#though it's only a first draft and I suspect my approach to editing will take all the fun out of it

[glorious-blackout]

Well, after 13 years of writing fanfic I've finally written my first smut scene 😅

[behindthecremioda]

Survival rate 0% (first draft)

Disclaimer

As the title says, this story is a first draft.

So it's not necessarily canon what happens here in the work and I'm experimenting here, as this account was meant to be. 

For this reason, not everything that happens here will be pretty or make sense, and not everything will be complete. At least the story is being written.

The same goes for you writers who came across this story. No draft will and/or does not have to be perfect. In editing, you have every opportunity to shape everything as you please.

And on this account "BehindtheCremioda" I will take you with me on the way to my works every time. Or you can see more content here if some works don't end up on the main account after all.

Not only to motivate myself, but also all the writers out there. I believe that all writers will soon put their work in the public eye and even be proud of themselves and their work, no matter how much attention it gets.

So enjoy reading, find inspiration and, if you are a writer, have fun and good luck creating your work.

Who knows, maybe one of your works will be seen out there sooner or later.

Don't forget to eat and drink and have a great day.

Cremioda

Chapter [3]: Not over yet

The bright blue light greets us again, only this time it's the beginning of the whole thing.

Up close, it also looks literally glaring white, Minho can only squint his eyes at the moment as the source of the rumbling emerges.

Jeongin, who has transformed into Cart Titan in a flash, gathers the remaining six members of the group and sprints away from the source of the rumbling.

He would have run to the walls with the other members on his back, but in vain they break and large Titans the size of the wall now come towards them.

Without any words, the other members stare at Chan's transformation into his Rumbling form after they slowly open their eyes again.

The bright glow, which almost covers the light blue color of the light, spreads over the whole area and from Chan the light blue path of the path runs up to the sky; spreading far across the starry sky like a river that gets wider and wider.

"What have I done?" Minho murmurs to himself as his gaze runs along the coordinate like that of the others. But as soon as the Rumbling's slight earthquake starts and Jeongin slows down, all the remaining six members on the Cart Titan look at all the Rumbling Titans.

"If you hadn't killed him, none of this would have happened!" Han snorts out as he shoves Minho a little.

Minho raises his fist a little, but lowers it again and looks at Han with a piercing gaze.

"He wanted it himself! There was no other solution to this problem anyway!"

"No solution, my ass! It was Marley's fault, not Chan's!" Changbin now interjects cynically with a gesticulating hand, almost half-shouting at the approaching Rumbling.

"We don't have time for this discussion!", Jeongin intervenes with his deeper voice because of his titan, "What should we do about the rumbling now?"

Seungmin slowly stands up and looks at the others while holding on to Hyunjin's head, "We're the only ones who can stop the Rumbling now," he raises his eyes to all the Rumbling Titans, "We might be able to save Paradise if we act now. But to do that, we have to fight Chan. With the heat of all those Titans, we're more likely to burn, and as Titans, we can't stop them."

Without listening to any opinion or reaction from the others, Seungmin jumps off Jeongin's back and transforms into a Male Titan while jumping; Jeongin now turns his direction and follows Seungmin.

"That's Chan! We can't kill him just because he has the Founding Titan," Felix interjects this remark into the conversation and looks at everyone desperately, never suspecting to arrive at such a point again.

"But it's because of him that the rumbling was even possible," Han says, trying not to deny reality, "even though we wanted to avoid it as much as possible."

"Besides, we couldn't have known that such a reaction would occur," Hyunjin now joins in and strokes Felix and Han's shoulders once each.

"Let's not waste any time now," Minho doesn't remain silent, "I'm sure it will hurt him more than us if we leave him alone. He never wanted to kill anyone and he doesn't want to in the future."

As Han, Changbin, Felix and Hyunjin listen while Jeongin hurries closer to Chan with Seungmin, the four of them watch as Minho stands up and takes out his pocket knife.

"So let's free him from his torment and end it all here," determination flows in the words as Minho frowns slightly and examines his pocketknife, "Even if I have to kill him again."

Not a second later, Minho stabs the knife into his hand, dropping it in front of the others with his blood and the small lightning bolts crackling up in his hand.

"At least get yourselves to safety if you don't want to kill him."

All four listeners widen their eyes, Changbin still tries to hold Minho off, but he jumps right off Jeongin's back as he transforms into the Warhammer Titan.

After Minho transforms, he uses his Titan Hardening to form a large ramp from the ground up to Chan's Titan, preferably over his head.

But Minho would be gasping for air if he wasn't in the crystal in the ground as long as his gaze is directed upwards towards Chan's Titan.

Chan's titan was logically larger and this time wider in rumbling form. But he also has fleshy tentacles protruding from his Titan's arms, plus spirals wrapped in hardened shell between his shoulder blades, which serve as a protective shield around his shoulders and produce spikes along the fleshy tentacles on his arms.

And its chest, at least the middle of it above the sternum, is much more pronounced. The face is still covered in muscles, but they are clearly torn as if a knife had been used to constantly slash everything; even a few torn parts of the muscles hang somewhat detached from the face.

Is this even still the Founding titan?

But Chan doesn't do anything so far and somehow remains standing there.

Seungmin dares to come right out of the neck of his own titan and shoots the rakes of the 3D maneuver to the top of the ramp.

Feeling the time of one blink, he pulls himself right up after landing against the ramp, flying straight up to the head of Chan's titan after a few steps.

Jeongin remains standing at a distance with the rest of the members on his back, watching the action as long as nothing comes from Chan's side.

In a high arc, Seungmin swings directly to the other side over to the neck, lands on one of the spikes and slides down it while reattaching the rakes to the spikes to hold on.

Luckily, it's not as glaring as before, as the path has reached the sky. Which is also an advantage, as Seungmin can now look right at the neck of Chan's titan, takes out his blades and applies them.

In the next moment, he slices the neck of Chan's titan and tries to get Chan out of it after kneeling down. Seungmin gasps for air and widens his eyes a little.

Chan is not in the neck?

And the next moment, Seungmin is kneeling on a floor of sand. Pinches his eyes shut directly because the coordinate is in front of him; the Founding Titan's tree, its branches spreading far into the starry sky.

No rumbling, no earthquake, no noise.

Without hesitation, Seungmin stands up and walks away from the coordinate while the others are in their places as they are; Minho with his back lying on the ground and the others as they were sitting on Jeongin's back, only now he is no longer a Titan and he has titan marks, which are several lines from the side of his jawline and run up to his cheekbones.

Seungmin is held at a point on his upper arm, where he looks straight at it, blinking and then widening his eyes.

Chan holds him by the upper arm and has a bleeding scar on his neck where Lee Know tried to cut off his head earlier.

Ignoring Chan's expression, Seungmin hugs Chan directly and literally crushes him in the embrace.

Chan wasn't expecting this and leaves his arms outstretched, watching Seungmin, but returns the hug without any hesitation.

Seungmin hides his face in Chan's chest as he holds him tightly in his arms.

Chan slowly and gently strokes Seungmin's head as he looks at the others who come running to Chan and Seungmin and cuddle Chan and Seungmin in a group hug.

Chan almost flies backwards, the others are hugging him so hard and he tries to stretch his arms out enough to hug everyone once.

"I'll make the rumbling stop, but unfortunately that's all I can do for you," Chan says out of the void of silence as he strokes Minho's and Jeongin's heads, "You'll still have to keep killing me."

But suddenly other hands are stroking the heads of the others

Astonished, the others look behind them and see several Chans?

One Chan with blond hair looks like his entire eye has an infection, but still strokes Changbin and Han's head with both hands.

The other Chan with brown hair has a large stab wound in his chest, but he is stroking Felix's and Minho's head. Next to him, another Chan with blue hair has blood all over his upper body and face, but he still strokes Seungmin and Hyunjin's heads.

Speechlessness fills the group hug except for Chan who is still hugging his members.

[13atoms]

Deep Focus: Chapter 1 [Tom Hiddleston x Reader]

Summary: Tom’s a successful porn director with a romantic streak which proves very popular with his female audience. His resident porn actress and business partner has been with him through thick and thin, the two of them growing completely inseparable, even as her own career starts taking off.

But working in such close proximity is intense, and burgeoning feelings threaten to complicate their professional relationship.

Mature, smut, porn director!AU, ethical porn production discussion, porn-star-and-coworker!reader. Friends to lovers, slow-ish burn. [7.7k]

________________________________________________________

There was such a style to everything Tom wrote, everything he directed. A sincere passion that you suspected was always meant to be used elsewhere. You wondered if his craftsmanship was ever appreciated, on the other side of the screen, as strangers got hot and bothered watching each meticulously designed frame of his vision come to life.

Sure, it was porn. But Tom directed it like he could win an Oscar for ‘hot lifeguard pounded poolside’. This was his livelihood, his passion, and it was a damn shame he wasn’t award-season eligible.

The names would make you wince, as you saw them uploaded to the site, thumbnails and previews drawing in viewers by the million with their shots of heaving bodies and glistening sweat. Tom never called the videos such crass things. Not in his scripts. You would get copies titled ‘Romantic Night In’ or ‘Office Love Affair.’ He was a fan of sugar-coating what would be inside those innocuous white pages, a veneer of respectability which Tom insisted upon, regardless of how obvious the true nature of the videos was. But once the videos were sold, it was out of his hands. Your face contorted mid-faux-orgasm would be plastered across the site, and everyone involved would try and forget what happened.

Ignore the comments.

Keep moving.

You often wondered how Tom wound up in this place, with his sharply tailored suits and polished shoes, eloquent and educated, his words almost poetic as he directed mid-budget porn in hotel rooms and his studio day-in, day-out.

Then again, he never seemed particularly bothered by it. He gave each shoot his full attention, his full boundless enthusiasm and all the professionalism he could muster. You wondered how he balanced it, sometimes, the creative drive to press on with trying to be creative and shoehorn romance into films knowing that, ultimately, it was porn.

He had interviewed you like a real director might, talking about your life and experience and ambitions, almost apologetic when he had finally choked out ‘could you undress’, barely glancing at your naked form before he hired you as his first employee.

You asked him early on, while watching him try and assemble a fake restaurant-date set in the studio, complete with faux windows and an extra playing a waiter, why he bothered when three-minutes of good quality fucking footage would make him the same amount of money. He’d given you a strange smile, the wrinkles beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes, and shrugged.

“I make what I’d like to see.”

The words haunted you later, as your rather attractive co-star bent you over the white-cloth covered dining table and you allowed mewls and groans to escape your mouth without a second thought. Trying to avoid the muted blue of Tom’s eyes behind the cameraman.

Despite your reservations when you first started to work for him, Tom had won you over. His gentler, more romantic approach to pornography had a loyal following. Both of your pseudonyms garnered huge numbers of views across various platforms, and Tom was keen to cultivate a collection of female-friendly porn. Against all the odds, it was working.

And you loved working with him. He was a great director, and inspired writer, and a genuinely brilliant boss. He made sure you saw royalties, good pay, that everyone you worked with was screened and tested, always keeping you safe. Always.

Each time he called a wrap, passing you a robe and offering a meek congratulations on your performance, you found yourself more and more pleased you had wound up working with him.

“You really do have a talent,” he’d told you one day, distracting you as you discussed a new script in his office.

You were sat opposite him, Tom’s glasses perched on his head as he watched you read, your feet resting against the leg of his desk. You’d come in to your shared workspace to try some costumes out, to discuss new scenes, still recovering from a thoroughly exhausting shoot the day before. There were still light bruises around your wrists, and you caught Tom glancing at them worriedly each time your long-sleeved shirt slipped.

“I love that you’re such an actor,” he continued, hands tapping the desk as he spoke, “like, a real actor.”

Your eyes drifted across the script, scanning it with your bottom lip between your teeth. He always appreciated your input, wanting the ‘female fantasy’ in a lot of his work, and he’d timidly shown you some ‘student-professor’ script he’d been working on. He was like that, embarrassed in a way which you wouldn’t expect from a man with his considerable experience in adult entertainment. He was assertive, certain, even stern where it counted. But with just the two of you together, dancing around what was sexy and what wasn’t, he seemed desperate to avoid saying anything you might perceive as too ‘crude’.

“What do you mean?” you’d chuckled, still flicking through the first draft.

He only entrusted you with such early versions of his work – but that made sense. Your careers were symbiotic, tied to one another with an unspoken pact. He directed everything you were in, and you were in everything he directed.

It made sense.

“You don’t just… I don’t know. You never make my scripts seem silly. Or cheesy. You… you really try and make them feel real. I could write anything, and you’ll deliver the lines well. I was overseeing auditions earlier and... I just kept thinking none of them were you. I think you might be the best in the business.”

You rolled your eyes, offering him a disbelieving smirk, and he scoffed.

“I’m serious! I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The weight of his words settled heavy in your chest, and you turned back to the script, frowning as you flicked through the loose-leaf pages. Tom fidgeted behind his desk, unhappy with losing your attention, but you ignored him.

“Here. If you want the fantasy to be believable, I think he needs to lock the office door. Make a show of it, you know. Cover my mouth,” you comment dismissively. Tom already has as pen in his hand, making notes. “It could be hot, maybe ‘Don’t make a sound or you can’t cum’, something like that. As if there’s other students in the corridor outside.”

Nodding, Tom dutifully wrote down your words, mouth slightly open in realisation as he listened.

“Don’t make a sound…” Tom repeated, and you felt yourself blush.

“Not… not that exactly,” you backtracked, “you’re the real writer! I just think, there needs to be some build up. A remind of the power dynamic. Him going straight to oral is a bit… fast. That could happen in any old plot, you know?”

You felt his eyes on you, looking up from the paper to spot Tom leaning back in his chair, a distant smile on his face.

“You really are the best,” he praised, “that’s great. I’ll do rewrites tonight.”

For a moment, you let his words hang heavy in the air. Then you blinked back at him, a slight frown pinching your forehead at his strange mood. He was calm, for once. Tom was usually a ball of enthusiasm, and you wondered if your dismissal of his words earlier had done something to hamper his spirit.

“It’s always easier to critique,” you dismissed, “I love the script, it’s great. I really think it’ll be good. Hot. Maybe I can wear a Britneyschool girl costume, or something?”

He frowned a little, pinching the bridge of his nose at the thought.

“No, weird. We’re going for University student, just… a nice pair of jeans or something.”

“Don’t they wear suits where you went, posh boy?” you teased, loving how it riled him up. “I’ll try and dress like a smart person.”

“You are smart, don’t give me that.”

You rolled your eyes, loving how you managed to fluster him, putting the script back on his cluttered desk as you reached for your bag. This was how your meetings always went, a few hours of notes, some teasing, and a hasty retreat once Tom told you the next shoot day you had to attend. You still had a few hours of social media to do for the last video you’d shot together, notes from Tom, and you lamented the sight of the sun setting outside of your shared office. You’d hoped for at least a bit of natural light today.

“I’m serious, you are!” Tom asserted, and you ignored him purposely as you shut down your laptop, preparing to take it home.

“Yeah, I know, whatever. Don’t work too late!”

“Rich coming from you,” he sighed, “it really doesn’t matter if we send that last edit late.”

“It matters to me! I’d quite like to get paid this week, you know?”

Tom sighed. The two of you tried to produce a couple of videos a week – one for Tom’s site and another to sell to a third party. It didn’t leave either of you with much free time, both of you left in the tiny office at all hours as you worked to keep up with demand.

“Very true. But I’d rather you got some sleep, you know I can help if you’re short on money,” he offered, shuffling papers on his own desk.

He was always quick to jump to an offer to help, and you tried to ignore the fondness spreading through your chest at his eagerness to look out for you. That gentle protectiveness which coursed through Tom was enough to make you melt.

He was one in a million, that was for sure.

“I’m fine, Tom. Thank you though, I’ll ask, if, y’know –”

“Do! Any time. Actually…”

Tom cut himself off, typing something into his phone, and your pocket buzzed with a notification.

“Get yourself a nice dinner.”

You checked your phone to see a transfer from Tom. It wasn’t a crazy amount, but too much for just dinner, and you huffed performatively as he grinned at you.

“No! Don’t be ridiculous –”

He barely made more than you, and you were certainly doing perfectly comfortably.

“Royalties are really good this month. That old break-up sex video is trending again, apparently.”

You smothered a smile. It was hate-fucking, as you’d told Tom a hundred times. That was the title. You could still remember the look on his face the day you’d filmed it, his twitchiness, the unknown male actor who had slightly scared both of you with his sheer size as he stepped into the studio. The male star had fucked you like you’d broken his heart, hands on your neck and hips bruising yours as he pounded into you, and you’d be a little alarmed at how little you had needed to act in his domineering presence. He’d been muscular and tall and assertive, almost injuring you with his enthusiasm, and the shoot had ended with you a sweaty mess, struggling to walk, eyes watery.

You had ached from the moment Tom helped you up from the bed, a protective body between you and your costar as you watched the man collect his clothes and his paycheck. The footage had been great, you’d watched Tom edit it, but it had been your first taste of Tom’s protectiveness. The actor had never returned, and Tom had bought a hot water bottle for the office, pressing it into your lap as he brought tea for the pair of you, loathing how you winced as you moved.

He’d taken you out for dinner that night to celebrate a good edit, but you knew the real reason. That neither of you wanted the other to be alone. It had been a lovely evening, a restaurant then a bar, without a break in laughing conversation the entire night. It hadn’t been a date, but if it had been a date, it would’ve been the nicest date you’d ever been on. In those moments, you wondered if Tom was really cut out for the industry. If you were.

As much as Tom hated the film, it was hot. It had propelled your studio into the spotlight, and it paid a significant chunk of your rent.

“Thank you,” you smiled to him, wracking your mind for anything else that needed discussing before you headed home.

Maybe you’d get takeaway. That would be nice.

Tom cleared his throat.

“What are we shooting tomorrow, by the way?”

You looked up at his words, frowning a little at the realisation you hadn’t been given a script yet. It was unlike him, to be so unprepared. Usually everything was organised weeks in advance. With a glance at the shadows under his eyes, you decided not to tease him about it.

“We’re shooting tomorrow?”

“This week… we’ve only got one video. I was just thinking something simple, I haven’t called a costar yet, but we don’t have to if you don’t want to –”

It was your paycheck on the line as much as Tom’s, and you wondered how the hell you’d forgotten.

“Do we have a camera crew?” you frowned.

“No, not yet. I can call though. Or I could just do it myself, if we’re not doing anything too complicated?”

You thought for a moment, leaning against the open doorframe as Tom started to pack up his own desk, nimble fingers tapping across his keyboard.

“Solo?” you suggested, stifling a laugh as Tom blinked and tilted his head to face you.

“I missed that, love?”

“Solo. Like ‘hot female solo’ or something?”

He smiled slightly, closing his laptop lid.

“That’ll do well, I’m sure. Do we need anything costume-wise? Props?”

Toys. He meant toys. You smiled at his refusal to call a spade a damn spade.

“I’m sure we can find everything here. It’ll be nice to do a simple shoot for a change,” you enthused, holding the door for Tom as he moved to turn off the lights, lingering nearby as he locked up the office.

“Yeah. Single-shot, no camera-man either.”

“Cheap,” you sighed, as though it was the sexiest thing in the world.

You did the books, and avoiding having any more costs this month sounded great.

“Yeah,” Tom smiled, falling into step beside you as the two of you left the warehouse studio.

He looked ready to say something else, but changed his mind. For a second the two you stood by the exit, words trapped beneath your closed lips as the early evening air enveloped you.

“Do you need a lift home?” Tom finally offered.

“No. No, I’m good. Thank you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, yeah. Usual time. Twelve?”

“Perfect.”

He reached an arm out, ready for you to walk into his embrace, and you froze. The moment was over as soon as it started, his arm retracted, and you could only stare. His hand found the curls at the back of his head, scratching there, a blush dusting his cheeks in the harsh fluorescent lights of the car park. You could kick yourself as you watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, the clench of his jaw. He felt awkward. You contemplated hugging him, but the moment had passed. Instead you rocked on your heels for a second, before turning to leave.

“Bye, Tom!”

“‘Night! Look after yourself, don’t forget dinner. I’ll see you – ”

He cut himself off as you walked too far away, and you could have kicked yourself for the sadness in his final syllable. You sighed as your feet fell against the pavement, your whole walk home haunted by the awkward shuffle of Tom’s hands as he went to hug you goodbye.

*

You were surprised by how difficult it was to brush off that awkward memory. As you ordered and ate dinner, you were reminded of Tom with every bite, that he’d snuck aside part of the company’s petty cash budget to give you dinner. That both of you had gone home, separately, to separate empty houses and empty beds.

Had he wanted to go for drinks? Wanted company? You had come to accept a long time ago that the man was your closest friend. He would be the person you called in an emergency, a shoulder to cry on. You liked to think he’d lean on you the same way.

Despite that, you spent limited time together outside of a professional context. You never met up on weekends, or casually called. Of course you didn’t. He made a career out of seeing you naked, watching you fake orgasms for other men. As you readied yourself for the day, you reminded yourself that of course, he would be nice to his only full-time, very lucrative actress. To his business partner.

As you’d queued up the company’s social media posts the night before, you could only think of Tom behind the camera, orchestrating each photo and clip you uploaded.

You couldn’t help the grin which split your face as you walked into the studio, bag flung over your shoulder, overpacked with everything you thought you could possibly need. Tom greeted you, emerging from his office with a smile.

Before you could overthink it, you walked into his arms, giving him very little choice in the matter as you greeted him with a hug. In his surprise you felt his body stiffen, his arms slowly wrapping around you, and you were momentarily gobsmacked by the muscular form he seemed to hide behind those suits.

He was a little more dressed down today, smart black jeans and a button-up white shirt, unruly hair sticking up like it did when he forgot to brush it. He looked better than yesterday, like he’d had a good night’s sleep.

“Good morning,” he chuckled, bemusement clear in his voice.

You pulled back from the hug, a little embarrassed at the affection until you saw the smile stretching across his face, reaching his eyes. Suddenly the previous night, worrying you had inadvertently rejected him, seemed to be erased.

“Morning! What have you got for me?”

The studio space was cleaned, but empty. The camera stood in the corner as Tom lead you further into the room, his office door open to the side of it, and you frowned at the emptiness of the space.

There were tape marks on the floor where sets were usually assembled, conspicuous without the usual hive of activity buzzing around some piece of furniture you would be thrown onto or fucked against. There was nothing.

“I didn’t know what you wanted to do,” Tom was saying, his gentle voice booming in the empty space, “we don’t have a script or anything so… I’ll leave it to you.”

You bit your lip.

It was more freedom than you were used to, less direction, less to build the fantasy where you could forget you were ultimately in a warehouse with just your business partner. It was… nothing. Tom said your name quietly, and you nodded, stepping back to assess the space.

“I’m just thinking,” you reassured him.

Had the studio always been this quiet? You tried to remember a shoot day where it had been this silent, this calm, without the stress of lighting people or cameramen or scripts being thrown around. You could hear every step Tom took as he walked towards the camera, the wheel-mounted tripod creaking as he moved it across the floor, checking batteries and SD cards while you stood in place, your bag still hanging from one shoulder.

Noticing your frozen stance Tom frowned across at you, nothing but gentle concern in his blue eyes and the fine lines around them.

“I was thinking something kind of minimal, maybe cosy?” he offered, “Maybe an armchair? Something like that?”

You thought about it for a moment, crossing to the corner of the room to finally set down your bag.

He was finally getting into ‘director mode’, growing more energetic by the second.

“I’m thinking we just frame it on you, no distraction. Single take, if we can.”

You nodded silently as he crossed to the storage cupboard he’s overeagerly labelled a ‘props department’. It was stacked high with fabric and furniture and lingerie, tubs of various exotic sex toys near the door. Tom stepped straight past them.

There was a mattress in the props room, materials to build a bed, and you pondered on the idea for a moment.

“We could keep it really simple, maybe?” you suggested, “Find a warm background. Or just use white. Try and get one twenty minute shot, or something.”

You reached for lube without thought, collecting the near-empty bottle of body oil beside it too, as you perused the options in front of you.

“Remind me to buy more of that,” Tom mused, sparing a glance to the bottles in your arms before standing beside you to peruse the options.

You nodded silently, your free hand rifling through bagged silicone toys, slightly in a daze as you picked out a few options. There was a slight blush dusted across Tom’s high cheekbones as he turned to see your arms full of dildos. You smiled as it took him a second to find words, and wondered how the hell he’d chosen to start a porn studio in the first place.

“Colour co-ordinated,” he commented, and you smiled, picking out yet another pink toy from the pile.

“Naturally,” you smiled, “I think that’s everything? Could we drag a mattress and pillows out?”

He nodded silently, already moving to manoeuvre the double mattress leaning against a wall in the props room. You rolled your eyes before helping, knowing he was being a gentleman, or whatever he called it. You called it putting his back out.

He rejected your help, so you grabbed as many pillows as you could, following him back into the main studio, privately smiling at the dramatic grunts he made trying to move the mattress. He tossed it to the ground with a grunt, shoving it into the corner of the room, before pausing again.

You dropped everything down on to it, toys, lube, pillows and all.

And then both of you waited.

It was so strangely intimate, just the two of you in the room, the strange nature of your relationship weighing heavy after last night’s miscommunication. Suddenly there was nothing you wanted to do less than take your clothes off.

“White sheets?”

“Hm?” you hadn’t processed what Tom said, too wrapped up in your own world, frowning down at the bare mattress.

“I was thinking white sheets.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

He was off, assigned another task, and you almost envied his distraction as you slowly sorted the pillows how you wanted, gathered the toys absentmindedly. Before Tom came back from the props closet you made yourself scarce, catching sight of his slim outline through the doorway. Facing away from you as he rummaged.

In the single bathroom of the studio you cleaned anything that would be going inside of you, avoiding your reflection, trying to shake off the odd nervousness coursing through your veins.

Why? It had been years since you felt this way before a shoot. Before you’d met Tom, even. Sure, shoots could be exciting, exhilarating, intimidating, but this self-consciousness, this self-doubt… it had come from nowhere.

You pressed your forehead to the mirror, closing your eyes, breathing deeply. The tap running sounded like a waterfall, the silicone under your fingers felt alien, the air almost claustrophobic as you wondered what the hell was wrong with you.

Tom was done making the bed when you got back, frowning at his phone until he heard you re-enter the studio space, quick to look up and see if you were happy with his set. You felt hyper-aware of him, of every movement he made, a clean towel and toys cradled in one arm as you took in the space. It was a simple premise, just a clean fitted sheet pillows in a corner, a clear space for you in the middle. You knew it would look good on screen. You knew this was an easy job.

You felt sick to your stomach.

“Do you want to face the camera? Or kind of, not acknowledge it?” Tom asked, speaking again as you forgot to reply, too caught up in your own mind. “Maybe if you ignore it that’s more… voyeuristic?”

“Sounds good,” you responded, kneeling to prepare your space. This was autopilot, your day job. You could do this.

“Right.”

He sounded a little put out by your response, but moved the camera anyway, switching to a knee-height tripod. You stood, stepped back to give him space, and frowning at the sudden headrush. You blinked, catching yourself staring at the flex of his arms as he moved the heavy equipment. You didn’t realise how long you had been staring into space until Tom called your name a second time, crossing into your personal space.

“Are you okay?”

