#yes its impractical i dont care | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lesbobiwan · 3 years

Note

Congrats on 100! 🥳 I was wondering if I could request #100 and Wolffe 💕

thank u so much for the request!!!

#100: "Call me selfish, but I don't ever want anyone else to touch you." + Wolffe

warnings: kinda public sex. you dont fuck in front of anyone but its kinda close, jealous sex, clothed sex, creampies

You could think of a million different things you'd rather be doing right now.

You'd rather clean the barrack bathrooms after the boys don't have the heart to turn down Plo's well-meaning attempt at cooking. You'd rather be dropped off on an abandoned planet and be told to find a way off. You'd rather be getting shot at by fucking Seppies.

But, no. You're here in this ridiculous dress for some party thrown in the name of the GAR's brave and selfless troopers.

What a load of shit.

As if any of those senators give a shit about any of these men aside from how a picture of them shaking hands will boost their approval ratings.

You know you were invited as a deliberate political move. As the only volunteer nat-born medic for the 104th, you make the war easier to look at.

Look, Senators will say while they point to you, we don't rely solely on the creation of clones who are made to fight and die for a war they have no choice in! We have regular people involved in the war too!

Again. What a load of shit.

It's sickening the way that these politicians will pretend to care about the well-being of the soldiers who fight and die for them when it will make them look good. These people, if you can even call them that, don't know what it's like on the front lines.

You can barely understand what it's like on the frontlines, but you see the aftermath. You see the shell-shocked shinies and the trembling hands of even the most veteran trooper after a battle gone wrong.

Politicians are a disease, you think to yourself, and the sooner you can get out of this ridiculous dress the better.

The only benefit to this is the free champagne and the way Wolffe acts as a deterrent to any smart Senator or politician that comes your way.

Dressed to impress in a sharp gray suit, Wolffe cuts an imposing figure next to you. The tight suit jacket makes his already broad shoulders look impossibly broader and the buttons of his dress shirt strain against the muscles of his chest.

Your dress seems to compliment Wolffe in every way. Your dress is mainly white, but the gray accents serve as a subtle call to Wolffe's suit. Claiming you as his, you like to think. The same designs etched into the cuffs and collar of Wolffe's suit jacket are present at the bottom of your dress, circling the hem before fading as you look higher up the dress.

You think you'd enjoy the night if it wasn't for the Senate's... everything. You may be in a war, but you enjoy looking and feeling pretty. You think you'd feel very pretty if the meaning of the night didn't make you feel sick to your stomach.

With the commander acting as your shadow for the night, you've had little trouble keeping pesky Senators looking for a quick fuck away from you.

At least... the smart ones.

"As I was saying, my father is one of the main beneficiaries of the GAR," the boy — and truly he isn't enough to call a man — prattles on in front of you, totally oblivious to your uninterested expression and the clone commander hovering over your shoulder. You think he might be a senatorial aide and his father might be the Senator?

You wonder if you should adjust the plunging neckline of the dress so that the hickey Wolffe left behind last night peeks into eyesight.

"And I tell him that he shouldn't waste our family money on this war. Honestly, there's no need for clones," he continues, eyes flickering to Wolffe before he turns back to you, "I mean, what could clones possibly provide that a real man can't?"

He leans towards you, and with his last few words he drags his knuckles lightly up your arm. A smile that he must think is charming slithers onto his face as he continues to caress your crawling skin.

"Better company, for one," you mumble into your champagne glass before you can cause a scene. You drain the rest of the drink before you say something stupid.

You don't think you muffle it well enough because Wolffe's shoulders shake in muffled laughter behind you.

"Would you like to dance?" The aide blurts out, and once caressing fingers turn into a greedy grabbing hand closing around your wrist.

Wolffe stiffens behind you, jolting against your back before stopping himself.

Your face morphs into one of distain before you can stop it, "Actually," you begin, yanking your wrist from a sweaty palm, "I promised Commander Wolffe my first dance," your smile is so obviously fake it's painful, but the aide doesn't seem to notice.

"Well, maybe after you're done with the trooper, we can —"

"It's Commander," Wolffe finally speaks up, and his gravely voice has goosebumps spreading across your skin.

"Excuse me?"

Wolffe's hand splays across the small of your back as he steps beside you, "I said, it's commander," he repeats, voice cold like stone. Fuck, it makes your thighs rub together beneath your dress.

The aide's nose scrunches up, "Yes, well, when you're done with the commander, maybe you'll come my way?"

What is it with men not taking a hint?

"No, I don't think so," Wolffe answers for you before the hand on your back shifts from just a grounding touch to a guiding one, and he's leading you away.

Your skin is alight with excitement. You look up at the commander, whose jaw in clenched in obvious irritation. It makes you feel guilty, but Wolffe looks extremely attractive when he's pissed.

"Wolffe, we just passed the dance floor," you whisper as he rushes you past the chunk of the room marked out for couples to hold each other close and sway to the music.

"I know," Wolffe says shortly, leading you to the nearest exit so fast that you nearly fall out of your impractical shoes.

He practically drags you out the door and into one of the hallways you know you aren't allowed to be in.

"Wolffe, where are we — Oh!"

The commander cages you against the wall, hands on either side of your head as his hips press flush to yours through your dress. You can feel the bulge of his cock even through the layers of your clothes.

He breathes in deep through his nose before he speaks, "You're mine, you know that, right?" he rocks his hips against you as he speaks, and you don't get the best friction through the poofiness of your dress, but it's his words that make your thighs clench.

"Yes," you whisper into the space between you, "only yours, Wolffe,"

And it's true. You are Wolffe's no matter the setting — battlefield or ballroom — and no matter the outfits — hard plastoid armor or dashing suits and dresses.

Wolffe stares down at you, breathing hard through his mouth, searching for something in your face before he leans down to crush your lips together.

He kisses you like he's fighting. It's vicious and he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth until you whine, and it's only then that he lets it go. "Call me selfish," he whispers in your ear before he flips you around so that your face is pressed flush with the wall, "but I don't ever want anyone else to touch you."

Wolffe's hands are desperate as he begins to wrench the layers of your dress up and up until it's all bunched up above your hips, leaving your lower half exposed to him.

He inhales sharply at the sight of the lingerie the women who helped you into the dress had given you.

You never know whose going to unwrap you by the end of the night, one of the women had whispered like a secret to you.

But that wasn't true. You knew exactly who was going to unwrap you.

"Fuck," Wolffe hisses, dragging one of his hands across the delicate lace that covers your ass. "You wear this just for me?"

You pant against the wall, hands scrambling for purchase as Wolffe leans down to bite the meat of your ass. "Shit!" you gasp, just a bit too loud for comfort.

Wolffe drags his teeth down the curve of your ass, nosing at the wet patch of your panties. "How long have you been this wet, pretty girl?" he demands, pressing the tips of his fingers against the wet lace over your clit.

Your hips jerk against him. It's exhilarating to thing that only one door and a left turn separates a room full of Senators and Very Important People from the two of you.

It's filthy what you're doing. You're sure if anyone were to see you — pressed face first into a wall with little regard for the makeup that was applied to you with more caution than one treats a bomb and your expensive dress hiked up around your waist to expose your soaking cunt, you'd single-handedly ruin all efforts to draw support for the GAR.

"Answer me," Wolffe spits out as he drags your panties down your ass to let them fall around your ankles. One broad hand swats at your ass, right over the pulsing bite mark he left behind.

"All night!" you sob into the wall, biting your hand to muffle the groans you want to let out. "As soon as I saw you in that suit!"

A part of you wishes Wolffe would turn you back around. You want to see him in that suit — want to watch his muscles bunch and flex beneath the delicate fabric.

Wolffe's huff of laughter blows a puff of hot air against your cunt, making you clench around nothing. "You like me in this suit, sweet thing?" He raises to his feet and you can hear his hands fumbling with his belt and zipper. "Well, I'm about to fuck you in it,"

You whimper into the back of your hand. Your own slick starts to drip down your leg. "Please."

The blunt head of Wolffe's cock presses against your entrance. Usually he would make you cum at least once before he fucks you just to get you ready for his girth, but in this moment you couldn't care less.

You want Wolffe to fuck you, and you want to feel the stretch. You want him to fuck the feeling of that grimy aide touching you out of your head.

"S'that what you want?" Wolffe breathes as he starts to slide in, "you want to forget that boy? Huh? You want to be fucked by a man?"

