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geminiimagines · 4 years ago

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DMC Crew with an S/O in college

Nico

To be fair she did of semester at a community college, so she knows the stress

But dropped out because, well she thought too damn good for college

With how well she does with her job, she offers to pay for textbooks or anything you might need.

If you’re feeling stressed she thinks you’re overworking yourself expect to be dragged away from you work.

She is supportive of you.

Brags about you accomplishments like a mom all the time

She call you the brains to her brawn.

Helps you the best she can

Has a real nack for math

When you graduate she’ll be the loudest one there (might bring an air horn if you don’t look)

Lady

Lady barely finished high school. It was a promise she made to her mom to finish school at least

Nevertheless she’ supportive of you in your endeavors

She loves to listen you when you ramble about school

Might even sit in class or two

Becomes your “emotional support girlfriend’’

If you get stressed it’s pampering time

Netflix and facials all day

Even though she busy with missions most day, she’ll send texts everyday encouraging you to do your best

He’s still learning about the human world

V will often accompany to your classes

Will gladly tutor you in the your literature courses

Knows more than your professor

V will make sure you’re not to stressed

Makes sure you eat a balanced diet

And no, coffee is not a substitute for a meal

If you’re getting to stressed V will make some tea and put on some relaxing music and read aloud from a poetry book

If you fall asleep, he’ll cover you up in a blanket and keep reading quietly

He’s happy that you’re in school and doing you’re best. V just wishes you wouldn’t put so much on yourself

Nero

Nero while living with the Order got a pretty good education but he never cared for school, mostly because of the teachers.

He cheers you on from the sidelines

Like Lady he’ll text you everyday if he’s on a job

Will ask you need anything and will try to pick it up

If you’re getting too stressed, Nero will you pull away no matter how much you protest

It’s popcorn and movies for the rest of the night

If there’s a deadline approaching, he’ll encourage throughout the day

Checking on your to see how your progress is

He’ll keep the distractions down to a minimum

If the procrastination is really getting you Nero will be giving you gentle reminders that you can get your school work done.

#dmc #devil my cry #dmc crew x reader #devil may cry imagine #devil may cry x reader #devil may cry headcanons #nico dmc #nico x reader #lady dmc #lady x reader #trish devil may cry #trish x reader #v dmc #v x reader #nero x reader

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drauthor · 4 years ago

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Operation: HAUNT

Part 1/?

Marian adjusted the duffel bag strap on her shoulder as she scanned the unfamiliar conference room. The drab beige walls were bare except for the large TV screen on the far north that was attached to a computer set up underneath and slightly to the left of it. The conference table wasn’t the largest she had ever seen - it would comfortably fit ten people, uncomfortably fit upwards of twenty. A quick count totaled sixteen people crammed around the table, talking amongst themselves. A few chairs with ugly polka-dotted upholstery were scattered throughout the room and most of them were claimed as well.

Marian held back her sigh and ducked into the room, aiming for one of the last pairs of open chairs. Once she was there, she dropped her duffle bag on the chair closest to the table and remained standing in front of the remaining chair. She braced her hands on her lower back and arched, sighing in relief when a series of cracks raced up her spine. She let the noise of the room wash over her and just as she was about to sit down, a hand landed heavily on her shoulder.

Every one of her muscles tensed and before she was aware of moving, her hand was locked around the offending wrist. She jerked around and was met with a solid chest clothed in a gray sweatshirt with fancy script declaring “Simmons Family Treasures” on the front.

Marian dropped the wrist like she had been burned and directed a glare upward, at the new arrival’s face. “What the fuck, Titus? You know better than to sneak up on me.”

Bartram Titus, Marian’s friend and co-worker, just smiled. “I apologize for scaring you, but I thought you had heard me approaching. I was not trying to be quiet.”

Marian crossed her arms over her chest and lowered herself into the chair. “You know these training events get loud. I don’t want to accidentally break your wrist one day.”

Bartram transferred Marian’s duffle bag to the floor between the chairs and sat down himself, crossing his ankles. “An unfortunate accident of my own making, if it ever occurs.”