Tom’s voice was so soft you wanted to cry, fingers hovering beside your bicep, his gentle eyes demanding for you to meet them, daring for you to lie while his face is so close to yours.

Somehow, the guilt of his worry made you feel worse.

“No, I’m…I’m being stupid. Sorry, just tired.”

“Did you not sleep well?”

“No, I, uh, I slept fine. I’m not sure. Just not really feeling it.”

His face fell, but you knew he wasn’t disappointed in you. He thought he’d done something wrong. Immediately you were talking, doing anything you could to soften his guilt.

“It’s my job, though. I can do it. This is great Tom, I think it’ll be a good shoot.”

“Sweetheart –”

You sighed, eyes falling to the mattress, before forcing a smile.

“Let’s get this over with!”

He looked like he wanted to argue with you, but you forced yourself to move, pulled your feet from the floor with far more effort than it ought to take. There was some comfort in rummaging through your own bag, that piece of home, something private from the studio. You found the vibrator you’d brought, a pink bullet you used almost exclusively at home, fully charged that morning. Behind you, Tom snorted in amusement.

“Nothing here is ever charged,” you shrugged off his stare, knowing damn well you didn’t have to explain yourself.

You wanted to explain anyway though. Just in case, Tom thought anything he did wasn’t enough. He seemed perfectly fine with the criticism, though you knew he was making a mental note. He always did, then you had something to say.

Trying not to make a big deal out of it, you stripped to your underwear, folding your clothes neatly and being careful not to show any self-consciousness in your posture. You’d never been ashamed or embarrassed before now, and you weren’t about to start. Even if it was just you, and a very well, fully dressed Tom. Vibrator clutched in your fingers, you finally sat on the damn mattress.

He was the other side of the camera now, somehow both distant and a few feet away. You found yourself staring at your body in the monitor, just watching. Tom’s voice broke you out of yet another daze, and you wanted to pinch yourself. Why couldn’t you do it today?

“We don’t have to do this today, if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s okay I just… I forget it’s just us sometimes, you know? There’s such a production and so many people and at the end of the day…”

Tom smiled, a relief on his face that told you he had been feeling it too. That this was weird.

“I know what you mean. If you’re uncomfortable…”

“Just give me a second to warm up, we need to make something, after all.”

You stretched, not really sure why, moving a little around the nook Tom had created, shuffling pillows and practicing where you wanted to lie back, watching a monitor as Tom played with a soft lighting, twisting and turning to find the most flattering angles you could.

As he shuffled things around, Tom nodded to the spread of toys you’d set out. You’d added your vibrator to the pink line up, perfectly organised on the white towel.

“Do you want those in shot?”

You shrugged.

“Might be hot?”

He nodded silently. You moved the toys in to the frame, trying to blink away the cloud which had settled in your mind. The world felt foggy, your arms like they were moving through treacle, and you knew Tom had noticed.

As he prepared two directional microphones, you tried not to feel claustrophobic. The audio from the microphone he was pointing towards your pussy would be almost grotesque, and you fought not to shuffle further from it as you imagined Tom listening later, headphones in, as he balanced the levels between your moans and the wet sounds of you fucking yourself.

Fuck.

Why was this so different to a regular shoot?

You’d done solo shoots before. With Tom. And half-a-dozen other crew, you reminded yourself.

You caught sight of his curls above the monitor, face serious as he set everything up.

“Speak?”

“Testing, testing,” you spouted off nonsense until he offered you a thumbs up, happy with the audio.

Then there was nothing else to do.

He stood, looming over the equipment. And you looming over you.

“What’s the plan?” he asked, smiling at your frown. “You’re in charge here, I’m just the camera guy.”

You rolled your eyes, knowing he was trying to put you at ease.

“You’re the director,” you reminded him, knowing how he preened himself under the title.

You were impressed that his eyes had only roamed down your body once as he took in the shoot, glancing at the indulgent layout of toys, double checking the monitor, one headphone in. He had that stance he always adopted when he was directing, and you knew it was his favourite moment in any of this. The moment everything was pinned on him.

It happened so quickly you almost missed the moment he knelt down, blinking in surprise as his face remerged at your level beside the camera.

“Then my direction is: enjoy yourself. Forget I’m here. Let’s show them something real.”

He must have seen your shock, because it made him smile.

“Real?” you questioned, and he nodded firmly.

“I’m serious.”

For a beat, both of you were silent, his eyes meeting yours over the body of the camera.

“If you can,” he offered, “I understand it’s not always…”

You interrupted him with a hand, smiling your understanding of what he was saying, and dismissing it in one motion. The silence dragged on, and you decided to push this forwards. If you were done by lunch, Tom would probably insist on taking you somewhere nice.

“I don’t know if I should use – ” you ghosted a finger across the biggest toy, worrying a bottom lip between your teeth, “Simplicity might be key.”

“Do what you want, darling. What feels good.”

You nodded mutely, and for just a second you saw doubt flicker across his face. This was new territory, and even you weren’t sure if this was a step too far.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah. If I’m… actually… it might take a while. Let me know if I’m taking too long.”

“Take as long as you need, darling. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

Tilting your head at him a little, you realised abruptly just how intimate this was. Moreover, that you wanted it anyway. That you were about to make him watch you cum. Make him hear you, smell you. He couldn’t touch, but he could watch.

And that was enough for you to perform.

Tom gave you a countdown, red lights peppered your field of view, and he was recording. He had taken a seat on the floor behind the camera set up, one headphone in to monitor audio, waiting.

You stayed sat up, back arched a little as your hands began to caress you own body, keeping on eye on the monitor while your face was out of the shot. You rubbed along your thighs, across your stomach, teasing at the lace of your bra and the elastic of your underwear each time you passed them, trailing your fingertips. It didn’t really feel like anything, doing this to yourself, but you knew to tease the camera. Tom would cut out anything too slow.

Your gaze remained firmly on the screen as you began to make your touches firmer, more deliberate, dragging lines into your skin and flirting with the camera. You admired the soft skin of your breasts as you started to shift your bra, enjoying the stiffening of your nipples in the monitor until –

The screen went black, and you immediately glanced at Tom, frowning as you lost the visual of yourself. He met your questioning gaze sternly, eyebrows furrowed, and you remembered his direction.

“Enjoy yourself.”

With nothing left to look at you closed your eyes, feeling the blood rushing to the surface of your skin, the sensitivity of your breasts as your fingers idly danced across them. You shoved your bra down unthinkingly, wanting to feel more, rubbing at the heaviness of your breasts and wincing as you enjoyed the pleasure and pain of pinching at your nipples, teasing them to attention. You glanced your nails across them, feeling it in your core. You didn’t want to wait anymore. Fuck the cameras.

It was hard to let to, to stop the delicious feeling of your fingers on your own breasts, but you forced yourself to free one hand, shoving off the bra, desperate to feel yourself without it. You knew you were grimacing, it wouldn’t be sexy, but you didn’t care. That was Tom’s problem.

You needed to touch yourself.

One hand reached below the waistband of your underwear, seeking out your clit, guided by a familiar ache. It was all you could focus on, your other hand forgotten, cupping your breast, the sensation vague and lost as your fingers found your clit. The sensation overwhelmed you as you shifted the hood, your body beginning to produce wetness. The room was a little cold, the air relieving against the heat of your bare skin, making your nipples peak as you leant back into the nest of pillows behind you.

You felt your stomach tense, a bolt of electricity tensing the muscles up and down your body as you brushed across your clit a little too hard. Your middle finger probed your pussy experimentally, slipping inside of you, quickly joined by a second as you played with the wetness there.

One, two, three pumps of your fingers inside you was enough for you to gasp, your eyes still closed against the bright lights as focused on nothing but feeling. No more fucking around.

You reached for your vibrator, hand knocking against the thick silicone toy lined up beside it, writhing as you pressed it against the fabric covering your clit. You cycled through the settings as fast as you could, still desperate for more stimulation.

More. It was on the highest setting. You wanted more.

Without moving the vibrator you shoved your underwear off, huffing as you kicked them away, not caring where they landed. The tip of the toy nudged against your clit exquisitely, and you froze.

There.

There.

You thought about Tom watching you. The hot blood coursing through your body, the line up of toys just waiting to be shoved inside of you. The sensitivity of you clit as you held it against that perfect point. The air against your dripping, aching pussy. The muscles starting to clench, the rhythm of your body. Building, building, you didn’t fight the feeling.

This was what you wanted.

That warm familiarity of the vibrator on your clit, the runaway train of your thoughts, it was enough to drive you over the edge. You hadn’t realised the keening, groaning noises you were making until you heard them, pleasure leaving your lips as an afterthought.

You felt empty.

Blindly you reached out, sticky fingers finding the shaft of a toy you wanted, a smaller one you could take right now. A dollop of lube in the palm of your hand was all it would take, a few pumps of the toy enough to coat it, the excess lubricant smeared on the sheets. You didn’t care. Not your problem.

Without conscious thought, you were still rubbing yourself, two fingers absently making circles against your clit as you fidgeted to be able to take the dildo. You didn’t bother preparing yourself anymore. You were wet enough, and you wanted the stretch.

Needed it.

Needed to feel full.

You shoved the toy into yourself, gritted teeth and your spare hand grasping at your breast, giving the nipple a sharp pinch to interrupt the overwhelming feeling of that silicone pushing inside of you. Your walls were stretched open, a gasp reaching your ears as you felt a nudge against your cervix.

It wasn’t enough. You felt wild, desperate, as you sloppily pulled the toy from yourself and shoved it back in, clenching down and still needing more.

Your fingers found a larger toy, arousal and lubricant smearing across your body as you discarded the dildo which you had just been fucking yourself with, leaving it somewhere on the mattress, forgotten in favour of the bigger option. It was thick. Maybe, in your right mind, you wouldn’t have considered it. But instead you coated it in lube, squirting the clear liquid on to the tip and rubbing it down the toy, focusing on nothing but the need pulsing through your pelvis.

On the emptiness inside you, begging, pleading to be filled. It hurt, how much you wanted to be stretched out, to feel something pounding into you. You felt animalistic, desperate for anything. The last of your conscious thought was occupied by the need in your clit, the demand for friction, and you just didn’t have enough hands. It was impossible to think. When you finally sank down on the fake cock, leaning back, legs apart, gaze focused on nothing but your own swollen pussy, it was a relief. You gasped, then sighed, pushing another inch of the toy inside you. You felt stretched already, split in half, but you kept going. With each thrust, you took the silicone further inside of you until you felt the dull ache of the toy going too far.

Finally, that emptiness felt sated, and you stayed still, too stuffed to risk moving and too blissed out to care.

But you needed more.

Each bear down made the toy threaten to shift, and you didn’t have the brain power to thrust and pay attention to your aching clit. You moved gingerly, grabbing a pillow to straddle, holding the toy inside you as you hunted for your vibrator.

You couldn’t even lean too far to reach it, you were so full it ached. And it was delicious.

With the smooth plastic finally in your hand you leant back, ready to bring yourself to another orgasm. With a blink, you realised there was a tear tracking its way down your cheek, and you smiled to yourself.

And then you accidentally looked forwards. Your eyes met Tom’s. The camera. The lights. The switched off monitor.

You wanted to cry.

He was watching you directly, with those sharp blue eyes, one finger resting along his jawline, his usual calculating, wide stance replaced with one knee hugged to his chest as he sat on the concrete floor. He was watching you.

You. Stuffed full, straddling a pillow on the bed Tom had fucking made, covered in a mix of lube and your own arousal. That strange feeling from earlier came back full force.

God. He had seen you actually come. Without acting or cheesy lines or clever angles to hide the worst of your O-face. You could pretend to come, tell your male co-stars what a good time you’d had, follow direction, anything. But this was too real. And it was just you and Tom. In the corner of a huge studio, bright lights and cameras and –

Had he called cut? You wouldn’t have heard. Did he realise you’d lost control? That you had forgotten you were supposed to be acting and been so desperate and –

“You’re doing amazing.”

You smiled at him weakly, gasping as the toy inside you nudged your cervix as you fidgeted. You didn’t realise that you were awaiting direction until he spoke.

“Another one?”

His voice was a little throatier than usual, though you supposed he’d been quiet for a while. His eyes kept drifting from your face, and you wondered if he felt as uncomfortable as you did.

You nodded silently, closing your eyes, listening to the increasing pitch of the vibrator as you turned it up to its maximum setting.

The minutes stretched on as your orgasm built, little raises and falls of your hips accompanying that insistent buzz of your favourite vibrator, the toy inside you starting to ache as it stretched you apart. It was impossible to forget that Tom was watching you now. That his piercing gaze was on you. As a matter of professionalism, you tried to avoid looking up. You ignored the camera, fucked your body in the way you knew it would respond to, only half-faking it as you came a second time.

You moaned and groaned and gave the camera an indulgent few seconds of overstimulation, the vibrator pushed against your clit to make you writhe and shake. You pulled yourself off the dildo in a mess of arousal, played with yourself, showing off how stretched out you were.

Fingers swirling in the arousal inside of you, you sighed in relief when Tom called, “cut.”

Dropping the toy, you pulled your legs together, ignoring him for a second as you took deep breaths. Taking stock of your body, the residual pleasure and pain and stickiness. A lot of stickiness.

Tom took pity on you, shifting a softbox so you had a clear path out of the corner you were hemmed into.

“Go and have a shower,” he told you, the most softly-spoken command you’d ever heard.

Nonetheless, you followed orders. On weak legs, you indulged in as long as shower as you dared, cleaning up and then just… waiting. Trying to avoid the real world. When you finally opened the door, wrapped in a robe, you found your clothes folded outside. Tom was nowhere to be seen, but you thanked the universe for him anyway.

When you re-emerged you were fully dressed and feeling a lot more like yourself again. And, actually, quite proud of yourself. Tom’s busyness told you everything had been recorded properly, equipment moved and the mattress bare, leant against the wall.

“All good?” you asked, more to announce your presence than anything. He stopped moving, offering you a gentle smile.

“Perfect! I think it’ll be great. Do you want to go get lunch somewhere? To celebrate?”

Predictable as anything. The thought made your heart swell with fondness for him, his head tilt and excitement, his strange place here.

“I think I’ll just go home,” you tried to smile apologetically, but you could still feel the ache inside you, the dull oversensitivity of your clit against your underwear.

The embarrassment and excitement fighting in the fit of your stomach.

Tom nodded, clear understanding on his face. He held the door for you on the way out.

“Are you coming in tomorrow?” he asked, quietly, like you might run off if he asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

*

Your bedroom fell silent as the vibrator stopped, the battery finally flat. You whined in disappointment, desperate for another orgasm. Your fingers replaced it instantly, rubbing, desperately pulling more wetness from the arousal weeping from you, but you were too oversensitive.

Panting, vision blurry, your thighs aching, you blinked away tears. You glanced at the nightstand. Tom hadn’t text you.

*

When you woke up the next morning your phone was dead. You’d forgotten to charge it last night, and leaving it in your room to charge offered a strangely peaceful morning. You had a few hours before you would be expected at the studio, and no work to do before then.

You indulged in spending time getting ready for the day, making a decent breakfast, doing a few chores you’d been putting off.

Processing what had happened yesterday.

In the clear light of day, you wondered if you ought to be embarrassed for the way you’d completely lost yourself at the shoot. The more you thought about it, the more you thought about it, the more you rationalised at you’d just followed Tom’s direction. Done what he’d asked. It had been intense, for sure, but you’d done what he’d asked. If anything you regretted the moment he’d had to speak, losing your nerve. You hoped he didn’t want pick-up shots today, you weren��t sure your body could take any more.

You thought about the night before, clearing up the scattered clothes and charging the vibrator you’d left strewn beside your bed, more ashamed of the images which had been conjured by your overactive imagination in the late-night privacy of your bedroom. You hated that everything you imagined was involved blue eyes. Distinctive curls. Pulling buttons from smart shirts and kissing along sharp cheekbones. Poor Tom. He didn’t need you overstepping that mark. And yet when you had closed your eyes, imagined you were under those lights again, all you could imagine was Tom. His creative gaze. Listening to the smoothness his voice leant to everything he said as he instructed you even more intimately than usual.

As you switched your phone back on, you forced the thoughts from your mind. They couldn’t follow you to the studio. The two of you had built something good. Something successful. The studio was doing well, you were both saving money away for the future, building your brands. You couldn’t screw that up now by imagining him like that. He trusted you. You trusted each other. Relied on one another.

You wondered if he ever fucked other actresses.

[captainscanadian]

Hope | Bucky Barnes x Reader (Part 1)

 My Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Summary: Being back in your childhood home had certainly brought you some well-needed inspiration. 

Word Count: 2900+

Pairing: (Eventual) Doctor!Bucky Barnes x Patient!Reader, OMC Harry Nelson x FWB!Reader, Rebecca Barnes x OFC Rosie Bender

Warnings: Heartbreak, Bullying, Grey’s Anatomy Spoilers

A/N: This fic was my entry for @wkemeup​‘s 4K Writing Challenge. I DON’T DO TAGLISTS!

When Harry Nelson had first moved to Los Angeles at the age of eighteen, he’d had many dreams of becoming a screenwriter and director. He wanted to make movies that seemed relatable to the general public, with no action sequences or elements of science-fiction, no monsters  or magic, no million dollar budget to be spent on visual effects. Just simple stories about real people, whether it was the kind that made them laugh or the kind that made them cry.

Throughout the span of his twenty-year long career in Hollywood, he had come to realize that the genre of romance movies had their own built-in audience that he could definitely make money off of. The hopeless romantics, as he liked to call them, were a group of people who were always longing to see love stories that don’t necessarily end happily, but still leave them believing that true love existed. 

While he had since directed several romance films that went on to have the cultural impact in the likes of Notting Hill and The Notebook, it hadn’t been until he had met another hopeless romantic did he realize that he was one of them. For a man who never believed in true love, he sure enjoyed love stories. He was a hopeless romantic, as much as he hated to admit it. Whether his story was going to end happily or not, he still had a part to play in it. 

Back when the first instalment of the Hopeless series had turned out to be a success, Harry had simply approached you in request of the movie rights to your novel series. While you hadn’t given in to his request due to not knowing how you might even end the series yourself, he decided to play the long game and wait until you figured out the ending. 

Years had gone by and the two of you had only become best friends, bonding over your mutual love for the romance genre. Many movie nights were spent watching the classics such as Casablanca and Breakfast at Tiffany’s. He had invited you to his premieres and parties, to simply take part in the discourse of what it meant to write a beautiful love story that stood beyond its time. But the friendship you shared had turned to something more when you had found yourselves drunk at an after-party and consumed by lust of all things and not love as one would have assumed. 

Even though becoming one of the love interests in your story had certainly not been his plan all along, he couldn’t complain about it either. A newly single romance novelist and a divorced filmmaker with a knack for romance getting involved with each other was not the strangest thing to take place in Hollywood, not even when you had a ten year age difference. You had kept your arrangement as secretive as you could though, for you did not need the prying eyes of the media to ruin what you had. 

By the time the third instalment had been published, no one had suspected that the muse behind Dr. Jake Winston was Harry Nelson himself. Harry had seemed to figure it out early on though, when you had let him have a glimpse of the first draft. But when he gave you his approval to go ahead with the story, you had made him promise you that he would play the role he helped create if your novels were ever made into movies. Harry had been delighted to accept that if he were to make his acting debut, it would be as one of the love interests of Hope Anderson. 

Being the man who taught you what it felt like to be safe in a relationship, he had always given you a way out of your friendship with benefits. After all, the strings had never been attached to begin with. But that was a path you did not think you would want to take, at least not until now. 

Not that the two of you had managed to drive each other crazy like most Hollywood couples. As unsurprising as that would have been, you felt that you really needed a break from living the California dream and that included what you had with Harry. 

With the fourth and final instalment of your series being due in just a few more months, you found yourself hitting a brick wall with where you wanted Hope Anderson’s story to go. Writer’s block was a curse that you hadn’t really experienced with the last three novels. But inspiration for the fourth novel had just not struck. 

You were well aware that your readers were longing for a happy ending for the girl who had spent a majority of her life being heartbroken. For a strong and career-driven woman like herself, she could easily find someone to settle down with. But that wasn’t what you wanted when it came to the ending of your series. 

You wanted Hope to find some kind of purpose for the journey that she had taken since leaving her hometown for college. You wanted things to be right for her, even if they weren’t necessarily right for you. There needed to be a purpose behind her journey, that was meant to be fulfilled in the final book. 

It had been Harry’s suggestion, being a fellow writer himself, that it might be plausible if the fourth novel took a rather ‘coming-of-age’ kind of path compared to the last three instalment. Reid made her realize that she had moved on too soon, Ethan made her realize that love was messy, and Jake made her realize that there are good men in this world. Neither of these men had been right for her, but then who was? 

“I think our girl Hope needs to go home.” Harry had suggested one night in the midst of your pillow talk. “She hasn’t been home in ten years. I think she needs a little trip of self-discovery, a walk down memory lane… she needs to find herself in order to find her one true love.” 

“What makes you think that she’ll find her true love when she finds herself?” You had asked him, curiously. 

“There’s only one way to find out.” 

The air was crisp as you stepped out of your Uber and grabbed your suitcases from the trunk, leaving a heavy tip for the driver at the end of this dreadfully quiet ride from Indianapolis International Airport to your humble home in Shelbyville, Indiana. 

Being back in this little city after an entire decade in the West Coast sure brought back the good old days for a moment there. But when the cold breeze hit you, you were reminded why you had fled your hometown in the first place. Certainly, you had gotten used to the California sun. But who could blame you though? This place was hell on earth. 

As you dragged your suitcases up the driveway, you could not help but look around the neighborhood that you had grown up in. It seemed as though nothing had changed in the last ten years. Or perhaps, it was just the nostalgia of being back here that made it seem as though everything was still the same when it wasn’t. 

Old man Nick who lived next door still had his ratty old truck parked out front - was that thing still kicking; you couldn’t believe it. The last you heard, his daughters Carol and Maria had moved out to Indianapolis after college and visited the man every now and then. Apparently, he refused to leave Shelbyville as he had lived there his whole life. His wife had lived and died at that house, and he could not see himself leaving behind the memory of her. 

The girls had asked your mother to keep an eye on him, and she had kept an eye on him because she seemed to be the only one in the neighborhood he trusted. Your mother had told you that they were bonding over their mutual empty nest syndrome, but not even her attempt to guilt trip you had brought you back here. 

You hadn’t even bothered to come back here when you had found out that your mother was ill. You had flown her out to Los Angeles instead, and did the best you could to give her the medical care she needed at one of the best hospitals in the country. 

Not even when she had passed away did you ever try to come back and take care of the house she’d left behind for you. You just hated everything about Shelbyville, Indiana, to ever come back. 

But nothing like a little writer’s block to bring you back here. 

You made a mental note to leave a rather sarcastic voicemail for Harry, for convincing you to fly out here on your own and facing a part of your life that you never wanted to return to. God, you hated him sometimes, mostly because he was always right and he seemed to know it. You loved him too. Not the kind of love that destroys you, but the kind that made you realize that you always deserved to feel loved by someone. 

Truth be told, the house was not as bad as you had thought it would be. It just needed a little dusting and maybe a paint job, but it was still your childhood home in every way. Nick had kept it in good shape while you were gone, because your mother had asked him to take care of it in case you had ever thought about coming back home. 

You thanked the man when he handed you the keys, and asked him if you could borrow his truck to run some errands later that day. You just needed to run into town to pick up some groceries and stop by the hardware store to grab some supplies. 

In the meantime, you could use the quiet and the nostalgia to come up with the perfect plot for the final instalment of your novel series. Perhaps you could start off with Hope Anderson returning to her hometown due to her mother being ill, putting a pin on completing her residency and giving herself a break from her arrangement with Jake. 

She spends hours on end sitting by her mother’s bedside, losing her hope as the days rolled by. And when her mother passes away, she copes with her loss by spring cleaning her childhood home and fixing it up. 

*EDIT: 4th love interest? 

You had written a few pages of your first draft when you finally decided to take a break, stretching your arms as you stepped away from your laptop on the dining table. You had been avoiding your childhood bedroom like the plague ever since you had arrived, claiming the master bedroom as yours for the duration of your stay. 

But as you ascended up the creaky stairway and turned the corner to your childhood bedroom, you could have sworn that the last ten years had never gone by. The paint was chipping off of the cream colored walls, multiple posters of the Jonas Brothers pasted against them, never being taken down in your years away. 

You recalled the time you’d had the chance to meet them following their comeback, as one of their wives had starred in one of Harry’s films. You may not have been an overly enthusiastic fangirl on the red carpet, but you were certainly proud of how far you had come from your childhood bedroom. The teenage girl who used to live in this room had clearly grown up, living every dream she’d always had… except one. 

You walked over to the desk at the corner of your room, where the first few scenes of your Grey’s Anatomy fanfiction had been written. You had written more than one hundred thousand words about the undying love between Mark Sloan and Lexie Grey, as though they had never died after that plane crash, not even realizing that the basis of that story would eventually inspire the plot of your third novel. The attending and the resident with a significant age difference - God, could you ever be original with your own writing? 

This was the room where you fell in love with writing, but writing was not the only thing you had fallen in love with at the time. On the bulletin board above your desk remained one photograph, being held together by a thumb tack. 

You remembered the day after your high school graduation, when you had forcefully ripped out most of the photographs you had pinned to that bulletin board and chucked them in the trash bin, along with the feelings you had for the seventeen year old boy who was in those photographs with you. 

A part of you wanted to rip up the last remaining photograph that still remained on that bulletin board, but the ten years you had been away had certainly suppressed the anger you felt towards him. So instead, you left that photo where it was and returned to your laptop, picking up your writing from where you had left off but the thought of him now lingering through your mind. 

James Buchanan Barnes. Your best friend. Your first love. Your first heartbreak. The reason why Hope Anderson’s love life, and yours, had become hopeless in the first place. Perhaps the best way to end this story was to go back to the very beginning, to where it all had started, to the man who had been a part of her life before Jake, Ethan and Reid. 

“Oh Harry, you son of a bitch!” 

Dr. James Barnes let out a yawn as he eyed the CT scans in front of him, even though it was only the beginning of his twelve hour call shift. Only into the second year of his three year residency in emergency medicine, he was starting to familiarize with the intensity of his life as an emergency room physician. Sleepless nights were only the bare minimum. 

Not that he could not handle the stress of running the ER one day, but Bucky was well aware that outside of the walls of Shelbyville Hospital, he did not have a life. No girlfriend to go home to, no hobbies to kill time with and no friends from outside of work to hang out with. Work, sleep, repeat… life was starting to get boring for the poor twenty-eight year old man. 

“You look miserable.” Rosie Bender, the ER nurse on call and Bucky’s former classmate, remarked cheekily at her friend before she slipped into the seat next to him. 

He shot her a fake smile as he set down his patient file back onto the rack, leaning back in his chair and looked over at the nurse. “I’m just bored as fuck, Rosie. As you can see, the ER’s pretty quiet tonight. I just want something to do.” 

“If you’re so bored, you can help me make some calls. I have to finalize the number of people who are coming to this thing by the end of the week. The catering people have been asking for numbers… and don’t even get me started on picking the menu.” 