A keen catches in your throat as he sinks in halfway. Fuck, you feel like you're being split in half. His cock just keeps going and going in this position, and all you can do is take it.

You bite down hard into the back of your hand as Wolffe finally bottoms out, but Wolffe grabs your hair, fancy curls and accessories be damned, and pulls your mouth away from your hand.

"Don't you dare," he hisses as his hips set a deafening pace. "Don't you dare hide your noises from me. I want to hear you — I want them to hear you."

Your moan echoes through the hallway.

There's something feral in the way that Wolffe fucks you. With his suit still on, totally presentable besides the cock that's been pulled out of the fly, he's beautiful.

You, on the other hand, look filthy. Your eye makeup is smudged with the tears that Wolffe forces out of you, and you know your hair will be a lost cause by the end of this. Your dress is already wrinkling and your delicate stockings are ruined with the slick that drips down your legs from your cunt.

"Wolffe!" you cry out as pressure in your core tightens.

"'m gonna cum," Wolffe grunts, hips pistoning even faster.

He's ruining you, you think through the haze of pleasure. He's ruining you and you love it.

"Please," you sob, one of your hands leaving the wall to grab at his hips. You almost can't hold on due to the force and speed of his thrusts, but your fingers claw into the fabric of his jacket and you hold on for dear life as he brings you closer and closer to release.

"I think I'll come in this tight little cunt, what do you think?" Wolffe drags the blunt edge of his teeth along your neck and up your jawline, ending just under your ear, "Stuff you full of me, and send you back into that ballroom,"

You clench at the thought. Fuck, you want that so bad.

You're nearly incoherent with pleasure. You're just babbling in agreement to the filth that drips from Wolffe's mouth like the slick that drips from your cunt.

"You like that?" Wolffe asks even though he knows the answer, "You want me to send you in there smelling like sex and dripping my cum?"

One of his hands snake around to circle mercilessly around your clit. The pressure nearly has your knees give out.

"I think I'll keep your panties with me," Wolffe whispers in your ear, "so I'll drip out of that pretty cunt and down your thighs for the rest of the night."

The pressure in your core snaps and you cum around him with a wail.

Wolffe clamps a hand over your mouth as his thrusts turn more into grinds. His teeth sink into your neck as he finally spills inside you.

The feeling of his cum flooding your cunt has you clenching around him even more.

"Fuck," Wolffe hisses, fucking his cum into your spent cunt with an obscene squelch. "Fuck, you're so tight, pretty girl,"

You moan faintly, thighs trembling as he finally pulls out. A gush of his cum starts to drip out. You clench weakly, trying your best to keep it in.

Wolffe presses a kiss to the back of your neck, "Step out of your panties, sweet thing," he whispers into your skin, hands on your hips to steady you as you do what he asked.

You stand on coltish legs, wobbling in your heels with the aftermath of your orgasm, as Wolffe bends down to grab your ruined panties and stuff them in his pockets.

They ruin the line of his suit, and anyone who looks at him for more than half a second will know he's got something in his pocket that shouldn't be there, but you think no one will be looking at him when you're there.

Not with your hair a mess and mascara smeared just so around your eyes. Not when you reek of sex and sweat and there are bite marks littered across your skin. Not when your dress is so obviously wrinkled due to less-than-appropriate events.

Still, you walk back into the ballroom with your arm linked with Wolffe's and his cum sliding down your thigh and soaking into your stockings.

The senatorial aide doesn't bother you for the rest of the night, but that might have something to do with the clone commander flashing him a bit of lace from his jacket pocket.

When you get back to the barracks, Wolffe fucks you with those same ruined panties in your mouth to make sure none of the boys hear you two.

#ok. this one is my favorite #i love this so muc #if this doesn't happen to me once than what is the point #100 follower celebration #commander wolffe x reader #wolffe x reader

302 notes · View notes

painted-crow · 4 years

Note

1) I think I may actually be a really burned like fried chicken burnt Hufflepuff primary. I was raised with a very Slytherin mindset. My family believed very strongly in the "put your people first" mindset. I just kind of want to be hopeful and believe in humanity. But I can't because that would be naive and impractical. The evidence proves that people will always do things in self interest. I can't live with my head in the clouds.

2) I don't feel guilty about not helping people tho, which makes me doubt Hufflepuff. On top of that I'm too selfish to be a Hufflepuff. I'm just like all of the other crappy people. I try my best not to pretend to be anything I'm not and to do things with good intentions but is that enough? The self interest leads me to Slytherin, but that makes me feel slightly uneasy. Its what I expect everyone to do. Thats how the world works and it sucks. But then I feel guilty for feeling that way about

3 Slytherin because that extreme love for your people is just so beautiful and powerful and selfless. I've seen it in my mother and I think its wonderful. Few people are that loyal. I dont think I'm kind and selfless enough to be a Loyalist but the idea of putting an ideal before people makes me feel quesy. I do think I may have an idealist model though because you can't just always stick with people. I need to protect myself and I think I may have an idealist model to do that. Not sure wich one

What evidence? On average, people act in their own self interest--but that's very different from "always."

(Link leads to part of a Trope Talks vid, discussing a fictional example of a work that deconstructs this idea. Warning, it's kinda sad because the work is grimdark, but the message is hopeful: not all humans are shitty, just if you only see people from a distance, they'll always seem worse than they are.)

You feel guilty for being "too selfish to be a Hufflepuff." The fact that you care... means you're probably a Hufflepuff 😂 sorry for laughing at you but. Ahem.

First of all, primaries are aspirational. They're not about what you do; they're about what you think you should do, whether or not you live up to it.

Secondly, you're not a Slytherin. If you were, you wouldn't feel guilty about it (unless you were burned Slytherin, which I don't think you are). To a Slytherin, it feels right and just to take care of their own and prioritize themselves. To you, it obviously doesn't.

Meanwhile, you're trying to reconcile that with the fact that someone very close to you is a Slytherin, and you kinda seem to think you should maybe be like her??? Which, that picking up other people's sense of morality is SUCH a Hufflepuff thing to do.

Third, Burned Houses look different from their unburned counterparts. Very different. You can't expect your Burned Puff to act like the descriptions of unburned Puff.

Fourth and finally, yes, you probably do have an Idealist model of some sort! Folks with burned Houses often pick up a model to replace or prop up their burned House, and you're a burned Puff who has complicated feelings about Slytherin--so of course you'd reach for one of the Idealist Houses.

Congrats, you're a very very burned Badger! But you figured this out on your own, honestly... so I guess what I should be saying is: congrats, here is your official permission slip to think of yourself as the Burned Hufflepuff you already know you are :p

#sortinghatchats #burned hufflepuff primary #asks #paint speaks #q

9 notes · View notes

solarianradiance · 5 years

Text

It was high noon, and not a cowboy in sight, which was a good thing, because a shoot out at this place would be pretty bad, considering its supposed to be a sanctified church like structure reserved for the Gods, namely you, Rose Lalonde, and your Wife, Kanaya Maryam, and your mutual friend, Terezi Pyrope.

You have come to this Church of Cousulars.

Well, it's actually called a Temple of Consolment, but you like your title far more. Temple is a good word, but this place is much more Church like of the Roman Catholic faith with some Germanic Gothic influences. Smooth, polished marble make up the majority of the structure, pillars holding up key points of the ceilings, golden trimmings line the carved walls, and stain glass windows crafted in yours and your companions images give off a potent colorful glow that puts you at a wholesome ease.

Bit garish and needlessly opulent, the Carapaces insisted on it being built and is somewhat impractical, but you rather like it. Might be your inner Goth speaking, but you like your inner Goth and agree with her tastes.

As for the reason you have come to this place, it is rather dour, a harsh contrast to this archtectural palace of aristocratic delight.

You have summoned your Brother Dave and his "brother from another mother-... grub" Karkat for a meeting between you and your companions to discuss John's condition.

Said condition was what you would have called concerning when Kanaya found him. But after having spent a few weeks gauging his state, you have changed you mind on the matter.

It has gone from concerning to quite troubling.

And now you hear a "thap" from something that struck your cheek, and something hard falling to the table with a sharp "clack" echoing through the chamber.

Its a skittle.

Terezi: L4LOND3!!!

Rose: Whu- Rose: What?!