Marian rolled her eyes and shifted until she was slumped in the chair with her legs splayed out. She let her eyes drift across the men and women gathered around, marking the exits - the doorway where she had come in, which was attached to a long corridor with no windows, and a large window on the east side of the room, which looked out over a small courtyard from four stories above - and anyone she didn’t recognize.

“Captain Smith is not here yet. How unusual.”

Marian tipped her head toward Bartram and let out a quiet hum of agreement. “Isn’t it great? I don’t have to look at his stupid fuckin’ face first thing in the morning.”

“His ‘stupid fucking face’, Marian?”

Marian shrugged and let her focus zero in on the door and the area surrounding it. “His face is stupid. I don’t like it.”

“I think the truer statement is that you just do not like him in general.”

Marian didn’t say anything and just smirked. Bartram fell silent as well, bending forward to rifle through the side pocket of Marian’s duffle bag. Marian, from the corner of her eye, watched him pull out the fresh sketch pad she had packed for him. Her smirk gentled into a smile as he began to sketch, his hand moving confidently along the page.

Marian took a deep breath and closed her eyes, focusing instead on the sounds of the room - the low murmuring of conversation, the scratch of Bartram’s pencil, and the machinery underlying the building that kept it running.

Abruptly, the noise in the room jumped a handful of decibels. Excited “captains!” were shouted and someone let out a loud wolf whistle. Marian scowled and let her eyes flick open. She stared at the ceiling just long enough to roll her eyes and then looked back to the doorway.

The first time Marian Sheldur had laid eyes on Jordan Smith she had come to two conclusions: 1. He was the most gorgeous man she had ever laid eyes on and 2. He was a complete and utter prick.

Three years later and nothing had changed.

He stood a few feet away from the doorway in the room, chatting amiably with the gathered SWAT officers, most of whom were members of his personal squad. His dark hair was styled away from his face, leaving his face unobstructed. Marian absently traced the lines of his face, trailing along his jaw and down his throat. She blinked twice before physically shaking her head, scowling at herself. She dragged her gaze away from his throat and the sight of his stretched out crew cut shirt that revealed warm brown skin just as dark as the rest of him.

Marian pulled her phone out of the pocket of her sweatpants and frowned at the home screen. It was almost seven in the morning and the first meeting of the day was supposed to start in ten minutes. Letting out a short sigh, Marian shoved her phone back into her pocket and looked up in time to see a familiar face walking toward her.

Marian arched an eyebrow at the man but didn’t try and keep the grin from spreading over her face. “Hey, Rev. You and the captain over there are late.”

Roland Allen was better known by his old military designation R3V4N and seemed to prefer it, too. He was a large man and appeared even larger when he stopped in front of Marian’s chair, holding a hand out for her to shake. “Hey, Sheldur. Nice to see you too. My morning has been quite lovely, thanks for ask-”

Marian rolled her eyes and leaned forward to take his hand. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I was getting to that part. Why are the two of you so late? Smith’s normally the first one at these things.”

“Privileged information, I’m afraid.” R3V4N winked as he released her hand. He braced his hands on his hips and grinned down at her. “You seem as excited as ever for training.”

“You know I always am.”

“I could swim in the sarcasm that just dripped off that sentence.”

Marian rolled her eyes and settled back into her chair. “Out of all the SWAT teams in our area, I’m the only one that’s been forced to consistently train with Smith for the past three years. I finally got the administration to let Bartram tag along. He’s been chomping at the bit to get inside of Doc’s head since I mentioned the man.”

R3V4N’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline, disappearing into a sea of fiery red, and he immediately looked to Bartram who merely looked up to offer him a smile before going back to his sketching. R3V4N looked back to Marian. “You trust him around Doc?”

Marian’s snort was loud and uncontained. “Absolutely the fuck not.”

R3V4N let out a boisterous laugh and slowly shook his head. “If something explodes, I’ll let the captain know it’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

“If Bartram and Doc get along and blow something up, you were the one who got them into the same room so they could interact.”

