#I’ll probably draw more scenes from it but I have another scene in mind from this Halloween fic that was just… *chefs kiss* | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hxt1b · 3 months

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good girl's don't beg

-> geto x reader

-> WC: 1.2k

-> CW: swearing, pwp, edging, protected sex, penetration, choking, some titty slapping, a bit of rough sex, some overstimulation, soft dom geto, sub reader. This is literally just sex my dudes.

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Requests Open

Rules for requests | prompt list

A/N: The grammar may not be perfect but I tried my best.

Thank you for reading this, that’s what I’ll start with. I’m not a stranger to writing, however this is my first jjk fic, and I also have not written for a couple months. I try to consistently write but that’s an ideal, and isn’t always reality. Anyway, that’s not the point, the point is I hope you like this. I have more ideas for fics with jjk men, and my requests are currently open. Feedback is always welcome as long as its in some form constructive being a hater isn’t helpful to anyone.

I'll probably have longer fic's with plot soon too, but for obvious reasons, shorter scenes like this will come out faster.

The kitchen table was cold on your back. Your fingers digging into the edges of the wood.

"Please," You begged. Your fingers itching to trail in his hair.

"Good girls listen," Geto said, his thumb ghosting over your clit, "they don't beg."

His breath was hot against your already heated centre, your mind was numbing slowly from the number of times he'd taken you to the edge only to pull back and leave you whining on the table.

You couldn't touch him.

You couldn't come.

You couldn't think.

You whined his name again your grip on the table tightening as he leaned in, letting his tongue graze your clit.

"You want more?" He asked. His hands move to roughly holding your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Yes." Your voice was unsteady and you focused on keeping your hips still. He licked slowly applying more pressure than before but not enough.

You bit your lip to keep from whining but it was no use, a whimper left your lips anyway.

He laughed at you, a soft chuckle that moved through you. He brought his hand to you again sinking two long fingers into your wetness and pumping once.

"Move your hips, babe," He said and kept his hand still. You sighed and shifted your hips, moving on his fingers as he rose above you lining his face up with your tits, he caught a nipple in his mouth biting down on it.

"That's it, baby girl," he mumbled around your nipple as you found your rhythm. Your moans got louder as you got closer to the lip of the familiar cliff again. His teeth moved to nipping your sensitive skin as you got closer and closer.

You prayed he wouldn't pull away from you again. You were there, just a few seconds more. One foot was off the cliff, any second now you'd fall. A heavy heat clawed at the pit of your stomach, your hips were moving at a frantic pace.

"You close baby?" Geto asked his words coasting over your heated skin.

"Yes." You breathed, and his fingers were gone. A heavy hand pressed into your lower stomach holding you against the table. You groaned loudly, your eyes closing as your orgasm receded.

"Not yet." He smirked.

You breathed heavily as Geto leaned over you, his lips moving over your skin, tugging and nipping. His hands coasting over skin trying to soothe your frustration.

Your hands still white-knuckled the table. You felt like you were going to die from this, you wanted to beg, but you knew if you did it would prolong his tormenting.

You stayed still, breathing, eyes closed tightly as he moved slowly caressing your body with soft touches and softer kisses.

"Let's try that again." He muttered his lips hovering just above you. "But keep your hips still this time." Your breath shuttered at his words.

"Okay."

He sank two fingers into you again, you could hear how wet you were as he pumped them. He was going so slow, but you were so sensitive that the knot in your stomach built again fast. He added another finger drawing a breathy moan from you. His pace increased and the sounds of him fucking you with his fingers vibrated in your ears as you began to drown in the heat all over again.

"Open your eyes, baby," Geto spoke softly his lips still hovering over yours. "Do you want to come?"

"Yes." You whispered, the word barely leaving your mouth.

He pressed a heavy wet kiss to your lips, his tongue pushing in. But his fingers slowed again, his free hand threading into your hair. He kissed you like that, his tongue moving with the same rhythm as his fingers.

"Then come around my cock," He said pulling away from you completely.

You kept your eyes from fluttering shut again at the loss of him. Instead, you watched him as he pulled a condom out of his pocket and pulled his cock out of his sweats. It only took him seconds to glide the condom on and line up with you, but it felt like forever to you.

Geto settled on his elbows over you as he pushed into you slowly.

"Fuck," he cursed as he sank into you, his hips pressing into yours as he bottomed out. He stayed like that for a minute, his face buried into your neck, his teeth pulling at your skin.

Finally, he thrusted up, but it was slow still. Painfully slow.

"Geto," You stretched out his name.

He pushed off his elbows, his hands moving to your hips as he stood up. He pulled you with him, your hips hovering above the table. Geto moved for your hands next grabbing them both, bringing them to your belly button and pushing down. He held them tightly in one hand. The other hand digging into your waist.

He looked down at you unmoving for another second before pulling his hips back and thrusting into you.

"Keep your eyes on me." He demanded as his hips snapped into you again, and again, and again. His pace picked up with each thrust.

"I love watching your tits bounce like this." He said, letting your hip go to quickly smack your boob.

You whined at the sting, your eyes shutting for a second.

In that second Geto dropped you back to the table his body coming down over yours again as he moved your hands over your head.

You groaned as the angle changed. His cock hit your g-spot as his thrusts got angrier.

"Eyes open." He snapped. His other hand moves from your hip to your throat.

"Fuck," You mutter around the pressure at your throat.

"Take it." He muttered, his pace picking up again. Your body slid up the table an inch and Geto cursed his hips snapping into you harder.

The knot in your stomach was at its end, the heat crawling over you was oppressive. Geto's hand at your throat was almost bruising and it all came crashing down on you in a rough wave.

You cried out, your hands fighting against his, and he let you go. Finally getting to touch him. Your arms instantly went around his head and your body arched up into his. Your chest crushing into his as you came.

He cursed as your walls spasmed around him, your body writhing and shaking under his. His fingers stayed around your throat as he fucked you through your high. His thrusts didn't slow, instead, he became rougher milking your orgasm.

"Dammit, baby." He moved his head down to yours pressing his forehead to yours, and letting his fingers drift down your chest so that he was holding your tit, his thumb rubbing at your nipple.

You mewled at the ministration, overwhelmed by him. It was almost too much, his cock was still hitting your g-spot as he worked himself up to his orgasm. You were gasping under him.

"Geto please." You begged, looking up into his eyes. Your hand twisted into his hair as you tilted your head up to kiss him.

Geto's hands dropped to the table beside you as he finally came, his hips stuttering through his orgasm. He moaned into your mouth as the condom filled with his cum.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck" He repeated as he worked through his orgasm your hips lightly rocking against him as he slowed.

He stilled against you, his cock still buried inside you. His lips still moved with yours in a lazy kiss. You didn't want him to move. Honestly, you felt like you could stay like this forever with Geto pressed against you, in you.

A/N: again thank you for reading! send in a request if you'd like!

~ hxt1b, feb 5 2024

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batneko · 1 year

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Okay I got another bowuigi idea.

Koopa Kingdom gets infested with Legally-Distinct-From-Tribbles and nobody can figure out how to get rid of them, they're eating everything, fire only makes them multiply somehow, and one day Bowser is trying to come up with ideas and mutters "What would Princess Peach do?" and one of his minions says "Call the Mario Brothers probably." They both have a good laugh over this.

But time goes by and the not!Tribbles are still everywhere, and finally Bowser is like "okay I'm at least going to ASK, can't hurt to ask, but I'll address it to the green one, that'll be less embarrassing."

Meanwhile Luigi has been feeling a little down about himself, so when he gets the letter he's like "Maybe if I do it it'll prove I can solve problems by myself!" (he was the only one who was doubting this). So he rolls up to the castle determined to Be A Hero and only changes his mind and turns around three times along the way.

Bowser is kind of a dick at first, naturally, but Luigi manages to stand up for himself and insist on being paid at least. This is an extermination job, not a rescue mission. After some back and forth Bowser agrees to give him a Kidnapping Rain Check - next time Luigi just isn't feeling it, he can use the rain check and make Bowser give up on his latest Kidnap Peach plan.

So Luigi goes around, studies the not!Tribbles, comes up with some plans for keeping them out of the food, etc. At first he's having to power through the fear, but eventually he realizes Bowser is mostly bluster (this time) and focuses more on doing the job.