For the woman who had been head of the Prom Committee back in senior year, planning their ten year reunion was supposed to be a piece of cake. But Rosie was struggling with juggling all of the responsibilities that came with planning this reunion, being the only who seemed to care so much about being able to reunite with some old friends from what had been the best four years of her life. Why did no one else care about this as much as she did?

Truth be told, Bucky could care any less about this so-called ten year reunion. He was well aware that the one person he would be hoping to see would never show up. You hadn’t even come back to town when your mother had gotten sick, let alone to this stupid reunion that was meant to be a remainder of your senior year - the memory that he had ruined for you by being so inconsiderate towards your feelings for him. 

He could never forgive himself for what he had done to you, and to think that he would never have the chance to apologize to you in person. He fucked up, and he pushed away the one friend he had. If he could just see you one last time and tell you how sorry he was, Bucky would give anything. But he knew that all hope was lost on that, at least until Becca Barnes had come rushing into the ER. 

He had just assumed that she was only dropping off some dinner for him and Rosie, but instead she looked over at the two of them with beaming eyes. “You two are not going to believe who I ran into at the hardware store just now...” 

“Is old man Nick renovating the Y/L/Ns’ house again because he’s bored?” Rosie perked up at her girlfriend, giggling softly as she stood from her chair to lean over the desk and peck her lips. 

“No, but close…” The younger Barnes chirped before she turned to her brother. “Y/N’s back in town.” 

Perhaps, all of his hope was not lost after all. 

[madmadmilk]

One After The One PART 2 | Tom Holland x Reader

Tinder BIO | soft TEASER | PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | >>

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Summary: If a fool knows they’re a fool, are they really a fool? (The answer is yes.) You weigh the pros and cons of meeting T, Blurry Boy, Tom-Holland-Imposter, but curiosity tips the scales.

Warnings: Cursing, Suspicion, some Hard to Swallow Pills, and a million blurry pics

Word Count: 6K grains of sand in your boots

-

“... What?”

You throat ran dry, and you’d be lying if several things didn’t just suddenly click in your mind. The pictures, or lack of pictures. “T.” His bio. It makes all makes total sense, and then it totally doesn’t.

 None of that it made it any easier to believe the words coming out of her mouth.

“I… I think he’s using pictures of Tom Holland,” your friend exhales, repeating herself slowly.

…

This can’t be happening. You feel your brows furrow and face fall–– unsure of what to say or how to feel.

Tom Holland on Tinder? 

No fucking way.

“... Who..? How..?” you reach up to scratch your eyebrow, hoping to stir up something to deflect her suggestions.

“You know, Spider-Man? We just watched him in that movie?” Liza starts slowly, then pretends to shoot webs, nearly bumping into her drink. “Thwip-thwip, yeah?”

You begin frown and shake your head, you wave away her hands.

“Yeah, uhm, yeah I know who he is. But there’s no way that’s––“

She gives you a knowing and cautious looking, tilting her head towards you in question. Her lower lip juts out and she pulls out her phone. You can assume she’s looking up pictures of the actor, and soon enough she has some glamour shot of him in a maroon suit.

He had glasses on. The same ones in that goddamn picture he had sent the other day.

That’s not...

You hold your phone search through your chats, scrolling past conversations and laughs, looking for that one picture. Your heads rest together as you swipe up slowly to show her the picture of him that he had sent… the one with the glasses.

There’s no way––

 But you don’t say anything, solely waiting for her confirmation or denial.

“Friendly neighborhood romantic…” Liza mutters softly as she holds both phones closer to herself. “Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man…”

You take it from her and zoom in; sure enough, all those details fall into place.

Fuck.

You blink, comparing the smiles. They look identical.

But?

But Tom Holland is a A-list actor, smiley, pretty, bright and out of reach. You can’t even entertain the idea of meeting a ~celebrity~ through a shitty fucking dating app–– a hook-up one at that. It just doesn’t happen.

And the thought of him wanting to spend time with you?

“No… that’s not right,” you finally manage to say. “Uhm. It can’t be Tom.”

Upon saying that out loud, you catch yourself. You find yourself believing that it could have been him. So, it’s hard to say which part you were denying.

Liza does the critical thinking for you.

“I’m sorry, babe. This guy is lying to you.”

Liza looks at you with her big brown eyes, and you can see a little bit of pity. She nods slowly and turns away, leaving you with two phones in your hands and doubt in your heart. 

“He’s using Tom Holland’s pictures, he’s not telling you the truth, and he’s not… offering you anything else about himself. You know?”

What?

You had gotten so comfortable with the idea of him, of “T.” Of “Blurry Boy,” his own person... and not with the reality of who he could be and what he’s doing to you.

The reality that he’s still really fucking suspicious, a stranger whose life and intentions you don’t actually know.

He’s definitely not Tom Holland, regretfully, and he’s probably not like any of the pictures he’s posted–– blurry, edited, whatever. And the conversations? Maybe it’s all a persona.

You don’t know a single thing about him.

Oh…

It stings more than you thought it would, even when you knew this was already a shaky start.

Liza watches you press your tongue to the side of your cheek, processing this with no argument or fight left. She feels bad having told you outright, but you both know that it’s what you would have wanted. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

She hugs your shoulders, as you slide her phone back towards her.

You let her hold you as you try to let the shame and shock pass.

Your phone pings softly on the table.

You read the message as it glows on your screen. You scoff as soon as you check it, because who else could it be?

BB: I bet you forgot to watch the episode lol

No.

You forgot you shouldn’t trust him.

-

…

BB: ?

BB: Hello?

BB: Hey, sorry idk if you’re busy or something right now. Just wondering how you were

BB: 👀

BB: Sorry, did I do something to make you mad?

Yes–– no. Yeah, kinda.

You pull down your phone screen, musing over the fact that more messages might appear. He’s sent something new every few hours since your talk with Liza earlier that day.

God, you’re glad you don’t have your read receipts on.

You spend some time lazing around in bed, hair up and out of your face, your pants crumpled and kicked on the floor nearby. You suck in your cheeks as you pick up your phone.

You’ve been cycling through social media all day–– not looking at anything in particular, but definitely avoiding texts from You Know Who.

You know what the messages say, you know that he’s wondering where you are and what you’re doing, but how do you face him after your fatal revelation with Liza? How do you recover? Well, you start by sorting out your buzzing thoughts….

First, you feel fucking embarrassed. There’s a burning, nauseous heat on your face, all because you didn’t realize those pictures were SO obviously fake, and that you were kinda into Whoever He Is.

Second, you feel righteous anger, for being dragged around even though he promised. Ha ha ha. He’s one hundred percent a stranger on the internet, alright. And you’re a fool for letting yourself get strung along.

But him using pictures of a well-known, well-loved, heavily-adored celebrity?? Isn’t that, like, really fucking bold? Embarrassing even?

(Almost as embarrassing as you not noticing this, but you don’t let yourself dwell on that part for too long)

The angel on your shoulder reasons that, “maybe he’s still the same person underneath this facade–– he just looks nothing like what he has posted. You could still like him no matter what he looked like, right?”

While the devil swoops in with some hard facts, laughing in pity, “A guy or person who conceals themselves with lies is not worth keeping at all.”

And in this case, you have to agree with that flaming hot truth. You’re ready to fold those fleeting feelings, shove them in a box, and kick ‘em to the curb along with that inner monologue–– but as you said in the very beginning… if you knew you were being fooled from the start, are you really getting hurt?

The goblin of curiosity pulls at your sleeve and offers this funny sentiment, “Knowing this and talking to him should be fine if you establish the fact that you know that ‘this’ isn’t real.”

And that’s where you are now, staring at your phone, at the multitude of double, triple, quadruple texts that have accumulated through the day. You exhale, and draft up a frail response.

You: hey, sorry. I was busy

His answer comes almost too soon even while you were approaching the later hours of a long day.

BB: Hey!, no, no it’s okay. Sorry if i freaked out, I was just worried

You: what, you missed me?

BB: something like that. You’re definitely the best reason I’m checking my phone nowadays, besides work

You: how sweet

BB: actually, I took your advice. I turned on Do Not Disturb at like 9. It feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders

You: that’s great!

BB: well, I know there’s going to be a shit ton to read in the morning, and I’m still stressed about that. But I guess I’ll get used to it. Gotta save time for myself! 😤🙏(praying emoji)

You: definitely

…

BB: hey, are you okay? You seem distant

You: yeah, no. I’m fine. Just a little tired

…

BB: haha, you’re obviously not. Are you still out? Or back home now?

You: I’m back home, but it’s been a long day

BB: oh, okay! You should head to bed then. Talk to you later?

You: yeah, I guess I should

BB: good night! Sleep tight 😊 (blush smile emoji)

You: good night

-

The next day goes by with a few more one-sided text exchanges. “Blurry Boy” was really single-handedly carrying each of those conversations–– and while they’re interesting and you’re still replying, you find it hard to bring yourself to believe any of it. It has no real weight anymore, to your life or in application.

You can’t stop thinking about the fact that he’s LYING to you. Straight to your fucking face.

You watch the conversations in the third person and are almost impressed with the lengths that he goes to keep up with the same story. No loss of momentum, the perfect amount of enthusiasm.

But by now, he must suspect something. The way he asks leading questions in an effort to get you to speak more. 

Unfortunately for him, you can’t help but be cold in response.

What you don’t realize, is that you want him to ask you what was wrong, one more time. You don’t realize that you want an opportunity to be mad. You want him to give you the chance to be. 

So, stop being so fucking nice, blurry boy.

Because you’re not fucking nice at all.

You ignore him for the evening, going out to run some errands so that your hands were actually busy. You silenced your phone as you wound down again for the night, only sparing it a glance at the last second.

There are a few messages waiting for you.

BB: hey, are we okay?

You: we?

BB: yeah, sorry if i’m jumping to conclusions but I’ve felt a little special here. If not, I get it. I’d just like to know

You: you’re definitely something

BB: what’s wrong?

You take a sharp inhale, tucking your hair behind your ears, and sitting up in bed to fully type out your feelings. Your opportunity to be angry is HERE, you can go off and spit words and fight–– 

You: you’re lying to me, right to my face. It was fine at first, but I still can’t wrap my head around why you’re doing this to me. It feels like we’re playing pretend and just ignoring the fact that there is NO TRUST here at all. I don’t know WHO you are and you haven’t given me any idea of who you could be! You’re using fake pictures and a fake name, and while it’s been fun… there’s nothing here. There’s nowhere “we” could go from here. If you want to continue, I’m going to need SOMETHING from you, if you expect anything from me

You drop your phone in your lap with a satisfying thump. You turn away, stretching and rolling your shoulders back in triumph.

Take that, “T.”

You shut your eyes as you imagine this mystery dude opening his phone to read out an arrow you’re shooting straight at this heart. (And it’s not the good kind). You can’t ignore that it hurts your own feelings it’s a little, not in a way that’s personal but…it’s hollowing. You didn’t know him personally, no, not at all, but a shade of it must have been real. There’s a real person in there, somewhere.

You see the message sit alone, untouched. There’s no bouncing dots like usual, no rapid silly response or praise or affection. And that’s annoying. And that’s annoying that that’s annoying.

But you got the last word in, so, what else can you ask for.

You nudge your phone further away, trying not to expect more. Siting in silence for a beat, pinching your cheeks. God, you hate this self-absorbed, attention-seeking behavior–– but you can’t help it.

You let out an exasperated whine, shaking your body to let go of the lingering vibes. You pick up your phone and snuggle back down into bed, ready to sleep after some idle scrolling. 

You’re ready to not have to worry about this thrilling 5-day experience, sure to be embarrassed about it later but… maybe you can make a story out of it. Though, that would only come after a long wink and the accompaniment of alcohol. God, you don’t even want to think about how Liza has probably already told K… Ugh!

PING!

You scramble as you hear the shrill bell tone. Your phone is bouncing in your hands as you half sit-up again. 

A message. 

You want to ignore it–– but who are you kidding.

BB: can i call you?

…

You stare at it. 

Is this an olive branch? Is he reaching out to you to show you that he really wants this? That he cares enough to finally share a fucking piece of himself?

Regardless, the call can only prove that he’s not the guy in the pictures. It’ll only show you that he’s just a guy. If that.

You rake your mind to remember what Tom Holland’s speaking voice sounded like, and immediately kick yourself for even thinking it could actually fucking be him. There’s just no fucking way. 

But let’s see how far off this guy is.

You: only for a second.

Your heart thuds unevenly as you prepare yourself–– only you have no idea what to expect. There’s nothing to go off of.

And within the minute that you sent your message, your phone rings. A blank contact comes up, “Blurry Boy” in white letters. You listen to the shrill ringtone, only picking up before it ends.

“Hey.”

There it is, his voice for the first time. It’s sleepy and thick, croaky even. He doesn’t sound like the squeaky and lively Tom Holland you knew from the silver screen. Though, it’s a stretch to even compare the two at all.

“Hey,” you speak demurely. Cool, calm, collected. And you wait. You want him to bring it up himself.

“What, not excited about our first call?”

Your face warms at his straightforwardness–– briefly crumbling under the pressure. Over text you could easily sort yourself out, but here…. you couldn’t hesitate.

“Well, I’m just glad you don’t sound like a 16 year-old boy.”

He laughs breezily, slightly muffled through the phone.

“Hahaha, I told you. I’m 23.”

“Mhm, well the way your voice cracked there really proves it.”

“Hey, come on now.” He laughs again, and you can hear rustling sheets and the faint chatter of music.

His laugh is quite pleasant, raspy and boyish. Familiar even. You want to imagine that he’s wooed by your maturity and confidence, by the way that a lull settles. But it’s more likely that he’s gathering his thoughts, or collecting his courage.

“This…. doesn’t prove anything,” you start slowly. You purse your lips, nervous ticks coming alive even through the phone.

For the moment, you feel shy, but shove it when you remember that he’s lying.

“I still don’t know who you are––“

“I know. I know, and I’m sorry–– I can’t tell you yet, but I trust you.”

“Yeah, you’ve said something like that before.”

”Uhm, yeah–– I… I wanted to call you to show you that I’m real and I care about you.... and I wanted to hear your voice too.”

There was sincerity there, but you don’t let yourself fall for it.

“But how long will it be before I get to see your real face? –– Without meeting you in a dark alley all alone.”

“Hm?”

“My friends are convinced that … you’re lying to me. In more ways that one. With the profile, with the pictures, the name.”

“Oh–– you told you friends–– uhm... Do you think I’m lying?”

“Maybe not all of it, but It’s a big world out there. And–– I don’t know.”

“But seeing my face would clear it up for you?”

He breathes deeply, and you can hear him clear his throat. The sheets rustle again.

“It’d be a start.”

“Mhm.”

“Make or break it, actually,” you manage to chuckle, offering him that relief. You wonder if physical attraction would be a big factor— like obviously, it would be something but…. you’ve come to know him as a person. So, do you care?

(The answer is yes, you do care, but poetically, you could enjoy his company just like this.)

BUT he is lying; if it’s not about one thing, it’s the other.

“It would definitely make me feeling a little bit better. To know that you’re not a monster under the bed, or some creep–– arguable but still.”

“I told you, I’m hot. You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he laughs with a bit of edge, treading the line.

You laugh too, tension easing. He seems like an easygoing guy, willing to be the butt of a joke with confidence.

“That has a totally different effect, hearing you say that out loud. It’s still weird.”

“Well, what do you think I look like? Based off–– based off what you have.”

“Well, I hardly have anything so…. I don’t know. I want to say ‘tall, dark, and handsome,’ but I’m pretty sure you have… fair skin, brown hair and… nice shoulders? That’s all I got.”

“You’re 3 for 3 so far.”

“You’re just saying that.”

Pause.

“Sorry it’s taking so long.”

“Yeah, you’re weird.”

You’ve already flipped the a million possibilities of who he could be. Nothing would even surprise you anymore. But listening to his soothing voice has calmed you like the way his words always have. The conversation flows over you, and you slide deep into your bed.

You pull the covers up over your shoulders, swimming in your thoughts. It shouldn’t be that hard to reveal himself, should it? You’re both investing time into this–– reckless and blind as it may be. You would need to know eventually. You’re not being unreasonable.

Right?

“If…. If I show you my face, properly, will you keep it a secret?” There’s an anxious tone in his light voice. Every syllable ended with uncertainty, as if he didn’t believe what he was saying.

“If you want…? Why?”

“I just… you just need to. Please?”

“Yeah, uhm, I can do that.”

“Thank you,” and there he lets out an airy sigh of relief. You hear rustling again, as if he fell back on the bed. Ha?

You laugh in excitement at his small promise, you rub your eye with your knuckle as you tease,

“What, are you a celebrity or something?”

…

“How did you know?”

“Hahaha, shut uppp, T. I’m joking–– I just want to match a proper face to the person I’m talking to,” your laugh trails off. You swallow softly, “I have your voice now, so… help me piece it together now, please?”

He stays silent, making you second guess the sincerity that you just showed him. Before you can take it back he starts slow and quiet,

“If I do tell you who I am, would you go on a date with me?”

Your heart squeezes, and your clench your toes. This should be no surprise or celebration, to be honest, this is the point of it all. To find love, or at least the next lay.

“Well, that depends if you’re my type,” coy, coy, play it coy.

“I’m everybody’s type.” His voice rolls, deep, rough, ringing in your ears.

You blink, your cheek lifting in a half pointed smile. You return his tone,

“Ok, well, then I dare you. Show me.”

“I will. Are you free on Friday–– Tomorrow?”

“Already setting up a date? You’re getting waaaay ahead of yourself, dude.”

Pause.

“But yeah, sure, I might be free tomorrow.”

“Great,” he laughs at your switching moods. You feel that heat on your face again, shutting your eyes tight, and he offers a bit more, 

“Meet me by the beach? 9 PM?”

You scoff softly, he’s pushing it. It’s a public space, kind of not. It’ll be cool, breezy, dark… secluded.

But you could easily let someone know where you’re gonna be, and when to expect you back. Fair enough?

“Hmmm, send me a picture of yourself and I’ll let you know if I can make it.”

“Huh?”

“Think of it as insurance. Or a sneak peak,” you laugh softly, turning your cheek to rub you nose against your pillow.

He lets out a long, dry chuckle, taking a deep breath. You can hear him settle and stretch himself out too, “First thing in the morning. And text me back.”

“Sure!”

“Then... I’ll leave you to it. Good night, Y/N. So lovely speaking to you.” His voice is so heavy and warm, so close to your ear.

You’re almost disappointed that he cut the conversation short. A dark cloud of doubt looms over; maybe he needs time to fabricate a believable photo, maybe he’s nervous, maybe he’s getting cold feet.

You stumble on on what to say as you snap yourself back–– the worrying could be saved for tomorrow. For now, you’ll both savor this short, sweet moment. 

“Likewise. Good night, Blurry Boy.” 

You hear him exhale softly, and pull the phone away from your ear. You look at it in your hands, feeling your lips purse. Your face is flushed hot, and your stomach flips in anticipation.

Tomorrow.

-

“No FUCKING way,”

You open your phone first thing in the morning and... low and behold… he actually fucking sent you a picture of Tom Holland. Like he really had the guts to fucking do it. 

Come on, Blurry Boy.

This is not real. No way, no way, no fucking WAY.

You heart falls at the thought of losing this ~friendship~ or whatever it is. You put time into this and now its… kind of falling apart at the seams.

You hold your squished cheeks and spin on your heel, wondering if you should show it to Liza or Ry–– to share the incredulous feelings but… You remember The Promise.

It’s not that… big of a deal, especially since this scenario is fake as fuck, but you’d feel guilty. (damn.)

And also ashamed.

You straight up got fucking catfished.

Like he really had you in the snares.

There’s no way that he’s Tom Holland, and even if he “was” there’s no way that Tom would be in your city. And even though he’s a fucking liar–– keeping this a secret for another day or two… wouldn’t hurt anyone.

God.

You fall back onto your couch, legs hanging over the edge as you stare at the picture. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, wondering what to say…

The words come quick.

You: what the fuck, are you joking?

Come on, he had to be pulling your leg. Or expecting you to reply like that. You dont’ know what to think, especially when it takes him an hour or two to reply. Uncharacteristic of him.

BB: I’m really not

You: dude. Shut up. You’re not Tom Holland

BB: I am. And I can prove it. Come see me tonight, please

You have to scoff, nearly throwing your phone across the room. UHM, this has sirens and red flags written all over it. Akskdfdjhfad, like??? There aren’t even words to describe this frustration and obvious deceit.

You: Uhm, no no no. Call me right now

You were more than peeved now, honestly. He promised you honesty and some vulnerability, and this is just fucking stupid.

BB: I’m sorry, I really can’t. I’m out for work right now. Meetings all day. But I PROMISE you that I’m not lying.

Ok, funny. That’s exactly what a liar would say.

You don’t bother replying back, not sure what to even say besides, “Fuck you.” But you figure that silence might be more of a sting than any words you could conjure up.

How many tricks would you fall for? This is stupid, this isn’t fair. There’s nothing to redeem here, it’s over.

He can’t just drop a tremendous bombshell, and act like it’s real??

Who the fuck does he think he is?

There’s no way he’s fucking Spider-Man, dude.

There’s just no fucking way.

-

FRIDAY NIGHT, AROUND 6 PM

BB: So… what do you think? Will I see you later? 🤞 (fingers crossed emoji)

You: I can’t believe you’re still messaging me and making jokes. This is cruel, dude

BB: I know it seems crazy, but I’m not lying. I can explain everything! But in person would be the easiest way. I’m still running around the city, but meet me at 9

You: bullshit

BB: My name is Tom Holland. I’m taking a break in this city, and I’m looking for someone to spend time with. But I HAVE to lie low. And trust you and I want to see you and I want to spend time with you

You: You know this is fucking insanity right ?? I can’t trust you. 

BB: I know, I’m sorry. But I’ll answer anything you want if you come see me

You: i don’t know

BB: well, will i see you later tonight?

…

BB: let me know if you can make it. I’ll be there regardless but…

…

BB: Hope you see you there, Y/N.

You put your phone down squinting. You’re down for taking risks and meeting new people and trying new things–– but this whole thing is just wrong. This is too unreal to even entertain. No matter how many times you say it… It won’t sink in.

He says he can’t call, he can’t send anymore pictures, he can’t facetime–– what’s with the grand reveal and security clearance? 

He’s probably gonna eat your fucking face off, that’s why.

You look back at your feet, covered in fuzzy socks. Would you even get out of this blanket burrito to meet A Guy?

(Much less, a guy who definitely wants to wear your skin.)

It’s after classes and work and your social life, you don’t have anything planned for today. Your friends are off on dates with one another doing god knows what, and you’re at home comfy in your holey sweatpants with nothing but the warmth of your laptop and chatter of a TV show you haven’t been paying attention to.

Sigh.

There’s nothing to lose–– you chant over and over. Sometimes, that mentality is what gets you to move forward and try new things. Or gets you into trouble.

Haha.

We all know you’re going to get off your ass and go, but not before checking in with a few people. ‘Cos, you’re not entirely stupid.

“Time for a Tea Party,” you mumble to yourself. You resign to text the more rational of your friends, Liza and Ry. 

Liza has the perfect amount of encouragement and honesty, while Ryan has the best common sense and gives expert.

Sorry, K, you’re too protective and sorry, Sam, you’re way to fucking chaotic.

GC: TEA PARTY

Liza: Ur actually going to MEET HIM??? ���

Ry: you said you weren’t going to get into trouble

You: is he trouble?? Is this bad??

Ry: YES. he could be anyone. Do you even know what he looks like?

You: … not really. He hasn’t told me much about anything. But, this is like a chance to find out?

Liza: oh my god you should go. Just go and get it over with

Ry: I don’t know… this doesn’t sound like a great idea.

Liza: i guess, one of us could come with Y/N?

You: nah, I’ll be fine alone

Ry: you sure? We could hang out somewhere in the back or something

You: no, it’s okay. I’ll just let you now when I go and drop my location with you

Liza: Phew! This is going to be SO messy. I love it. Can’t wait to hear back from you.

Liza: If we hear back from you 👀 (side eye emoji)

You: Ha ha, this is my actual life you know??

Ry: you only live once

Liza: And pls live long enough to tell your friends what happens

You: so supportive

Liza: love you! Wear your cute undies just in case!

Ry: bring pepper spray

You: Got it

You’re thrown into a frenzy. It’s like 7:45 PM now, and you haven’t showered yet, you haven’t decided what you’re going to wear or how you’re going to get there–– and more importantly, you haven’t fucking texted him back yet. 

And he hasn’t sent you anything else.

Oh, the mind games.

The way he’s making himself sad and vulnerable, but mysterious and coy.

While you get to choose to be the sucker, or the loser.

Lose, lose with great odds.

You turn on the shower, stepping into the warm steam to clear your mind.

It was made after all, you were going to meet him.

-

Yeah, you were going. But you still haven’t said anything. 

You don’t want him to know–– so you could totally just walk the other way if you see something that you don’t like. 

I mean, he knew what you looked like though. Hell, he even compared you to his ex-girlfriend, so… might as well keep the upper-hand and peer from the shadows first.

Or give yourself a head start to run away.

Though, running through sand would definitely be a big fucking obstacle.

You reach the end of the beach, standing atop beaten wooden stairs. The breeze stings your cheek, and it’s a lot colder than you thought it would be.

You’re wearing some dark high-waisted jeans and a simple pair of slip-on sneakers. You didn’t exactly know what “this” was, a date or a revelation or a sacrifice, so, naturally, you didn’t know what to wear.

Haha.

You hug yourself, your thin white billowy top fluttering lightly in the wind. Your fingers clutch at the flowery-embroidered designs on the sleeves, looking a lot like a pure maiden in distress. (Cos you sure as hell are.) You wore light makeup, and your hair was still a bit damp. The salty air was turning it coarse and wavy–– no complaints about that.

You paired this all with the bravest face you could muster

T, Blurry Boy, Tom Holland Imposter dropped this location with you, and figures that it’s on a secluded section of the beach.

You follow well-trodden paths, softly listening to music as you make your way. One earbud in. You should be thinking about a million things right now, but your mind is totally blank.

No expectations, nothing to go off of. 

As you near your destination, you look out at the water. The ocean is dark and looming; you can hear her soft waves crash over your soft music. The moon casts a silvery glow, and you can’t see colors anymore. Just white, gray, and black. Shining and still. 

It feels calm, like you’re watching a silent movie. Like you’re alone.

Only you’re not.

You see “him.”

A lone shape kicking sand with hands in their pockets. Their hood was up and back facing you. 

Great.

You hang back in the distance, weighing your options. You could still leave–– fear fully settling in after you see an actual person where they said they would be. He seems… harmless enough, like a regular guy and–– ah, fuck.

He turns around.

You see him, seeing you.

He pauses, then leans forward to get a better look.

You freeze too, holding your breath.

There’s nowhere left to duck and hide. It’s just you and some piles of fucking sand.

And him.

Oh, god.

The figure raises their hand, fucking waving. Then they start moving towards you, picking their feet up high to trek over the sand.

Fucking hell, you could turn away now but you don’t. You let out a shrill, grating laugh and square up to meet him halfway.

Their shape isn’t getting any clearer–– especially now that they’re facing away from the moon. His face is shadowed and hard to see, but you get close enough to see him.