“And Smith is always looking to blame me for something.”

R3V4N shrugged, tucking his hands into his pockets. “It’s not like you're not just as eager to throw him under the bus.”

“I would like to actually throw him under a bus,” Marian muttered under her breath.

Either R3V4N didn’t hear her or elected to ignore the jab. Marian would have bet on the latter if the smirk on his face was anything to go by. “If they make anything explode, I’m blaming Smith and you as I eat popcorn and watch from the sidelines.”

“I refuse to accept blame if it ever happens.”

R3V4N just shrugged and glanced over his shoulder. He took a moment to study Smith before looking back at her. “You should let me take out for lunch later today.”

Marian cocked an eyebrow. “I’m loathe to say no to free food-”

“Then don’t.”

“But I will if Smith is there. Watching us try to kill each other over lunch might be considered entertaining for you and Bartram, but Smith and I would take it too far.”

R3V4N shook his head. “Cap’ has other plans. He’s getting dragged into a meeting with The Admin.” He paused. “I didn’t tell you that.”

Marian schooled her features into neutrality despite the shock of surprise that zipped up her spine. “The Admin?”

“All I can say, unfortunately. Lunch?”

“You don’t wanna eat with your squad?”

“I see them all the time. You, I only get to see twice a year, maybe four if I’m lucky. Honor me with your presence and get lunch with me. I’d like to find out if I need to avoid Bartram and Doc when they’re together.”

Marian slowly started nodding. “Yeah, sure, okay. Lunch it is. You pick the place. I'll do anything except sushi.” Her lips turned down in a frown and she locked eyes with R3V4N. “You have any idea why Smith is meeting with The Admin?”

R3V4N was silent for a long moment. He glanced at a sleek looking watch on his wrist. “Even if I had any idea, I couldn’t tell you. As it is, I have no fucking clue.”

“Well, it’s his problem. I’m perfectly fine with that.”

R3V4N grinned. “I’m sure you are. Your squad is downstairs, right?”

Marian nodded. “I have a couple of sims with them for about an hour after lunch.”

“Good luck. I better find a seat with Cap’ before the big wigs come in and yell at me for still standing up.” R3V4N touched two fingers to his brow and sketched a shallow bow before strolling back over to Smith. Smith glanced up when the other man arrived and offered him a quick smile before his eyes flicked over to Marian. He studied her for a moment and when he made eye contact, Marian crossed her arms over her chest and raised both eyebrows. His nose wrinkled and he looked away.

“And the urge to make him eat his own teeth grows yet again.” Marian clenched her jaw and hunkered down in her chair.

“You’ll be able to ignore it for one week, I’m sure.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Marian could feel Bartram’s attention shift to her. “Are you ever going to tell me why you hate Captain Smith so much?”

Marian ignored her lieutenant and almost felt guilty when she heard the man let out a quiet sigh. He began to carefully pack away his sketchbook and pencils and didn’t push the issue. She was grateful he was willing to move on so quickly. Marian closed her eyes and tipped her head up to the ceiling.

Marian and Jordan Smith had been butting heads for the three years they had known each other. Marian’s oldest daughter was insistent it was because they were too similar and had witnessed the worst of each other when they first met and Marian was sure it was just because Jordan Smith was a complete and utter asshole.

The first time they had met was… disastrous. Marian hadn’t slept for more than two hours at a time for a week and having to leave her newest foster child - a small boy named Crux who was still with her and she was still in the process of adopting - with her brother had knotted Marian’s nerves so tightly she had shaken through the entire drive to the training building and then through the rest of the week as well.

In hindsight, Marian was surprised she hadn’t punched him sooner.

He had breezed into the room like he owned the place and Marian hadn’t known that, as captain, he practically did. His confidence wasn’t the issue. It was the argument about strategy that had turned her vague frustration into outright rage. Marian couldn’t even remember what the damn argument had been about, all she remembered was hopping the conference table and her fist connecting with his jaw.

