasn’t.

Vaguely, there was a part of him nodding in admiration of the monster’s construction, but this pride was hidden behind a fog. He could not think. He looked at the monster, an easy feat, for now it was everywhere, the walls, the floor, the bed, and he did not know what to do. His heart an erratic drumbeat in his ears, he was overwhelmed. Overstimulated. Breathless.

Mon was afraid.

It was the most beautiful thing Mon had ever felt.

And it felt like drowning.

“This question is a favorite to ask monstercrafters, yes? Why we do what we do? Of course, this is the question of art and why we create it; because we think it matters, and sometimes, as artists, we are thinking this against the entire world.

Why monsters matter is something I need not regale to you all, since even children know why. Fear is important. Experts can rattle on and on about how we don’t need monsters anymore, but, at one point in their lives, they were afraid. They were human.

But, personally? I create monsters because I believe in the foremost principle of monstercraft. The reason why we began in the first place. It was not because we needed fear, for we did not know that yet, still primitive beings. But because we feared so much that we needed a face to look at. A reason.

We wanted to understand why things happened, and when no explanation came up, we made our own villains.

Without monsters, it becomes apparent that there is no reason, just chaos. Just things happening because they do. The most terrifying reality brought us to create monsters: the reality that things happen because this is the way things are.

Everybody believes monsters were created because fear is important, but at its core, it’s the opposite. We created them to give us reasons. A safe haven of explanation.

Monsters were created for the express purpose of helping humans sleep at night.”

-Quentin ‘Mon’ Ocampo, monstercrafter

#fiction #this story is my love letter to the natural magic i feel is present in marikina city #FINALLY i post a fiction piece #this was written months ago as an application requirement to become a comic writer for my org!!#so i concentrated a bunch on worldbuilding

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