I––

“Hey!” he excited calls out, catching the shine of his smile…. And…. you’re speechless.

Jaw to the floor, eyes as wide as dinner plates, speechless.

He keeps talking, smiling with his eyes crinkled as he gets very very close to you. You could smell his musky cologne, mixed with ocean spray, and disbelief. His voice is low and coated with tired happiness,

“Oh my god, I’m so glad you came.”

His voice breaks at the end, broken in more ways that you can understand at this moment. You’re just so confused––??

He can’t stop grinning, eyebrows sloping downward as he lets out an airy sigh of relief. He looks up towards the sky for a moment, moonlight catching on his cheeks and nose. Glimmering.

Wait, wait, wait––

When he comes back, he does another thing you can barely wrap you head around–– he hugs you.

He reaches forward, giving you ample time to turn away (but you don’t), and hugs over your shoulders. You felt a human weight on you, the side of his hoodie smushing against your face. 

And… you slowly hug back around his waist. Your left hand awkwardly pats his back as he mumbles,

“Sorry, this is too much. Sorry, God. Thank you.” 

He doesn’t make any motion of moving away despite his words. You can feel his warmth, and slightly desperation in the embrace; something that feels a lot more intimate than you were prepared for.

“Thank you.”

“It… It’s okay,” you murmur back, doused in shock. And shock is better than terror, right?

You pull away, squinting your eyes and making a face. His hands fall off your shoulders, and quickly shove themselves into his pockets. He gives you a moment. A well needed moment. When you open yourself back up, your brain is able to process a few more things.

He’s standing there in some dark denim jeans, clad in converses, which seems like a horrible decision for the beach, a dark green hoodie pulled up over his head, another horrible decision when you’re meeting someone for the first time on a dark beach, and a denim jacket, enviable. His face is softened and friendly, lips pointed in a gracious smile, while his dark eyes twinkle even in the shade.

He senses your uncertainty as you eyes fan over his face. Your jaw was still hanging open too. He pulls his hood down, ruffling soft brown hair in an inadvertent dramatic reveal. Nice.

He scratches behind his ear, still wearing a gleeful expression,

“So… what do you think?”

What do you think???? What do you think about this situation?? His hair??? The entire man in front of you???

Or the fucking fact that he was who he SAID he was???

I can’t believe this is–– this is––

All manners and social cues and sense exit the building as you stammer brainlessly,

“You’re! You’re–– You’re Tom––”

He nods, confidently, you note. And tilts his head, locks falling over,

“I am.”

“You are.” You breath out, maybe smiling now, you’re not sure. You can’t exactly feel your face anymore. 

Your head tilts in the same direction as his, your hair falling over your collar. His eyes follow those fallen strands, before locking back with yours,

“I’m Tom Holland. ‘I told you so,’ and it’s nice to formally meet you.”

Tom Holland.

The brunette bites his lip before smiling neatly as he gets close to your again. No personal space with this guy. He sticks a hand out for you to shake.

You’re looking from the outside in as you take his hand, bobbing softly. You’re trained on the sight of his thumb holding the side of your hand, rubbing softly.

You find your way back to his face.

Exactly like the movies.

The wind blows and he turns to the side, showing you the sharp cut of his jaw, and his eye-shut-tight expression.

Better, actually.

“H… Hey, Tom. Nice to meet you too,” you finally fumble. You shake your head slightly, trying to regain that calm, collected, confidence you practiced so hard on the way here. You want to say more, but you can’t fathom what would come next, 

“Uhm, sorry, I’m… still processing.”

Tom nods, bobbing his whole body, as he takes a step forward. His smile points devilishly, way too easily. His eyebrows twitch before settling, as he lowers his head, hitting you with some sultry jaw-clenching and puppy dog eyes.

“Take your time.”

You laugh, tonguing your cheek. He does too, and you share a starry stare.

The waves crash in the distance, a white noise you were glad to have. A welcome distraction from your loudly beating heart. Something to close the gap of silence––

Only Tom couldn’t handle the lapse of quiet, after all, he gets paid $$$ by the minute. He starts conversationally, knowing exactly how to stir up your already swirling emotions.

Light, teasing, reeling you in, the brilliant boy flashes you a toothy grin and spares not a single ounce of chill,

“So… am I your type?”

Holy fucking fuck shit god damn.

You just got catfished by Tom Holland.

-

A/N: WELL, reader has been caught in the net. What do you think, is “Tom Holland” /our/ type? Adfasjdl, the whole concept of this is so funny lol. Can u imagine seeing the man you saw movies screens… waiting for you in person??? Unfathomable. Anyway, sorry the past two chapters have just been build up,, there’s gonna be a lot of mushy stuff coming up soon. Thanks for your patience!

It’s really hard to find time to write, but yeah taking smaller chunks like this makes it easier for me. Expect updates every 1-2 weeks, usually around Sat-Mon nights. Thanks so much for keeping up!

And you know what to do, please like and comment and reblog! It keeps me going :)

All my love,

Madmadmilk 🥰

** i do NOT keep up with a taglist. track #one after the one to keep up with the updates, or check out my masterlist! thanks!

[mewtwowarrior]

I think I’ve finalized Ark’s backstory. I did a little editing to the previous drafts, but I think I’ve got the story in a solid place.

Since I’m trying to style it as an episode of Tron: Uprising, a lot of the episode titles are one word, so I’m calling it “Another.”

It’s split into 4 chapters and runs a little over 5,000 words.

-

Rough drafts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Second drafts: Part 1 | Part 2 version 1 | Part 2 version 2

Final draft: Combined Parts (you are here)

-

01. The Encounter

With Tron healed, he had started going on missions with Beck, along with taking on some solo missions of his own.

Strangely enough, the Occupation had been subdued lately, which was cause for suspicion, so they had gone out into Argon together to see if they could pick up on any hints or information.

Things had been rather boring, right up until they got ambushed by a group of five Occupation programs.

There were four Sentries lead by an unmasked female program with a blank expression on her face.

Beck had never seen the leading program before, but Tron seemed completely surprised at who stood before them.

There was no time for questions, though, the four Sentries rushed Beck, while their leader went after Tron.

The Sentries kept Beck occupied, coordinating their attacks to keep him on the defense and distracted.

On the other hand, Tron and the new program were fighting furiously, though neither one was landing a blow on the other. Move for move, they matched each other, striking and blocking again and again.

Beck slowly managed to take out his opponents one by one, until the last one was left unconscious.

Their leader blocked Tron's attack and looked around to confirm that her crew was incapacitated.

She disengaged from the fight, fleeing the way she had come.

Tron yelled one word after her, "Ark!"

The program paused as she looked back with a gasp, her eyes widening as she showed the first scrap of emotion since she had arrived.

It lasted only an instant before she shook her head, her expression blanked out once more, and she resumed running away.

Beck, worn out from his four-on-one battle looked from Tron to where the program had left, then back again.

Tron wasn't pursuing her, though he looked somewhat shaken at the encounter.

Beck made his way over to Tron, "You know her?"

Tron didn't take his eyes off where she had gone, "I did a long time ago."

Beck raised an eyebrow, "Care to tell me about it?"

"No."

Beck was about to protest about more potentially dangerous secrets when Tron sighed and continued, "But, I'll tell you when we get back to the lair."

Tron lead the way back, while Beck's mind buzzed with questions, who was she?

Once at the lair, Beck fidgeted slightly as he waited for Tron, he knew there was no sense in pushing him, he'd do it on his own time.

Suddenly, almost without warning, Tron spoke, "Her name is Ark."

That was the one thing Beck had figured out, but, it was a start.

"You know that you're not the first to wear my circuits. She was the second."

Beck raised an eyebrow, but chose to say nothing yet.

"Don't give me that look. It's different, we knew each other way back before the Occupation took over."

Tron walked up to the display screen and tapped a few buttons, bringing up an image of Ark, this time in blue circuits, instead of the red of the Occupation.

"She was a System Monitor. She was a hard worker and we ended up working together several times. She was friendly with the ISOs, which caused some trouble, but it ultimately saved her life."

Tron activated another image, this time, one of a cloaked program with jagged sickly yellow light lines.

"Right before the coup happened, Clu used a virus to cause chaos and further his goals. There was going to be a ceremony celebrating a share of power between Basics and ISOs, but the virus interrupted, causing death and destruction.

"Ark was stationed outside, the virus had gone in a different way, so her and some of the other System Monitors had no idea anything was wrong until programs suddenly fled the ceremony.

"All of the Monitors helped calm down the crowd and got all of the programs to safety. Then, they split up to try and find out what they could about the virus.

"Ark ended up alone in the heart of the city, when an ISO pulled her into an alley. They told her that programs were being rounded up for the Games, that System Monitors were disappearing, and that I was dead. They begged her to hide, afraid that her friendliness with the ISOs would cause her death.

"She was reluctant to give up, but the more the ISO told her, the more it made sense that something bigger than she could handle was going down. She couldn't protect the system if she was dead, so she promised to hide for a short while, but if nothing happened, then she'd continue looking for answers.

"This seemed to appease the ISO, who fled to their own hiding spot and Ark never saw them again.

"As for Ark, she found a place to hide that gave her a prime vantage point to see all of the missing System Monitors march in with red circuits to take over the city. If she hadn't been warned, then she would've been rectified like the rest of them or killed for her defiance."

Beck frowns at this, "She's rectified now, though, so what happened?"

"I did." Tron replied. "She stayed hidden for a while, until things settled down and she wasn't in immediate danger. From there, she quietly snuck around and learned about the Occupation and their takeover. She didn't care much for them, so she took matters into her own hands, stopping them from bullying innocent programs and picking fights whenever she saw just a couple of them."

Tron smiled wistfully, "In that way, you remind me of her. Both of you fought back despite the odds, because you didn't like what the system had become under the Occupation."

He sighed softly, "Anyway, it wasn't long before people were talking about some kind of vigilante, so I sought her out. We recognized each other immediately and she agreed to team up with me without hesitation.

"She was a good Renegade, but didn't last long. After more successful missions, there was word going around about a dangerous new weapon that the Occupation was working on nearby. The information seemed suspect, but Ark insisted on investigating it. To her, the risk of the weapon being real was too great to ignore.

"So, she went in alone. I waited at the rendezvous point for far longer than the meeting time we had agreed on, but she never came back. After that, I never saw her again. I had hoped that meant she was dead, rather than forced to be rectified, but I wasn't sure if that really was worse or better."

Tron shook his head, "With her suddenly showing up after all of these cycles, it's likely the Occupation is trying to use her to draw us into a trap. We must proceed carefully from here on out. If you see her, do not engage."

It was Beck's turn to sigh as he tried to process all of this new information, "All right, I promise. We won't jump into anything without being sure of it."

He walked over to Tron and put a hand on his shoulder, "We'll get her back, I promise. She recognized her name, she's still in there somewhere."

Tron nodded silently before replying, "Thank you."

-

02. The Mistake

Even though Tron didn't know exactly what had happened to Ark, he could guess on the details. However, he had no idea of the depth of what went on after she was captured...

Ark understood Tron's concerns, but this time, her concerns had outweighed his. He knew he couldn't stop her from going, so he had suggested that they meet back up at a certain place and time, so that if she was pursued, he could give her a hand.

She had agreed to this, said her goodbyes, then took off. She had been studying the building and the guard patterns for some time now, so she knew sneaking in would be easy. After that, though, there was little information, just that somewhere in the building was a weapon that Clu could use to easily stop any programs that even thought about resisting. Tron, her, and anyone else they could recruit would be in even more danger than ever.

The lack of information gave her pause, though, and for a moment, she considered turning back around. But, her pride and stubbornness won out and she kept going. This was something she had to do, even if Tron didn't agree with it.

She wore his circuits, like she did on every mission, and they brought her some comfort. Even if he wasn't here with her, he was the best on the Grid, maybe some of his talents came along with his emblem.

Getting in was just a matter of waiting for the right time, and she had timed her approach to coincide with the Sentries' movements.

For an instant, she wondered that if this gap in the guards was purposeful, and that Tron was right. But, she shook her head, if she kept believing that she'd fail, then she would. Even if Tron was right, and it was a trap, she had gotten out of worse situations. They both had.

Once she was in, she wandered endless dark hallways empty of everything but her footsteps. Trying to walk as quietly as possible, she made her way through the building, until she entered a large room.

Sticking to the edges and finding nothing and no one there, she slowly walked towards the middle to see if she could find anything there.

What she found was an ambush.

Countless Sentries dropped down from above and went in after her.

Ark activated her staff and fought for her life. She derezzed what felt like endless amounts of Sentries, but there were still far more of them than she had energy to deal with. The longer the battle went on, the more exhausted she got, starting to falter and make mistakes. After receiving quite a few injuries, she finally collapsed and was immediately surrounded.

Two Sentries hauled her to her knees, holding her upright by grabbing her arms tightly. She felt a disc rest at the back of her neck, another reminder that she wasn't going anywhere of her own accord.

Glowing yellow circuits ominously appeared in the darkness and walked towards her as Ark realized just how much trouble she was in. The Administrator himself had set this trap and she had just walked right into it.

Clu leaned down, "Well now, what do we have here? You're clearly not Tron, but you're wearing his circuits. Let's see who you really are."

He reached up under her chin and casually pressed the button to deactivate her helmet and reveal her face.

As her helmet disappeared, Ark directed a defiant glare up at Clu.

"You? Now, isn't this interesting? Here I thought all of the System Monitors were under my control, but it seems I've been mistaken. I thought Abraxas had gotten you all those cycles ago. You're quite resilient to survive everything after all this time. Well, until now."

Clu paced in front of her, seemingly trying to make a decision, "What to do with you? Obviously, I can't let you go. You've been disrupting things and making a nuisance of yourself."

Suddenly, he's back in front of her, leaning down, "How about a deal? I could use more competent soldiers like yourself. Give me Tron's location, willingly join me, and you'll survive. I'll make sure that you're well taken care of, with all the comforts you desire. I can't imagine your vigilante lifestyle is terribly cozy. It's a more than generous offer, but, what can I say, you've caught me in a good mood."

Ark's only reply was an icy glare.

"Oh. You're going to do this the hard way. Suit yourself. There's ways of getting the information I want and ways of making you work for me. They won't be any fun for you, but the programs torturing you will definitely enjoy it."

He takes a step back, "I could look at your disc and get Tron's location out of your memories, but, I want to hear you say it. I want you to give up your hero and personally betray him. I want you to know that resisting me will get you and those you care about absolutely nowhere."

Clu casually waves a hand to the programs holding her, "You know where to take her."

The two Sentries drag Ark off. She doesn't cooperate with them, but, since she's trying to save her energy, she doesn't fight them, either. She just goes limp and makes them drag her along.

When they reach the designated torture room, she uses every last scrap of energy to try and break free. She manages it for a moment, but it's a short lived freedom as they tackle her and slam her to the ground.

They pick her up and drag her to a table and strap her to it. For all the trouble she's caused, one of them hits the corner of the table, causing it to spin. When it settles, she's stuck at an angle and upside down.

It's disorienting and she's left like this for a while, until a program she doesn't recognize comes in.

She's adjusted to be back upright and the torture begins. Bursts of electricity are sent through her at different strengths and at various places.

The process is horrific, but Ark seeks refuge in her code, focusing on it instead of the pain. As a System Monitor, she's programmed to protect the Grid and do what's best for it. Giving up Tron would doom everyone, so she's secure in the knowledge that no matter how much this hurts, she's doing what has to be done.

Her screams echo down the hallway, but she never begs for it to stop, she never says anything coherent at all.

The torture is endless, all she knows is pain. Ark doesn't know how much time has passed or how much longer it'll go on. Sometimes she's left alone to recover, but the peace just makes the next torture session hurt all the worse.

Her torturer seems irritated that she won't break. At one point, she was jabbed in the side with an even higher amount of electricity and pain than usual, and after that, things never felt quite right. But, it was hard to tell much of anything around all of the pain.

Cycles pass and it's hard for Ark to know where she is any more. All she knows is that she cannot give up Tron.

Finally, things are different. She's left alone long enough for her to start being able to think. The pain is ever present, but her mind begins to clear.

"Still as resilient as ever." An all-too-familiar voice addressed her. Clu strolls up to Ark, "They say you won't give up your memories, so I'm going to make sure that you no longer have any memories at all."

He turns his attention to another program in the room, "Get her healed up, but leave the scars as a reminder as to what happens to programs that defy me."

Clu looks back to Ark, "I'll see you soon." He leaves the room and his programs to their work.

It takes a while to get Ark back in functioning shape, several different healing techniques are needed in order to repair the extensive damage done to her over many, many cycles. The outlines of the vast amount of injuries remain, though, just as Clu had ordered.

They bring her to another room where Clu was awaiting them. Two programs remove her from the table, and as soon as she's free, Ark tries to break away and escape. But, she's easily stopped by several more programs she hadn't been aware of.

Clu smirks, "A fighter right up until the very end. That's what makes you so valuable. It'd be a shame to just derezz you."

Ark's shoved into a glass chamber, which she immediately tries to break.

Clu watches her struggle for a short period of time, before signaling for the process to begin.

Ark fights until she can't any more. She struggles to resist what the machine's forcing her to do, until it finally takes over and her programming is overlaid with the Occupation's mind-controlling code.

Once the process is over, she's removed from the chamber and Clu inspects her.

"A story Flynn once mentioned comes to mind. He often spoke of an old User city called Rome. There resided someone who was called 'The God of War'. I think that's a fitting title for her, she'll help me put an end to the war for the Grid. Now, she just needs the name to go along with it." He puts a hand on her shoulder and addresses her, "We've got a lot of work to do, Mars."

-

03. The Rescue

Tron and Beck kept getting ambushed by Ark. Again and again, she'd show up with a group of Sentries, instigate a fight, and then flee afterwards.

They catalogued everything about every instance, especially the location, and a pattern began to emerge.

She was slowly leading them somewhere. But, at this point in time, it was hard to tell exactly where. There were many buildings in that direction, and quite a few of them were under the Occupation's control.

If they could figure out where quickly enough, they could spring the trap before the Occupation could set it.

Most of the time, she attacked them when they were together, but on occasion, she would fight just one of them.

So, Beck and Tron made a plan to split up and track Ark. Since she knew Tron and seemed focused on him, he'd fight her, while Beck would follow her when she fled.

It took a few tries to get it right. Several times, she attacked before they split up or ended up targeting Beck instead.

But, soon, everything lined up in their favor. When she was focused on Tron, Beck was able to stay back and keep eyes on her.

He kept a safe distance from Ark, making sure that she didn't know she was being followed. After they traveled several blocks, finally, she entered a large building.

Memorizing everything he thought was useful, he met back up with Tron to give him the information.

Thanks to being a System Monitor and his close association with Flynn, Tron had access to schematics of all the buildings in the city. The Occupation would've modified the building to their needs, but they had enough to work with.

Based off the blueprints and their experience with the Occupation, there were a couple places that they were likely to be holding Ark.

One of the sides of the building had a loading area, so, when Occupation members were busy unloading a truck, Beck and Tron slipped right past them.

They silently headed up the stairs, the first two floors they tried didn't look like holding areas, but the third was lined with cells.

The floor was dark, and only one cell had an active barrier and an occupant. As they crept closer, it was clear that Ark was in the cell. She was standing there with the blank expression on her face that she always had.

It didn't take long for them to deactivate the barrier and set her free. Tron darted in and quickly stunned her with a low-power pulse, just enough to knock her out for a short while.

Tron scooped up Ark to carry her in his arms and followed behind Beck as they left faster than they had come in.

Things continue going smoothly until they reach the loading area and are greeted by a group of Sentries.

With Tron's hands full, all the fighting came down to Beck, while Tron dodged discs left and right.

They weren't trying to win, just make a path to freedom. As soon as there was an opportunity, they ran for it, though Beck still had to knock down a few opponents.

Paige arrived on the scene just in time to see the two Renegades escape with a captive Occupation member.

Tron and Beck had set up a temporary base in the city, so they secured Ark and hid there while the Occupation searched the city for them.

Once they rested up from their frantic flight, they started investigating Ark's disc. Ark herself had woken up and was just staring blankly off into space.

The Occupation code seemed to be overlaid over her original code, though there were a few older memories that were mixed in and easily accessible.

A quick check of the memories revealed her repeated torture at the hands of the Occupation. There was nothing else before or after that of Ark's memories, the torture suddenly stopped, there was a gap of time, and then her memories of being with the Occupation began.

Since Ark had seemed to respond to Tron's voice before, they tried it again. Tron stood in view of her and said her name.

Like before, her eyes widened and she gasped softly, before returning back to her empty gaze.

Beck had been monitoring her disc, when she recognized Tron, a memory had briefly bubbled to the surface and he had managed to activate it.

It was a short memory, and the timestamp indicated that it was from some time before the Occupation took over.

There was no context to it, it just consisted of Ark standing there in her System Monitor armor, while Tron praised her for a job well done.

Beck looked to Tron, "Looks like she really thought a lot of you."

Tron nodded quietly, and with a heavy sigh, he went back to looking at Ark's disc, "There has to be something else we can use to bring her back."

Beck thought this over, "I'm just a mechanic, but, my wrench works with a lot of things, lemme try it."

He took the disc from Tron and attached his wrench to it. More information popped up and he started scouring the data.

The layer of Occupation code was straightforward, except for one section, where it seemed to go around and bypass something. The more he looked into it, it was clear that something was wrong, but he had no idea what it could possibly be.

"Hey, look at this. Something's off here, but I don't know what."

Tron gave it a look, "I'm not sure, either. We need a medic to figure it out."

Beck sighed, "I only know one medic, and I don't think she's too interested in helping us."

Tron looked at Beck resolutely, "We'll figure something out." They weren't on a time crunch now, so they had time to look into different options.

With nothing more they could do right now, they both took a much-needed rest.

-

04. The Return

As time rolled on, both Tron and Beck investigated Ark's disc, but came to no new conclusions. Time passing also lessened the search against them, so much so, that they decided to take turns going out into the city. Maybe a change of pace would help, and maybe they could find a medic willing to assist the Renegades.

Their brief jaunts into the city were unmemorable for the most part, right up until Paige found Beck.

He had continued to wear the Renegade armor and helmet, in the hopes that someone sympathetic and loyal to the cause would offer their help, but, this time, he got slammed to the ground instead.

"Where is she?!" Paige yelled, "What did you do with her?!"

Beck saw the opportunity this presented, and the many problems that came with it, and took a leap of faith.

"She's safe, but she needs help."

Paige hissed, "She needs help because you kidnapped her."

Beck shook his head the best he could, "It's more than that. There's something wrong with her disc."

Paige growled, "She could get the proper care with the Occupation, instead of a couple of vigilantes."

Beck sighed, "Look, I'll make you a deal."

Paige interrupted, "I don't make deals with kidnappers."

"Just hear me out. If you can fix her, you can take her back to the Occupation, no trouble. I just ask that you watch her memories and make sure that you think that going back to the Occupation is the right thing for her."

This gives Paige pause and she considers it. If this offer was valid, the Renegade would take her straight to his hideout, then she'd have the location of both Renegades and the kidnapped Occupation member. There was a chance that this was a trap, but, she knew that she could take both Renegades, or at least hold them off long enough while she called for backup.

There was no way she could lose. "Fine. Take me to her. The sooner we get this done, the sooner she'll be back where she belongs."

Paige let Beck up and he lead the way, "Do you even know who she is?"

"I don't know every member of the Occupation."

Beck looked back to her, "She was locked up in a cell. Did you ever think that maybe they didn't want you to know who she was?"

Paige didn't like this, but found a plausible reason, "If something's wrong with her, maybe she was quarantined."

Beck turned his gaze ahead, "Maybe. You'll be able to figure it out once you look at her disc."

He took her around a long path, trying to obscure the location as best he could. It might be a temporary lair, but he didn't want to just hand the Occupation an invitation.

As they entered, Beck warned Tron by saying loudly, "I brought a guest."

Out of their current line of sight, Tron activated his helmet and stood watch in the corner. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he trusted Beck.

Paige eyed the sparse room, "Nice place you got here."

Beck just shrugged, "Hey, you work with what you've got."

Paige went over to Ark and started examining her. Once she's done, she looks to Beck, "Nothing seems wrong with her physically, except for some scar remnants and the fact that she never reacted to me looking her over, did you sedate her?"

Beck shook his head, "No. All of that is the Occupation's doing."

Paige snorted, "We'll see about that."

She carefully undocked Ark's disc and started looking at the files, "Her code's a mess."

Beck gestured to Ark, "The Occupation again."

Paige rolled her eyes and got back to work. Clearly the Renegade was going to be no help to her.

She got down to the code bypass and frowned as she saw what it was going around, "Her energy processor is completely burned out, only a large amount of electricity could do that. She was unconscious when you took her, how hard did you shock her?"

Beck shook his head, "Not that hard. We didn't want to hurt her, so we used the minimum amount to knock her out."

Paige gestured angrily at him, "Then why is her processor destroyed?"

Beck gestured right back, "You'll find that answer in her memories. The older ones before the gap." He paused, then added, "You're not going to like it, though."

Paige snorted, "We'll see about that."

She confidently went to the indicated memories, sure that she'd see some sort of injustice acted upon this program by one or both of the Renegades.

Instead, she watched in absolute horror as a red-circuited Occupation program brutally tortured the program again and again.

She's about to accuse the Renegade of rewriting the memories, but she keeps looking, there's far too many matching memories for it all of them to be altered. Something on this scale would be far too dangerous for the program involved.

Paige wavered, her faith shaken. But, she quickly came back to her senses. She had a patient to take care of.

She went back to the damaged portion of the disc and went to work. She's not seen this kind of damage often and she wasn't prepared for it, so it's slow going.

After quite a while, she finally gets the energy processor fixed, but she's not done yet. Digging through the files, she sees that the messy, overlaid code is locked in as the default setting.

Paige does some experimenting, and after seeing the old memory featuring Tron, she uses it to make a backdoor around the default code. Combining the bypass with the remnants of older code from the memory, she's able to reconnect the original code. Once it's in place, she locks the original code to default and seals away the added code. With the extra code unconnected to anything, it won't cause any harm to the program, so she leaves it as is.

She double-checks her work, and once she's confident that everything's correct, she hands the disc to Beck.

"This should fix her. I have to go."

As Paige quietly leaves back out into the city, Tron looks over to Beck.

"I don't think she liked what she saw."

Beck nodded, "I think maybe her faith in the Occupation was finally shaken. I hope so, anyway."

"We can only hope."

Beck then put Ark's disc back on her dock and they waited while all the changes loaded and took place.

Tron stood in front of Ark, so that he'd be the first person she saw after coming back.

The process takes a while, but, finally, Ark's eyes light up and her expression warms from the cold look they had been accustomed to seeing. She blinks while looking around and gathering her bearings.

Finally, she realizes that Tron's there and she gasps, "Tron! You were right, it was a trap, I'm sorry I didn't listen to you."

Before he can reply, more memories hit, "Wait...they...they rectified me. How did you fix me?"

Tron gave a small smile, "With the help of a friend." He gestured Beck over, "This is Beck, and he knew someone that was able to help you."

Ark smiled and nodded to Beck, "Thanks and thanks to your friend for saving me."

Beck gave her a grin, "You're welcome. And, welcome back to the Resistance."