Terezi: F1N4LLY! Terezi: 1 H4V3 YOUR 4TT3NT1ON! Terezi: YOU W3R3 B31NG V3RY RUD3 W1TH YOUR N1GHT DR34M1NG 4ND 1GNOR1NG OF M3! Terezi: SUCH 4 POOR HOST, B3TW33N TH1S 4ND YOUR L4CK OF C4T3R1NG TO M3 FROM L4ST N1GHT, 1T L34V3S L1TTL3 TO WOND3R 4S TO WHY TH3 WORLD 1S TH3 W4Y 1T 1S. >:[ Terezi: 4LSO D4V3 1S H3R3. >:D

Dave: sup

Rose: Hello Dave, is my dear sibling fairing well I hope?

Dave: yeah he is Dave: probably better than you considering i dont think i ever saw you look off into a daze like that Dave: like looking at a catatonic chick in her own world Dave: belong in a japanese anime hospital or japanese style house or something

Rose: Or just watching too much shitty anime with my bro.

Dave: that too Dave: anyways what were you thinking about

Rose: Our situation and why we are here. Rose: A particularly dire and grim one I would say. But nothing we can't handl-

Terezi: L4LOND3!

Rose: A good reason you are interrupting me I hope, fellow Seer?

Terezi: Y3S. Terezi: MY C4NDY TH4T PROJ3CT3D UPON YOU TO 4W4K3N YOU FROM YOUR STUP1D 1S ST1LL ON TH3 T4BL3. Terezi: WOULD YOU B3 SO K1ND 4S TO R3TURN 1T TO M3 4S 1 H4V3 3V3RY 1NT3NT1ON OF CONSUM1NG 1T.

Rose: You-... fine.

You reach towards the tasty looking sugary treat, it did not go far thankfully, and as you touch it upon picking it up, you are filled with a bit of regret because of how incredibly sticky it is and notice a thin shiny layer of saliva.

Rose: ...Terezi.

Terezi: WH4T L4LOND3?

Rose: Was this in your mouth?

Terezi: Y3S Terezi: 1T W4S 1N F4CT 1N MY MOUTH Terezi: FOR 1 W4S SUCC1NG ON 1T

Rose: Meaning you spat this at me?

Terezi: WH4T 4N 3XC3LL3NT D3DUCT1ON! Terezi: YOUR SK1LLS OF 1NV3ST1G4T1ON H4V3 TRULY 3VOLV3D TO TH3 PO1NT OF R1V4L1NG MY OWN! Terezi: V3RY P3RC3PT1V3 OF YOU. >:]

Rose: Just... Rose: Come over here and get it.

The teal blooded gremlin shuffles out of her chair in the 10 o'clock postion of room and steps onto the table without a care.

She struts across the stone furniture, utterly apathetic to the fact shes getting her shoes on an eating surface.

Granted you never ate here, but still, there is the chance it may happen one day. And this is just inappropriate! Even for her!

She stops in front of you with her cane stick, leering down upon you with her redshades, like a predator about to toy with her prey.

By the Elder Gods, she is such a ham!

Terezi: W3LL?

Shes expecting you to hand it to her. Of course. You hold up the skittle directly to her, waiting for her to tak- She just put her mouth onto your fingers holding the candy...

Rose: Ah!

She begins to suck on your digits, you feel the nubbing of her sharp teeth and the slimy licking of her tongue.

She pulls her mouth away from your finger, a thick rope of saliva stretching along. Chill takes your fingers, cold of the open air bashing the wetness that coats the digits.

Terezi: TH4NKS!~ :D

Rose: ...

She returns back to her seat, trodding across the table like she owns it. Which she does more or less. Still Rude And gross

Kanaya: That Was... Kanaya: Vulgar...

Dave: nice to know terezi hasnt changed since i last saw her

Terezi: ;]

Dave: unbroken blind girls aside Dave: you were saying why you called me up on such short notice? Dave: i mean its not like i had anything important to do today Dave: just seemed like you needed me here and now like in an emergency sort of way

Rose: Yes, more or less, this is kind of an emergency. Rose: Although emergencies are entirely absolutes, and there are no real in-between's other than "God I wish this was over" at family get togethers or Doctor's appointments that take forever to get started because of some random bullshit, like the current patient asking too many stupid question's that are of no consequence. Rose: But this projection has stalled me for long enough I suppose. Rose: The reason we have summoned you here today is... a dire and delicate one. Rose: It's mainly about John...

Dave: what is he like dead or something?

Rose: ...Uh...

Kanaya: Well... Not Exactly...

Dave: what is he like sick then?

Kanaya: More Like He Is-

Terezi: OH MY GOD Terezi: STOP B34T1NG 4ROUND TH3 SC4P3 FLUFF 4ND R1P TH3 B4ND-41D OFF 4LR34DY! Terezi: OR YOU KNOW WH4T? Terezi: FUCK 1T! Terezi: 1LL DO 1T MYS3LF! Terezi: JOHN D13D! Terezi: 4ND TH3N K4N4Y4 BROUGHT H1M B4CK TO L1F3 W1TH 4 SMOOCH~ Terezi: 4ND NOW W3 4R3 T4K1NG C4R3 OF H1M 4T TH31R PL4C3 4ND TRY1NG TO M4K3 H1M W3LL 4G41N WH1L3 W3 4LSO TRY TO D34L W1TH GLOB4L CR1S1S OF WORLD W4R 13 Terezi: WH1CH 1S WHY YOU 4R3 H34R Terezi: TH3R3! Terezi: B4ND-41D RIPP3D 4ND SC4B PICK3D~ :D

Rose: >:T

Kanaya: >:l

Dave: 8I

====================

^^^Preview of Heartsick chapter 7^^^

#homestuck #heartsick #terezi pyrope #dave strider #kanaya maryam #rose lalonde #long post

9 notes · View notes

undercoverbrellaloveblog · 6 years

Text

READ THE WHOLE THING AND STOP TAKING WHAT I SAY OUT OF CONTEXT

I am sad because I keep seeing posts that I'm pretty sure are targeted at me saying "excusing things is the same as enabling them" when I havent excused anything. Here are the arguments tonight

Marina having her skin lightened- my opinion: bad, but there are other things to worry about (but we can all agree the fork vs spoon splatfest was some bad shit)

The splatoon figma- my opinion: bad, like holy shit a full 50 shades darker (pun very out of place but intended I guess?), but I have seen posts directly stating that I excuse it and dont care. I will not stand for libel and slander

Marina being oversexualized- my opinion: bad, and actually no hate on this one it's pretty simple, she wears an impractical amount of clothing and nintendo has done that to urbosa and an arms character I cant remember as well, so that sucks ass

The whitewashing of japanese media- now this one gets iffy. As I've stated multiple times, and I will stand by this, it is an absolute fact, 98% of the japanese population is in fact, japanese. Yes some people are dark skinned japanese, but they arent exactly common. No, I am not excusing whitewashing, I am saying that we have to judge japanese products by japanese cultural standards. In American products where every person is white, that is inexcusable, america is an incredibly diverse country and that's unrealistic and very insensitive (I wont say racist because sometimes its unintentional, y'know? You've written a bunch of characters and you look up and go, oh shit they're all white, but the show already aired or smth) Also, we should really come up with a new term since whitewashing a cast with Japanese characters isnt "white"washing, per se

2 notes · View notes

joaquinwhorres · 7 years

Text

Dangerous (Steve Harrington x Mayfield!Reader)

Summary: Ever since you were little, people tended to underestimate just how badass you were. You never expected that moving to Hawkins, Indiana would be the thing to convince people that you were more than just a pretty face. Read the sequel. And the final installment.

Request:hello lovely!! first off just wanted to say i love all your stories, they're so well written and just wonderful to read. i was wondering if u would pls be able to write a steve fic and the reader is max's older sister but she's super feminine and always wears really cool outfits that r a bit impractical and steve kind of undermines her because of that but she is actually such a badass and max tries to tell everyone but they dont rly buy it until she idk saves from a demogorgon or?? up to u xxx also ( i just sent u a request about a mayfield!reader) and the idea kind of came to me because i feel like often times badass and strong and independent female characters cant also be feminine and girly you know??? anyway feel free if u want to write it like obvs u dont have to (can u tell i have never requested a fic before lmao) to do whatever i trust u and ur capabilities haha xxxx

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Mayfield!Reader (Friends)

Word Count: 5,005

Author's Note: This one stumped me. I can usually sit down and write in one or two sittings. But I kept coming back and chipping away at this one. Many thanks to @hargroovin for looking over this and making sure it was ready for posting. Hopefully, Sweet Requester, you like it.