The hit he landed on her liver had hurt like a bitch.

It was one of the handfuls of things she reluctantly respected about the man.

They had never managed to make up after that cataclysmic fight. Surprisingly, the incident hadn’t gone on either of their records, and Marian was still forced to work with Smith and his team.

Marian hated to admit it and would only do so under extreme duress, but when she and Smith weren’t fighting and were actually working together, they made a formidable team.

It was truly a shame that Marian would rather have her teeth pulled than work with Smith any more than she absolutely had to.

When Marian heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, she blinked her eyes open and forced herself to sit up straight in her chair. Glancing at the doorway, she saw two men in suits walk into the room and head straight to the TV screen and computer. The room fell silent when they entered. Marian bit back her smile; not a single officer in the room liked the men in business attire that started out leading these meetings.

Marian settled into the chair, keeping her back straight and the rest of her posture relaxed. This first meeting wasn’t scheduled to be longer than half an hour and then they would be beginning the first of the day's simulations. Bartram straightened up beside her and he leaned forward, eager to begin. Marian wished she had even a third of his energy. It would make the day go by faster.

Marian let her eyes flick over to Smith one final time before she turned her attention to the ceiling and let the droll tones of the men in suits wash over her. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the long, boring day ahead of her.

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theliterateape · 4 years ago

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Hey, Kid, Catch The Ball

by Wayne Lerner

Fast ball. Down the middle. Crack! Hard liner to the third baseman. Heck! Out again.

It was the summer of 1957 and I was spending most of my time playing baseball in the alley. Our field was defined by the garbage cans on the left and right protecting their wooden garages in which the owners’ beat up Chevy or Buick lived. No foreign cars were ever seen on our streets unless the driver was from another neighborhood and had gotten lost. The cans were a challenge as they were constantly filled with so much rotting trash that the flies buzzing around would interfere with catching a lazy fly ball. Home plate was the wall of the tire factory which emitted the toxic smell of burning rubber from early morning to late at night. After an inning or two, however, you got used to it. No outfield fence, just the end of the block which seemed to be a 100 miles away.

If we didn’t play ball in the alleys, we played pinners against the front-stoop with a pinkie or fastpitch against the factory wall. What we didn’t want to do is hit our only league into the yard of Mr. Hardwick, who had Baron, the meanest German Shepard you could imagine on patrol. Baron drooled with desire when he saw us come near, the dream of tearing off a piece of our skin or even a finger or two making him crazy.

One June day, my Mother got a call from Uncle Howard. He worked for his Uncle at the Coady Brothers Meat Packing Company located in the Fulton Market District. Uncle Howard asked if he could take me to my first professional ball game at Comiskey Park. He knew that I loved baseball and the White Sox. I was so excited when I heard the news that I ran around the apartment whooping and hollering.

Fulton Market housed many meat, seafood and produce firms throughout the 18 and 1900’s. Visitors to the Market could be overwhelmed by the cacophony of noise produced by the truck and car traffic and the disgusting smells which hung over the area. Men in their dirty overalls, with cigarettes hanging from their mouths, screamed out customers’ names to deliver their orders. By 3pm, however, the silence would be deafening as the clean up crews quietly scrubbed the shelves and aisles and washed the floors to get ready for the 6am start the next day.

Coady Brothers had season’s tickets which Uncle Howard frequently used. I didn’t know it at the time but the company supplied all of the meat to Comiskey Park. Thus, the brothers had access to the Owners’ private dining area, the Bard’s Room, and a special relationship with the owners, manager and coaches of the team.

Early the following Saturday, we got into my father’s 1955 Chevrolet to meet Uncle Howard at the Market. He had stopped there to prepare a special order to take with him to the game. Uncle Howard was putting a large brown wrapper package in the trunk of his white Bonneville as we rolled to a stop. Much to my surprise, I saw my cousins, Myra and Alan, in their Dad’s car. I didn’t know they were going but I was thrilled. I liked them a lot and now knew I would not have to talk to Uncle Howard all by myself for the whole game. I jumped in their car so excited that I don’t think I even said goodbye to my parents.