Tron walked over and freed her from her restraints. Ark stretched out the stiffness, then gave Beck a grin of her own, "It's good to be back."

[im-the-king-of-the-ocean]

Penny/Oscar prompt(with trans!Penny and trans!Oscar): Still feeling confused by being chosen as the Winter maiden, she approaches Oscar about whether she can really be a Maiden when her soul came from a man. Oscar tries his best to answer as himself, saying they're not so different as Oz only reincarnates into men, and explains he wasn't born as one, but that it's their feelings towards their gender and own identity that matters more and is a true reflection of their soul.

I don’t think I’m ever going to be completely happy with this one.  It’s been through (at minimum 3-4) drafts and waaay too many read throughs.  I’m just gonna call it done here.  A part of me feels like I could still make it better somehow, but I already put all that I could into it.

That said, Penny and Oscar as valid af and anyone who disagrees can fight me behind Denny’s (sure I’ll probably lose because I’m basically Steve Rogers before he became Captain America, but yeah).

Also if it doesn’t come across that they’re valid af in this fic, I will just go and edit it some more.  I did my best, but I also am somewhat worried that’s not enough.

anywhoooo off to the fic!

.

There Are No Strings On Me (The Farm Boy Is Also A Cricket, Too)

Penny watches the airship lift off and fly away.  She hates staying behind like this.  She understands why.  What she is now, a Maiden—she’s too important to risk on a reconnaissance mission.  The fate of Atlas, Mantle, the entire world rests partially on her shoulders, and not just in an ‘Ironwood telling her that it will be her job to save the world one day’ way.  This is real.  Too real.

Penny holds one of her hands in the other.  She rubs circles with her thumb on her open palm.  Her father, the first chance he got, repaired the damage Cinder’s fiery blade caused when it exploded.  She’s glad for that.  There’s no doubt in her mind that there will be a battle in the near future she will take part in.  Going into a fight with sustained damages is no good.

Penny closes her eyes.  A part of her wants to playback that terrifying moment.  Hurtling through the air, her sensors alerting her to the incoming blade, catching it, her hands overheating.  Spinning out of control.  Falling.

Catching herself.

She refuses to let herself do more than think about it.  She survived the fight.  So did Winter.  That’s what really matters.  

Although, dying doesn’t necessarily scare Penny.  She’s done it once already.  She doesn’t remember it or the time between it and her reactivation.  She never felt pain, terror.  One moment she knew nothing more, and the next she was blinking awake in her father’s lab.  Penny knows truly dying means not waking up again, but she finds it hard to fear the moment when it’ll eventually happen definitively for her.

What she does fear, and what she would cry over if she had the capacity, is the possibility of an afterlife.  Penny has hard evidence now that, if an afterlife does exist, she doesn’t get to go there.  She doesn’t go anywhere.  She just shuts off.  Like any other machine.

She’s not real like actual people are.  She’s a very close replication of life, but there’s still a gaping chasm between her and everyone else.  One that she can never cross precisely because of what she is.

I have come too far to be stopped by some toy!

They’re words said in rage by someone whose opinion Penny knows she shouldn’t really be considering, but they’ve stuck with her since they were yelled at her.  Is that what she is?  A toy?  A puppet?  A plaything?  An imitation of life meant to explore humanity’s capacity for creation?

An imitation of humanity itself, one that deceived—stole—one of its greatest powers out from under it?

Penny can’t describe what having the Maiden powers feels like.  They’re just there.  A part of her, but one that’s somehow detached from her operating systems.  She controls them, can send commands and signals to them like she does literally every other aspect of her body, but they are distinctly separate from her machinery.  Like a magnet that got accidentally stuck to her and won’t come off.  Not truly a part of her.  Not really.

She shouldn’t have gotten them at all.  The Maiden powers were intended as a gift from an old wizard to four living girls, to aid mankind.  Penny isn’t alive, not like everyone else is.  The gift to the maidens was never meant for her.  She intervened in a process she should have stayed out of.  It was not her place to act like she had.

But if she hadn’t…

Penny can imagine what would have happened if Cinder won that fight.  Fria’s final moments would not have been peaceful.  Winter, out of aura and injured, would be in no condition to continue a fight against an even stronger opponent.  Penny herself…well, she already knew how little Cinder regarded her life.

She’d had no choice, hadn’t she?  To save all three of them.  To not waste the window of opportunity Winter gave her by distracting Cinder.  In those precious moments, there was only her.  Penny.

She could have told Fria to think of Winter, couldn’t she?  Fria knew Winter.  Thinking of her probably wouldn’t have been too hard.  But, Penny hadn’t.  Penny had taken Fria’s hand and held it.  Because no one should be alone in that final moment.  Because she couldn’t say she knew what awaited Fria on the other side and she wanted to give Fria whatever comfort she could to send her off.  Because, in that moment, the magical powers hadn’t mattered, but the old woman in Penny’s arms did.

Now, here she is, the Winter Maiden.  A thief of a gift to humanity.

“You okay?”

Penny nearly jumps.  She hadn’t heard Oscar come up behind her.  Her receptors had captured the echoing sound, sure, but her processors hadn’t been attuned to register it.

“I—I’m fine,” Penny says too hurriedly, and closes her lips firmly to prevent the hiccup from escaping her.

Oscar looks at Penny a long moment, and then sits down beside her.  “I hate staying behind like this,” he admits, gesturing to the cave opening the airship flew out of to exit the Crater.  “I know there’s more I can be doing but I…”

“Are too important,” Penny finishes for him.  And he is.  Ozpin can always reincarnate into someone else, yes, but there will only ever be one Oscar Pine.  Even if he stayed behind, like her, because of the special magic connected to him, that’s the truth Penny believes firmly in.

“I guess you know what that’s like.”  Oscar laughs quietly.

Penny doesn’t answer.  They settle into silence.  It’s an odd place to sit, really, the opening that looks out over the Crater.  They have an entire, somewhat comfortable, temporary hideout to go rest in, but neither really want to leave the spot where they can see the sliver of the sky where the airship will first appear when it returns.

“Penny, I…” Oscar begins, and Penny turns to him to listen.  “If it was going to be anyone, I’m glad you’re the Winter Maiden.  I know we don’t know each other well, but I do know you’re a good person.”

“Thanks,” Penny replies quietly.  She knows the words are supposed to be reassuring, but they fall flat to her.  Again, she’d been the only one there, in that moment with Fria.  If the Maiden powers could have gone somewhere else, they probably would have.

It was unfair to them, and Fria.  There’s no way the previous maiden could have known Penny’s true nature.  Fria had much more important, pressing matters on her mind to truly take a second and notice the exposed metal of the palms of Penny’s hands, first when she touched her leg, and then when she held her hand.  Fria probably hadn’t had time to realize no ordinary person could have come through the freezing whirlwind of ice and snow.  She probably hadn’t seen how Penny’s legs were clearly synthetic and attached together at an artificial knee.

Despite being a Maiden who lived well into old age and was, therefore, arguably very clever,  Fria probably hadn’t noticed all the little hints that indicated what Penny is, even though she had every reason to critically examine Penny, since she’d been attacked for the power she was tasked with protecting mere minutes before.

Because that would mean Fria had known (or at least suspected) Penny’s true nature, and decided to choose her anyway.

And why would she do that?  Penny, as she keeps telling herself over and over again, isn’t actually real.  Not a real girl.  Not like Ruby and the rest of her team.  Not like Nora, or Winter, or even Cinder, who’s part Grimm now.  All of them were born, created as girls, and Penny was…well her father had been more focused on building something that functioned.  He’d never chosen a gender for her.  She did that herself, later on, after she gained consciousness.  But he’d given her his aura, and her father was a man.  So, following that line of logic, shouldn’t she too be a man too?

“What if it was a mistake?”  Penny asks Oscar in barely a whisper.

He looks at her.  “What if what was a mistake?”

Penny takes a breath she wholly doesn’t need, but the action she learned is one that people do when they need to prepare themselves to say something important.  “Me becoming the Winter Maiden.  I have my father’s aura.  I’m not a real girl.  I tricked some of the most important magic in the world and stole it from humanity and…” she trails off, unsure of how to finish her self-doubting argument.

At first, Oscar doesn’t reply.  Then, “I have Ozpin’s magic, and his memories,” he says slowly.  “Does that make me him?”

“Of course not,” Penny retorts.  “You’re your own person!”

Oscar grins, and Penny gets the feeling it was his ploy to get her to say that, for both their sakes.  “So, if I can still be me, even if I have a wizard living in my head, then why can’t you be your own person even if your father gave you some of his aura?” He posits.

Penny huffs.  “I know I’m not the same being as my father.  There is substantial evidence supporting the concept that we are two entirely separate entities, but I have his aura, and he is a man.  The maiden powers only attach to females.  Therefore, logically, they should not have come to me.”

“So, following that reasoning, aura and gender are linked,” Oscar muses.  He pauses and, if Penny weren’t so wrapped up in her own tumultuous thoughts, she’d recognize the signs that he’s mentally preparing himself to say something he considers very important.  “What if I had evidence to the contrary?”

“What do you mean?”  Penny asks, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Oscar doesn’t look at her.  His shoulders hunch in.  Instinctively, Penny reaches over and wraps a reassuring arm around his shoulders.  She doesn’t know what he’s going to say next, but she can still recognize it’s hard for him to say.

“I was…I am…Penny, do you know what being transgender is?”

Penny doesn’t reply.  The moment she heard the unfamiliar word, she immediately sent out an inquiry to the Internet to find its meaning.

“Transgender,” she finally says.  “Denotes or relates to a person whose gender identity and expression does not correspond with what it was at birth.”

Oscar lets out a sharp laugh.  “That’s one way of putting it, I guess.”  He pauses.  Sensing he’s not finished, Penny waits for him to continue.  He does.  “For me, it means, when my parents’ only child was born, they had a daughter.”  Oscar glances at her warily, but Penny doesn’t interrupt.  He gazes down at his hands, and sighs.  “And that they never got to meet their son either.  They died before he figured that out about himself.”  Hurriedly, he adds, “That’s not the point,” while wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

Penny hugs Oscar, hoping to communicate that he doesn’t have to explain further to her if he doesn’t want to.

Oscar leans into the hug.  He doesn’t wrap his arms around Penny in return, but he does rest his weight on her.  “The point is,” he starts again.  “I once had…doubts.  Kind of like you do.  But I learned aura and gender aren’t really related.  Aura is just aura.  It doesn’t really concern itself with any other part of you.  It’s just there.  Completely yours.  It’s what we believe about ourselves, our identities, that makes us who we are.”

“But my aura is my—”

“Yours.”  Oscar sits back.  “Penny, have you ever considered that all parents create their children’s auras when they conceive them?”

“What?”

“It’s something Oz told me once.  We had a conversation kind of like this.”  Oscar inhales slowly and exhales.  “Oz told me everything comes from somewhere.  He has…interesting theories on the origins of Dust and semblances, for instance.  But he told me, our parents are always a part of us, because they gave a part of themselves to make us.  He said, because of that, mine will always be with me.”  Oscar stares down at his hands.  “Even if I never got to know them.  My aunt used to say the same, that I had my father’s laugh and my aura is nearly the same shade of green as my mother’s, but she’s not an ancient, mystical immortal, so I guess she was harder to believe.”

He smiles softly.  “It’s reassuring, in a way.  To know they gave me part of who I am.  My aura.  My laugh.  My appearance, to an extent.  But they didn’t decide who I am.  I’ve done that on my own.”  Oscar looks up at Penny.  “So have you.  You said it yourself.  You aren’t your father.  You have substantial evidence proving that.”

“But you’re human.  I’m not alive.  I don’t have a soul like—”

“How do you know?”  Oscar interrupts.  “How do you know you don’t have a soul?”

Penny hesitates, and then admits what she’s been thinking,  “I died.  I died and I didn’t go to an afterlife or anything.  I just shut down like any other old machine.”

There’s a long pause where Oscar doesn’t say anything.  Penny begins to think he doesn’t have an argument to refute her claim.  When she’s about to stand and walk away, Oscar finally speaks.

“What if you weren’t dead?”  He asks quietly.

“What?”

“Your father recovered your core, you, from Amity Arena, and used it to rebuild you.  A part of you never shut down completely.  In your own way, you were still alive.”  Though the words seem more like an statement, Oscar speaks them like he’s asking a question.

“I guess.”  Penny frowns.  She’s never really thought of it like that before.  Everyone told her she died, so she assumed she had.  But, a part of her had still existed in the world, hadn’t it?  Vulnerable.  Weak.  But not snuffed out completely.

Penny thinks about it more deeply.  Maybe it was like she had been in a coma?  When people are grievously injured, they can go into comas.  They don’t necessarily remember what happens during them either.  They wake up on the other end still alive, just with a gaping hole of time they weren’t conscious for in their life.  Like her.

“That doesn’t mean I have a soul or will go to an afterlife like everyone else,” Penny mumbles, but she’s not as certain that she believes herself now.

“Penny, I’m not sure how else to tell you this, but no one knows what happens to us after we die.  Not even me, and I—well, Ozma—sort of died once.  Actually, it was more like a couple times.”  Oscar winces.  “But Ozma didn’t maintain memories of what happened to him after once the God of Light brought him back.”  He smiles at her.  “Wondering about it, I think, is one of the most human things someone can do.”

“Oh.”  Penny considers the idea that she’s just as alive as everyone else is, and lets that sink in.

“If it helps.”  Oscar leans back on his hands and looks up to the small sliver of sky that’s visible to them.  “We’re probably the only two people who can be completely certain about their identities.”

“How so?”  Curious, Penny cocks her head.

“I was chosen as the next life as an immortal who only reincarnates into men.  You’re the Winter Maiden, who can only be a girl.”  Oscar shrugs.  “We were each chosen by magic older than this incarnation of humanity itself based on the identities we decided for ourselves.  If that’s not validating, I don’t know what is.”

“I never thought about it like that.”  Penny sighs.  “I—I thought I tricked it.  That I looked enough like a girl that the maiden powers came to me because they had no place else to go.”

“The maiden powers are meant to go to those who will travel out in the world and make it a better place because they are able to.  I think that fits you pretty well.”

[allycryz]

Duende - Uri & Haurche :3

PG because Haurchefant makes innuendo, set during early Stormblood.

The first draft of this was super easy to get out. The edits were a little harder because Urianger’s voice is very different from mine, but a good challenge all the same!!

‘Tis expected of a Scion to battle as expertly as one might pen a treatise. Urianger schedules two ventures per day to hone his physical talents: a bracing run before dawn and a lengthy solo training session at dusk. For the latter, he takes to the rocky shore along the coast line. The precarious climb to his preferred spot (providing both privacy and space) is part of his regimen.

Urianger picks the times when visibility is low and most residents occupied. Small talk is not his wont, nor is he at ease with those not in his immediate circle. There is something about his unmasked, unhooded face that gives strangers tacit permission to approach.

His position and decorum dictate that he engage somewhat in chatter during his errands. The residents do not press overmuch, for which he is grateful. Still, the task fits him worse than the too-small aldgoat leather gloves Lyse gifted him on his last Nameday. (Except, those he could not put on as easily as he might a polite demeanor. They refused to go past the breadth of his palm.)

There are days when the convenience of sunrise and sunset for sundry reasons, prove incompatible with other needs such as visibility and safety.

The unexpected rain pours down as he wends his weary way up the cliffs. It sluices through his hair, running rivulets over his brow. For the dozenth time, he swipes at his face and squints against the onslaught.

His feet remember where to place, his hands where to grip for balance. These are his cliffs and his winding, narrow path. No one knows it better. Should that memory etched into his muscle fail, a fall here would not be deadly.

‘Twould be painful though, and impact his duties for the next few days. For that latter reason–above all–he takes longer than usual along the rain-slicked terrain. 

There, he thinks as he nears the safety of the plateau. Urianger blows out a soft breath of relief, relaxing muscles he has kept tense during the arduous journey. For this stretch he has always found it best to walk sideways, arms spread for balance. It has never been a treacherous spot, simply steep enough to warrant caution.

Today, treachery comes at last. He takes a step up the incline, shifts to lift the other foot. The slippery grass beneath his boots gives way and both feet shoot out from under him. He has enough presence of mind to throw his gravity forward rather than backwards.

The impact is unpleasant but survivable; naught but his palms and dignity scraped. Dirt and mud bespatter the front of his shorter training robe. The cotton garment ends below his knees, the boots just above. Thus the joints are spared injury besides a dull ache. He chooses an ignominious crawl up to the plateau rather than risk another fall by rising on the sodden incline.

The rain is not so courteous as to clean his garments. It does offer some reprieve as he turns his stinging palms up to the sky and rubs the rainwater against the creases of grime and grass.

Ah, well. Rain is uncommon enough that he should be glad when it comes. Should his comrades ever summon him to battle in such precipitation, he shall be well-prepared. Lord Haurchefant oft speaks of how training in winter climes these five years have better forged him for difficult conflict. (Urianger suspects it is not only snow and ice that stood in the knight’s way.)

He finds himself smiling, thinking of his new colleague. Though their base is near underground, ‘tis not wholly cut off from the outside world. Vents let in sunlight, rain can be heard pouring upon the streets. Like as not, Haurchefant put a kettle on soon as he perceived the change in weather. 

The Waking Sands are enchanted to remain a cool temperature. If the sun does return in full force, they shall not overheat drinking cocoa.

Befouled, bedraggled, and besodden; he returns to the outskirts of Vesper Bay. The twilight and the rain have not put off the residents. A knot of people gathers near the market stalls, the hum of their voices rising just above the thrum of rain upon roof and stone and sea. The citizens hold cloaks and hands over their head as shields, one has a parasol meant for sun and aesthetics. 

‘Tis a lovely pink one with expensive-seeming trim. A shame it is likely ruined.

The reason for their cluster becomes apparent. Lord Haurchefant is the focus upon which they circle, tallest among them save two other residents. His silvered head is bent to them as they harken to his low voice. This eve, he has garbed himself in a long scarlet coat over his usual apparel. ‘Tis the first time he has donned sleeves since his arrival.

 (For all the good it did me to be tempered by winter, his lordship had said. It does make me rather pitiful in a desert. I shall do my best to acclimate to Thanalan.) 

They all gaze upon him with utter rapture. It has ever been so, since his lordship’s residence began in the Waking Sands while Urianger’s comrades and Haurchefant’s love continued on to Gyr Abania. Their adoration is not due solely to his fair countenance or noble title, though both must aid the cause.

There is an...openness in him that beguiles all he meets. Urianger has witnessed the surliest residents and most peevish of vendors open like blossoms to the sun when Haurchefant turns the glory of his attention upon them. Such an unusual power he has seldom witnessed and never from so kind a soul as this knight.

There is no avoiding this throng, even would it not be unconscionably rude to avoid his guest. At least there is a smaller chance of strangers engaging him in conversation. Not with a beacon such as Haurchefant seizing their attention, both intentionally and involuntarily.

“-suppose he will be alright, he knows the land better than I.” He hears Haurchefant saying as he approaches. His noble brow is drawn down, his battle-sculpted arms folded. “But do let me know if you see him. No one expected this rainfall.”

Doth he….speak of me? Urianger wonders. As if attuned to his thoughts, his lordship turns his way. Surprise, then relief, and then rapture all pass across his handsome features.

“Urianger!” He exclaims. “Thank the Fury. I was worried–I know you favor treacherous paths,and with the dark and the rain…”

“I am well,” says Urianger. “Thy concern is much appreciated and noted. ‘Twould have been a perilous journey had I not been close acquainted with yon cliffs.”

Haurchefant steps towards him, gaze sweeping up and down. Lingering on his bare face, throat, and collar. “It seems it was perilous for your clothes. Let’s get you inside and taken care of, yes?”

One of the crowd smiles at Urianger. Mara, he recalls, the tall Hyur woman who hawks fruit.  “Well, we’re glad you’re alright, ser. I was just telling June that I worry when I see you go off in the dark.”

“Ah,” he says, trying to recall which is June. The baker. Yonder woman with the braids who oft gives thee extra tea biscuits. “Tis not my intent to cause worry. I am well versed in the land and how best to scale it.”

“Even knowing that, do be careful.” Mara gives an imperious nod. Others nod as well, their eyes on him and not the handsome knight.

He can only nod again, bearing and smile stiff. He does not recall all their names. It makes him feel the most ill-mannered of scoundrels. He sweeps into a bow towards them, hoping it goes to some measure in repaying their concerns. “I shall endeavor to have a care, my lady. Your solicitous care bringeth warmth into mine heart, ‘tis only right I do well by all gathered.”

She smiles and pats his arm. This seems a signal for all to disperse, more residents bestowing upon him pats and nods. It is a wholly alien experience, and he considers he may be lying at the bottom of the cliff in the midst of a delusion. Surely he is not dear to all these people with whom he barely speaks.

“Come friend,” Haurchefant says. “You need to get out of those wet clothes and have something warm in your belly.”

“Thou art just as sodden,” says Urianger. “Pray also attend to yourself. Thou shouldst not catch sick for mine sake.”

“Ah but I would have done so gladly if I had to save you today.” The knight’s smile is wide again, fair dazzling in its potency. Again, Urianger is astonished any resident would look at him with Haurchefant there. Do they not sense the charm radiating from his very core? “I do thank you, for arriving when you did. There are much better games we might play in the dark than hide and seek.”

Urianger near trips on the steps up to the door. Of course, Haurchefant is there to catch him, strong hands righting his balance and smoothing over his back. 

“I beg thine pardon,” says Urianger. Regretful that he has no mask or hood to hide the heat upon his cheeks. As Lord Haurchefant is cheeky himself to everyone, he is likely used to it. ‘Tis not the first time Urianger has witnessed or received innuendo delivered so warmly from this man. “Mayhap I used more energy than I surmised, during my exertions today.”

“Yes,” Haurchefant nods, opening the door. “All the more reason for you to come relax with me once you have cleaned up. I shall not have you burying yourself in work when you have earned respite.”

“For a little while,” says Urianger. He glances back at the streets, at the residents seeking shelter in houses and under awnings. At the way some of them look at them–at him. Relief and concern and warmth in their gazes. He frowns and cannot lose the change to his mien, even in the warmth and dry of the building.

Haurchefant pauses at the top of the stares, giving his shoulders a roll before beginning his descent. ‘Tis late and his friend is often tense in his upper body by the time supper comes. He will need help working the knots loose again. Perhaps Urianger might put off his tasks even further to repay Haurchefant’s worry and concern.

As to everyone else in Vesper Bay, he is at a loss on how to make recompense.

His friend reaches the door to their sanctum and turns back, looking up at Urianger still upon the landing. “Dear Urianger, what is the matter? That’s a rather pensive expression.”

“...I didst not realise the depth of their regard for mine person. Yon residents and I art not particularly close.” He shakes his head.

“Oh,” says Haurchefant, that entrancing smile returning to his mouth. “Do ask me an easier one next time.”

Facetiousness is not Haurchefant’s way. The ironic reply seems out of character. “Yes, I am aware the reasoning seems difficult to determine-”

“‘Tis not.” Haurchefant’s eyes crinkle with laughter. It does not sting–there is no malice in it. He doubts such a quality resides in the knight. “You are quite charming, even when cloaked. It inspires others to take interest in you.”

For the second time, Urianger says “I beg thine pardon? I am not given to using mine wiles-”

“No, no. We should all be in trouble should you do it apurpose. But you have a natural draw that leads people to want to know you. As you signal that is not what you want, they have kept their distance.”

It is an absurd supposition that Haurchefant says with all the conviction of his noble heart. So much does he seem to believe it; that Urianger wants to also trust it, if only for his friend’s sake. “I am...uncertain of the validity of thy premise. However, thy kindness and belief warms my heart. Wouldst that every man hath such a friend as you, my lord.”

At this, Haurchefant lets out a clear, ringing laugh. Again, there is no mockery in it. The sound is joyful and pleased, as seductive a sound as every part of the man. ‘Tis a wonder such a man as he thinks his draw is mirrored in Urianger.

“So I must endeavor to convince you of it, till you are no longer agreeing to humor me.” Haurchefant opens the door, shivering at the blast of magically cooled air upon his wet person. “Well, I look forward to the process. One could do far worse than spending an evening convincing a beautiful man of his charms.”

To that, Urianger has no answer. Nor does Haurchefant expect one. He winks and enters the Waking Sands, door closing behind him.

It occurs to him and the rapid beating of his heart, there is a reason he perceives Haurchefant as charming and beguiling and the one who everyone should desire. Projection has not been a key failing of his, but he has fallen prey to it before. And presently, it seems.

And Haurchefant is correct in one thing: there are far worse ways they might spend the evening. Perhaps Urianger shall put his work on hold tonight, to see the knight’s endeavor in full.

[annerbhp]

Hi there, I love your work! One of the things that really drew me to the changeling is how fantastic and interesting your wide range of characters are. I'm writing a story at the moment - I know the layout of events, and I have ideas that really excite me! But my characters just aren't jumping off the page at me, especially the OC ones. Did you take any steps to prepare your characters? Get to know them, etc? I'd love to know your thoughts if that's okay! Hope you're well.

Interesting question. And I am not sure how much help I’m going to be. I’ve seen a lot of posts about some of the things people do to flesh out their original characters. I seem to recall one that had like a thousand questions to answer about them (like this post for example). This must work for a lot of people. So consider that if you haven’t. (This is my standard, there is no one approach to writing that works, but just various tools that we should all try to see what fits.)

My approach tends to be a bit different. (Maybe I am lazy.) When I create an OC, I think a bit about the balance of people I have in the story already (how many male characters, how many female characters, how white are all my characters, etc, etc). Sometimes I pick a name (sometimes I just write So and So in the draft for a while). And then I start on their character. Which, honestly, I start with a mere shadow, almost a stereotype. They are generally This Kind of Person. Sometimes I will even think of a character I have read in another book, or from a movie, or in a TV show and be like, ‘Ah, they are kind of a Blah Blah person.’ (And if I am writing a character from a marginalized group, I keep in mind the general overused, harmful stereotypes and then avoid them--meaning ‘good at math asian!’ or ‘super strong black woman who can handle anything!’ or ‘gay man is there only to be besties with female character!’ or ‘fat character who is Funny!’) Keep in mind, this is just the first step. But it might give me a general bundle of characteristics. Are they the Sarcastic Little Shit? Are they Quiet but Fierce? Are they Sweet but Clueless? Are they Sporty and Brusque? This just gives us their general outward demeanor to riff of off, knowing they do have a full internal life and that they will develop more personal and individualized character over time.

Now, I don’t map their entire internal life. I usually try to make sure there is something they want. Or more that I know at least one thing they want (even if it is not something they are showing outwardly). Or even something they are trying to avoid. (Tobias doesn’t want to become his father. Hannah hates to be seen as weak, but suspects she is. Antonia spent a lot of time working against her fate only to realize it was really what she wanted for herself.) Or something in their background that shapes who they are. I don’t need to know all of these, but I like to solidly know at least one to start.

I also think it can be tempting to align original character’s wants and aims with whatever is the drive of the plot or the concern of your main protagonist, but it will likely not align perfectly. And that is okay. You want people, not plot devices. They really should feel like people who are the center of their own story who occasionally intersect with yours, and then head back to their own life/concerns. (And that is another thing to consider, how does this OC feel about your main character and what they are doing? Indifferent? Annoyed? Enamored? Tired?)