A lot of time passes with both of them being surprised by each other. Luigi learns that Bowser rules through respect, not fear, and that he cares about others. Bowser learns that Luigi is more than just an inferior copy of his brother. I'm picturing a scene where Bowser (who has been casually talking down to Luigi this whole time) says something insulting, and Luigi snaps back with an insult of his own, and Bowser is so surprised that he busts out in genuine laughter. "Okay that's a good one. If you ever repeat it I'll throw you off something, but that's pretty good."

And maybe a scene where they're planning a Public Awareness Campaign so people will keep their food in sealed containers and stop burning the not!Tribbles already seriously you're only making it worse, and as they're talking about it Bowser Jr. wanders in and demands to be able to help. Bowser is like “Sure, you can make the artwork for all the posters we're going to put up, here's what I need you to draw.” Luigi watches this and thinks to himself, in order, “huh, I didn't think Bowser would be a good dad” and then “wait a minute, why didn't I think Bowser would be a good dad? That's not fair to him,” and then “wait since when have I cared about being fair to Bowser?”

Bowser definitely falls first, though he doesn't realize it for longer. He finds himself actually caring what Luigi thinks of him, and gets angry at himself for caring. At one point they're looking for cracks that the not!Tribbles might be sneaking in through, and have to take down a portrait of Peach that Bowser had put up in a secluded corner. Once that's done he completely forgets to put it back up for like two weeks, only realizing when he stumbles over it that he's barely thought of her at all lately.

Luigi, on the other hand, one day thinks to himself “Bowser is so cute when he laughs” and realizes instantly that he's sunk.

Finally they start making progress with the not!Tribbles, so Luigi is like “okay I'll come back in a week and see if the numbers have gone down,” and Bowser is like “yeah sure whatever.” But the next day he's listless and grouchy (he'd barely been grouchy at all lately, what's up with that?) and takes until almost evening to understand he misses Luigi. They both miss each other.

When Luigi finally comes back the not!Tribbles have gone down, but not enough, so he's back to coming over every day to do more research. Bowser is still barely clinging to denial, but he's started trying to look nicer, polishing his shell and combing his hair. Luigi notices and tries very hard not to notice.

If fire makes them multiply, maybe ice prevents it? So they put together some kind of giant mousetrap with lots of food and successfully manage to trap most of the not!Tribbles in a giant ice cube. It only takes another couple of days to track down the stragglers. They've done it! Luigi has saved (for a certain value of “saved”) the Koopa Kingdom.

And... that's it. There's no reason for him to stay anymore. Bowser scribbles out the rain check and starts to hand it to him... And stops.

“Don't take it.”

“What?”

“Don't take that. It's useless.”

“You're not going to honor it?” Luigi asks. He'd almost been allowing himself to think Bowser might like him back, a little bit, but now he's reminded that there's been someone more important to him since before all this started. Before they even met.

“I mean you're never going to have a reason to use it!” Bowser says.

He's never going to kidnap Peach again. At least, not the way he used to. Bowser still wants to take over the Mushroom Kingdom – as well as everywhere else, but Peach... she doesn't mean anything to him anymore.

He can't bring himself to say that though, and frustrated and angry he snaps at Luigi to take something else from the castle too, treasure or tools, anything he wants. And goes up to his bedroom to mope.

It's not until days later that he realizes one of his portraits is missing. It was a good one, he thought he looked really imposing in it, so he yells at people until somebody admits that the portrait was the thing Luigi took as his “payment.”

It wouldn't have been worth much. The frame was nice, but not THAT nice. If Luigi took Bowser's portrait it must be because he wanted it.

Bowser writes Luigi another letter, this time inviting him to dinner.

#I wrote half of this at work lol #another free idea if anyone wants to flesh it out!#or just steal the bits you like #feel free #bowuigi #luwser #long post #longpost #batfics #kinda #mario bros #super mario bros #bowser #luigi

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atinylittlepain · 1 year

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Firehouse Harrington - Chapter 4

fireman!Steve x f!reader/f!oc

series masterlist

Steve told her he'd come home safe from his last shift at the station. When plans change, she'll have to come to terms with what it means to love him.

warnings | 18+ big time angst, minor descriptions of injuries

If she has to let one more locked-out freshman back into their dorm room she’s going to lose it. The post-halloween weekend has been a mess of taking people to the campus medical center for alcohol poisoning, consoling crying girls who found their boyfriends hooking up with someone else, and wondering why these kids can’t make it to the toilet before throwing up whatever jungle juice they’ve been imbibing. She’s exhausted and Monday can’t come soon enough.

She’s been too busy to call the station. Steve had left her a message on her room’s landline Saturday night, letting her know that, just as he predicted, there had been no emergencies that day. She had meant to call him back, but it seemed like she couldn’t sit down for more than two minutes before someone else needed her help.

It’s Sunday evening now, and she’s finally off shift, passing the baton off to another RA. The first thing she does when she gets back to her room is call the station, but she gets the answering machine. She doesn’t leave a message, figuring that she’d rather not have whatever she might say be heard by a bunch of other men. She figures that Steve will call soon, probably just busy packing up his stuff to head home tomorrow morning after his shift. She does her best to ignore the thread of anxiety being tugged in her mind, telling her that something has happened.

To take her mind off it, she takes a long shower, changing into something more comfortable before settling in the dorm lounge to talk with a few of her friends. The news is playing lowly on the TV while they all catch up, but her attention is pulled when she sees the image of a burning building on the screen. Her heart jumps in her throat.

The anchorman announces that there’s been a five-alarm fire in a downtown apartment complex, drawing aid from nearly all the stations in the city. She doesn’t realize it, but she’s shifted off the couch to kneel in front of the TV, watching the scene of fire engines and scrambling firefighters, some carrying people out of the building. Just as the reporter goes to sign off, an explosion of flames shatters several windows in the building, causing a shriek of activity to stir up as people scramble on the ground below. She feels like she’s going to throw up.

The reporter regains his composure, adding that injured civilians and responders are already being taken to the Indiana University Hospital for treatment. Her friends are all calling her name, but she can barely hear them through the white noise in her mind, her only focus being getting to that hospital. Her friend who has a car on campus offers to drive her and she mutely nods.

…

When she gets to the emergency room, it’s a swirl of chaos. Gurneys are being hauled in one after the other, with people covered in soot and ash curled on them. Nurses are shouting commands and the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles strike through the entrance. She’s not quite sure what to do, she’s already on the brink of tears.

She walks up to the front desk, not even sure what to say, trying to catch the eye of one of the nurses frantically fielding calls. An older-looking woman finally stops in front of her, asking her what she needs.

“Um– I– um– it’s–” the nurse cuts her off, softening her eyes just a bit. It’s a look of pity, and she knows it.

“Are you here for someone, hon?” She swallows hard, nodding to the nurse.

“Alright, hon, if you give me the last name I’ll check for you, but it’s gonna take a little bit, ok?” She just nods, telling her Steve’s name, and the nurse tells her to go sit down, that she’ll call her over when she finds anything out.

She keeps her eyes down, only seeing the wheels of gurneys rolling past, a seemingly endless march of people coming into the emergency room. The image of that burning building is stamped into her mind, and the only other thing she can think about is how she didn’t answer Steve’s call the night before.

It could have been twenty minutes or two hours by the time the nurse calls her back over. She tells her that a Mr. Harrington had been brought to the ER just before she came in. He had been near the initial blast of the explosion, knocked unconscious by the force. They were currently stabilizing him, he had only sustained burns on his hands and neck, having been suited up and protected by the brunt of the flames.

It feels like time turns liquid and viscous as she goes to sit back down, the nurse telling her that it would be a while before she might be able to see him. She puts her head in her hands, curling over the tops of her thighs. Her friend finally comes in after parking her car. She sits down next to her, bringing her palm between her shoulder blades. After telling her what she found out about Steve, her friend asks her if she’s ok.

“I really don’t know.”

…

She spends the whole night in the ER waiting room, at some point dozing off just enough for her friend to have to wake her to let her know she needs to get back to campus in the morning. She tells her she’s going to stay, and her friend leaves her with one final squeeze to her shoulder.

Finally, the nurse, who she had learned was named Vicky, calls her over to the front desk.

“He’s doing just fine, hon. His file says that he has a moderate concussion and his burns were all superficial. Doctors want to keep him today and overnight for observation, but he should be ready to be discharged tomorrow.” A sigh shudders through her. He’s alright, he’s alright.

“Can I see him yet?” Vicky takes her herself to his room, opening the door for her and motioning for her to go in.