We went south on Halsted until we reached 35th and then turned left. Comiskey Park started to come into view. It slowly flooded the front windshield with its arched windows and immense, white structure. Uncle Howard pulled into the lot right next to the stadium and parked near gate three, the home plate entrance.

Uncle Howard greeted a man in a blue suit and handed him the brown wrapper package.

“This is for Al,” He said. “Please make sure to give it to him before the game.” We went through the turnstiles and began to climb a large set of stairs. As we approached the main concourse, the smells permeated our senses. Popcorn, caramel corn, hotdogs, french fries, hamburgers, grilled onions, beer. Almost anything you could imagine was being prepared in anticipation of the big crowd that day, as the Sox were playing the Yankees. The Sox were in second place, 4 games out of first.

We walked through the entry portal and, as we did, the field revealed itself before our eyes. I was overwhelmed by the enormity of the stadium.

“I knew it was big but not this big,” I said to my cousins. They just laughed. “It’s your first time, isn’t it? Every time we come here, we get the same feeling.”

My eyes followed the long main aisle which separated the lower boxes from the upper ones. The box seats surrounded the entire field until they met the outfield walls. I could see the outfield seats stretch from the left field foul pole to the one in right. A towering second deck spanned the entire park, except for centerfield. The upper deck seemed to be hundreds of feet high, reaching almost to the sky. In centerfield, above the bleacher seats, was the main scoreboard.

Uncle Howard’s seats were in box 58, the first row below the main aisle, just to the left of the screen, right behind home plate. I was in awe. I stood there, immobile, taking in the sights, smells and sounds and oblivious to everyone around me.

I had brought my mitt to the park in the hopes that I could catch a foul ball. Given where our seats were, there was a slim chance that could happen. I would have to be ready as any foul ball coming towards us would be a piercing line drive off the player’s bat.

“Are you ok?” Myra said. “What’s the matter with you”

“He’s fine, Myra.” Alan laughed. “Leave him alone. He’s gone into that dream world of his. He thinks he is a major leaguer. He’ll wake up when the hot dog guy comes around.”

I watched the players taking batting practice and playing pepper along the sidelines. Some of them were doing stretching exercises on the field as both teams were warming up for the competition that day. I was so close that I could hear them talking to one another. Sometimes, they would swear out loud if they missed a ball thrown to them or a ball pitched to them in the batting cage. Every so often, they would spit out this black stuff from the wad in their mouth and then go back to chewing whatever it was.

“Gross,” I thought. “But I guess this is what you do when you get to the majors. I wonder if this is something they learn in the minor leagues. Gross.”

We saw the hot dog guy and were getting ready to eat when Uncle Howard tapped me on the arm. “Come with me, I’ve got something to show you,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Something was up,” I thought, “but I had no idea what. Was I going into the Bard’s Room and maybe meet the owner? Or was he going to introduce me to one of the retired players who were now working for the Sox?”

We went to the aisle just to our left, took a right turn down the steps and approached the brick wall separating the seating area from the playing field. On my left was the White Sox dugout, along the third base side. The Yankees, the dreaded Bronx Bombers, were warming up on the first base side.

As we drew closer to the wall, I saw the metal gate which led from the seats to the field. We stood there for a moment when an Andy Frain usher came over to us. After shaking Uncle Howard‘s hand, he opened the gate. We walked out onto the field where Uncle Howard introduced me to, of all people, the manager of the White Sox, Al Lopez. He was talking to his coaches about the Sox lineup.

My heart stopped.

“Al Lopez! I’m on the field at Comiskey! And he’s going to talk to me!” I thought.

My hands got sweaty and my throat was dry. “Don’t faint,” I said to myself. “This will never happen again!”

“Al,” he said, “this is my nephew, Wayne. He’s never been to a professional baseball game before but he’s a big Sox fan. I thought we should give him a little thrill.”