But to be honest, I usually just create a rough shell, a general disposition, and then I just....let them live. I let them reveal themselves to me as I write. I don’t fight where they go. And I am always aware that I WILL go back and edit, so that maybe they do something in an earlier scene that I later realize is actually out of character for them. I can go back and fill in and change. As I know them better, I can go back and add and modify as needed. (Though I can also consider, why did this character do that in the earlier chapter? And maybe the answer reveals something to me.)

And I suppose that is another thing, the idea that we must know everything about the OC. Or that the main character(s) should know everything about that OC. They shouldn’t. How much do we ever actually know about other people? We think we know them, we create stories for who they are in our heads, but we never fully know anyone. So I think it’s okay for the author not to know everything about that character too.

I do think my approach to writing OCs is shaped by the fact that I am a fan writer. I look at the things provided by a content creator and then I try to make sense of it. I try to fill in the blanks. I’m quite used to watching a TV show that doesn’t give me the internal life of the character, and having to come up with a reason for what they do, even when it doesn’t actually make sense. Some TV shows are hardly known for consistent characterization. So I learned how to write around that kind of experience. And for me, creating an OC is no different than seeing a minor character on a TV show once and then extrapolating from that mere shadow.

No idea if this is helpful or not, and I was honestly mostly thinking out loud here, but there you have it. How I generally approach OCs.

[katehuntington]

Title: Changes - part eight Word count:  ±4800 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 eight: Zoë meets with Terry Cliffer, or is it the shapeshifter? She tries to find out fast, but can’t prevent bullets from flying. 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.  Music: Boulevard Of Broken Dreams - Greenday. 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

     Zoë sips her cappuccino as she observes the foam floating on top of her hot drink. She’s at Beetle’s, sitting on a stool at the bar. Cigarette smoke fills the air, and even though she would love to light one, she ignores the smell. Instead the huntress stares at the bottles across from the counter, exhibited on the shelves, the back wall is a mirror to create the illusion that they have a lot more drinks in store. It’s a modern kind of place, the only history it shows are some pictures, pinned to the wall. The current number one hit Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Greenday plays in the background. She listens to the lyrics, the song appealing to her.      I walk this empty street, on the boulevard of broken dreams      Where the city sleeps and I'm the only one and I walk alone      My shadow's the only one that walks beside me      My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating      Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me      'Til then I walk alone

     The long nights are taking their toll. Although strangers still see a stunning young woman, she herself notices the signs of fatigue in her reflection, despite her makeup, that is a little more prominent than usual. Zoë finds it thrilling to pretend to be someone she’s not. She traded her leather biker outfit for a white blouse, a black blazer, matching suit pants and pumps. Her straightened dark hair is combed back and tied together in a bun. It’s funny, leather or business, she still gives away the same message; don’t mess with me. 

     Her eyes capture the bottle of Johnny Walker Red again. She would kill for a glass, but having a shot wouldn’t be a smart thing to do. Focus is the issue here; no way she’s letting her guard down. The damn bastard shot her once and she doesn’t feel like peeling a bullet out of herself for the second time today. But one glass wouldn’t hurt, right? Zoë shakes her head, deciding against it.           This appointment can go two ways: either the shapeshifter shows up and this bar and its customers are going to have the most ‘exciting’ evening of their lives, or Terry Cliffer shows up and this will be nothing more than a boring interrogation. Not to mention, this case will once again take longer than anticipated, because by now, the fucker could’ve easily shifted into someone else already. 

     She finishes her coffee and leaves the empty cup on the bar. Carefully, she glances over her shoulder. Zoë can’t put her finger on it, but she can feel a pair of eyes burning in her back; someone’s watching her. The shapeshifter maybe? She remembers Sam’s words and realizes that even if she meets Cliffer within fifteen minutes, the son of a bitch might actually be here right now. Suddenly, she hears something sweeping towards her over the wooden bartop. Startled, she turns to the bartender, who still has his hand folded around a glass of whiskey.      “You’ve been eying that Johnny Walker bottle for twenty minutes and you look really tense. You need a drink, on the house.”

     She looks him in the eye, trying to decide whether or not to trust him. She smiles politely and takes the glass, but doesn’t drink, just yet.      “Thank you,” she says, observing him. “You’re the owner of this place? Rob Michaels?”      “That’s me,” Rob answers while he polishes a glass.      We’ll see about that, Zoë thinks to herself. The bartender could be the shapeshifter, for all she knows. She needs to figure out if he is, without giving him the impression that she’s suspecting him.      “Then you probably know most of your regulars, right?” she questions.      “Right…” Rob hesitates. “Am I being questioned?”      “Whatever you wanna call it,” she flashes him her FBI identification.

     He raises his eyebrows. He thought there was something more to her than just a businesswoman who’s getting a drink after work, but a fed? He had city police over, even state police at one point, this is a new one. He leans in for her to hear his whispered words.      “Something shady going on in my bar?” he asks, looking around for anything suspicious.      She puts her ID away in the inside pocket of her blazer, after which she folds her hands together, ignoring his question. “What do you know about Terry Cliffer?”            Rob chuckles. “Are you kidding me? Terry wouldn’t hurt a fly.”      “We’re not just around to catch the bad guys, Mr. Michaels. We actually intend to prevent crimes from happening, too” she states, pretending to be insulted.      “Is he in trouble?” the bar owner wonders.      “I think I’m the one who’s doing the questioning here, Rob. Can I call you Rob?” Zoë grabs a hold of the conversation again, not impressed.      “S-sure,” he answers, intimidated.      She glances at the clock, it’s 5:55. Then she continues.      “Tell me what you know.”

     Zoë’s eyes are penetrating, yet calm and the bartender soon begins his story, but he doesn’t start off with anything new. Shy guy, father of two, yada yada yada. Her thoughts wander off to the whiskey bottle on the shelf again, as she partly listens. Shit, she wants that heavenly brown liquor, and she wants it bad. Although there’s a full glass in front of her, she still refuses to drink it. Zoë hasn’t actually seen him rinse the glass, nor if he poured the whiskey straight from the bottle; it could be spiked. The huntress contemplates on dragging him over the counter and cutting him; if he screams out in terror, he’s not the shifter, if he doesn’t, he is. Yeah, maybe not such a great idea, Zo, she thinks to herself. And all this time she keeps staring at the Johnny Walker Red.

     “He moved into town a few years back with his family. I believe he still owns some property about a mile or three out, though. Somewhere on 110th Ave,” Rob says with a lowered voice.      Suddenly there’s the sound of glass breaking. The bartender turns around and is surprised to find the bottle of whiskey in pieces on the floor.      “Ah, damn it! Must have left it too close to the edge,” he mutters as he kneels down to pick up the biggest pieces of shattered glass.      Startled, Zoë stares over the bar, recapturing what just happened. Did she just… Ah shit, not this again.      “That’s a shame,” she comments to break the silence.      “Sure is,” he agrees, but then pulls his hand back with a little screech. “Ow!”      He gets up and Zoë immediately detects the bleeding cut on his finger, which causes Rob to hiss in pain. A shapeshifter wouldn’t feel a thing when being cut by glass; so much for her theory. As if she was waiting for the lights to go green on a racetrack, she puts the glass to her mouth and lets the whiskey ooze down her throat. My God, she so needed a drink. 

     In the meantime Rob takes off to the kitchen, probably to bandage the cut. It’s when the door closes behind him, that his last words sink in. 110th Ave! Cliffer owned land there? She quickly gets her ducks in a row. She knows O’Brien, Middleton and Gibson, the missing people, have all been at 110th Avenue over the last month, but no one actually owned a place there. This might be a major lead! Why didn’t she learn about this sooner? She has to find the exact address and pay a visit as soon as she’s done here. 

     As the place gets more crowded during these after work hours, Terry Cliffer walks in. Zoë straightens her back and looks over the crowd. Insecure, the guy in his mid-forties searches the place, then he carefully approaches the bar. He’s not a tall man and he seems thin. It surprises Zoë that the shapeshifter chose his body to copy in the first place.       He glances behind the bar, probably looking for Rob to ask if there has been anyone around looking for him. By this time, Zoë has hopped off the bar stool and walked up to the guy. Her gun, loaded with silver bullets, hangs from her belt and burns in her flesh through the fabric of her dress pants. If he attacks, runs, or does something else that she doesn’t like, she’s going to shoot him.            “Terry Cliffer?”      He turns around and looks her in the eye. Not a sign of recognition. The shapeshifter would recognize her, after all, she is the one hunting him. Nothing strange, nothing out of the ordinary happens, he just puts out his hand to greet her.      “Are you the FBI agent?” he assumes, carefully.      “That would be me, yeah,” she takes out her federal agent identification again. “Shall we take a seat?”      They move to a table in the far corner and sit down. A good spot, one she picked out the moment she walked in. From here, she has a clear view over the entire place, yet it’s private. She signals Rob, who probably took care of his little problem and is back behind his bar. In a few seconds he halts next to their table.

     “What can I get you?” he takes out a pen and a small notebook.      “A beer, if that’s okay?” Terry glances at the woman across from the table.      “Be my guest,” she approves and looks up at Rob. “Plain water please.”      “Oh, and can I get something to eat? I didn’t actually get the chance to have dinner, yet.” The last sentence was more directed to Zoë than to the bar owner, excusing himself again in that self-conscious way.      “The usual?” the owner of the place asks.       Terry nods.      “Anything else?” Rob glances from one to the other.      “No, I think we’re fine,” Zoë answers.      “Okay then, coming right up.”

     Rob leaves the table and finally Zoë can start her conversation. She begins with an attempt to break the ice, since Terry seems to be pretty tense. It’s not every day that you have a one-on-one with an FBI agent.      “Not planning to have supper with your family?” she assumes.      “Not today, my wife took the kids to their grandparents for the week, down in Preston,” Terry tells her.      Good, they are safe, Zoë notes. She folds her hands together leaning on her forearms on the edge of the table, ready to start the interrogation, but Terry beats her to it.      “I don’t want to be rude, but I expected to meet a man today,” he admits with a nervous laugh.      “Right, I heard you talked to my partner. He called in sick,” she makes up quickly.       “It was really odd, he didn’t know your name,” Terry tells her. “For a moment, I thought I was being pranked or something.”

     Uh-oh. Is he suspecting something? She has to come up with something good now to keep a good impression.      “I actually got married a week ago,” she lets a smile play on her lips, turning her mother’s engagement ring on her finger, drawing attention to the piece of jewelry.       “I changed surnames. What can I say, he doesn’t like change.”      “Congratulations!” Terry smiles back, seemingly buying it.      Pfew, that was a close call. Now it’s her turn to ask some questions, because all she has been doing during the last five minutes is covering the Winchester’s fuck ups. Just as she takes a breath to begin, Rob shows up next to the table with their drinks and a cutlery set for Terry. Zoë lets out an annoyed sigh and looks away.

     “One beer and plain water.”      He puts down the glasses from his dinner-tray, which he holds up with his left hand. As he sets down Terry’s beer, the meat knife slips from the plate and falls, the sharp edge pointing down. Zoë looks up just in time to see the knife penetrate the hand of the man she’s about to negotiate. She almost lets out a moan of disgust, but strangely enough, Terry doesn’t even notice it until he glances at his hand.      “Terry, Jesus Christ! I’m so sorry, it - it just fell off!” Rob stammers, but neither of them hear him.      It’s not a silver knife, it’s stainless steel, Zoë realizes instantly. Slowly the person  - no - creature, on the other side of the table lifts his head until he looks directly at her. His facial expression is no longer insecure and friendly, but self-confident and sadistic. For a brief moment his eyes flash white, as the eyes of a cat reflect when it stares into a pair of headlights.

     “You son of a--”      There’s no time to finish her sentence. In a split second, the shapeshifter draws his gun and Zoë is just in time to flip the metal table over on the side. She goes for her Smith & Wesson as well, as the shapeshifter backs up, causing his chair to fall over. Several people turn around to see what’s going on as Rob turns pale and steps back. Just before he unleashes a bullet on her, she shouts a warning.      “Everybody on the floor!”            As screams are let out by people inside the bar, the shifter fires two bullets at her, but by using the steel table as a shield, she stays unharmed.      “No way you’re gonna shoot me twice, fucker,” she snarls as she aims her gun over the edge of the table and pulls the trigger.      Making sure not to injure any civilians, Zoë fires three shots in a row. She’s not sure if any of them hit the target, but he’s still running.      “Fuck!” she curses as the third shot shatters the glass of the front door.

     Quickly, she follows and intends to run outside. Good thing she takes cover behind the doorpost as she glances around the corner, because the huntress stares right into a barrel. Just in time, she retreats and the two bullets shoot by her. Stumbling back inside, she takes a short second to catch her breath with her back against the wall and her gun tightly gripped in both hands and pointing it down. Several frightened and panicked eyes look straight at the FBI impersonator. One face stands out, Rob stares at her as if he just saw a ghost.      “I hope you’ve got insurance, Rob,” she comments, out of breath from all the excitement.      He nods his head, dumbfounded, unable to get a proper ‘yes’ or ‘no’ out of his mouth.      “Good, have a nice evening. Sorry ‘bout the mess.” She smiles uncomfortably and gives him an awkward wave.

      After gathering her courage, the huntress exits the bar. With the gun pointing ahead and her index finger off the trigger, Zoë clears the area, but there’s no one there but a bunch of thrill seekers who probably heard the gunshots. Zoë lets out a sigh and lowers her nine mil; she’s back to square one. There’s no need to follow him, he could be anywhere and anyone by now. She moves back to the small alleyway next to the bar where she parked her Harley, still expecting an ambush behind every corner. When she walks up the street, she notices a shiny fluid on the sidewalk, which catches her attention. Curious she kneels down and touches it with the tip of her finger; it’s blood. A grin appears on her face; looks like she managed to hit him after all. 

     When she looks further she notices a blood trail leading to a manhole in the center of the alley. The shifter left the cover off, allowing the huntress to stare down into the black depth.      “Hope my bullet hurts as much as yours did, fucking lizard!” she bellows down.      Zoë gets up and makes her way to the Harley, thinking through her next move and forcing herself to focus, even though the adrenaline is still rushing through her body. Terry Cliffer’s property at 110th Avenue; that is her first priority. She would bet money on it: this has to be the location of the shapeshifter’s lair.

     It’s quiet in the parking lot when Zoë pulls up to the motel, but she doesn't pay much attention to the silence, determined to close this case tonight. She rushes inside while taking her helmet off, doesn’t bother to pay attention to the man behind the counter and quickly opens the door to her room. Her Macbook is still buzzing softly and as soon as she presses a key, the screen activates. She selects a tracking website from her favorites and types in the information she has. After several seconds a complete address shows: 3841 110th Avenue NW. Quickly she kicks off her pumps, changes her dress pants for jeans and her blazer for the new leather Harley Davidson jacket. As she’s lacing up her biker boots, when three loud bangs on the door startle her. Cautious, the huntress takes her gun in her left hand, finger still off the trigger, and silently approaches the door.      “Mrs. Johnson! I know you’re in there!”            She recognizes that voice, it’s the owner of the motel. Quickly she puts away her weapon and opens the door. The old man is waiting with a phone still in his hand, he doesn’t seem amused.      “I just received a call from one of my guests who was dining at Beetle’s Bar, said he saw you shooting up the place,” he recalls.      “I can explain that,” she states, calmly.      “I bet you can. You know what? I’ll bet your real name isn’t even Johnson. I want you out. I said I didn’t want any trouble,” he insists, pointing down the hallway.      “Just give me a sec.” She goes for her ID in her inside pocket while her other hand makes a calming gesture, then she shows it to him.      “My name isn’t Johnson, you’re right. It’s Evans, Sarah Evans. I’m a federal agent and I was working undercover,” she explains.      “FBI? Yeah, right. I don’t give a damn. Now, get out of my motel,” the man decides.      “Alright, let me get my stuff,” she sighs, putting back her identification.

     Instead of pulling back her hand empty, she grabs a small flashlight, turns it on and points it in the old man’s eyes. Her suspicion is confirmed, because his eyes flash white. For a brief moment the shapeshifter is overwhelmed by the reveal, enough time for Zoë to drop the flashlight into her striking hand, breach the space between them and slam her fist right up his nose, giving him one hell of an uppercut. He goes down in the hallway and looks up at her, staggered.      “Come on. Did you really think I was gonna be that easy?” she chuckles, flipping the torch up in the air and catching it skillfully.

     She grabs him by the collar and drags him inside her room, shifting the fight between four walls instead of on the corridor, not wanting innocent bystanders to get caught in the crossfire. She drops him to the ground, glaring down on him with disgust as she takes her gun from behind her waistband. The shifter clears his throat, wiping crimson red from his lip.      “Actually, I did. I almost shot you twice. Reckoned this would be a piece of cake,” he gloats with a grin, after which he struggles to get on his feet, holding his hands up. “You wanna shoot me in a fully booked motel? Try to explain that to the neighbors.”      Zoë narrows her eyes at him, mentally kicking herself for leaving the gun suppressor in her storage locker the last time she was there. The bastard has a point; shooting what looks like the owner of Motel 6 through the heart, will definitely draw attention. She scoffs, pursing her lips, then she takes the magazine from her weapon and lays it on the bed.      “We’ll finish this the old fashioned way, then,” she agrees confidently.

     They face each other, challenging. Zoë adjusts to a back stance, putting her left foot behind her and bending her knees slightly. Her hands lift up in front of her face as she flexes her fingers, ready for anything that son of a bitch is going to throw at her.       “I have to say, you got me fooled. Making me believe Terry Cliffer was going to be your next dress-up party, while he actually was your first. Smart,” she admits.      “If you admire me so much, why waste me?” he tests, blood dripping from his nose.      She smirks at that, entertained by his arrogance. “Don’t give yourself too much credit.”

     He steps towards her, but she beats him to it. In a quick move she defends, blocking his attack with her forearm and swings her back leg up with force, kicking the shifter hard against his temple. He goes down, shaking his head to ward off the black spots that are inevitably swimming in front of his eyes. When he looks up, the huntress has taken her rear foot stance again. One fist with her palm up on her hip and ready to strike, the other is ready in front of her to defend.       “Gotta say, you fight pretty good for a girl,” He gets to his feet again, wiping his brow. “Or should I call you the Karate Kid?”      “Oh, I’m not a kid. I’m more like a ninja,” she smirks, staring him down.        “Ninja or not, you’re no match for me.”

     He charges her, faster than humanly possible. Despite his supernatural speed, she dodges his jab and releases another kick, against his ribs this time. The creature locks her leg before she can retreat, however, and steps in while Zoë has lost her balance. With a fierce strike, his fist hits her in the jaw, hard. He still has a hold of her leg and twists it, forcing her on the floor, pulling a groan of agony from her as the ligaments in her knee stretch further than possible. Not giving up that easily, she pushes her left foot from the ground, using the leverage of him still holding her right leg tight to swing the other to his head, hitting him on the side of his face with her instep. He releases her and she breaks her fall, rolls, and gets up again, all in one swift movement. The arm that had a strong grip on her only seconds ago, is now twisted to the shifter’s back. Roughly, she  forces him to his knees; he can't go anywhere. 

     “What did you do to those people?” she demands, not asking very nicely.      “Oh, don’t worry, I don’t actually kill them. It’s far more fun to watch them suffer,” he responds, sadistically.      “You son of a—”      She doesn’t have time to finish her sentence, because the shapeshifter throws his head back and hits her hard in the teeth. Sharp pain shoots through the roots into her skull and for a moment there she’s sure he broke off a tooth or two; so much for looking fabulous.       In that split second, the chameleon manages to fight free, grabs her by her arm and violently throws her over his shoulder. Zoë lands on her back, the air slamming out of her lungs. She gasps sharply, unable to catch her breath. No time to recover from the pain, though, because she receives a kick in the gut a moment after. 

     Losing control over the fight fast, she tries to push away from her attacker to buy herself some valuable time, but her opponent takes the liberty to help her up, forcing her to stand by pulling her hair, before she suffers a blow in the chest with a strength that exceeds that of a human being. The huntress slams into the table, the edge bruising her lower back, feeling the tight grip of the shifter's hands on her throat when he roughly pushes her into the wooden surface.       With a devilish grin on his thin lips, he chokes her, clearly enjoying the display: how his victim fights for air, trying to pull in desperate breaths as he crushes her throat under his fingers.  

     “You know what I do to them? I keep them somewhere safe, safe from the world, where no one can find them,” he tells her, his speech eerily slow, as if he’s reading a chapter of a horror novel.      Zoë glances aside briefly. Although she can’t move her head, she notices the empty whiskey bottle she and Dean left last night, still laying on its side in the window sill. She reaches out, almost touching the glass, but the bottle remains out of reach by an inch or two. The shapeshifter laughs at her attempt and continues his story, as if he has all the time in the world to tell it.      “Humans are such strange creatures, you know? If you keep them together in a tiny cage for a while, they tend to behave like spiders. They attack each other, eventually kill and actually eat their own kind out of pure desperation. How amusing is that?”

     Zoë can’t hold back a gag, but forces herself to concentrate on the bottle. It vibrates almost unnoticeable, then the bottleneck turns towards her slightly. Focus, Zo! You can do this! She sends all her energy through her stretched out arm towards the nerve endings on her fingertips. It works, because the bottle flies into her hand. With an unexpected strike Zoë breaks the bottle on the shifter’s head, who stumbles back, finally letting go of her neck. Trying to suck oxygen down her painful windpipe, she coughs uncontrollably. Alright, that’s enough. A fair fight seems noble and all, but having a face off with a supernatural being, might not have been one of her smartest ideas. The huntress reaches for her gun and takes the magazine from the bed, swings around, aiming at… nothing? The room is empty.      “Fuck, not again,” she curses, bummed that she can’t put twenty years of jujitzu training in good use because of the runner.

     Before bolting out the door, the experienced huntress glances both ways down the hallway, her gun ready. Shit. No sign of the shifter. She lets out a frustrated sigh and  moves in, rolling her tongue over her straight teeth in the meantime, checking if they got chipped after the nasty headbutt she received.       When she clears the foyer, she is surprised to find the real motel owner, tied up to a chair in nothing more than a shirt and trunks, his mouth taped.      “Are you alright?” she asks, as he ‘hmm’s’ loudly.      In a quick movement she rips the tape from his mouth, unleashing a rant of curses and shouts.      “Ouch! That son of a bitch! Where is he?! Where is that bastard who did this to me?! I’m gonna kill him! I swear, I’m gonna--”

     Zoë stares at him for a moment, feeling a headache coming on, then grabs the roll of duct tape from the counter. While the manager keeps on raging, she rips off a piece of tape and presses it over his mouth. There is no way in the world she’s gonna release the pissed off elder; he needs some cooling down time. Casually she picks up the phone and for a moment considers dialling 911, but decides this isn’t really that much of an emergency and calls the local police.      “Hello? Yeah, hi. I just found an old guy tied up to a chair in not much more than his undies… Motel 6, 2107 Highway 52 North... My name? Yeah, it’s Not Interested.”       She hangs up and clears her throat, wiping her prints from the horn, then walks away, bored, with the roll of duct tape in her hand, leaving the furiously moaning motel owner behind the counter.

     Back in her room, she gathers her things and stuffs them in two duffels, which fit into the two big leather saddlebags on her Harley perfectly. She makes quick work of getting rid of all the evidence, including the glass she shattered on the shifter’s head. With both bags on her shoulder, she takes a last look around and leaves the room, waving at the motel manager on her way out while hiding her face from the security camera.       The cover of the manhole in the center of the parking lot is removed; her shifter went underground again. He's running back to his hideout, only he doesn't know that she knows exactly where that is.      “3841 110th Avenue Northwest,” she mumbles to herself as she gets on her bike and puts the helmet on her head.

     That’s where she’s going, that’s where this is going to end. The Harley engine roars loudly when she accelerates. Its back tire spins for a moment before the motorbike takes off as the evening sets in. This is going to be her last night in Rochester and his last night on the face of the earth. Zoë is determined: this hunt ends tonight.

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 nine here

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[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Episode 42 Review: Here Goes Peter Cottontail

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 | 3 }

{ Full Synopses/Recaps: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

At last, we’ve hit another milestone on Strange Paradise. A little less than a year ago, I discussed the third and final costumed flashback. Just under six months ago, we reached Episode 30, the first episode for which conclusive proof of executive meddling exists. And today we shall explore the introductory episode of a character particularly notorious among Strange Paradise fans. That’s right: this episode features the first appearance of the infamous Rabbit of Evil. The true face of evil has arrived on Maljardin, and it's soft with long ears and a fuzzy tail.

Because the plot has now split off completely from the Lost Episode summaries and I’ve already discussed the one for this episode, I’m going to ignore it for this post. I’m not even going to do much analysis this time. Instead, let us just lay out our beach towels on Maljardin, relax, and bask in the glow of the coming insanity.

Early morning on Maljardin. The unseen clock chimes three, and already Jean Paul Desmond is up sitting on the couch in the Great Hall next to the decanter of his favorite drink. Although it is the demon hour and almost everyone else in the château is asleep as far as he knows, he is already dressed in his brown velvet jacket, as one does when one is the richest man in the world on the coldest tropical island in existence. One would assume that he would at least loosen his tie to make himself a little more comfortable, but then, I’m not a fancy rich guy living in the 1960s, so what would I know?

Feeling the presence of his demonic ancestor Jacques Eloi des Mondes, he stands up and approaches his portrait as though in a trance. During their brief staring contest, Jacques begins to taunt him: “Come now, Jean Paul Desmond. Three o'clock in the morning and still you wander the house. Why?”

“Because your evil wanders here, Jacques Eloi des Mondes!” Jean Paul answers overly dramatically. “I sum-”

“Jean Paul, no oaths on your honor that you would be compelled to uphold. It might be the end of us both. And Erica might never rise to a new beginning.”

Jacques tells Jean Paul to go to bed because *he’s* tired. Could this be evidence that Jacques and Jean Paul are one and the same?

I like the way that Raxl's face appears on the screen just as the title card is fading.

Raxl paying her respects to Erica Desmond.

We cut to Raxl visiting Erica’s cryocapsule, when suddenly a little cockatiel starts tweeting. And who could it be but our mascot, the adorable Chalcko?

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<3

Quito checking on his beloved bird.

Meanwhile, Jean Paul visits the lab to find Dr. Alison Carr sleeping at her desk, Dr. Menkin’s notes next to her:

For the love of yourself, Jean Paul, do not disturb!

He wakes her up despite it being very early in the morning (because God forbid she not sleep in her own bed, I guess?). Really, there are only a handful of good excuses to wake someone up at 3 AM, including to ensure they catch an early flight and to kick them out of your bar after they passed out drunk with their glass shattered into a million pieces in front of the talking portrait across the room. Having fallen asleep at one’s desk while pulling an all-nighter that your employer deems unnecessary isn’t one of them, IMO. But, just like my cat who wakes me up around 3 almost every night crying for a midnight snack, he gets away with it because he’s cute.

Jacques has made cat-like faces before on this show, so now it’s Jean Paul’s turn to act like a cat.