She’s taken aback when she sees someone else sitting at his bedside. Another girl. Her stomach drops for the seemingly hundredth time, but now for a very different reason.

The girl immediately jumps up when she notices her, shuffling around the end of the bed and taking hold of her hands.

“You must be the girl Steve’s been telling me about since August! I’m Robin, Steve’s friend. I’m sorry we’re meeting like this, very shitty circumstances, but it’s still nice to meet you!” She’s left speechless by Robin’s flurry of activity, opening and closing her mouth before finally glancing at Steve’s sleeping figure. Her breath catches when she takes in his appearance, soot still smeared across his face, bandages around his hands and over his neck, hooked up to a bunch of beeping monitors.

She finally turns back to Robin, “um, S-Steve never told me about you. I’m sorry. How did you–?”

“Oh, we’ve been each other’s emergency contacts ever since he came back from overseas. I got called right away. Doctors say he’s gonna be totally fine, though. Believe me, I’ve seen him banged up far worse than this.” Her head is spinning with all this new information. Why didn’t Steve ever tell her about this person who seems to be his closest friend? When had he been “banged up worse?” Sure, he had been in the army, but she didn’t think he’d sustained any serious injuries in that time, at least he never mentioned anything. What else hadn’t he mentioned?

There’s not much time for her to ponder these things because Steve starts to stir. She’s frozen where she stands, but Robin squats down at his bedside, bringing her palm to squeeze his bicep.

“Hey, dingus. Glad to see you alive and kicking.” He coughs, turning to peer at his friend. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.

“Robs?” She rubs his arm before lightly patting it.

“Yeah, man. Present and accounted for. Someone else is here to see you too.” Robin looks over to her and she shuffles forward just slightly, opening her mouth to say something, but Steve beats her to it.

“What’s she doing here?” It feels like someone has punched her in the gut, his voice soaked in contempt, the furrowed look on his face as he glances at her before looking back to his friend. Robin is quick to chastise him with a pointed “Steve.” He huffs, throwing his head back into his pillow and shutting his eyes tightly.

“Need more fucking painkillers.” He grumbles it out, keeping his eyes closed. Robin looks apologetically at her, but she’s already stumbling out of the room, feeling tears threatening to pool over, her throat tight and hot. Her mind is a blur of emotion, the only clear thought being that she needs to get out of here as quickly as possible. He didn’t want her there. He didn’t want her there.

She thought he had really cared about her, but obviously, she was just a good fuck to him. She had been so stupid coming here, silly really. She had dropped everything just to come see if he was ok, and meanwhile he wanted nothing to do with having her here. To think that she had the right to him, to care about him so hard. Well, that wouldn’t be a mistake that she’d be making again.

She bursts out of the emergency room into the stark light of the morning. The tears are flowing now, and she’s entirely disoriented, pulling herself together just enough to get to the payphone outside the hospital. She calls her friend and thankfully she picks up, telling her that she can come get her in the next half hour. She hangs up the phone and lets her shoulders slacken, shuffling over to the curb and sitting down, drawing her arms around her knees and resting her forehead on top of them. The exhaustion of the last twelve hours is finally washing over her and all she wants is to curl up in her bed for a long while.

Just then, Robin comes out of the hospital, making a bee line for her when she finally sees her sitting on the curb. She’s startled by the young woman crouching down beside her, quickly wiping away her tears.

“Hey, I’m so sorry about him. I know he didn’t mean for that to come out the way it did.”

“It sure sounded pretty clear. I’m not welcome.” Robin sighs.

“He’s just… jumbled right now. Believe me, he’s told me too much about you and how much he likes you for that to be what he really wanted to say.” Her heart does a little kick at Robin’s words, but she’s quick to smother it out, sighing.

“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I just– it’s been a long night and I can’t think straight about any of this.” She finally glances at Robin who offers her a soft smile.

“I get it, really. But can I ask you for a favor?” She waits for Robin to continue.

“Please don’t give up on him. I know it’s too much to ask. But, it’s been a long time since I’ve heard him talk so much about someone. Long time since he’s seemed brighter when we speak. I just– Steve’s a rough one for sure, but man does he love hard when he chooses to.” She sighs at Robin’s words, shaking her head a bit.

“I just don’t know if I can promise you that, Robin. I need some time.” Robin nods, bringing a tentative hand to her shoulder.

“Can I give you my number? I live here in the city too. Please, call me whenever you wanna talk.” Robin fumbles in her pockets, pulling out a pack of tissues and a pen. She folds up a tissue and scribbles her number down on it before handing it to her with a small smile.

Her friend has just pulled up, and she and Robin slowly stand. They share a quiet goodbye before she gets into the car, tucking the tissue into her pocket. She needs a fucking nap.

…

It’s been a week since that horrible night at the hospital. She’s moved through her classes and work numbly, her mind a constant swirl of conflict. She had talked to Robin on the phone on Thursday, and she told her that Steve was home, begrudgingly taking a few weeks off work to rest. Robin had been dropping in to look after him, and she hinted that some other visitors would do him good.

She had been hesitant to say anything to this invitation, offering Robin a noncommittal reply. Part of her wanted to never see Steve again. She had been so mortified at his reaction to her being at the hospital and thinking about it made her feel physically ill. Yet, for some other part of her, all she wanted was to see him.

He had tried to call her a few times, and she had to admit that he did sound pretty pitiful, his sentences still sounding a bit jumbled and his speech slurred, which Robin had assured her was normal given his long history of concussions. She didn’t know he had a long history of concussions. But apparently she didn’t know a lot of things about Steve.

The weekend came and she still hadn’t made up her mind about what to do. When she got back to her room after her morning class she found that Steve had left her another message.

“Hey, um, s’me. Steve. My head’s getting a lot better. I just, um– fuck– wish you’d answer the fucking phone. Shit, that didn’t come out right. Um, I guess– I’d just really like to hear from you. Or see you. Been thinking about you nonstop. That’s all, I guess. Um, bye.” She lets out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

She grabs her jacket and bag, resolving herself to go see him before the impulse fades.

When she arrives at his building she hesitates to press the buzzer, feeling a knot in her chest when she finally does. It takes him a moment to answer, a gruff “hello?” sounding through the speaker.

“Steve? It’s me.” There’s a long silence, only broken by the click of the door letting her through.

She uses whatever courage she has left to knock firmly at his door, but she’s woefully unprepared for coming face to face with him again. When he opens the door, he’s shirtless, a pair of gray sweatpants with the station’s insignia on the thigh slung low around his hips. He has bandages still on his hands and up his neck. There are dark circles under his eyes, but she still thinks he looks so pretty.

He wordlessly lets her in and she takes in the state of his apartment. All the blinds are drawn, leaving the room shrouded in shadows. Blankets are strewn on the couch, a collection of pill bottles and wound dressings scattered on the coffee table. He’s the first to break the silence, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry about the, uh, mess. Been a long week.” He keeps his eyes trained on the floor, even as she implores him to meet her gaze.

“I-It’s fine, Steve. How are you feeling?” He sighs, walking over to the couch to clear it off before sitting down. She follows his lead, sitting down at the other end of the couch, twisting to look at him.

“I’m doing a lot better. Still just a lot of pain. S’nothing I can’t handle though.” She just nods, looking down at her hands in her lap. Steve sighs before continuing.

“Missed you a lot.” She jerks her head to look up at him at that and when their eyes finally meet, it’s both relieving and painful. She’s quick to avert her gaze back down.

“I didn’t think you wanted me around.” There’s a long pause before Steve speaks.

“To be honest. I didn’t know why you weren’t answering my calls until Robin told me what I said that morning. Baby, they– I was so hopped up on pain meds I didn’t know up from down.”

“Steve, you and I both know that’s not the whole story. You were with it enough to recognize Robin. And then, when you looked at me, the way you spoke? Not to me, but about me? It broke my fucking heart.” Steve grumbles at that, but she continues.

“Do you know how worried I was about you? Did Robin tell you I spent the whole night at the ER? Waiting to find out anything about how you were doing? And then for you to just dismiss me when I finally did get to see you? I just– I don’t know, Steve.” His eyes widen at her words.

“You don’t know what?” She scoffs, meeting his gaze again.

“I don’t know why I still care about you so goddamn much when you keep giving me every reason to never speak to you again.” She laughs lamely, huffing as she leans back into the couch.