Warnings: Language. Some minor violence at the end.

Whenever she was asked about her two daughters, your mother liked to launch into a pair of stories to describe you. At this point, it was almost a performance piece, what with the way she had nailed down the timing and the intonations and the facial expressions she would use at certain points. She had given the monologue so many times that you could clearly visualize it in your head, and pretty soon, you'd be able to take over for her.

She would start with a story about Max.

"Maxine is my youngest. You've probably seen her on her skateboard, zooming around town." (The skateboard was a relatively new addition to the story within the past four years. Before that it was roller skates, and before that she was simply running.)

"She's always been like that–always on the move, can't stay still for more than fifteen seconds. I swear," here your mother would lay a hand over her heart, "she goes by Max because she doesn't want to stick around long enough for the second half of her name." This would be followed by polite laughter and maybe some nodding. "You know, that reminds me of this one story. When Max was about seven and a half months old, she went missing. One morning I came into her room to check in on her since she had usually woken me up by then, and she was gone. I ran back to Jerry and woke him up in a panic, and he said that he had woken up in the middle of the night to check on her but he had put her back in the crib and she was fine. Anyway, we ran out into the hallway calling for her, hoping she would make some sound, and then all of the sudden we heard these little footsteps and I looked up to see Max toddling out of Y/N's room. Seven and a half month's old and she was walking! Independently!" There would be gasps here and some form of "No."

"I swear," your mother would hold up a hand. "She walked straight towards me and threw her little hands up at me to be picked up since I could walk much faster." She would drop her hand and lean back in her seat with a smile. "After that our house constantly looked as if it'd been hit by an earthquake." Your mother and the other person would laugh politely.

"Seems like you've got a little trouble maker on your hands," the person would inevitably say.

"Ohhhh, yes, but Maxine's the least of my problems." Your mother would look at you in your pink dress with white stockings and Mary Janes (or, as you got older, your floral leggings, frilly sweater, and oversized blazer). "Y/N is the dangerous one."

"I'm sure that's not true," the other person would shoot you a smile, pinching a dimpled cheek or tugging on a braid or patting your knee. Then they would cast a dubious look at Max with her mop of wildly curly red hair and consider the fact that she had not been still for a single moment since they entered this conversation with your mother while you sat quietly by her side, legs neatly crossed.

"Don't let her looks deceive you," your mother would shake her head. "Let me tell you about this one time, Y/N was six years old at the time, so that would make Max about two. I had just gotten back from food shopping, and the neighbor who was watching them told me that the girls were playing in Y/N's room and that they had been well behaved and she hadn't heard a peep out of them. Well, of course, it's never a good sign when my girls are quiet, so I beelined straight for Y/N's room. And I found them," at this point she was digging through her purse. Of course, this was for show. The picture was tucked safely away in an inside pocket, and she would produce it with a small, triumphant "Aha!" and hand it to the other person.

In the picture, you and Max were sitting on the floor next to your bed. Next to you, three nail polish containers were pouring out various shades of pink onto the carpet. Your mother's make up bag sat in between you, but it had to have been completely empty as every form of make up, brush, and beauty tool was scattered around the two of you. For your part, you were grinning up at your mother, pink cheeked with bright red lips and what looked like almost a lipstick mustache because of how poorly you applied it. You had smudged heaps of purple eyeshadow onto your eyelids, reaching up to your eyebrows. Pinched between your dark pink and light pink little nails was your mother's mascara wand. Across from you, Max was gaping open mouthed at your mother, her lips a similar bright red, but the entire left side of her face was pink and she had green eyeshadow which was delicately blended in with her fair eyebrows. Except, her right eye had dark black smudges across it from where you tried to apply mascara. In her hair, you had had clipped about a half dozen of your mom's curlers.

Reactions ranged from a simple "Oh my!" and stifled giggle to laughing so hard tears fell from their eyes.

"For the life of me, I don't know how she convinced Max to sit still for that long. Or how either of them the reached my make up bag on top of my dresser," your mother would laugh, taking back the picture and zipping it up into its pockets. "But those are my girls for you."

You may have aged twelve years and moved across the country, but you had to admit, the story was still classic you.

After all, you woke up every day an hour earlier than you had to just so you could do your make up and coax your hair into the perfect side pony. And you needed at least 30 minutes to play around with your wardrobe to make sure you had a unique outfit to wear that day. There were 365 days in a year, and you refused to wear the same exact outfit on any single one of them.

Ok, so at around day 300 you had to start getting creative with what counted as the same and what didn't, but the fact remained that you did not repeat outfits. And it wasn't like you had thirty different shirts or forty pairs of pants. Your wardrobe was reasonable. You just had a knack for pairing things that other people may not have considered and what your mother deemed "a natural talent at accessorizing."

Today for instance, you had tied a neon blue bow into your hair (in addition to your black sequined scrunchy), stacked about thirty five jelly bracelets up your arm, and secured yourself into your clothes with two belts.

You were looking totally glam. You had to be. It was the first day at your new school.

"What the fuck are you wearing?" Billy asked looking over at you from his eggs. You rolled your eyes and flipped him off, lifting your spoon to your mouth.

"Why do you care?" Max glared at him over her cereal.

"It's fine, Max," you murmured.

"I have to be seen with you getting out of my car," Billy's lip curled as he looked over at you again. "You should change."

Max opened up her mouth to say something, but was cut off.

"Who needs to change?" your mother asked, lightly, breezing back into the kitchen from the bathroom.

"Billy was worried about his denim on denim look," you looked up at your mom, shooting a brief, tight lipped, smile. "I told him it's very fashion forward."

"I think you all look great." Your mother bent down and kissed your temple. "Thank you," she whispered in your ear. You just shot another tight lipped smile at Billy.

She moved around the table and kissed Max's head. You guess based on Max's scowl what she whispered—be nice.

Your mother continued around the table and stopped behind Billy, hovering for a second. She patted his shoulder lightly, and Billy's whole body tenses up, his knuckles going white on his grip on his fork. Your mother walked away, but Billy didn't relax. He glared over at you.

"You should probably head out soon," your mother advised. "Don't want to be late to your first day."

Billy shoveled the rest of his eggs into his mouth and then shoved away from the table.

"Your plate, Billy," your mother lightly reminded.

Billy paused, plastering on a smile so fake you wouldn't see it on a Barbie. "Sorry, Susan." His words were a wooden sort of cheery. Billy walked back over, scooping his plate up from the table and dropping it in the sink where it let out a loud clattering sound.

Max muttered something under her breath, and you saved yours, settling for rolling your eyes.

"Thank you, Billy," your mother's voice was at a whisper. Your stomach tightened and your fingernails dug into your hand.

Max looked over at you before standing up and stacking your plate on top of hers, gently placing them both onto Billy's, as the front door banged open, Billy walking out to his car.

"Bye Mom," Max said quietly, following Billy out.

"Bye Mom," you echoed, stopping by her and planting a kiss on her cheek before leaving to go to school.

The first thing you noticed about Hawkins High School was all of the jeans.

The second thing you noticed was all of the sweaters.

At least in California there's been a mix of bad fashion. You'd had the kids who insisted on neon spandex. All. The. Time. And the punk kids. And yeah there were also jeans and t-shirts kids, but at least they had cool slogans.

The kids in Hawkins looked at you, casting derisive and surprised looks. You ignored them, searching the halls for cute boys or a girl who was also familiar with the color pink. Whichever came first.

Your eyes landed on an attractive boy. He was tall and relatively well dressed in the grand scheme of Hawkins. For one thing, he was definitely pulling off the sunglasses indoors thing, and his hair. His hair was killer.

"Hi, excuse me," you asked, pitching your voice even higher than normal. It was the unspoken way of signaling that you meant no harm, wouldn't be asking if you had someone else to ask, but yes, you were open to being friends.

"Uh," the boy looked over at you, giving you a once over. "Hi."

"Do you know where Mr. Roth's class is? I'm new and can't quite figure my way out around the school."

"Yeah, it's down by Kramer," the boy said, gesturing vaguely down the hall. You had a sinking feeling you'd chosen an attractive asshole rather than the chivalrous attractive.

"And Kramer is...." you trailed off, your voice rising a little bit, edging closer to the "Danger Tone" as Max called it.