That’s not to say that Jean Paul’s cuteness makes Alison any less annoyed with him. He asks her why she stayed up so late to study the notes, and she responds, “I can't sleep very well, anyway, and what else is there to do, since you keep us here as prisoners on this Island? Good night and please don't disturb anything.“ She leaves and he starts flipping through the notes.

Meanwhile, outside among the suspiciously Canadian coniferous trees of Maljardin...

Wait for it...

Quito finds a big, fluffy black rabbit hopping around the garden and brings the adorable, plump creature inside. His crush Holly happens to be in the Great Hall when he returns, and she falls in love with the rabbit at first sight.

“I didn't know anything as wholesome and innocent like that existed on Maljardin,” she coos. "Oh, he's so sweet! I haven't seen anything like him for--well, it seems like a whole lifetime.”

Then she remembers what Raxl said about there being no wild animal life on the island. “But Quito,” she says, “Raxl said like, nothing like this could exist on this island for three hundred years! I guess this little fellow disproves that, doesn't it?”

“What are you going to do with it?” she continues. “I mean, are you going to keep it?” Quito shakes his head. “You should. You should keep it for a pet. He’d make a lovely pet, something nice in this house of accident and death.” Because Quito is reluctant to keep the rabbit and has no way of expressing why to Holly, she offers to keep it as a pet.

“I wonder how he managed out there with all that poisonous undergrowth around?” she thinks out loud, as the rabbit starts to try to jump out of Kurt Schiegl’s arms, which I doubt was in the script. The rabbit they got to play the new embodiment of evil on Maljardin doesn’t always want to behave the way the plot demands. I suspect that, instead of getting a trained animal actor, someone just brought in their pet or bought a bunny on short notice at an Ottawa pet store or nearby farm. I like the rabbit. The rabbit does what it wants and doesn’t give a rat’s ass about following the script or doing what Jerry Layton wants it to.

Holly asks Quito to make her a cage so that she can keep the rabbit in her room, and he nods in agreement (I’m guessing just because he knows it’ll please her). He leaves. She sits down at the dining room table and rings for Raxl, who is not pleased when she tells her about the new guest:

Holly: "Hey, Raxl." Raxl: "Good morning, Miss Holly." Holly: "You know, everything I've heard about this island isn't the truth." Raxl: "Truth is a matter of seeing." Holly: "Well, I've seen. You told me that because of the curse, nothing could exist outside in that poisonous jungle." Raxl: "The Devil's evil is everywhere on Maljardin!"

Holly: "Well, just this once, Raxl, you may be wrong." Raxl: "It may be that demon wants you to think I am!"

Raxl instantly suspects that the rabbit is a tool of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES.

The bit about all the plants being poisonous on Maljardin, by the way, may be a retcon. In Episode 13, Jacques mentions that papayas are native to the island. I suppose that, because he didn’t say that they were picked on Maljardin, that they could have been grown on another island. Still, I’m not ruling out the possibility of Ian Martin and/or a ghostwriter retconning this detail.

This scene is followed by a cool shot where the camera pans along the side of the staircase and over to Jacques’ portrait (see the beginning of Part 2), then a short scene of Quito pulling out a huge wicker picnic basket for a makeshift cage while Chalcko tweets as though trying to warn him of the evil presence.

In the morning, Alison returns to the lab to find Jean Paul in a scandalous state of undress:

Ye gods! He took off his suit jacket again! I am SHOCKED and SCANDALIZED by this wanton display of nudity! ;)

Jean Paul must be even more stressed now than last night if he not only has his suit jacket off, but has also loosened his tie. Turns out he ended up pulling an all-nighter himself in the lab reading the notes, even though Alison doubts that he possesses the necessary knowledge to understand notes about cellular reconstruction. Jean Paul asks Alison if Dr. Menkin did any experiments on animals, but it’s not clear if he’s asking just out of curiosity, because of something mentioned in the notes, or if somehow he feels the presence of the rabbit despite not having seen it yet. Whatever his motivation, the screenwriter almost certainly added the line to imply that the rabbit may have belonged to Dr. Menkin.

Using such a line as a hint (or, more likely, as a red herring) is a very Ian Martin thing to do, so I’m thinking that he must have written this scene. For a while, I suspected that perhaps some ghostwriter hired by either Jerry Layton or Steve Krantz inserted the scenes with the rabbit into a later draft, but now I’m having second thoughts. While it is possible that one of the showrunners hired a ghostwriter to speed up the script edits, this line has Martin’s influence written all over it. The insertion of the evil rabbit isn’t his style, but this kind of dialogue certainly is.

Also note that the very next shot is of the rabbit again.

Hearing the bird tweet is making Quito anxious. It’s obvious that the bird detects some sort of presence.

Jean Paul and Alison go to the dining room and sit down for breakfast with Holly. Jean Paul reminds her that another séance is coming and she tells him that she wants no part of it. “The spirits will decide that, and the Conjure Woman,” says Raxl.

“Vangie said that the conjure cards--the Tarot cards--spoke to one person,” Jean Paul adds, flubbing his line adorably. “They may well speak to another, for or against.” I’m not sure what he’s implying, especially because he faces Alison (or maybe the Teleprompter) as he delivers the line.

More proof that Maljardin is no tropical paradise, but a dystopia. (”Rattled” = “Raxl’s”)

Alison tells Holly that Jean Paul will probably blame them if the séance doesn’t bring him into contact with Erica and Jean Paul glares at her before flouncing passive-aggressively. I’m so conflicted about Jean Paul at this point because he’s becoming more and more of a control freak (and therefore more and more unlikeable), and yet he’s so adorable. Take a look at the face he makes just before flouncing:

Foxy!

And this shot of him from earlier in the scene:

Never have I seen any guy look this cute after pulling an all-nighter.

Holly tells Alison about the rabbit Quito bought brought her (yes, there’s another creative line interpretation). “That’s impossible!” she replies, stunned. “I mean, nothing alive exists out there now.” There are so many flubs in this episode that it makes me wonder if the actors had less time to rehearse than usual.

An unspecified amount of time later, Alison catches Jean Paul arguing with Jacques’ portrait, then Quito feeds the rabbit a carrot to the sound of more tweets. (Anyone else miss the days when “tweets” referred only to the noise that birds make? God, I'm barely 28 and already I feel so old.) Alison warns Jean Paul that dabbling in the occult is bad for his mental health, but he doesn’t care because he needs to hear Erica’s voice so badly. He tells her he’ll buy her some animals for her experiments the next time he visits the main island just to shut her up. (Spoiler: He won’t.)

And then Quito arrives, carrying the rabbit in its makeshift cage. Like Raxl, Jean Paul is not pleased to see the animal. “Holly, where on Earth did you get that!” he asks.

“Right on this Earth, on this island, from Quito,” she responds innocently.

Jean Paul giving his best “WTF” face. He’s lived on the island long enough to know that the rabbit came out of nowhere.

He asks Raxl about it and she cries out to the Great Serpent to tell her what the Devil’s plans are for Maljardin, making the Sign of the Great Serpent with her hands. Alison insists that the rabbit is only an animal, but Raxl reminds her that no animals can survive outside on the island--meaning, by her logic, that it must be a demon or similar evil being!

Jean Paul asks Quito where he found the rabbit. Raxl interprets the signs he makes as meaning “on the path to the boathouse,” which leads Holly and Alison to think that the rabbit must have snuck aboard Quito’s boat and sailed there with him. Raxl’s response?

Raxl: “It is a creature of the Devil!”

Holly objects and insists that the rabbit is only an animal, but Raxl sticks to her belief that it’s actually a demon assuming the guise of innocence, most likely sent by THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES himself! No one believes her, not even Jean Paul:

Jean Paul: "I must admit, Raxl, this is very unlikely." Raxl: "Not here. An animal here is an impossibility. Is that not true?" Jean Paul: "Until now, yes!" Raxl: "Then what force altered the impossible? There are forces at work on Maljardin as the hour draws near when the master will attend a séance and seek through purified mind and cleansed spirit to reach his Erica beyond the veiled curtain. What does the master say?"

Jean Paul does not respond. He looks like he is about to cry.

Raxl: "Quito! You will remove the rabbit. It is evil!"

Raxl: "It brings danger and wickedness and more evil than we will ever know! It must be destroyed and buried in the sea!"

Raxl: "If the master wishes to contact his Erica and hear her voice, he will be advised: that animal is evil!" Holly: "Mr. Desmond, please, no!"

Jacques’ commentary.

Coming up next: Raxl makes a horrifying--and mystifying--discovery when she examines the Rabbit of Evil.

{ <- Previous: Episode 41   ||   Next: Episode 43 -> }

[saja-star]

I have slightly less, but very similar, items in return: 1, 2, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 17, and 38!

Question list here.

1. Describe your comfort zone—a typical you-fic.

It’s mostly/all dialogue. The characters get in an argument about something, and during the conversation figure out where the other is coming from and come to some mutual understanding. Plot happens vaguely in the background.

2.  Is there a trope you’ve yet to try your hand at, but really want to?

I’ve been wanting to write a sickfic. I feel like that’s so suited to Venom, with healing and an awareness of the body being such a big part of things.

5. Share one of your strengths.

I like to think I’m good at humor in dialogue. I can’t like, do it on purpose? But sometimes I’m writing a scene and it just turns into banter and that’s one of my favorite parts of writing.

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

From Rescue:

There was a prick of danger as they approached the boy, and they got ready to cover his mouth if he screamed—

They collapsed, writhing on the floor as noise sheared through their flesh like a razor blade, slicing right down to the core of them, to the place where they were connected, and severing it, leaving Venom to drip from Eddie’s shaking body like black blood from a poisoned wound.

The sound cut off. Venom crashed into the silence like falling from a high place into water: one second writhing and helpless and the next floating in noiseless nothing, not sure which way was up.

The warmth of Eddie was jerked away before it could slink back inside. It felt vibrations in the floor—thumping, scuffling—and crawled towards the struggle. There was a spot of bright light—it couldn’t see on its own per se, but it had a vague sense of light and darkness. It barely registered the glow before the light flared into a jet of searing heat. Venom felt its flesh sizzle and pop as it burned away. Slow, agonizing seconds ticked by as it tried to flee and the stream of fire tracked its crawl across the concrete floor. It slowed, too weak to keep moving forward—and then suddenly there was dark and cool, except for the faint burn of the oxygen atmosphere. 

With Rescue, I set myself a challenge to write something that was much more plotty than my usual fics, particularly something with action, and I feel like it turned out pretty well. This scene is a good example of the kind of flowy, stream-of-consciousness style that I ended up leaning on for fight scenes. On the other hand, working from Venom’s perspective I also got to play with its sensory differences and try to write something very tactile, which is always fun.

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

From The Inspirational Symbiotic Kissing Lichen:

Eddie stood in the door to the kitchen blinking blearily. "What is that and why is it over our door?"

It is lichen.

"Are you sure? It looks like a piece of tape covered in bits of dirt."

I had a hard time scraping it off the fire escape last night.

Eddie suspected that what Venom had found on the fire escape was a patch of flaking rust, but he kept it to himself. "What happened to the mistletoe?"

I threw it out the window. Mistletoe is a parasite. Why would you celebrate love under a parasitic plant?

"What? Plants can't be parasites."

Can too, Venom said like a first grader. Mistletoe grows roots inside trees and steals their nutrients.

God it was too early in the morning for this. Eddie needed coffee. "It's got leaves. It can eat sunlight. Why would it need to do that?"

Because it is selfish and bad. Are you arguing with Wikipedia?

"No." Eddie sighed as he headed into the kitchen. "So why lichen? Was it the only plant you could find?"

It is not a plant. It is a symbiosis.

"With what, rocks?" Eddie fumbled with the coffee maker.

No, it is a symbiosis. It is algae or bacteria mixed with fungus. And possibly yeast. And possibly another fungus.

"Okay. Fun fact, I guess. Why is it hanging over our door?"

It is a four-way symbiosis, Eddie. It is inspirational. And romantic.

Eddie stopped. "...Are you trying to tell me you want a four-way?"

You are missing the point.

This exchange is, for me, the sweet spot between nerdery and humor and fluff.

9. Which fic has been the hardest to write?

Figuring Out, not even close. I wrote it, hated it, came back to it a few weeks later, edited out about a third of what I had written, begrudgingly posted it, and then came back to it a few weeks after that and edited down another third. Still not especially happy with it--I feel like it kinda wanders around without the  coherence that a really short story like that needs. 

10. Which fic has been the easiest to write?

Gestures. I sat down and wrote it in about fifteen minutes without pausing, skimmed back over it for typos, and then posted it. Most fics take me days to draft, and I edit them 3-4 times at a minimum. I have no idea what brain compartment Gestures came from, but the core ideas of it--non-verbal communication, tactile affection, Venom discovering a forgotten instinct for connection--I have rehashed in some form in every fic since.

17. Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?

Almost always from start to finish. I don’t plan a story in advance, so I don’t know where it’s going, so there’s not really a way to skip ahead. That’s not saying much though, since all my fics are real short. There have been a few times that, as I’m falling asleep and a bit of dialogue or whatever just comes to me without context, I’ve typed it out in the notes app of my phone and then, some weeks later while I’m working on some wip, I realize that segment could fit. 

38. Talk about a review that made your day.

From transpeterparker on Venom VS. Technology:

i love this....... i love this so much....... what the fuck............... this Series. Oh My God. fuck me up. i love their relationship i love. i l o v e grbhiefwklsjehvbfiwu

Every review I’ve gotten has made my day! This stands out in my memory because was the first (and maybe still only?) keysmash I’ve had in a review and I know that feeling of reading something and just being at a loss for words with happiness and it was so exciting to see that in a comment on my work.

[morris-magus-merry-miller]

Chapter 1: Explosive Beginnings

The day began like any other on the road. I was of course upon my trusty steed, Nathaniel, as we made our way on what was to be our greatest venture yet. For you see, I had decided to undertake the most perilous journey across the desert to find the Undiscovered Realm.

Only one teeny tiny little problem stood in the way of myself and my dear companion Nathaniel…we were lost. Horribly, terribly…lost. Not a speck of sand in sight. In fact, quite a few trees instead. It makes sense, since the town we were approaching was called Dualwood.

Oh and there was a mountain. Hard to miss the mountain. Big old thing. The guard at the front of town called it “Mt Terminus”. It’s supposed to be some sort of big important proving point for adventurers. A big important dangerous deadly proving point I had no intention of going near, for you see I already had my own important dangerous and daring quest to venture forth upon, so I hardly needed to add a mountain to that. I was certainly not afraid. Just because the mountain is huge and high up. And supposedly there’s two-headed banshees and other such terrifying monstrosities lurking in wait for the next adventurer who willingly walks straight into their jaws of defeat. And the town guard make regular journeys to clean up the bodies they can safely retrieve…

 …Note to self, maybe edit this part before the final draft…

Note to self 2: less fear, more Big Adventurer Gusto

Of course, flying off course wasn’t going to put a damper on my mood. Oh no. So I found the most lovely bakery in town, ordered some local delicacies which I absolutely whole heatedly suggest if, dear reader, you ever pass this way. Splendid woman, and her bear claws are to die for. Only maybe don’t word it like that, since this town takes that kind of terminology quite literally what with the giant killer mountain looming above them every moment of the day and all that.

With a full belly and a new spring in my step, I stepped I strode boldly into town to find someone with the know-how to point me in the direction of the nearest desert so that I may truly begin my grand adventure to the Undiscovered Realm.

And there, in the center of town, I met a man of great wisdom. He was clearly a storied and well-traveled adventurer himself, for he wore the most splendid dress. Colored in majestic bright hues of reds and oranges, with a grand hat to rival even mine atop his head. It even had not one, not two, but FOUR bells upon each of its grand little horn-like protrusions. He was granting his wisdom in the form of riddles that I didn’t much understand. “Urgathoa? I hardly knew her!” Why and how would one know the Goddess of Undeath? Unless he was himself a zombie…he didn’t look it but you never know these days…

My ramblings aside! I spoke with the wise gentleman, asking him if he knew where the nearest desert is. He seemed to be under the impression I was sent by some guild or another. Perhaps, recognizing my adventuring gear, he believed me to be from the same adventurers’ guild as he? But alas, I am very much a lone wolf upon this adventure, taking to the road with none but Nathaniel for company. It’s a lonely life, especially since Nathaniel can only be summoned for about six hours at a time. But that is the lot in life of an adventurer, and so it is my burden to bear until I have reached my grand journey’s end.

Anyways, the wise man of many bells pointed me in the direction of a nearby temple. There he believed the learned clerics and holy travelers who pass through may be able to grant me guidance in my travels, and return me to my rightful path to the desert, and the mysterious land that lies within it.

 Within the Temple (mysteriously named “The Temple” and even more mysteriously with a sign out front that said, and I quote, “‘Clerical’ services available”. How ridiculous is that? Nobody will believe you’re providing clerical services if you put it in quotation marks as though it is a front for something!)

Author’s note: Oh my Shelyn I think it was a front for something.

 Within the Temple, I met with a grand group of lovely adventurers. There was Miss Candy, a bright and cheery human chef who also on an unrelated note looks like she could break me in half. Snap me like a twig. Probably with just her legs.

Oh dear this is starting to sound like a sex thing. Note to self, do not ever describe it like that again.

There was Miss Candy, a bright and cheery human chef with a love of pink and a surprising talent for kicking things to death. There was Sir Vigo, a mighty and powerful goblin wizard with a knack for fire and animals. Strange combination to be sure, but it works for him. Speaking of animals, there was also Issac, a druid half-orc who is so tall I have not actually gotten a good look at his face. It’s just way up there in the sky somewhere. But of arguably greater import, there was his companion, a bear named Peanut. And I do mean a bear. A literal black bear, just hanging around inside the temple, gentle as a dog. He and Vigo had a rousing conversation, although I know not what about as I cannot speak bear myself, but it would seem the magics of the universe granted Vigo such an ability. Where was I…? Oh, yes. There was also John Smith, a human many years my senior who I suspect has lived a very storied life, although he has not let on just what that story is. He said some rather off-color things in our first meeting, but I do believe there is more to this gentleman than meets the eye. (Not that I can easily meet his eye either, while he is not so tall as Issac, he is a human which generally means ‘much taller than even a really tall halfling’, and I am not a ‘really tall halfling’. I am ‘a very medium halfling’)

Here we met one Cleric Ringwald. Although the more she said, the more it seemed like cleric was an overstatement. She said she worshiped something called “The Creator”, and that the only magic she could do were some simple tricks like magic missile…which looking back, I don’t believe is even a divine spell! Regardless, she told us of a rat problem they were having, and since we were all clearly of the adventuring variety, she wanted to offer us some money and five magic stones to clear the rats out. Only it turned out quite quickly that there weren’t REALLY rats in the basement. Oh, no. When pressed about some rather odd choices in her inflection, she admitted that the creature in the bowls of the temple was a mass of slime, gore, limbs, eyes, and mouths.

For those familiar with earlier works in the M Merry-Miller collection, you may recognize such a description. In Night of the Hallowed Moon, the brave sorceress Emilia faced off against a similar such creature. A gibbering mouther. Disgusting creature in person, I must say. Its sounds alone were enough to make me wish I had not eaten just before hand.

We made our preparations. The grand team of newly acquainted adventurers burst forth into the room, where the beast awaited its demise. As a mysterious fog began to fill the room, the adventurers rushed forward, ready for what was to come.

The fog was, by the way, an ingenious ploy by dear John, who used it as a means to protect us all from the creature’s attacks. Unfortunately it also meant that hitting the creature was a bit more difficult—the fog was, after all, quite difficult for us to see through as well. But for all I know he may well have saved Miss Candy’s life, as the creature tried and failed to bite at her a number of times.

Knowing from past research that this creature would not be affected by my magical talent, I went for the next best thing. A crossbow. With a steady breath despite the (rather cigarette smelling if I’m being honest) smoke, I took aim, and infused my bolt with a nice little punch of my arcane magics. I fired with a flourish, and while I feared from the fog and the creature’s writhing that it would not strike, it struck true, sticking into one of the creature’s many eyes. There was blood everywhere. It was horrific, quite frankly.

Fortunately, Vigo used that moment to slip in closer to the writhing monstrosity. With a shout of some clever words (note to self: think of clever one-liner since he didn’t say any at the time), the feared and powerful wizard evaporated half of the creature’s body with a single lightning strike.

 And this is when things started to get out of hand.

As my gallant companions went to check on a hole in the floor that seemed to be how the wicked beast had entered this fair establishment, there was a commotion outside. Myself, John, and Candy were nearest the door at the time and went to investigate. We found Cleric Ringwald packing in a frenzy within her surveillance room. She tossed some coin to her acolyte Amelia (a skittish elven woman who had apparently directed some of the other adventurers to this location) and told her to get out of town.

Ringwald turned to us when we entered and told us the same, to get far away from here. She tossed us the magic stones she had promised as payment, and said that ‘if we survived’ she would pay more for further services if we met her in Port Town. Then she cast some rather powerful magic on us which made each of us feel revitalized, and she disappeared in a flash of awe inspiring arcane might the likes of which I had never seen.

But oh, I was about to see so much more, dear reader.

You see, I mentioned we were in a surveillance room, yes? By that I mean a room with a number of scrying mirrors which all permanently showed different sections of The Temple. And into the front room stepped a man. I say a man loosely. There was something off about him. He looked like a man, yes. A man with black hair, purple eyes, and robes depicting the butterfly of Desna—which my companions later revealed was a glamour, for it actually depicted a dragonfly symbol of some unknown origin. The reason I question if he was truly a man in the traditional sense was a strange segmentation in his hands at the joints. At first glance it could be mistaken for scars, as one of my companions later stated. However something about them was off. It was less a scar in the skin and more actual barely noticeable separate segments. While my genre of choice is not science fiction, I have read my fair share, and it brought to mind stories I had read in the past of humans created from technology and steel rather than flesh and blood. I know, I know, it sounds crazy. The closest thing we have to such a thing are golems, and they are never so realistic to be mistaken for a living breathing creature. How could such a being truly exist? Quite frankly, dear reader, I know not. But I do know his power was beyond the natural order. We were about to see that first hand.

 The man walked into The Temple’s entry, calling out to Ringwald. He just wanted to talk. Don’t make this harder than it needed to be. She had forced his hand. He began scattering orbs about, while humming a tune I’m unfamiliar with. John tugged at Candy’s sleeve and insisted we had to go. Now.

“Why?”

“Those are delayed fireball charges. He’s about to bring this entire place down!”

We ran, making a beeline for the hole in the basement, which we hoped would lead to safety—or at least shelter from the explosion that was to follow.

Candy quite kindly carried me, Peanut, and Vigo with her much faster legs. We leapt down the hole, and followed a tunnel that led to a ladder up. Looking back, that’s rather strange. I wonder if someone planted that gibbering mouther in the first place. But at the time we were far too busy running for our lives to think of such things. Candy practically flew up the ladder, along with John who was in a mad dash to get back to the stables. It would seem he had paid a stable hand to watch over his daughter while he was in town buying supplies, and he needed to get to her in case the explosion reached that far. Once we made it back above ground Vigo, Issac, and Peanut went with John to check on the stables, as Vigo’s trusty mount Gordon the Ram was stabled there as well.

This left myself and Candy to see when the mysterious dragonfly man descended from the exploding Temple and to the center of town. A storm had whipped up, with a fury of thunder and lightning positively cracking open the sky—but no rain to join it.

The man was chanting in tones that I recognized as Celestial, but I am unfortunately not well versed in that language. However it would seem John was. Over the magical stones his voice spoke to the rest of us, and he told us that the man was about to do something terrible to the entire town, and to get out of there.

Candy had other ideas.

With me still upon her back, she ran at the villain. She leapt forward, posed to kick him and interrupt whatever terrible spell he was weaving.

The storm grew more violent, the clouds swirling and turning an unnatural pink hue. Then everything went black.

 And then we woke up, on the ground before an empty town square. It was dark and silent. The stars were above us in a clear night sky, but the stars didn’t twinkle. Birds and butterflies were frozen in place in the air. There was no breeze, and the grass beneath our feet remained static with each footfall, frozen into whatever shape our feet pressed it into. The people in town were equally frozen. Not a breath, not a blink between them. Candy and I were the only ones in sight still moving.

We made for the stables, where we knew our fellow adventurers had gone. There, they were moving as well. But John’s daughter was not: frozen in a moment of fear, with the stablehand shielding the young child from harm, equally frozen. Somehow Vigo’s ram Gordon was fine, still moving and ‘baa’ing as a ram should.

We tried to brainstorm why we were able to escape the effects of this spell, which the more magically inclined members of our group identified as a potent mixture of a Stasis spell on a massive scale and Miracle—the most powerful of powerful divine magics. The best we would think of was that whatever spell Ringwald had cast upon us had also protected us from the spell that had otherwise pulled an entire village out of the natural flow of time.

As if to prove our theory, Ringwald’s acolyte Amelia pulled herself limping from the nearby rubble of the Temple, the only other person we’d seen in town left unaffected besides ourselves. She needed a moment to catch her breath, so we continued to brainstorm while she did.

Vigo wanted to climb Mt Terminus, believing the treasure at the top would be necessary to make us powerful enough to face the monster who had done this. Issac was in disagreement—he’d been living in this town for months, and had seen first-hand how deadly that trip is. According to him only one single group of adventurers had ever reached the top and lived to tell the tale, and they were the best of the best. Our inability to face this monstrous man was proof enough that we would die upon the peaks of the mountain long before we reached the treasure—and with us, all knowledge of what had happened in town. The rest of our band of adventurers believed that tracking down Cleric Ringwald would be the ideal next step. She seemed to have some mysteriously powerful magic of her own, and a history with this individual. Vigo wasn’t happy with this plan, as it might be putting us right back into the line of sight of the man whose magic broke the natural order.

Issac was finally able to talk Vigo into it, promising to join him on venturing to the top of the mountain after we got Ringwald and unfroze the town. None of us had any intention of facing this man again if we could help it—except for possibly John, who sounded rather keen on punching him in the face. I can’t blame him, his daughter is on the line after all. I can think of a few faces I find rather punchable myself that would probably come back to bite me afterwards. But that’s neither here nor there.

Once it was agreed we would head to Port Town to find the cleric who may or may not really be a cleric, who has some connection to the man who may or may not really be a man, Amelia asked to tag along since she had nowhere else to go. We happily agreed. While we prepared to set out, Amelia showed us how to use the magic stones—called the Stones of Far Speech—which we could use to talk to each other from a great distance, as John had done when trying to warn us about the dragonfly man’s spell.

On our way out of town I summoned Nathaniel, ready to head back out onto the open road—this time with a number of companions and a new destination in sight. It wasn’t quite the adventure I’d been looking for, but it appears adventure found me none-the-less. And really, isn’t that what being a daring adventurer is all about?

(note to self: you used ‘adventure’ 3 times in 2 sentences, find some synonyms before the final draft)

[brynwrites]

Last week I posted about @byjillianmaria’s new book, The Songbird’s Refrain. 

Click the link or read below!

Last Tuesday was the book birthday of Jillian Maria’s debut, the stunning supernatural suspense The Songbird’s Refrain!

I had the privilege of reading this story while it was still in its earlier beta stages, and it’s been a joy to watch it grow from a not-so-shitty rough draft to an absolute piece of art.

So if you’re looking for an awesome, creepy YA with some good old fashion gal pals growing magical life-stealing feathers, you’re in for a treat!