“God, Steve. It’s not fair. You’re just– I don’t really know anything about you. You’re always pushing me away. You never told me about Robin. Or that you’ve been hurt like that before. I felt like such an idiot talking to her, having to get her to explain it all to me.” She closes her eyes, leaning her head back and bringing her palms to her face, kneading at her temples. She doesn’t know what else to say, settling instead for a long sigh.

Steve finally breaks the silence, “I-I’m sorry. For all of it. I just– I wasn’t expecting you to be there, at the hospital. I don’t know, I guess– I didn’t want you to see that. To see me like that.” She glances at him, he’s hunched over his thighs, elbows propping him up, fingers dug into his hair as his head rests in his hands.

“To see you like what? Alive? Ok? Relatively unharmed after I watched the building you were in literally explode?” He shakes his head, letting out a sigh.

“I didn’t want you to see me so fucked up, ok? A-and I didn’t tell you about my past because I don’t want your pity, I don’t need anyone’s pity. I just– fuck– I want you to think that I’m good.” She reaches out to him, resting her palm on his bare shoulder, her heart seizing up at the way he flinches under her touch.

“I’m not trying to pity you, Steve. I just want you to let me in. I-I want to understand whatever you’ve been through because– christ, I want to be there for you.” He turns to look at her, and the clear confusion across his face makes her heart break.

“Steve, you don’t need to make me think that you’re good. I know you’re good. But I also know that I can’t love you the way I want to when you’re keeping me at arm’s length.” His eyes widen at her words right as she realizes what she just said, her breath catching in her throat.

“Do you love me?” Fuck. She swallows hard.

“I’m trying to, if you’ll let me.” The moment is interrupted as Steve’s face scrunches up in pain. He brings his hand to his head, clutching at his hair and letting out a harsh breath. She feels a lick of panic down her spine.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” He shakes his head, his eyes still crinkled shut.

“Just need to get more meds in my system. My head’s fucking pounding.” She goes into RA mode, squeezing his shoulder one more time before shuffling into his kitchen to get him a glass of water. She starts sorting through the pill bottles on his coffee table.

“Baby? Which one of these do you need to take right now?”

“The oxycodone. M’supposed to take two.” She finds the bottle and quickly passes him two of the pills and the glass of water. She sits on the edge of the coffee table and watches him take his meds, promptly setting the glass down and resting back into the couch, his eyes still closed. She studies the prescription bottle, brows furrowed.

“This says you’re supposed to take those with food. Have you eaten anything recently?” He grumbles, a shrug of his shoulders telling her that no, he hasn’t had anything. She sighs.

“You gotta eat something, baby. Lemme make you something, ok? I’ll be right back.” He huffs, but stays laying back on the couch as she goes back into his kitchen.

She’s dismayed by what she finds when she opens his fridge. It’s sparse save for some half-empty containers of soup that Robin must have brought over earlier in the week. She calls over to him from the kitchen.

“Steve? Will you eat some soup?” That gets a groan out of him.

“Can’t eat anymore fucking soup.” She scoffs, rolling her eyes before turning her attention back to his nearly empty fridge. Luckily, there’s a loaf of bread on his counter and some cheese that doesn’t seem to be off. She fumbles around in his cabinets for a pan and takes to the task of making a grilled cheese. Even Steve, in his petulant state, should be able to manage to get that down.

As she brings the sandwich over to him, she finds him dozing, his head tipped over the back of the couch cushion. She sits on the edge of the coffee table, their knees brushing. She lightly rubs his thigh to wake him up.

“Baby? Let’s get something in you, ok? You need to eat.” He grumbles, cracking his eyes open, but reluctantly sitting up. He raises his eyebrows at her when she sets the plate in his lap.

“It’s a grilled cheese. Humor me here, alright?” He huffs, but still picks up the sandwich and takes a wolfish bite. His eyes widen at her as he chews, grumbling around the bite.

“Did you put pickles in it?” She shrugs, fighting a smile.

“You need to eat some vegetables, that’s all I could find. Plus that’s how my mom would make it for me whenever I felt sick.” He chews slowly, his brow still furrowed, but he seems to like it enough to keep eating, finishing off the whole sandwich in a few large bites.

She takes the plate from him and places it in the sink, coming back to sit down next to him, resting her arm over the back of the couch to turn and face him. He clears his throat before glancing at her.

“My, uh, my grandma used to make grilled cheese with pickles for me when I was a kid. Never met anyone else who made them like that.” She can’t help the grin that slips onto her face. It’s small, but it feels different, it feels like Steve trying.

“Well, great minds think alike, I guess. That’s like, the best way to make a grilled cheese.” It’s barely there, but she still sees the small smile he offers her. He nods, shifting to face her on the couch, their knees brushing. He very tentatively rests his hand over hers in her lap. She flips her palm to tangle her fingers with his, being careful of the bandages there. His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks.

“Thank you. For everything.” She sweeps her fingers through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. He leans into her palm and the sweetness of it makes everything ok for a moment.

“Why don’t you lay down, Steve? Get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

She goes to stand up, giving him space to lay out on the couch, but is caught unexpectedly as he shifts to lay his head down in her lap. He moves cautiously as he settles down, trying to avoid his burns, curling on his side as he rests his cheek on the plush of her thigh. Once he seems comfortable, she rests a palm on his bare chest after drawing a blanket over him. His breathing steadies out quickly, lips parted in the drift of sleep.

A streak of pain races through her chest because she knows now for certain that she could never leave Steve, not even if she really wanted to. He’s hers and she’s his. She traces the map of his freckles with her eyes, a marvel in how peaceful he looks.

Nothing has been fixed, not really. And so much has been left unsaid. But for now, she thinks that this is enough.

#steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things

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naavispider · 4 months

Text

A follow up to this post, which is a bonus scene from Quaritch's POV at the end of The Cat's in the Cradle. This one was egged on by @hyperfixatedfandomer who always manages to inspire me!

It’s been four years since Spider decided to stay with the Sullys, effectively cutting his father out of his life. Quaritch has been coping the best way he knows how, but it’s been rough and life moves on. He always hoped that someday his son might change his mind and miraculously show up on the doorstep. What he didn’t count on was that day being today.

Quaritch sighed wearily as he resigned himself to another afternoon sorting out Selfidge's mess. The RDA had welcomed him back with open arms when he'd got of prison six years ago, but he'd been too obsessed with trying to get custody of his son back for the first two. Then, Spider had turned his back on him and Quaritch had slipped into a dark place; his loneliness and self-hatred had driven him to the verge of insanity. Only Lyle had been able to reason with him. He'd turned up at the door after Quaritch was re-arrested and hammered some sense into his superior officer.

And Quaritch was grateful. Getting stuck back in at the RDA was a chore - especially when working with civvie pencil pushers like Selfridge - but a welcome distraction from the pit of sadness that had found a home in his guts. He cleaned himself up, dusted himself down and focused on commanding his squad. Eventually, time stitched over some of the deepest cuts Spider had left him with, and Quaritch simply grew used to living with the pain.

It had been four years since he'd seen his son, and even though it killed him, he'd kept his word. If I get out… you draw the shots. No more plots behind your back. If you want nothing to do with me… I’ll leave. He hadn't tried to contact Spider. The boy had made his choice, and the biggest mistake of Quaritch's life was that he once didn't respect that.

He would now, even if killed him.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, rousing Quaritch from his thoughts. He frowned, unsure who was calling. It was probably Lyle - the man was always dropping in unannounced. He left his laptop open and went to the door. But wait. Just as he was about to open the latch, he realised that couldn't be right. Lyle was out of state on RDA business. Must be one of the others he shrugged, though his hand hovered over the Beretta in his waistband just in case. He opened the door.

For four years he had waited for a moment like this. He stared at the young man in front of him. He just stared.

"Um... Hi, Dad."

Quaritch focused his eyes on every aspect of the boy's face, taking in every inch of his appearance. If he didn't know his son like the back of his hand he would have believed it to be trick from the enemy. Spider was here. He was really here.

"Son..."

Spider's hair fell carelessly in a messy half up, half down style. The years had matured the angle of his jaw, the arch of his brows. This wasn't the sixteen year old boy that Quaritch remembered. This was a twenty year old man.

Spider smiled awkwardly, dreadfully reminiscent of the way Paz used to, and for a moment Quaritch couldn't speak.

Spider looked like he understood, and shifted awkwardly on his feet. "Can I come in?" he asked. God, his voice was deeper. He had to reach out and touch him... make sure he really was here....