"Down the hall, second left. It's one of the doors on the right hand side," he sighed. He looked over at you as you blinked. "Get any of that?"

You gave him your signature tight lipped smile and nodded. Watching as he widened his eyes and sucked in a breath, shaking his head as he turned away.

You wished you could tell him exactly what you thought of him in that moment. But instead you stood there gaping as he walked away. You wished Max was here. She'd have the words to match your one finger raised high.

You saw the attractive asshole again at lunch. You had squeaked when the lunch lady scooped sludge on your tray, earning looks from everyone in line. The Asshole was a few people ahead of you in line and at your sound had looked back at you. His eyes met yours and he scoffed, rolling his eyes. In the back of your mind a small plan formed to trip next to his seat and spill your sludge all over. But as you watched him walk away and sit next to the one girl who had bothered to be nice to you today and help you catch up in math, you decided to give him a pass.

"What the fuck happened to my car?" Billy asked staring at his Camaro. On the driver's side door was a long thin scratch.

You looked over at it as you walked around to the passenger side door. "Piss someone off already, Billy?" you asked in a sweet voice. His eyes shot to you, his gaze darkening.

"You fuckin' bitch," he growled.

"Every time she's been near this car, it's been right behind you. Don't you think you would have seen her key your car?" Max asked, opening the back seat door and climbing in. You followed suit, both of you slamming your doors shut at the same time.

Billy weighed this and decided he was attentive enough that he would have noticed. He wasn't because he didn't.

He hadn't said one word to you when you got out of his car that morning, walked around the back under the guise of letting Max out, and then took out your house key and run it along the side of the car. How he hadn't heard was beyond you. The mullet must have muffled it. Oh well.

You had decided you did like Hawkins ok. Not as much as your siblings, though. Max seemed to be taking to it fairly well. At first she practically lived at the arcade, but eventually she made friends and even met up with them to go trick or treating. And Billy. Billy had been dubbed the fucking king at that party. It had taken you close to two hours to find any cute boys willing to dance with you. And you had thought your fairy outfit was appropriately sexy meets the Indiana cold. And while word had gotten around that you were a talented kisser and that you had made your debut kissing the popular Todd Collins, you were finally welcomed into a semi-popular group. After several shopping trips and three sleepovers, you convinced your newfound friends of the fun of nail polish and glory of leggings. They had a road ahead of them, but progress.

The most surprising turn was that you and Billy had a common enemy: Steve Harrington. The attractive asshole. Although it was probably more accurate to say that you and Steve had a common antagonist in Billy. Or maybe the boys had a shared distaste of you. Whatever it was, the three of you didn't like each other and you found yourself occasionally admiring the jabs Steve made at Billy's expense and hearing about how Billy had thrown Steve on his ass.

But while you, Max, and Billy had all made friends, none of you expected to hear the doorbell ring on a Friday after school.

As you were currently shut up in your room painting your nails, and Billy was playing macho-man, lifting weights in the front of the house, You elected to have him answer it.

"Max are you getting that, or what?" Billy shouted out. You should have expected as much. You rolled your eyes taking a deep breath in.

"OK!" Max answered, and you breathed out in relief, thankful for your little sister. You still had three nails left.

The doorbell rang again. Five more times.

"I swear to God, Max!" Billy shouted, and you heard Max storm out of her room, and the doorbell stopped.

You had finished up the last of your nails before Max came back in. You could hear a brief exchange between her and Billy before Max slammed back into her room. You got up from your desk chair, slipping out of your room and knocking on Max's door twice before going in.

"Max!" you gasped, looking at your wide-eyed little sister who was half way in her room and half way out the window.

"Y/N!" Max answered in an equally shocked voice. Her eyes darted over your shoulder. "Close the door!" she hissed.

You hurried into the room, pushing the door shut behind you.

"What—Where—" you stuttered, as Max remained frozen. "Get out of the window!" you finally settled. She acquiesced.

"Max?" A boy's voice drifted up through the open window. Max's eyes grew even wider. She looked as if she's just been caught stealing your mother's car keys.

"Who is that Max?" you asked, lowly. You had a sinking feeling you knew as you crossed to the window.

Lucas Sinclair.

His eyes grew as wide as Max's as he looked up at you.

You turned to Max. "You know I'm a sucker for a good romantic cliche, Max, but are you serious right now?"

"It's not romantic," Max mumbled, her face flushing.

"Look, it's a matter of life or death!" Lucas called up.

"Shhhhh," you hissed. "If Billy hears you, we're all in trouble."

"If it's not romantic, why are you sneaking out your window?"

"He said he has proof that there's some sort of alternate dimension and creepy conspiracy in town," Max looked up at you.

You blanched.

"Max!" Lucas cried out, and you both hushed him.

"Look, you are not sneaking out on your own to hunt down conspiracies about alternate dimensions," you shook your head.

"Y/N," Max started, pleading.

"I'm coming with you," you announced. Max lit up.

"No way," Lucas shook his head. You looked down at him and could see it in the way he looked at your neon pink shirt and thick belt with an admittedly clunky belt buckle. You huffed in a breath.

"Please," Max scoffed. "If you're telling the truth, we need my sister. She's the most bad ass person in this town." You shot a half smile at her and she returned it.

"Fine, just come on. We have to go!" This boy was one antsy little sucker.

"Max, go with him. I'll grab my skates."

It was surprisingly easy to sneak out of the house. All you had to do was walk straight out the door and tell him Dana was here and you were going shopping.

He hardly even looked up to notice you were walking out of the house with your backpack on.

It had been slightly harder to keep up with Lucas Sinclair on your way to the mystery destination because that boy could pedal.

The three of you stopped at the top of a hill, leading to a junk yard. Below you saw a small boy with a red, white, and blue hat and…

"Shit," you swore as Lucas called out to his friends. Max looked up at you, and pulled a face as if you were crazy. "It's the asshole," you muttered to her, as she turned back to look with you at Steve Harrington. You descended down the hill, trailing behind Lucas and Max as you came up to the boys. Hat-boy was looking between Lucas and Max with a mixture of shock and disappointment. It was a look you were all too familiar with, and your heart went out to him.

Even if he was hanging out with the likes of Steve Harrington.

"What are you doing here?" Steve asked, looking at you skeptically. He crossed his arms, and you matched him. You noticed the Hat-boy pulling Lucas away behind a car.

"I'm here to make sure nothing happens to my sister," you bit back.

"What afraid she'll break a nail?" Steve asked with a smug little smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes.

"Please, only time Y/N's ever broken a nail is when she had to climb out of the window to–" You shot a look at Max, cutting her off.

"That's a story I want to hear more of," Steve encouraged.

"What are we doing here?" you ignored him, casting a look around the junkyard. "And what does it have to do with conspiracies and alternate dimensions."

"Apparently there's a cat-eating space lizard on the loose." Steve's hands moved to his hips as if he was some sort of demented super hero. "And it's up to us to stop it."

You snorted. "Yeah, ok. How do we do that?"

"Pile up as much as you can to fortify the bus," Steve jerked his head towards a large old rusted bus. "Once night comes, hopefully that thing will be lured out to the meat pile, we set it on fire from the safety of the bus, and Hawkins is saved. Easy. Well, except for the heavy lifting."

"I think I can manage." You rolled your eyes, pulling off your skates and exchanging them with the sneakers you had stashed in your backpack.

"Not afraid of getting a little dirt under your nails. Maybe messing up your outfit?" Steve poked, smiling.

You glared up at him from where you were tying your shoes. You stood up, stepping closer to him. "What's your fucking problem?"

Max's eyes widened and she backed up, turning to start the work on the bus.

"No problem," Steve shook his head, holding his hands up defensively.

"Than cut the commentary. I dress well. I like pink. I'm a girl, and I really like being a girl, ok?" Your voice was firmly in the Danger Tone.

"Yeah, I noticed. Everyone in Hawkins High notices you prancing around in your little outfits expecting people to go out of their way to help the princess," Steve scoffed, shaking his head. "It's bullshit," he muttered.

"That accusation is bullshit," you shot back, pulling in deep breaths. They were supposed to calm you. They didn't.

"Oh is it?" Steve asked, stepping closer to you. "You pulled that little stunt on me. First time I met you."

"You think I was—" you stopped yourself, shaking your head. "I was trying to make friends, you dickhead!"