PURCHASE THE SONGBIRD’S REFRAIN

ADD THE SONGBIRD’S REFRAIN ON GOODREADS

ABOUT THE BOOK

When a mysterious show arrives in town, seventeen-year-old Elizabeth Brighton is both intrigued and unsettled. But none of the acts capture her attention quite like the blue-eyed woman. Locked in a birdcage and covered in feathers, the anguish in her voice sounds just a little too real to be an act—because it isn’t. The show’s owner, a sadistic witch known only as the Mistress, is holding her captive.

And she’s chosen Elizabeth as her next victim.

After watching the blue-eyed woman die, Elizabeth is placed under the same curse. She clings to what little hope she can find in the words of a fortune teller and in her own strange dreams. The more she learns, the more she suspects that the Mistress isn’t as invulnerable as she appears. But time is against her, and every feather that sprouts brings her closer to meeting the blue-eyed woman’s fate. Can Elizabeth unlock the secret to flying free, or will the Mistress’s curse kill her and cage its next victim?

MY PERSONAL REVIEW

This book is a blast, with a hint of creepy, a dose of suspense, and a nice dollop of fluffy wlw.

Despite nearly the entire story taking place in the same basic location, the plot never feels slow or aimless. The mystery is engaging, constantly pulling the reader forward with new hints. The MC goes through a wonderful character arc and is very easy to root for, the villain is just as easy to love to hate, and all the side characters have interesting personalities and impact the plot. The prose is generally simplistic, with some minor disruptions like repeated words, but holds great, impactful lines as well.

Overall, a wonderful fall read, with a heavy focus on healthy relationships, believing in one’s self, and choosing love.

INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

Jillian was awesome enough to answer a few questions for me…

Where did you first get the idea or inspiration for this novel?

The earliest version of this novel was actually a fanfiction! But it’s changed a lot since then–the entire bird/feather motif didn’t exist, there were a lot more characters who didn’t really contribute anything, the love stories were less fleshed out. I think the biggest changes happened from around the 70% mark onward, but everything’s changed a little bit.

Where and when do you typically write? Do you have any pre-writing exercises or habits that help you get into the mood?

I tend to write after dinner, but lately I’ve been sneaking in more writing on my lunch break, too. I don’t really have any habits or exercises, but I do tend to schedule my day in advance, so I always know exactly when I’m writing. Generally I dedicate the 7:30-8:30 block to writing, although sometimes it gets moved around. And on weekends, I’ll schedule more writing time.

Who was your favorite side character to write in The Songbird’s Refrain?

It’s really hard to pick a favorite! They were all super fun in their own way. Maybe Violet, though. She probably had the easiest voice out all of them to write, and required very little editing. Just deleting an f-word here and there when she decided she needed to use three in one sentence.

If you had to set The Songbird’s Refrain in a popular alternate universe (like the world of Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, the Hunger Games, etc), which would you choose and how would your characters fit in there?

Oh, gosh, what a great question! I definitely know my character’s Hogwarts Houses, so… let’s go with that. Elizabeth is a tiny shy hufflepuff with a crush on the cute Ravenclaw girl who is always reading romance novels and doting on her cat, but doesn’t get the courage to talk to her until a mysterious threat arrives, wearing a dark mark and a red dress… I don’t know, something like that!

What’s something (or multiple somethings) you wish you’d known about writing before you’d started The Songbird’s Refrain?

You’re going to wind up changing lots of things during the drafting process, so don’t worry so much about sentence structure until you’re relatively certain you’re going to keep that chapter the way that it is! Seriously, I could have saved so much time..

Do you have a new project you’re working on now that The Songbird’s Refrain is approaching publication?

There is, but I’m not sure if I’m going to publish it under the Jillian Maria name, so I’m keeping it a secret 😉 But my next big Jillian Maria project is going to be another f/f YA novel about two girls hunting treasure in a small town forest! Technically this is a second draft, but I’m changing some pretty major plot elements and it’s got me really excited. I’ve got it outlined and about one-and-a-half chapters properly drafted right now, and am hoping it’ll be ready for its first round of beta readers after that!

What are you most proud of in regards to The Songbird’s Refrain, whether that be a skill you picked up while writing it or a scene you didn’t think you could conquer, etc?

I think that the themes of the book are really solid. I’m really proud of how everything sort of ties together in the end, because that’s something I really admire in other writers but always have a hard time replicating. It took several drafts, but I think it got there! Also, Chapter 28 always makes me cry. I think that’s a pretty big accomplishment.

While The Songbird’s Refrain is an amazing book, there’s always more to be learned as a writer! Is there something you’re working on improving in your writing right now?

Pacing is always a struggle of mine, so that’s something I think I’ll be working on indefinitely, from now until the end of time. I’d also like to make my writing process a little shorter–it took many, many drafts to get The Songbird’s Refrain to where it is now, and I’d like to improve as a writer so that I can get more polished drafts on the first or second try.

Can we get a picture of you and your writing buddy Sadie? 🙂

Of course! As you can see, she is very helpful.

Jillian Maria enjoys tea, pretty dresses, and ripping out pieces of herself to put in her novels. She writes the books she wants to read, prominently featuring women who are like her in some way or another. A great lover of horror, thriller and mystery novels, most of her stories have some of her own fears lurking in the margins. When she isn’t willing imaginary people into existence, she’s pursuing a career in public relations and content marketing. A Michigan native, Jillian spends what little free time she has hanging out with her friends, reading too much, singing along to musical numbers, and doting on her cat.

You can find her on goodreads and her website.

[musicianposter]

Log entry: behind the scenes of YouTube video

Hi everyone, hope you’re having a great Sunday. I thought I’d start sharing with you some stories and behind-the-scenes about my journey with Musician Poster to become more connected with you. Initially I thought to have my social profiles clear of non-content related posts to not clutter it for your convenience, but today I’ve been reading some articles that inspired me to change this approach because I figured it only makes it worse in the end. And here I am, writing this. But, I won’t post any nonsense with the sole purpose of making a post. I will only post when I have something worthy to share. And you can always just skip if you want to.

The first story I want to share is about the creation of the YouTube video I’ve recently released because the story behind it is actually funny. 

So, back in late December 2021 I was about to start creating my first video. I had zero experience with creating content for YouTube where I would be the main actor. I’ve chosen “DaVinci Resolve” as the software for the job. When I installed it a couple of weeks earlier it was working so I knew all was ready. But when I actually started learning it, it turned out that it did not like my system, and it crashed like crazy. I suspected this had to do with my integrated video card. I went online in search for an external dedicated card only to find out that we actually have a worldwide crisis with video cards—they are really expensive, think thousands of dollars. I’ve researched the cause but that’s a whole different story outside of the scope of this post.

I have a brother, Serge, who lives in Australia and he’s working in the film industry. So, naturally he and his colleagues depend heavily on video cards for their 3D work. I’ve contacted him and he said he’d ask his colleagues if by chance they did an upgrade and they have an old card available. And he instantly found one! Fast forward 3 or so weeks later I have it in Europe :) Thank you bro and your colleague!

Time to connect it. Turns out it needs a more powerful PSU than I have installed. Luckily I had a spare one from an old PC. Time to replace PSU. Guess what, no luck, Lenovo motherboard happens to have a proprietary PSU connector. Ordered some 3rd party adapter and I prayed it would not fry my system. Luckily it didn’t, whew. Time to insert the card. Now there’s some random connector sticking out which is preventing the card from being inserted, and I’m like “Really!?”. I had no choice but to disconnect it. Thankfully that was just some cable for the front panel. Finally I managed to boot with the new card! And yes, DaVinci stopped crashing.

So I’ve learned DaVinci for a while. Then I wrote an initial draft for the video and realized that it was way too long! I was shocked, I didn’t want my first video to be this long. And actually, it had a different subject. I wanted to do a video on modes—an in-depth explanation on how to play in a mode so that it sounded like a mode and not anything standard. But obviously, I put it on the shelf and wrote around 3 other drafts. And one of them was about scale formulas.

Being the first video, it took forever to create. I don’t want to scare you with numbers, but 128 hours of pure work on video. I timed how much it took me to produce it, out of curiosity (I liked it though, quite an insight). That includes draft writing, video shooting (takes and all that) and then editing it in DaVinci. The audio was of course recorded separately. Native tools within DaVinci for syncing external audio with the cam’s audio did a poor job so I did all the syncing manually. Even though I wanted a shorter video, it still turned out 24 minutes long. But what can I say, lesson learned.

And so on April 18, I release the video. Yes, as expected, there’s not many views, at least as of yet. I’m prepared for that. Nowadays, not only do we have competition but we also have algorithms that you need to take into account :)

So there you go, I’ve shared my first experience as a YouTube content creator. Maybe some of you can resonate with that. As you can tell, not without obstacles, but it worked out ;)

Oleg

[blissuniverse]

I'm always watching you.

                                                   CHAPTER II

Sasuke cuts himself and hides it very well under his wrist protectors. However, a suspecting gaze from Sakura tells him otherwise.

Rating: T+ but I think i’ll add some dark scenes later.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort and Romance

I’m not sure if this will turn out as a three-shot but we’ll see.

A.N. English is not my native language and I am only new to writing. plus, I am not a medical expert so some parts maybe odd and not right even though I  did some valid research. uwu annd lastly I didn’t have time to edit., so this is just a draft. lol

FF.net

Chapter I

“Shit. I can’t train like this.” Sasuke hissed in a frustrated groan as he tried to throw kunais and shurikens from a ranged target.

His wrists were being annoying and it burned like hell.

As he made every movement the wounds from his wrists would distract him. And just as he hissed a curse, the wounds from last night’s torture began to bleed again.

“Tch, another waste of time, I have no other choice.” he set off to the road of the hospital carefully clutching and hiding the secret infliction he had done in secret.

It was his entire fault really. Being lost in his own mind and being so easily controlled by his emotions that one thing he never thought of losing to. It’s a thing that disgusted him, it was a form of weakness. If nothing more, Naruto’s words only fit him right. “You’re a freak!” everyone would think that. But he never dwelled on the matter anyway.

As he strode his way to the hospital, He’d come to appreciate the silence he was met with

The good thing about walking past the streets at this time was that there were only few people beginning to start off their day. So, the trip to the hospital was quite efficient for him.

It was quiet, very and nobody gave him any attention.

And not for long the building of the hospital came into view

As he entered the hospital the first thing that any living people who entered was to ask the information desk. “Oh! Uchiha-san! Good morning! Is there any help I could get you?” The brunette girl with the nurse outfit said. A name tag dangled on the left part of her uniform that says ‘Ami’

“I need a physician.” He grunted. “Oh! I would be guessing those are wounds?” Ami said and Sasuke nodded at this. “He’s a walk-in doctor is that okay with you Uchiha-san?” Ami asked waiting for a preferral. Well they were Uchihas and they don’t seem to trust just anybody with something.

“Hn, anyone available would be fine.”

“Alright, Dr. Hiro-san is available at this hour. You should seek him at his office it’s near the emergency area.”

“Aa.” Sasuke said and walked off.

The walk wasn’t that long and that he made it within a spare of minutes.

The doctor was easy to communicate with. And it was just his luck as he stood there already on the operating room.

“So, Sasuke-san, what happened?” Hiro asked with a bright personality. “My wrists are bleeding.” Sasuke said and started removing his bloodied wrist protectors.

As he scribbled on the medical chart. Which was probably his. ‘fuck, my records are piling up.’

“Hmm…. I see, you seem to have previous ones like these as well.” As he scanned the medical chart. And dotting out his pen once more.

“Is there any reason why your wounds keep appearing like this?” Hiro asked Sasuke. ‘the bastard’s testing me.’ Sasuke thought.

He rolled his eyes and said. “They were bruises I acquired in training.” The doctor didn’t look convinced as he gasped at the wounds. Sasuke gave the doctor a final look that meant not to dwell on it any further. The doctor gave a defeated sigh and said.

“Well… It’s been cleaned thoroughly. But these are big cuts Sasuke-san. I think some might even need stitching.”

The sight of Sasuke’s hand unravelled as the doctor completely removed the bandage from his wrists. It almost made Sasuke’s stomach shudder. ‘I am a fool.’

 “Alright, I’ll clean these up with some aqua oxigenada after I administer you with some shots and start stitching.”  “did you drink some antibiotics this early morning?” The doctor asked as he assisted him to sit on the medical bed.

“Yes.” He answered shortly.

“What time?” As the doctor prepared and sanitized the needed medical tools and readied the syringes for the needed shots.

“4 AM.” Sasuke answered.

“What milligram?” the doctor asked as he flicked the syringe with his fingers. And measuring the right amount of vial.

“Hn.” Sasuke answered. The brunette doctor smiled and chuckled as he scratched the back of his neck. “I guess that says you don’t know.” He scribbled some things on the medical chart after washing his own hands and wearing some latex gloves.

“I’ll administer you with a small injection of anti-biotic just in case you drank a very weak one, And… of course some anaesthesia.”

Right before the first injection. The door gave out a loud thud. This startled Sasuke whom also looked at that direction,

he sensed a familiar chakra. His glaring towards the door only made him glare.

 The doctor came up and peeped at the door but found no one to be there.

“Hmm… someone musta’ve bumped it accidentally. The emergency room is quite hectic today.” And then he shrugged it off and approached a very troubled looking Sasuke.

‘Tch! I have to be alert at all cost, someone is already spying on me.’

Under no conditions should people see him in this state, especially his teammates. He would never allow it. He could only die from humiliation, disgust, and self-deprivation. It would only hinder him from trying to get away from these selfish actions.

His mind is twisted he admits, and not any of this should be normal. Even though he’d said it in a million times.

He knew that he never deserved to do this to himself. So that’s why his resort to life is to avenge his entire clan. Because he never deserved to lose a family, and they never deserved to die. So, until he was alive. He strives to hate and become much stronger than his brother.  Then, after all of that, he wished the sufferings his mind gave him would disappear. Because if he killed his brother, then so are his nightmares.

                                                                  “There, all done! Please don’t do any strenuous activities for a week. It would reopen the wound. And just like I said, The hospital is quite hectic today. You can’t just grasp any medic nin here. They’re very limited people. And they are needed in a very serious case.”

 Sasuke grunted at this and muttered his ‘thanks’ to the doctor.

He left the operation room and walked to the hallways knowingly going in the wrong direction as he sensed a familiar chakra. ‘Tch, I think I have an idea who it was outside the operation room I occupied just minutes ago.’

“SASUKE-KUUUUN!” an annoying screech was heard after that he felt someone latched tightly on his arm. 

“Get off me Ino.” He said annoyingly while struggling to save his wrist from any contact. He pulled her off his body frustatingly. And the girl was literally reluctant.

“Awww… common you’re no fun Sasuke-Kun! I was just gonna give you the biggest kiss when I felt your chakra earli-”

“Get off my face Ino.” Sasuke cut her off. He looked irritated and ready to snap. “wha- what? Why?” Ino exclaimed.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said leave me alone!” Sasuke said with finality. She just had to be so clingy at this hour. It’s too early for all of this mess.

“And, don’t ever follow me!” he said in seriousness. Ino gasped at this and rolled her eyes annoyingly.

 “Really Sasuke-kun, you should be upgrading your social skill more!” She said in a girlish manner which made him want to flinch more. If he didn’t learn all of those etiquette lessons from his mother about respecting women she would have been beaten into a pulp already. She had no right to spy on his privacy.

 Finally facing him casually. “It seems today is not the day I changed that about you. But I’ll never lose to that forehead.” She said as she flipped her hair. Why do they keep going on about this? It just sounded like foul play. It was so annoying.

“Anyways! It was nice seeing you! Good bye Sasuke-kuuun!” She waved off flauntingly despite him being a rude prick.

 ‘Tch! She was the one who spied on me. I’d be in a real big trouble if she used that mind transfers of hers.’ He grunted at this and finally walked on the right direction.

 Unfortunately not only for a few steps away from the scene did he felt a much more familiar chakra. It felt strong emotions, one that he might feel of confidence and oddly firing determination, it was of rare occurrences for him to feel her this way. After all, he never really did try to get to know her any better than Naruto and Kakashi.

The sight she saw of her. Short pink hair, resolute green eyes and a hint of smile that displayed self-pride as she hastily strode faster and frankly trying to avoid a room she just passed. She was clutching a thick book that seemed to weigh ¼ of her body. How can she manage to bring that all the way around in the hospital?

 Just after a few seconds she crashed onto him and like he expected. As she was about to fall, he already caught her steadying and holding firmly on her shoulders.

“tch, you should be more careful.” He said in his usual tone.

“Oh, Sasuke-kun! I’m sorry I was in a hurry! I’m helping out in the hospital. The ER is quite hectic today.” Sakura answered as she smiled sheepishly. ‘phew that came off better than I had wanted.’

“Hn, I’ve been told.” Sasuke replied as he noticed she got nervous all of a sudden.

 “I didn’t know you volunteered help.” he answered as he gave her the fallen book.

“Thanks. Err Actually, I’ve been volunteering in the hospital for almost 3 months now.” She showed a look of disappointment but immediately changed it to a brighter one before he caught it.

Sasuke’s eyebrows seems to have rose at this. He looked amused. Shouldn’t she be training instead of volunteering? It’d be much better if she can take care of herself more than helping others. 

It was just very typical of her. That’s why he always felt the need to protect her. Because she always cared about others and forgot to think about herself.

“Anyways, Take care Sasuke-kun! I need to help out in the hospital I’m in need of a very important study today. I’ll see you at 7!” She waved off with a sweet smile.

“hn.”

‘smiles, her smiles are always so innocent.’

He thought as he watched her retreating back and hurried for the stairs.

For a really weird reason he found her smiles the most comforting. Yet never really dwelled on the matter. There were more important things he needed to do. Like training for the finals. And get stronger and kill his brother

He scowled quietly for thinking this way and followed the path to team seven’s training grounds.

                                                              It was only for a moment when he started training and came back from the hospital all patched up from his self-inflicted wounds.

He looked very serious and keen on his training until

he felt an enigmatic presence lurking in the forest. He activated his sharingan in secret and continued to train so he wouldn’t look obvious.

‘Chakra.’ One that seemingly is ranked as jounin or chuunin if he knew maybe even anbu. Someone was watching him from the shadows.

'Tch, he never even bothered to hide it.' He thought as he threw the kunai he was holding that was supposedly aimed for the training dummy to the open forest.

“Show yourself.” He said as he glared a few meters away from the training dummy he was training with just minutes ago.

“Hmm… It seems you have caught me. Uchiha”

 A red head boy stepped away from the shade of the trees and came forward gracefully.

“Pleasantries.” Gaara said in a very calm but dangerous voice.

 “What do you want Gaara?” Sasuke glared and growled.

“Oh, nothing I just wanted to get to know my opponent better.” He smiled. “Maybe this way, I could know your weakness.”  The intense glares he had sent off to Gaara did little than to mock him.

 “Oh wait, I think I wouldn’t be needing that. You already are.”

Sasuke grunted and strengthened the glare he only gave at Gaara. Sasuke's fist whitened from rage.

He dare say that to his face. He hadn’t even seen his skills when he trained for this examination 3 months ago.

  “I can’t feel nothing but excitement at the feel of your bones being crushed by my sand.” He said and smiled wickedly and gave a dark laugh.

Sasuke the arrogant guy he was happened to earn himself a challenge. “Why don’t you ask yourself?” Sasuke said in a dangerous tone and readied for his battle stance. Taunting him.

 “A challenge I see…” Gaara’s knuckles turned white from the tension. His eyes gleamed in attempt for murder. His bloodlust getting all excited as he felt the need to kill something immediately however he composed himself. There was little time left for him to mock a weakling.

“It would be a shame if I killed you right now.” Gaara said tauntingly. Sasuke growled audibly and Gaara almost let off a snicker.

“Besides, I want to see you die in front of the audience.” Gaara smiled and continued.

“ I will show them just how much of an excuse you are for a ninja.” He laughed darkly. That’s it, He just snapped. He had to have his head right now.

“Tch! Why you-!” Sasuke said as he launched in front of him.

“T’Hahahaha.” Gaara looked so twisted. His lips plastered on his cheek too widely as he saw his plan unraveling, getting him all worked up and looking like an idiot.

 “STOP!” A tough female voice rang out of nowhere.

“Gaara! Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” A blonde sand ninja said. She looked familiar but he never really gave an effort to remember her name. It was no time for pleasantries.

“Temari. Get out of my way.” Gaara glared.

 He looked like was ready to snap. The girl could only gasp as she looked at Gaara nervously, as sweat dripped from he brows.

The Kazakage their father would surely have their heads if Gaara created more trouble. Yet it could also get her killed if she stopped him. Handling Gaara was a very much delicate matter. One wrong move and you're dead.

She willed herself to speak and not to chicken out. It was her duty anyway. They were still siblings, in blood or not. Even though it killed for her to think this way.

“Father is looking for you.” She said as her heart beat too fast.

Just as she said this a Boy carrying puppets and wearing make up came rushing into them.

“Gaara, Father has sent us to fetch you. He has a very urgent matter to discuss with us please must come along, immediately.”

The newcomer said this with obvious nervousness. The tension could just kill them.

“Fine.” Gaara said in finality. He glared at the Uchiha and gave him his wicked smile.

“Till then, Uchiha…” Gaara said as he turned around following his siblings to the open forest.

 “Tch! That bastard.” Sasuke muttered and continued to glare daggers behind their backs. He composed himself and started to train more.

Giving the kunai a harsh grip and throwing it with force. He had to let his frustrations out. He had to train and become much stronger. Truly those sand siblings were always bored and looking for trouble.

 Sasuke wanted nothing more for the exams to end.

 He willed himself not to dwell on what just happened earlier and continue to strive harder on his training. Yet, seeing it as it is the doctor had said that doing strenuous activities for the matter would reopen his wounds and it would likely render him useless in training.

He looked at his arm and instead remembered the events before going to the hospital.

‘Hn, Sakura.’

It was already 7:30 and surprisingly enough Sakura was running a little late past behind their team meeting.

  __________________________

“I got it!” Sakura said in finality. Sachi could only gasp. ’t-this kid…!’

"Let me see, let me see!" Sachi said excitedly. after knowing the results and the poisoned blood returned to its original shade she could only jumpp in glee and hug the kid tight.

‘That’s amazing Sakura-chan!!” she screamed in delight!

"The formulas are finally done! Now the rest is up for distribution!” Sachi exclaimed.

“We’ll handle it from here, I know you’re running a little late for your team training. I’m truly sorry for that!” Sachii said in a bow.  Sakura checked the clock on the wall and gasped.“Oh no! You’re right!” She gave out a horrified expression. What would Sasuke-kun say to her about being tardy? but she didn't dwell on the matter far longr when she remembered that this antidote she had just created will save many lives as of this day and the next.

“It’s okay Sachi-san it was a pleasure working with you. And I’m glad I could help!” Sakura said happily.

“I have truly no words! You know we could offer you a position here in the hospital if something comes up! I’ll arrange the paperworks and all will be good!”

Ami said happily and Sakura gasped as Sachi giggled.

“Besides, you’ve been helping out for a while now, and I’ve been guessing it’s what you wanted in the first place when you came here. Am I right?”

 “Yes! Of course!” Sakura said excitedly. “Thank you so much Sachi-san!” she screamed in delight and hugged the 20-year old medic.

 “aww! You’re welcome Sakura-chan!” and she hugged back. Truly Sakura was too sweet for her own.

“I will do my best and I promise you won’t ever regret this decision!” Sakura said in finality and hurried for the door.

“I must go now! Sasuke-kun must already be there!” Sakura said and ran off for the training grounds.

“wait-! Sakura! you’re wrist...!” Sachi exclaimed. Yet after she uttered these words Sakura was already out the door. ‘Oh, dearie that girl could be really reckless.’

                                                                          “Oh, shoot I’m super late!” Sakura said as she ran on the streets of Konoha looking at her watch it already read 7:48

Sakura could only gasp and gave out a horrified expression. She wasn’t always the type for tardiness. She always showed up on time and kept that record straight up. That is until this fateful day.

‘This may sound lame but Kakashi sensei isn’t there yet anyways. And Naruto always comes up after an hour. That leads to Sasuke probably training alone on the training grounds.’

‘heh. This is never happening again.’ She thought.

After a few minutes of sprinting Sakura managed to arrive at the rendezvous.

and spot the boy she endeared.

                                                                         “Hn, youre late.” Sasuke said as she arrived at 7:56 almost 8.

 Sakura cursed mentally. “Ah! Sasuke-kun! I’m sorry. It took a while for us and the medic team to complete the formula but all is well and-!”

 but was cut off by Sasuke already close enough within range. And soon enough he grasped her wrist that was injured. She hissed from the pain.

It was still bleeding profusely. ’I had completely forgotten about that!’ Sakura gasped in surprise.

 “What happened?” Sasuke asked as he inspected the wound. “ah-! Eeeh. S-sasuke-kun” she said muttering lamely. She just had to act all shy whenever he was this close.

“You should take care of yourself more Sakura.” Sasuke said. as he puled out some ointments and bandages.

“It gets really annoying.” As Sasuke wrapped her wounds with the bandages.

She couldn’t see his expression because of his hair blocking her view. But she knew that he only cared. Yet seeing him like this only made her feel like a burden. The thought of his wrist having the same injury as hers were quite beguiling.

But she had intentionally cut her wrist this way so she could let him know that she noticed.

"Please, do the the same." She gave a somewhat pleading look as she replied secretly muttering the words and looked away immediately.

Sasuke caught sight of her expression and heard everything she said.

Sakura already knew what his wounds meant the very first time she saw it.

although the thought was so unbelievable she knew everything was possible no matter how much she wanted to deny herself she knew that he did it to himself intentionally. and he was suffering more intensely and was keeping it to himself alone again.

"What do you mean?" He asked in assumption. and stopped at his actions.

"Iiie! w-what? I didn't say anything" she all but said ridiculously.

'I guess I'm not quite ready to face him with this matter, but I have to!' She thought nervously

"Tch whatever." He said as he continued to roll the bandage around her wound. She was acting all weird again.

He felt slightly good when the injury was covered from his view. But the very reminder of her wearing these bandages only made it worse. Because underneath his wrist protectors he also worse of them.

 He had a personal pull from his gruesome feelings when he saw her with this kind of injury. And he knew very damn well what it was.

Sasuke being the teammate he was only worried for her well-being and seeing the sight of her wrist bleeding only made his stomach churn.

“Ah- Thank you. I’m sorry. But you see I had to cut myself so I could test out the poison with my blood. And cutting it this way will give out more sample so-” Sakura said in a weak tone.

This in turn only made Sasuke pause on what he was doing. His expression looked unreadable. But turned away immediately.

The intentions for both of them were downright different despite how the same process of the injury goes. 

Her wound meant to save others. While his were to hurt himself.

Oh, the irony.

'tch, always hurting herself and helping others.'

He made the wrong assumption. And for the first time he was glad.

“Hn, whatever.” He said.

Ever since the events from the forest of death she had begun acting this way. And it irked him because he always noticed.

“Just, don’t do it again.” He muttered the last part and tied the final knot.

He was met with a deafening silence from her which was odd. And quite frankly she was staring at him with an intense expression. Something that she only gave out when she was so sure of something.