He nodded, stepping back slowly to let Spider in the house. He couldn't take his eyes off him as Spider stepped over the threshold. In a daze, Quaritch shut the door and walked to the living room. "Sit down..." It should have come out as in instruction, but instead it sounded more like a question.

Spider tentatively crossed the room and sat on the edge of the comfortable sofa. Quaritch couldn't remember the last person other than Lyle to sit on that sofa. Was his son really here?

Spider's eyes drifted down to Quaritch's hands. Without realising it, Quaritch had started to run the MJ tattoo on his wrist, like he always did when he was stressed. He immediately stopped, not wanting to freak Spider out. They were both quiet for a moment, before Quaritch followed Spider's suit and sat next to him on the couch. He measured the distance between them carefully. There wasn't quite enough room for a third person between them, but there was plenty of space. He took a deep breath as he stared at the floor, trying to pull himself together.

"This is weird," Spider stated.

Quaritch let out a dry chuckle. That was one word for it.

"I'm sorry for... dropping in."

Quaritch forced himself to look up and meet Spider's eyes. He was met with the familiar blaze that burned behind his chestnut irises. A necklace dangled around Spider's neck, catching the light. The sight of him was breath-taking. Spider was an adult. He'd outgrown him in the most complete sense imaginable. It made Quaritch's heart yearn for the years he'd missed. He wasn't sure if he could do this. Suddenly, all he wanted was that fiesty sixteen year old back.

He wanted to be cussed out, insulted. He wanted to know that the best place for Spider was by his side. He didn't want to see that Spider was doing fine without him. It was breaking him.

"What are you doing here?" Quaritch finally managed to say.

Now it was Spider's turn to avert his eyes. He looked... ashamed. "I... I wanted to explain. I wanted to see you."

"It's been a long time, son," Quaritch reminded him.

"I know. And I'm sorry." He paused, clearly unsure what to say next. "You really hurt me."

Quaritch closed his eyes slowly, pursing his lips. "I know." He did. He knew what he'd caused.

Thankfully, Spider continued. "I didn't know how to handle that. You were supposed to be there for me. You were supposed to love me because I'm your son, not because you wanted to be a father."

Quaritch nodded. Spider was being completely fair.

"Would you have done it?"

Quaritch looked up. He knew what Spider was referring to. The reason he'd decided to maintain the restraining order in the first place. He sighed. "I don't know. I was a desperate man who'd lost eleven years of his son's life. I wanted you back, but I don't know how far I could have gone through with it. Not if you weren't cooperative."

Spider pursed his lips. "I wish I'd never found out."

"That I was gonna take you?"

His son nodded. Quaritch's heart bled. "For the record, I wish I'd never come up with it."

Spider half smiled.

The damn that had been waiting to burst since Quaritch first opened the door reared its head at last. "Is it really you?" he whispered.

On the couch, Spider turned to face him full on. "It's me, Dad."

His arm moved of its own accord, reaching up slowly to rest his hand on Spider's shoulder, then slowly, making sure Spider could pull away if he wanted, up Spider's neck until he was cupping his son's face. It took Spider a moment to give him eye contact, but when he did it was all he needed. Warmth flooded his insides as light filled up the bottomless pit of despair he'd worked so hard to live with all these years. Spider's presence alone was enough to cure it all. He could see him melting into his touch, and without realising it he'd shuffled closer and was enveloping his son in a fierce embrace. Spider's shoulders shook with emotion and Quaritch held him tighter. If anyone ever tried to take his son away again, he'd see them in Hell. "Shh, it's okay." He breathed in the scent of Spider's hair, wrapped his arms around his boy as if his touch was the only thing keeping him alive.

"I'm sorry-" Spider choked out, but Quaritch shushed him, letting him cry it out. Quaritch didn't cry, he just thanked his lucky stars that his son had returned home. "I'm so glad you came back," he murmured, because it was the only thought he was capable of holding.

When Spider's breathing finally seemed to return to normal, Quaritch released him. "Stay here," he ordered, making his way to the kitchen. He didn't want to leave Spider, not for one second, but he needed to make him comfortable. They had a lot of catching up to do. He returned with two cups of tea, and his adult son kicked his feet up onto the couch, making himself at home. He took the mug as Quaritch sat back at his end of the couch.

"Tell me everything."

#spider socorro #miles quaritch #avatar the way of water #avatar 2 #miles spider socorro #avatar modern au #atwow #recom quaritch #the cat's in the cradle #my stuff: cat's in the cradle epilogue

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lilaeleaf · 1 year

Note

I love your art so much! Do you have any of your brushes for sale, or any tutorials, especially on colour?

Hi!! Thank you so much! 💕

Honestly, my go-to brushes are all procreate brushes with slight adjustments (like stabilization, etc.) my personal preference is brushes that kind of mimic graphite pencils. The best thing you can do is find a brush that suits you & get very comfortable using it! Specific brushes won’t necessarily improve your work, it’s all about practice! (But yes, a nice brush does help!)

I do have a video on my favourite brushes:

I’ve never really made any tutorials, but I’m happy to try and relay what I know and what I’ve learned so far!

Colours are a big part of illustration! I could probably ramble on for hours, honestly—in any case, it’s always helpful to know fundamentals of colour theory. Once you learn and apply it, it becomes intuitive! I’m gonna stick to RGB colours because CMYK is it’s own thing (printing!)

There’s a handful of basic terms like hue (pure colours), shade (adding black to a colour), tint (adding white to a colour), tone (adding gray to a colour) and also opacity (transparency) that help us understand and define the complexity of colours.

My colour choices are more often than not a gut feeling—but that does come from practice! There’s loads of colour palettes available online like this one, but if you wanna come up with your own, there’s some neat ways to do that using a colour wheel! Colours can broken down into primary, secondary and tertiary colours. We can also categorize them as warm or cold. With this we can make colour schemes!

Some basic schemes!

Complimentary: two colours, opposites on the colour wheel

Analogous: three colours side-by-side

Triadic: three colours that form a triangle, evenly spaced

Monochromatic: using one colour (using different shades)

(Bonus) Monochromatic with accent colour : using one colour as a foundation and having an accent colour (similar to analogous, but one colour is used for a majority of the piece while the accent colour is used sparingly)

It’s also important to keep in mind that values (a colour’s range from dark to light) will look different on different colours. Sometimes, you’ll put two colours together and think “huh, something about this feels off” and it turns out, the colours just happen to be very close in value and melt together. Switching your piece to grayscale just to check on your values every so often can help with contrast and muddiness! A light tone on a darker tone will look brighter than it really is. Colours can also influence each other and trick your eyes.

Environment is also a big part of choosing your colours for a piece. Determining what the setting is important! A sunset will make a drawing warmer, while a scene set in the night will usually have colder tones. Using only local colours (true colours, like green grass or blue sky) vs non-local colours (atmospheric perspective, accent colors that give depth, etc) can help enhance your drawing too. Don't be afraid of artistic interpretation!

Also, there’s always the option to use gradient maps (at least on procreate & photoshop but I’m sure it’s available in csp and other programs) where you draw in grayscale & apply a gradient map. The gradient map basically applies a color to every value (e.g all the shadows become blue and the highlights become orange) it can look really nice (and help out if colours just aren’t working that day yk)

Another thing, when I’m drawing (and this is specific to me!) I tend to start with pretty desaturated colours. Once my illustration is done, I’ll duplicate & merge my layers to do colour edits. Most programs give you the option to play with curves or colour balance—menus that allow you to play around with the hue of the shadows, midtones and highlights. I tend to make my shadows more cyan-blue, my midtones a little warmer and my highlights warmer as well. Of course, this depends on the mood of the piece, whether it’s warm or cold, lighter or darker, etc!

You can always make adjustment layers on top of your work; a low opacity yellow, magenta or blue (or anything your heart desires) overlay to tie all the colours together.

I hope this helps a bit!! Happy to answer more questions to the best of my knowledge :^)

#askleaf #anon ask #art tutorial #color theory #digital art #illustration #brushes #long post #artandstuff

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elentiyawhitethorn · 1 year

Note

Congrats on 550!! Prompt for Rowaelin: slow dancing for the first time. Maybe after something stressful or exciting! ❤️❤️

Remedy

CW: language, mentions of cheating

AN: Thanks darling :) inspired by the Adele song

Angst & Fluff//2883 words

This dress was to die for.