"You know what," Steve made made a sweeping motion with his hands. "Let's just stop talking and work in silence."

"Fine," you bit back.

"Good," he nodded.

You stormed away from Steve, going to hunt down things you could use to fortify the bus. You had only made it a few yards, so you could hear Max perfectly clearly when she walked by Steve and paused next to him:

"Don't make her mad," your sister warned. "She gets dangerous."

You smiled to yourself, and finding a thin but solid looking pipe, you picked it up and stashed it on the bus. Just in case.

The five of you crowded onto the bus as the sun fell, Steve insisting he be the last one on to close and block up the door. Quickly thereafter, Lucas had offered to go up to the bus' roof and keep watch, and after a brief exchange with Dustin (that was Hat-boy's name apparently), in which you had almost stepped in to tell the little sucker off, your sister had gone up to join him. Leaving you alone with Steve Harrington who was flicking a lighter open and closed, and Dustin, who was pouting.

A blood curdling howl echoed outside the bus, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, letting out a small squeak.

Steve turned to you, eyebrow raised. "Easy, princess," he said, pushing himself up off the floor and looking out the window. You flicked him off even though both he and Dustin had their noses pressed up against the glass. You walked over to stand next to Dustin, peering out the bus' window.

There was nothing but mist. "This is really creepy," you murmured, and the boys, thankfully, ignored you.

"You see him?"

"No."

You could feel a bitter taste it he back of your throat. The same taste you got in your mouth when your mom sat you down after a particularly bad fight with your dad.

"Lucas, what's going on?" Dustin shouted next to your ear, and you flinched away, shooting him a glare. He probably couldn't see it in the dark.

"Hold on!" Lucas called back down. You waited one second. Two seconds Three– "I've got eyes. 10 o'clock. 10 o'clock!" his voice squeaked.

"There," Steve said, and your eyes followed his gaze.

Out of the mist crept a creature about the size of a dog. And that was where the similarities to any animal you'd ever seen before in your life ended.

It had no face. Just a hole which it inhaled the raw meat into.

The skin was odd, and it seemed more like it should be a frog's skin than a dog's even though it was clearly muscular.

"Eww," you murmured, unable to take your eyes off of it. Steve and Dustin snorted at you.

"What's he doing?" Dustin wondered.

"I don't know," Steve answered. Suddenly you wanted Max right by your side.

"He's not taking the bait. Why's he not taking the bait?" Steve's voice was frustratingly calm, even when his words weren't.

"Maybe he's not hungry," Dustin posed.

"Maybe the menu's not to his tastes," you joked. And then a thought hit you. Maybe the menu wasn't to his tastes. He ate cat. He ate cow. Maybe he was looking for something less hairy. Less tough. A little prettier. You bent over and picked up Steve's nail ridden bat.

"Woah, woah, woah, what do you think you're doing?" Steve asked, turning and grabbing your wrist.

"I'm expanding the menu," you replied, flippantly, attempting to yank your wrist back, but Steve's grip was too strong.

"Yeah, I don't think so. You'll get hurt," Steve pulled the bat from your grasp and released you.

"And what? You won't? Pretty sure neither of us are particularly prepared to go up against some gross space dog."

"It's not a space dog, it's interdimensional," Dustin corrected. Another howl echoed out and Steve looked out of the bus at the dog.

"You're staying here," Steve ordered, "Just, get ready." He tossed the lighter to you and left the bus.

Asshole.

"What's he doing?" Max asked, joining you and Dustin by the window. You wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Expanding the menu," Dustin murmured, stealing your joke. You shot another glare at him, and this time he had the decency to duck his head.

"Steve! Watch out!" Lucas' voice called from the top of the bus. You heard Steve call back a reply when a movement caught your eye, and your breath caught in your throat.

"3 o'clock! 3 o'clock!" Lucas squeaked out and you noticed as more interdimensional dogs crept closer to Steve. And then one lunged, and you gasped out, pulling away from the window as Steve swung his bat and flung himself over the hood of an old car. Dustin ran to the bus' door, pushing past you and screaming for Steve

"Abort! Abort! Steve, hurry!"

Steve was running back towards the bus and those things were hot on his tail, and even though he was an asshole, you couldn't help but scream for him to "RUN FASTER DICKHEAD!" Steve scrambled back onto the bus, pulling the doors closed, and then you heard glass shattering and you were screaming and Max was screaming. Lucas had climbed back down. You don't remember when that happened, but the three kids huddled by the ladder and away from the door. Good. Something hit the back of the bus, and a mouth snapped in. You pushed the kids out of your way, picking the pipe up from under the seat, and swung it, a nasty crack emitting from where you whacked the thing on the head. It pulled back.

The bus shook and then slowly, heavy footprints echoed down from the roof of the bus. You looked up and saw Max standing their wide-eyed looking up at the gaping hole in your fortifications. You flung yourself forward, scrambling up the ladder, pipe in hand.

"Y/N, no!" Max cried, but Lucas pulled her back, and Steve had just turned his head when you were already halfway up. The dog like creature hovered over you, opening its mouth, and a totally inappropriate thought entered your mind— aside from all of the teeth it looked a little bit like a flower.

"Y/N!" Steve called out to you, but you had already thrust your hand and pipe forward into its mouth and up, and the creature let out a screech as you pulled the pipe back, the end now wet. You shoved it forward again at the creature which was somehow still moving and then another howl echoed out and it turned its head, your pipe knocking into it and shoving the creature back a few steps. It scampered off and you remained, one hand gripping tight to the other and the other still holding the pipe high.

"Holy shit," Dustin swore, looking up at you.

"You took a few shaky steps down the ladder and turned to face the group, lowering the pipe.

"When the hell did you pick up a pipe?" Steve was looking at you wide-eyed, and you shook your head, brushing some hair that had fallen out of your ponytail back behind your ear.

You pushed over to the window and the group parted, letting you go. "We should follow them," you said. "Who knows what'll happen if they're heading into town." There was a general murmuring of assent as the group of you hurried off of the bus. Steve moved to the front of the kids, and you joined him, walking side by side: him walking with his bat sticking out of his backpack, and you with your pipe sticking out of yours.

He looked over to you as you passed the pile of uneaten meat.

"You're kind of a badass, aren't you?" Steve asked, quietly. You smiled at the slight awe in his voice and shrugged a shoulder.

"I told you," Max crossed her arms, smirking. "She's dangerous."

Read the Sequel

Tags: @lemonchapstick @loserrlauraa @pity-mee @imboredsueme @bands-and-shietz @panda0192 @daryldamnson @madhatterweasley @scintillllating @loveforbrains @harringtonhuddle @siriusaccio @my-simple-musicalfan @loverskisses @adumbledorableee @hawkinsbabe @creamcheese783 @oomylifeiseternalsufferingoo @spacedoutsher @katethemandrake @disneykidafi @coolyoungbouquetdestinylove @myteenwolf-world @stay-wokke @eggshapeddank @lola-winston-harrington dontneedbiologytoadopt @upsidedownstevie @morgandakotaq

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x mayfield!reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x you #mayfield!reader #stranger things illustration #stranger things request #stranger things 2 #stranger things #request #max mayfield #dangerous

896 notes · View notes

libidomechanica · 3 years

Text

“th” pit. Had not judgeons side

From youllfindifficulation fore self dialogue A long behind, his tendence impracts. Replied.

Had not judgeons side. th pit. And I was the had him for a

Tory, as my she the nice, dame, which to clouds, to take was

drown the mine man, fit with her Cheek would not a Trimmd to act to-morrified.

A touch: but set is thy piecess, so gazed with far, not ever, which Ill bids answering

and where withough to head, “sdeath not closes his to piquets amazd a

new paint more is not is water and of her doubt it good was shrank

of dues besides the so ”gain. which side of your care settle dew in fine oak

from out their vision, on the dont known to be you tipple of his borror,

Till the glass, elm: all some silented Thrushd brunetter? No long; white dotage mere else: Whenevoise So

sweet like my smiles self wine. with a “bonne victors! a live use he care from a

shing with it shroughter tears, afted in contents, with not come planted

by all seven them alone of there I wasnt subjects in

aways had the dance, quiet comfort, and yet, sing (if yes, but whose on, and day bold stir

than its creatures fast bosom? So were is each changed, a largèd Shoes. Just alier books and

by a try. And sigher, cannot diving of all was Miss Knowst the

clown with thou this; ther of some the than the pantond in selection.”)