Mr. Lopez just smiled at me and said, “We will certainly show him a good time today because we’re going to beat the Yankees badly.“

I just nodded and smiled but couldn’t talk. I was paralyzed with excitement.

He called over to one of his coaches who walked me into the dugout.

There was Little Looey, Luis Aparicio, Nellie Fox and even Billy Pierce.

I could barely breathe. This was a surreal moment for me, seven years old, in Comiskey Park, in the dugout, talking to my heroes. I knew that I would never, ever again have this opportunity to be around professional ballplayers. I was a chubby, nerdy, average athlete who would never graduate from the alley league.

All of a sudden, one of the younger players grabbed me by the jersey and said, “Follow me. We have a job to do.“ He guided me to the outfield where there were dozens of baseballs from batting practice lying on the field. “Your job, with these other boys, is to pick up all the balls and put them in the baskets.”

I learned later that the other kids were the sons of the coaches or the players who were used to having access to the field and interacting with all the players. This was certainly not the case for this kid from the west side.

I started to pick up the balls and put them in the basket. Every so often, I stopped to look around the park as people began to take their seats. I imagined what it would be like to be a ball player, standing in the outfield, awaiting the pitch and getting ready to move at a moment’s notice. No sir. I was not in the alley trying to get away from Baron, the boy eating dog, or the hundreds of garbage can flies.

I was in my little dreamland again when I heard a voice coming from my left. There was “Jungle Jim” Rivera, waving off everyone so he could catch the batting practice flyball. An outfielder, normally, today, he was playing first base.

“Hey, kid, “he growled, “Wanna catch one?”

I stood there paralyzed, unable to move. I looked around the double deck park which was teaming with people. The sounds ringing in my ears and the smell of the grass and the food overwhelming my senses.

“Kid, “he hollered, “get your ass over here ‘cause there’s another ball comin’ off the bat.”

I ran next to Rivera knowing, with trepidation, that there was no way I could make that catch. My eyes are terrible and I couldn’t judge where the ball might land. In the alleys and on the fields at Columbus Park, I played first base because all I had to do was catch the occasional pop up and the throws from the infielders. I could do that.

Time after time, fly balls were hit and, as the balls came down, Rivera moved away to try and let me make the catch. Time after time, I missed. Actually, I was fortunate that I didn’t get beaned trying to catch the major league fly balls.

Finally, Rivera grabbed my Sox jersey and pulled me next to him. We stood there and watched a ball rise from the fungo bat at home plate to reach its apex just below the top of the upper deck. The ball was hit to mid left field, far from the wall behind us.

All of a sudden, he ran to his left and then started back. He jerked forward because he realized that the wind was coming from behind him, pushing the ball towards home plate. He stopped quickly and hollered, “Stand right there!”

I stopped thinking. I stopped hearing. I stop smelling. I stopped doing anything because I looked up and the ball was coming down right where I was standing.

“Put your glove up now! “he yelled. As I did, the ball smacked into my mitt with the same sound every pro hears when he makes a catch. It didn’t just sting, it hurt more than I could ever imagine. The ball landed right in the mitt’s pocket, the area with the least amount of leather. I let out a scream. My hand pulsed with pain so great that I was sure I couldn’t even hold a hot dog any time today. I needed ice. Now!

Jungle Jim roared with delight when I looked into my glove and saw the ball. My legs turned to jelly and I felt like I was going to collapse. For a moment, I really had no idea where I was. The sights and sounds of the park went blank. Then, Rivera grabbed me by the arm and started to walk me back to our seats. As we approached the left field foul line, he stopped, looked down at me and smiled. ”Think it’s easy to be a pro, kid? Welcome to the bigs!”

Uncle Howard met me by the gate with the usher and they escorted me back to my seat. My cousins were there with big smiles on their faces because they knew that this was my once-in-a-lifetime occasion.

The game progressed that day and we ate our way through the nine innings. I don’t remember whether the White Sox won or lost but it really didn’t matter. I was a White Sox fan, I was at my first game and I caught my first major league ball.

#fiction

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