Aelin’s boyfriend had disappeared, she’d accidentally spilled punch on someone’s shoes earlier in the night, and her hair probably looked like something a rodent would hole up in considering the number of times she had scratched at her fancy—and itchy—hair clips. But this damn dress was to die for, and Aelin refused to let anything ruin that.

Red tulle ran from the body of the dress in waves across Aelin’s waist. The back was almost sheer from the waist up, allowing a very purposeful glimpse of black lace. Minuscule jewels—fake but showy—were embroidered into the neckline, drawing the eyes to Aelin’s breasts, which were decently exposed and highlighted with a gold thread running along the neckline that perfectly matched her eyes.

If this night ended up being as stressful and disappointing as Aelin anticipated judging by the pit in her stomach and the fact that her date had been missing for fifteen minutes, at least there was this dress.

“Still haven’t found him, babe?”

Aelin spun around to find her best friend, Lysandra.

“No! He left for the bathroom ages ago and we’re meant to be taking photos in just a couple minutes.”

Lys sighed. “You deserve better than that flakey little twerp.”

Gnawing on her lip nervously, and ruining her lipstick in the process, Aelin said, “Maybe it’s not his fault. Maybe he has food poisoning.”

“In which case he would be in the bathroom like he said he was, and Dorian checked for you just a few minutes ago.”

“Maybe he found another bathroom?” Aelin suggested meekly.

Lys gave her a pitying look that Aelin chose to ignore. “Alright, babe, I’m going to go dance with Aedion but I’ll let you know if I hear anything. Knowing the number of brain cells in your boyfriend’s head I’d say he could have just gotten lost.”

Aelin rolled her eyes at the reminder of her best friend and cousin’s new relationship, then frowned half-heartedly at the insult to Chaol.

Lysandra was very opinionated on the subject of Chaol, and Aelin had long since stopped being annoyed with it considering that she had honestly started to agree. Chaol was nice to her, and loyal, and… and other good things that just weren’t coming to mind right now. He was just a little bland. His personality simply wasn’t compatible with Aelin’s, and she’d been thinking about breaking up with him for a couple months now.

She’d been putting it off for various reasons: losing her boyfriend right before senior prom would be a mess; Aelin liked him well enough and didn’t want to hurt his feelings; and most importantly Aelin was a wimp and just couldn’t bring herself to do it. What if he was the best she would ever get? What if no one better wanted Aelin?

But who the hell was she to be drowning in self-pity on prom night? Aelin was meant to be enjoying herself, not thinking about what a disaster her relationship was. Shaking herself off, Aelin headed to the gym doors to look for Chaol some more.

Before she got to the door, someone bumped into Aelin.

She was met with the sight of Rowan Whitethorn, the school’s best lacrosse player and asshole extraordinaire. The pair of them had been bickering since middle school.

“Whitethorn,” Aelin mono-toned.

“Galathynius.”

They eyed each other cautiously, each trying to figure out if the other was about to strike, until Aelin rolled her eyes and brushed past Rowan.

She put the encounter from her mind as she headed for the first hall she came across. What was Chaol doing? Surely he wouldn’t have just left without saying anything.

Aelin turned a corner.

And froze at the scene that lay before her.

Chaol, her date, her boyfriend, stood beside a cluster of lockers, his tongue jammed down Yrene Towers’ throat.

For a moment, Aelin didn’t say or do anything. She just stood there, rooted to the ground. Crushing waves of disbelief and humiliation washed over her, enough to send her running—if she had control over her feet, that was. As it was, Aelin could only watch as Chaol brought a hand to Yrene’s waist, and as Yrene reciprocitively lifted her hands to Chaol’s shoulders.

And then she saw something on Yrene’s wrist. A corsage. Her corsage that Chaol had never given to her, the pretty white rose winding around in all its beauty.

Suddenly, Aelin didn’t feel so distraught anymore. She felt pissed the fuck off.

“You son of a bitch,” Aelin spluttered, her voice croaky and filled with emotion but strong all the same, powered by her anger.

Chaol and Yrene split apart instantly, spinning towards Aelin. She doubtlessly looked like a madwoman, her face colored with rage and her chest heaving with breaths that couldn’t quite satisfy her need for air. But honestly, Aelin didn’t really give a shit what she looked like, what Chaol thought of her. It was her turn to judge.

“Aelin—” Chaol started, surely about to spew half-assed apologies, or perhaps some sort of explanation, as if Aelin hadn’t just seen what she’d seen.

“No,” Aelin snapped, interrupting him. “You don’t get to talk right now. There is nothing you could possibly have to say.” She stalked forward, ignoring the dismay on Yrene’s face and focusing solely on the garbage that was her boyfriend.

“You are controlling, and judgy, and hateful, and pathetic,” Aelin seethed. “You were a downright pisspoor excuse for a boyfriend. And now you kiss some other girl as if I’m not enough for you. As if you deserve more.

“Well guess what, Chaol.” Aelin took another step to make up for the step he took back. She wanted to be right in his face. “I’m way out of your fucking league and you were lucky to have me. And now you don’t anymore.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

Aelin punched him.

Her fist came out of nowhere, surprising all three of them, including herself, but she carried it through regardless. Aelin landed a blow right on his nose and she preened in the sound of the brutal crack.

Chaol bent over, his hands flying up to his nose as a sharp cry tore from his lips. Aelin felt a sick sense of satisfaction at the sight.

“We’re over, Chaol. I should have dumped you a damn long time ago. So thank you for spurring me into doing just that.”

With that, Aelin spun around and marched away from him, turning the corner she’d come from and holding her head high as she put distance between herself and the mess she’d left behind her.

Her eyes widened as she spotted Rowan Whitethorn leaning against a locker, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

And gods, that look could only mean he’d heard everything, maybe even seen it.

“Remind me never to make you angry,” Rowan dead-panned.

Aelin burst into tears.

Chaol had cheated on her. Gods. If he was the best she could do and even he wasn’t satisfied with her, who would be? And now Rowan knew that no one wanted her. Her world narrowed around her, a buzzing noise taking over her hearing and her vision lost to the tears already flooding out. She retained some semblance of awareness trying to stay quiet enough that Chaol and Yrene, likely still just around the corner, didn’t hear, but beyond that everything faded to black.

“Hey,” someone—probably Rowan—said quietly, sounding a little unsure.

Aelin ignored him and wrapped her arms around her body, trying to fold in on herself.

Rowan, to Aelin’s utter shock, didn’t leave, or taunt her, or laugh. Distantly, she felt his hand on the small of her back, gentle but unwavering.

“Let’s get you some air,” he whispered, and Aelin didn’t respond but didn’t protest either as Rowan guided her presumably toward an exit. She moved slowly, tears still clouding her vision, but Rowan never let up, pushing her gently along.

Finally, Rowan opened a door, and guided Aelin through it. She left his conforting hold in favor of reaching for the wall and collapsing against it, sliding to the ground in a heap as sobs started to tear from her throat.

Aelin sensed Rowan kneeling beside her but didn’t acknowledge his presence. Every word she’d spewed to Chaol circled through her head on a loop like a broken record. And the longer she thought about what she’d said… the less she believed it. Sure, Chaol was a dirtbag. Lysandra had known it and while Aelin had ignored it in favor of thinking of his better qualities, he’d kissed another girl. But was Aelin any better?

How awful was she to have cared so much about appearances that she wouldn’t break up with Chaol before prom so she could have a good night, stringing him along for weeks? How wrong was it that she’d demanded so much of him, offering so little in return?

No wonder Chaol had cheated.

“Aelin,” Rowan cut into her thoughts of self-loathing. She’d almost forgotten he was there. And damn him, he was persistent. “Aelin, hey.”

“Go away,” she muttered, voice cracking pathetically.

“I’m not leaving you out here like this.”

Aelin sniffled. “Since when do you care?” she rasped.

“Just because we don’t get along doesn’t mean I’m hateful enough to leave you crying on the ground.”

“Well you should.” Aelin squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s the least I deserve.”

“What do you mean?” Rowan asked cautiously.

“I was an awful girlfriend.” Aelin’s voice, cut up with sharp breaths, was barely audible.

Rowan scoffed. “Bullshit. I may not have known a whole lot about your relationship, but when someone decides to cheat on their partner, it’s not someone else’s fault. Whatever you think you screwed up, he screwed up fifty times worse.”