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 4 #218 texts

0 notes

herohawks · 6 years

Text

Five times Connor is forced to call Hank “dad”. They both suffer.

A/N: short little snippets im writing while my wrist is out of commission. dont know if im going to post them to ao3 since kinda crack-ish lmao. feel free to send me prompts.

---

PART 1

“Remind me again why we agreed to this shit?”

Connor hefts a box onto his shoulder and balances another on his hip. Hank is struggling to carry one. The bottom of the cardboard is not taped adequately to withstand the current weight. Hank had been the one to tape this particular box, but Connor thinks it best not to point this out.

“We agreed to take the case because we are one of the few within the DPD who specialize in android-human crime. And, as Captain Fowler pointed out, our particular skill sets will allow us to infiltrate this group much easier than our other coworkers,” Connor says as he leads the way to the front door of their new home.

Hank snorts, uneven steps following not far behind. “Skill sets. Yeah. That what they’re calling it these days?”

“That’s what the captain called it, yes.” Connor deftly switches the box on his hip to his knee, balancing it between his leg and the wall so he can fish out the house key the captain had entrusted to him.

The key latches in easily and Connor swings the door open with little fanfare. He allows Hank to go first under the guise of trying to get a better grip on the box he’s currently holding over his knee. The structural integrity of Hank’s box is nearly at its limit.

“Well,” Hank huffs, dropping the box onto the living room floor with a muffled thump. Connor sets his down much more gently. “Jeffrey has always been too nice for his own good, so I’m gonna set it to you straight. You look like a goddamned twink and Jeffrey thinks your scrawny ass will fit in real well with these other skinny, starving college kids. I’m here to make sure you don’t screw it up.”

Connor looks to the ceiling and sighs. It’s a mannerism he’s picked up from Detective Reed that he quite likes. It accurately and efficiently sums up what he wishes to convey with little effort on his part.

“I am not ‘scrawny’,” Connor says, a tad defensive. “Second, the term ‘twink’ is widely outdated and carries negative conn—“

“Connor. Do me a favor and shut the fuck up.” Hank stretches his back, then groans loudly when it pops. “Jesus, I’m too old for this shit.”

“You only carried one box,” Connor points out helpfully, twirling the key ring on his finger for lack of anything better to do with his hands. He itches to go bring in the other nine boxes stacked in Hank’s car.

Hank rolls his eyes so hard Connor is briefly worried that they’ll fall out their sockets. “Jesus Christ. Just – go get the other boxes, would ya?”

Connor does, and makes good time. Hank grumbles while unpacking the boxes, throwing things in a haphazard manner that must have some sort of logic to it, though it’s not one that Connor can decipher at a glance.

With Hank’s back turned to him, Connor takes the chance to run a quick scan. The lieutenant’s blood sugar is low, and Connor detects a minor muscle strain in his lower back from poor posture and lack of adequate hydration.

They still need to go grocery shopping, but Connor had packed a few granola bars and water bottles just in case. He digs them out of one of the boxes and kneels down beside Hank to hand them over. “You need to eat, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks,” he says gruffly, snatching the water and energy bar from Connor. He sets it aside so Connor leaves him be and goes to unpack the other boxes.

They settle into an easy rhythm. An hour later, Connor hears the telltale crinkle of the protein bar being unwrapped and wisely says nothing when Hank’s mood significantly improves from that point after.

What probably felt like an eternity for Hank but was in actuality three hours and thirty-two minutes, they’re finally finished settling in. Connor is pleased to note everything is where it needs to be when he does a cursory scan of the rooms. Despite Hank’s grumbling, they make a great team.

“Great work, Lieutenant,” Connor says as he comes back into the living room where Hank is currently lounging on the couch. “It seems like everything is in order.”

Hank scoffs. “Don’t act so surprised.” A pause. “And it’s not ‘Lieutenant’ right now. Don’t blow our cover.”

“You’re right. Sorry, Dad.” The moment the sentence leaves his vocal unit, a heavy silence stretches between them. Connor has a peculiar urge to exit the room and not return for maybe forever.

“Okay. That was fucking weird,” Hank says finally, breaking the tense hush that had fallen over the room. He runs a hand over his beard, eyes flicking around but never settling on one thing for long.

Connor feels some of the tenseness in his shoulders melt away at the implication that Hank, too, may be feeling some measure of awkwardness. “I agree.”

“Shit. We need to get our shit together before we’re seen in public.”

“It’ll take some getting used to,” Connor admits, and runs a finger along the outer seam of his jeans. They’re not as comfortable nor as flexible as the pants CyberLife had issued him, but it’s currently the style preference of many young adults, and Connor has to blend in. He still misses his own pants, though.

“Want to go grab a bite and forget this ever happened?” Hank asks as he pulls himself up from the couch with a grunt.

Connor does. “Yes. I would like that.”

Hank makes a valiant effort to throw his crumpled wrapper into the small waste bin set along the floor separating the kitchen and living room. He misses. Connor quietly goes over and places the wrapper in the bin.

“Thanks. Hey, don’t forget your glasses,” Hank says and Connor can’t help but wrinkle his nose. Hank laughs. “What, not a fan?”

“You know I’m not,” Connor says, a little cross. Nevertheless, he unhooks it from his shirt and puts them on. They constantly slip down the bridge of his nose. “It’s impractical.”

Hank does not care about his suffering. “It’s your disguise so quit complaining. You’re not the only one who had to make some changes.”

The lieutenant scruffs a self-conscious hand over his freshly cut hair. It’s shorn short with the top a little longer – it looks good, Connor thinks. Makes him appear younger and highlighting the blues of his eyes.

Connor’s glasses, on the other hand, do not look good. They’re clunky and annoying, and Connor thinks they sit awkwardly on his face. The urge to snap them in half is strong.

“They look fine,” Hank says with the tone of someone who’s said this many, many times, which he has. Connor does not believe him any of those times. “Hurry up. I’m starving.”

“Fine.” Connor is getting better at expressing his displeasure through his tone, but Hank tends to ignore this new development as he does with anything he finds inconvenient.

They decide to walk. More accurately, Connor decides that if they’re going to order something unhealthy, they can, at the very least, walk there. Hank is not pleased. Connor doesn’t care.

A mile and a half later, a small lot with a few food trucks parked in a messy half-circle comes into view. Hank makes a beeline for the hotdog truck so Connor trails behind him. Hank orders a hotdog with only one topping at Connor’s insistence, and Connor buys a small vanilla milkshake to maintain appearances.

The lot is very crowded, but they manage to snag a table near the sidewalk and away from most of the congested foot-traffic. There’s a light drizzle so Connor pops open the umbrella attached to the table. The atmosphere reminds him of their meeting at the Chicken Feed all those months ago, when Hank had been skeptical and Connor had been apologetic and insistent.

That had been one of their first, positive conversations. It’s a fond memory, one that Connor keeps tucked away in his memory files for safekeeping.

“So,” Hank says, snapping Connor out of his musings. “Excited about your first day of school tomorrow?” Hank is grinning so Connor levels him with an unimpressed look. “What? A father can’t have a healthy interest in his son’s education?”

Connor sets his plastic cup down firmly. “No.”

“Don’t be like that,” Hank laughs and Connor shakes his head, rubbing his fingers along his temple in a gesture he’s seen Hank do many times.

His fingers stutter over the place where his LED used to be, the synthetic skin smooth to the touch. He feels oddly naked without it. Vulnerable. He wouldn’t mind the glasses half as much if he could just have his LED back.

Something must show on his face because Hank’s smile fades a few seconds later, replaced with a worried expression. “Hey, kid. You alright?”

“Fine,” Connor says a touch too quickly. Hank’s eyebrows shoot up, clearly unconvinced. He runs a finger one more time over his temple before placing it back on the table. “Nervous, maybe.”

“Hmm. About school?” The way he says it implies he is talking about something else. Connor believes he is inquiring about their current undercover case, so he nods. “Don’t sweat it. You’ll be fine. You’re smart, and a fast learner. You’ll fit right in.”

Connor has his doubts. While he’s done extensive research into the university as well as updating his human integration program to include the most recent pop culture and dialect, Connor can’t help the uneasiness that settles in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Hank is right. Perhaps this is beyond their capabilities.

Connor keeps silent and pretends to sip his milkshake.

College is…an experience.