Aelin’s sobs quieted for a moment as she took that blunt and wholly unexpected statement in, then picked back up in full force. “I’m just so,” Aelin choked out, “scared that I, don’t deserve, anyone better.” She ended this with her most pathetic whimper yet, but she was too far gone to feel embarrassed.

“It’s alright, Aelin,” Rowan whispered against her ear. She felt him sit on the ground next to her, his hands coming to rest on her sides, comforting but not overly in her space.

Aelin bit her lip as she tried to stop the flow of tears. “I can’t—”

She cut herself off with a sharp exhale. Her chest seemed to close up, physical pains shooting through her.

“Deep breaths, Aelin. I need you to breathe for me.”

Aelin choked on a sob as she tried to comply. Her fingernails dug into Rowan’s biceps as she struggled for breath but he didn’t complain, only continued whispering soothingly to her. Aelin’s head was so fuzzy she could no longer make out what he was saying but the gentle tone of his voice was like a lullaby.

Aelin didn’t know how much time passed, but at some point her panting slowed and the flow of tears lessened. She swallowed.

“How are you feeling?” Rowan asked, noticing the change, and Aelin appreciated that he didn’t ask if she was okay. She most certainly was not okay.

“Better, I think,” Aelin answered truthfully. “A little better.”

Rowan’s hands were still on her waist. His thumbs began making soft circular motions. “That’s good.”

Aelin sniffled. “I hate him so much.”

“As you should.”

Aelin’s eyes flickered up to Rowan’s. “Why are you being nice to me?” she whispered.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Not an answer.

Aelin shifted uncomfortably, smoothing her dress over her legs. “You don’t like me.”

Rowan stared at her with an emotion that Aelin couldn’t decipher for far too long, then replied, “Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you think you are.”

He didn’t wait for a response before he stood, and Aelin realized that she’d somehow scared him away. Her head was swirling with confusion and having cried so hard she felt exhausted and weak, but she was sure that she’d said something to make Rowan leave.

Rowan reached for the handle, and Aelin braced herself to be left alone, but he only opened the door wide and pushed the wedge back to keep it there. He turned back around.

“What are you doing?” Aelin sniffled.

“Come here,” he said, ignoring her questions and protests as he reached for her hands and tugged her to her feet.

“Rowan—”

He silenced her with a glance. “It’s prom night. You can’t not dance on prom night.”

Aelin’s eyes widened as she realized what he’d done. The faint music that had been drifting through the crack was now clearly audible through the open door. Her lips tugged upward as she recognized an obnoxious pop song playing from the gym.

“Rowan,” she said softly, “you don’t have to do this. I’m okay, really.”

“That may be the case, but you need to know that you deserve a lot better than the asshole you brought here. You deserve a dance.”

Aelin wanted to protest more, to tell him she was fine and that he’d already taken care of her more than she could have asked for, but all words died on her tongue at that.

Rowan flashed her a wink and tugged her sideways. A startled laugh left Aelin and she began moving with him.

They tottered around without any kind of rhythm and it became quickly apparent that Rowan was even worse at dancing then she was. He didn’t seem to mind, however; he was grinning as he lifted his arm up to spin her around. Aelin almost tripped over her feet trying to turn a full circle, and Rowan laughed at her, but it wasn’t malicious.

Rowan was acting so out of character right now—he was being confusing and goofy and so godsdamn kind. But maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t so unlike him. Maybe she just hadn’t really know him before tonight.

Aelin pushed that thought from her mind—not because she didn’t like it, but because it was too much to process right now. Now, she just wanted to dance.

They kept moving, clumsily, avidly, shamelessly. Aelin was still crying, but she was laughing too. Her dress, that lovely dress, swirled around her ankles again and again.

The song ended and was soon replaced with another one, a slower one. Aelin almost asked if Rowan wanted to keep dancing but she could tell from the intense look in his eyes, one that caught her wholly off guard, that he did.

So Aelin released her grip on his hands and put hers on his shoulders.

Something dark in Rowan’s eyes flickered and he put his own hands on her waist. They began to sway to the rhythm, breathing slowing.

Breaking eye contact, Aelin leaned forward and rested her head on Rowan’s chest. His grip on her waist tightened and she felt his breath next to her ear.

They didn’t speak. They just danced, holding each other tightly.

Minutes passed, and the slow song bled into another. Aelin didn’t let go, and Rowan didn’t try to make her. Her mind, despite everything that had happened, was mercifully blank, devoid of thoughts, only noting Rowan’s occasional release of breath, tickling her ear, and the feel of his hands on her waist, rough but so very gentle.

Eventually, some immeasurable amount of time later, Aelin’s tears dried up completely, and the night started to rush back to her. She didn’t want to leave, ever. It felt like a snow globe, like she and Rowan were suspended in their own little world without a care for anyone else. But Lys would be looking for her, and Chaol…

Chaol had been her boyfriend only, what, an hour ago? And really, regardless of how it had ended, Aelin didn’t think staying here in someone else’s arms was fair to Rowan—or to herself.

Rowan seemed to notice her hesitation, and he pulled back.

Aelin looked up at him, and when their eyes locked, she knew this wasn’t going any further.

Rowan gave her a sad smile and took a step back. A rush of cool air washed over Aelin and she yearned for his warmth to surround her once more, but she stepped back as well.

“Rowan…”

He shook his head. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“Thank you,” Aelin said, ignoring him.

“You don’t have to thank me. It was nothing.”

Aelin let out a sharp laugh. “You sacrificed your prom night to take care of me. That’s not nothing.”

Rowan shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that. I got to dance with a beautiful girl. That sounds like a decent prom night to me.”

Aelin blinked, then blushed. “I—” She cut herself off, suddenly unsure.

A moment passed as Aelin collected her thoughts. “Rowan,” she tried again.

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“I’ll see you around.” Aelin took another step and reached for the door handle.

Rowan lifted a hand in farewell.

She gave him a soft smile as she stepped into the building.

The pain was still there, but it mixed with something much warmer now. And maybe if it took her time to heal, while someone new waited by her side, that was okay.

———

Tag List:

@aelin-bitch-queen

@autumnbabylon

@charlizeed

@evolving-dreamer

@feysand-loml

@flora-shadowshine

@gracie-rosee

@infernoqueen19

@julemmaes

@leiawritesstories

@lemonade-coolattas

@live-the-fangirl-life

@midsizewitch

@morganofthewildfire

@mybloodrunsblue

@nehemikkele

@realbookloverproblems

@rhysandswingspan

@rowaelinismyotp

@rowanaelinn

@sexy-dumpster-fire

@sleeping-and-books

@story-scribbler

@swankii-art-teacher

@the-lonelybarricade

@thenerdandfandoms

@yesdreamblog

#rowaelin #tog #remedy #my writing

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true-blue-megamind · 1 year

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MEGAMIND FAN THEORY: Where Did the Doom Syndicate Come From?

What better way to start the new year than with a new Megamind Fan Theory? Yes, I am finally back! And, yes, once again it is not on Thursday but, you know, at least it exists. So there’s that. We’ve all waited long enough so let’s jump straight in. Even though Megamind threatens to clone my most annoying in-laws and send them ALL to my house whenever I say it: SPOILER WARNING!

If you’re part of the Megamind fandom—and since you’re reading this I assume that’s fairly likely—you’ve probably already heard about the Doom Syndicate. After all, although these characters never appeared in the original movie, they can be seen in some of the earlier storyboards and several make appearances in the video games, not to mention populating a great many fanfictions. However, for those few who may be currently scratching their heads and wondering what in the world I’m babbling about, here’s a brief explanation:

The Doom Syndicate is a small affiliation of supervillains, each of whom possesses some sort of special ability. (Hot Flash has fire-based powers, The Conductor controls electricity, Psycho-Delic releases poisonous or mind-altering smokes, etc.) Despite these unusual talents, however, as far as we know all the members of the Doom Syndicate are more-or-less human. This notably differentiates them from Megamind, Metroman, and even Minion, all of whom have extraterrestrial origins.

That’s not really surprising. As the film Megamind was, in part, a spoof on existing superhero franchises, it seems that Metro City’s own Bad Guys’ Club was modeled after evil organizations appearing in comic books, such as DC’s Legion of Doom. (Even the Doom Syndicate’s name, as you can see, is lampooning their counterparts.) Why does that matter? Because many—although not all—members of these fictional villainous cabals are humans who gained extraordinary abilities through bio-engineering experiments, bizarre accidents, advanced technology, or even magic. (According to Comic Vine, Lex Luthor, Cheetah, Riddler, Scarecrow, Black Adam, Poison Ivy, and Bane are all examples.) As the Doom Syndicate was likely intended to be a somewhat less-serious caricature of this, it seems probable that they, too, began life as normal earthlings.