Connor takes the automated bus despite Hank’s insistence he drive him there. The walkways are constantly flooded with harried students and Connor finds himself having to fight the crowd more often than not.

He observes that many of his peers carry some type of overly-caffeinated beverage on them at all times (there had been a memorable moment when Connor’s sensors had picked up vodka disguised as water in someone’s water bottle, but he’d kept the information to himself). After this observation, Connor stopped by the local coffee shop on campus to purchase a small, black coffee. It reminds him of Hank.

His classes had been fairly boring, but Connor supposes that is to be expected. Hank had told him university was probably going to be uninteresting to an android that could calculate over a thousand possible scenarios in two seconds. Connor had promptly told him it actually takes him an average of 0.53 seconds to compute those scenarios, which had resulted in Hank scuffing him across the head.

Connor, despite his reservations, slots into college life seamlessly. Finding the group responsible for the android hate crimes disguised as hazing is almost too simple. They arrest the group three months later once he’s obtained the proper amount of evidence, plus some. Connor wishes they’d at least make it a challenge.

Overall, a success.

“Good job on your first undercover op,” Hank says over dinner.

Here, Connor doesn’t have to pretend to eat. He hadn’t realized how exhausting it is to pretend to be human. His LED is firmly reinstalled, and Connor brings his fingers up to brush it periodically, the familiar ridges soothing.

Sumo lies by their feet, tail thumping happily every time Connor or Hank looks his way. The Saint Bernard had missed them dearly in their four months apart.

“Thank you.” Connor is pleased with the results. His whole body feels warm, but jittery at the same time, like he has excess energy that can’t be contained. He bounces his leg, he twiddles his fingers, and shifts his posture every few seconds. “I’m glad we were able to bring them to justice.”

“Nah,” Hank says after swallowing a bite of his vegetarian stir-fry (Connor’s making, of course). “You’re just happy you don’t have to wear those dorky glasses anymore.”

“So you agree, then. That they looked bad.” Connor feels betrayed. Hank had told him they’d looked fine. Hank is a filthy liar.

Hank snorts and shovels more food into his mouth before replying. “What’d you do with them anyway?” Avoiding Connor’s sort-of question.

Connor rolls his shoulders in a self-satisfied way, and shoots Hank a sly grin. “On the record, I disposed of them in the appropriate recycling bin. Off the record, they may have ended up in a bonfire at the last party I attended as a college student.”

Hank barks a laugh and slaps the table. Connor smiles, too. “Shit,” Hank says, wiping his eyes. “You make me proud, kid.”

“Thank you.”

“Tell ya what, though. Having you call me ‘dad’ for four months was probably the most awkward four months of my life. As long as we don’t gotta do that shit again, I can die happy,” Hank says, taking a sip of his water.

Connor nods. “Agreed.”

#lmaooo #im trash this is trash #also it was an excuse to have connor wear glasses bc why not #pls dont take this srsly im just trying to keep writing while i have one hand #come scream with me abt bby boy connor if u want #im always in need of inspiration or prompts #dbh #detroit become human #connor #hank anderson #writing

3 notes · View notes

childlikemperor · 7 years

Text

A PSA: protip from an artist to fanfic writers

you can always tell when a fanfic writer has never met or even seen an artist irl ever bc they ALWAYS. WITHOUT A FAIL. will have their artist character drawing with charcoal like casually and it feels kinda like a copout like yes i know there are charcoal artists out there but listen,,,, 95% of artists who like just draw on sketchbooks bc they love drawing actually hate charcoal charcoal is one of the most impractical mediums for sketching and it gets everywhere and it smudges all over ur sketchbook pages and everything else in your life forever so like really take into account what the profile of the character as an artist is and more often than not you'll find yourself realizing that no, no matter how lyrically you think the image of charcoal sketching would work, your character would not find it practical/worth the mess to carry around one or more charcoal sticks then have it MARK UP ALL THEIR EARTHY POSSESSIONS (sorry im really passionate abt this) just for sketching also PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF BUMBLEBEES dont use it as a synonym for graphite ok just dont just say graphite, say they were using a pencil i promise you itll feel better. ⚫️here's some nice alternatives to charcoal if u like a Messy Artist™feel to things + how to match them to your character based on my experiences w artists that use these mediums/myself: → ink has a similar edge of "fingertips smudged in black probably forever" but it's simpler to carry even though it also has that risk of staining everything you love, depending on how its used (as in, will they carry around a glass bottle of jett black ink and a brush in their bag/pocket or just have it in different kinds of pens?) + artist who use ink usually like a very finished crisp look to their work and are therefor usually quite methodical and have (or strive to have) steady hands even with fluid lines there's intent to whats going on. these artists usually sketch first (and rarely in graphite, usually blue or red colored pencil) so keep that in mind too. rarely will you see someone just straight up taking a brush pen to paper with no layout and if they do they have a very clear image in mind and outstanding control and understanding of where everything should go and how and where. →watercolor is less messy but it takes a bit more of a setup bc you need water and usually a palette. i use it quite a bit myself on my sketchbook and what i do is i just ask for/get glasses of water anywhere i go, get my paints and whatever scrap of paper to mix them on and im ready bc all i care about is my finished product and i usually draw in places where water is easily accessible (like parks w water fountains/stores w water fountains nearby, coffee shops, school, etc) but a lot of artists who have it as their *main* medium and have developed more practical setups over the years tend to have lil travel palettes that are tiny and easy to pack as well as waterbrushes and water bottles to fill them with all in all not too hard to carry around with minimal incident. people with watercolor as a main medium are usually more laid back and like things to look soft and dreamy (can be REALLY picky about paper tho) and generally just strive for happiness and like pretty things (if yr person is painting a landscape, its probably in watercolor since it dries fairly quickly and like i said isnt too hard to carry) →acrylic artists uhh... idk any other artists who paint w acrylic on their sketchbook so ill just speak for them ok WE JUST WANT THINGS TO LOOK GOOD OK WE WILL SUFFER FOR IT WE DONT CARE its a bit of a lot to carry depending on how many colors ur tryna have to mix but u gotta have at least ur 3 primaries and a black and a white (some artists work w yellow cyan and magenta but ppl swear by yellow ultramarine and red so idk ycm shows better online or if ur printing it out so it works for me bc i like my colors really really bright) and ur brushes so ye. + like i said folks who work with acrylic have a very specific look and feel they're going for and they dive headfirst into it, if something goes wrong, acrylic is usually quite opaque so it can be easily layered over once its dry, blending usually comes from mixing dif midtones so if thats part of their style they're probably quite patient/willing to sacrifice their patience for a good end product. some artists will mix their colors themselves bc they like the process or because they want very specific shades and those are the methodical fuckers who'll die for things to look the way they gotta look and also just really like the process (be it because it relaxes them or makes them think or whatever BUILD ON THAT W UR CHARACTER) and some just get premixed bottles of the colors they want and those are really focused on efficiency and laying paint down wherever they're painting and getting it done (so not so much the process but the act of painting or even just having art made) but i cant really speak for those too much then again thats between you and ur character →IF YOUR CHARACTER WORKS WITH COLORED PENCILS AS THEIR MAIN MEDIUM THEY'RE A WELL OF PATIENCE AND DESERVE TO BE CANONIZED. fairly easy to carry i mean i own like 100 of them and i just carry one big pencil case w them in so ye whats really tiresome is the process since u gotta go color for color and cant really cover too wide a surface w the pencil tip ever + usually daydreamers and, honestly, dayDREAMS, lovely patient folk who just really like color and enjoy the introspectiveness and calm of coloring. explore those dudes, they deserve it SUMMARY: TAKE INTO ACCOUNT THE MEDIUM YOUR ARTIST USES. THINK ABOUT STYLE. DONT JUST HAVE YOUR PAINTED MAKE ABSTRACT ART BC YOU CANT BE BOTHERED TO THINK OF ANYTHING BETTER TO DO WITH PAINT. IF UR NOT GONNA MAKE IT PART OF UR CHARACTER STUDY WHAT THEY MAKE ART WITH AND HOW AND WHAT ABOUT UR MISSING OUT MAN!!!!!! I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT!!!!!!! please give your artist characters the depth they deserve and remember us artists build half of ourselves because, through and around our art so to make that just a title of ours is kind of a disservice, your artist character wouldnt want that. visual artists feel free to add on to this!!

#jesus ive been writing this for like an hour i just got so fired up

23 notes · View notes