That brings up one important question: if members of the Doom Syndicate were originally ordinary humans, how did they come by their powers? There are two fan theories concerning this. The first is that, similar to the DC and Marvel universes, Megamind’s world boasts a wide variety of superheroes and supervillains. (I’ll be discussing that concept further in another post.) The second, however, is significantly darker.

To understand it, however, we must first examine a related fan theory. If you’ve read the previous blog article entitled The Warden, you know that many believe Megamind and Metroman may have been purposefully pushed into their respective roles of hero and villain from childhood. There is actually some very compelling evidence to support this in the film. Details from the brief school scene, such as the Warden himself appearing in a child’s drawing of a school bus, support the idea of these two aliens being essentially raised to their roles. Furthermore, Metroman’s own actions also offer a likely explanation for why. It’s obvious that, as a boy, he was something of a bully—he constantly picks on and even hurts the other young alien—but it’s just as clear that he loved praise. Fans believe that concerned adults around them knowingly drove Metroman toward heroism to prevent him from becoming a danger to society and similarly pushed Megamind into becoming his nemesis because the former-villain was more likely to survive the ordeal and because, quite frankly, few people cared what happened to him. That may sound horrible—indeed it is—but when compared with the possibility of having an overgrown superpowered bully wreaking havoc on the city, it’s not hard to see why influential people may have felt it to be the lesser evil. (Imagine if Titan had no Megamind to stop him.) Again, feel free to read The Warden for more about that.

That bring us to the specific Megamind fan theory in question. Many fans have taken that idea a step further, suggesting that the Doom Syndicate was created to keep Metroman busy whenever his main antagonist was behind bars. While this idea may seem odd at first, if we accept that Megamind and Metroman were pressured into assuming specific positions, as seems at least possible, then it becomes a logical hypothesis. People may have feared that their “hero,” if left with too much idle time on his hands, could fall back into his old brutish ways.

The idea is not without merit. As discussed in another Megamind Fan Theory post, Does Metroman Know He’s Alien, the city’s original hero differs in some ways from his obvious DC Comics counterpart: Superman. Clark Kent, the famed Man of Steel, had the benefit of being raised in a loving, hardworking farm family, complete with down-home virtues, but Wayne Smith, who later became Metroman, did not. Instead, the previous Defender of Metrocity seems to have spent his childhood as the entitled only son of an ultra-wealthy couple. This means that, while Clark Kent’s upbringing helped him to become genuinely good, Wayne Smith’s likely predisposed him to a certain amount of shallowness and arrogance. This is important because it indicates that the latter’s incentives for heroism were probably not selfless dedication to the good of those around him. So what did drive him? The aforementioned school scene strongly suggests that it was a love of popularity and public adulation. Indeed, this seems to be the case. Consider Metroman’s vaunting behavior at the opening of his museum along with his career change to wannabe rock star. Both display a notable desire for adoration and attention. Therefore it seems probable that that same desire was the driving force behind Wayne’s becoming a superhero and, as mentioned before, the school scene supports this.

So, once more, assuming that this predisposition was leveraged to push Metroman into heroism for the safety of society, it seems only logical that there might be some concern about what he might do during the brief periods when Megamind was not an active threat. After all, if the only thing making his role as Defender worthwhile was the local citizenry’s praise, then it would be necessary to keep that praise coming lest he become disenchanted. In order to do that, he would need to constantly be saving people or battling evil. That would, presumably, leave the city leaders with two choices: orchestrate situations that put their own voters in danger or provide other villains to fight whenever Megamind was behind bars.

This is one major reason why the fan theory has developed that the Doom Syndicate may have been created on purpose, but it’s not the only one. Another consideration is the simple fact that people willing to allow a baby to be raised in prison, under the care of dangerous convicts, would likely have few qualms about turning a few of those they viewed as “undesirables” into supervillains. That, in turn, brings us to a third potential reason. Near the beginning of the film, when the Warden visits Megamind’s jail cell, we can see that a guard is sitting at a bank of monitors displaying what appears to be brain scans and other invasive information about the blue man. In other words, it seems that, while incarcerated, Megamind may have been the subject of experiments. The question is: was he the only one? Is it possible that other inmates were subjected to different scientific procedures intended to give them superpowers and thus make them viable distractions for Metroman? Some fans say yes.

If this is the case, then it rather backfired. In some of the unused storyboards for the movie, we can see the Doom Syndicate deferring to Megamind, practically asking his permission to go on a crime spree after Metroman’s apparent demise, and it appears they may have even wanted him to be their leader. Given the film’s connections to existing comics, the idea is not that far fetched. Much like the Joker in Gotham, it seems that Megamind held a certain amount of sway over the other villains in Metro City. Like DC’s famous evil clown, he didn’t exactly rule the others—they didn’t actually work for him—but in the local supervillain hierarchy he was definitely the proverbial “top dog.” So, rather than creating several individual enemies for their hero to face, the powers of Metro City may have inadvertently created a dark organization. Alone any member of the Doom Syndicate would have been easy for Metroman to defeat; as a group, they could have been considerably more dangerous.

Is there any truth in this supposition? It’s hard to say for certain, but perhaps the upcoming series Megamind’s Guide to Defending Your City may offer some clarification. It will be interesting to find out. At any rate, having once been the Bad Guy other Bad Guys feared is likely going to give the Blue Defender some distinct advantages in dealing with the Doom Syndicate. He probably knows their methods and weaknesses already, and it’s possible they may be less-than-eager to face off with the former Master of All Villainy. I suppose we’ll find out in due time. In the meanwhile, that’s it for this latest Megamind Fan Theory! I hope you enjoyed it!

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ambrossart · 7 months

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DWM Writing Update + Preview #2

I'm heading out of town for Columbus Day weekend.

I was hoping to have the next DWM fic done before I left (which is now going to be more like 7-8,000 words 😂), but I'm still editing the last few scenes, so I'll finish it when I get back on Tuesday.

While I'm away, here's another little preview!

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

Four blocks away, Scott Sloman was dressed in his Sunday best and restlessly pacing his basement, which was now pristine thanks to his diligent efforts the day before.

On that morning, Scottie had woken up early, consumed a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, and French toast (all prepared by his lovely mother, of course; Mrs. Sloman was an excellent cook), pulled on his rubber gloves, went downstairs, and got to work. It took him hours, but it was worth it. Every crumb, every cobweb, every splatter, every stain had been expertly tracked down and eliminated with the toughest chemicals money could buy. Now every surface sparkled radiantly, and the air carried a whimsical, woodsy scent that transported you to the crisp forests of New England��not that Scottie had ever been to New England, but he imagined that’s what its forests smelled like.

He grabbed the can of EVERGREEN Air Freshener and gave it a vigorous shake.

“Do not spray that again,” Jeff told him. “You’re gonna give us all cancer.”

“I’ll stop spraying when you guys stop smelling.”

He pressed down hard on the nozzle and sprayed a thick cloud of EVERGREEN mist into the air. It showered over the table like a light drizzle of rain, getting on everyone’s hair, everyone’s clothes, and speckling the open page of Eddie Munson’s notebook.

Eddie, who had been tuning everyone out and listening to music on his Walkman, now looked up with bewildered annoyance. “Dude, come on…” He fanned the remaining mist away with his hand and immediately went back to his notes.

Observing him, Grant said to Jeff, “Damn, Eddie’s really in the zone today.”

It wasn’t exactly unusual for him to be this withdrawn. Eddie Munson took his D&D very seriously—perhaps a bit too seriously, although no one would ever dare tell him that. Before every session, while everyone else joked around and snacked on donuts and muffins (also prepared by Mrs. Sloman), Eddie sat quietly in his chair, the same chair he occupied for every session, and gradually slipped further… and further away. The Walkman, a gift from his uncle for his fourteenth birthday, only accelerated his emotional departure.

But he would return eventually. He always did.

“You think he’s anxious about her coming?” Grant asked.

Jeff frowned guiltily. “Probably.”

Beside Grant, Gareth was sharpening his pencil with a small metal pocket sharpener. From the look on his face, you would have thought he was honing a warblade.

“He’s preparing his mind for battle,” Gareth said, his blue eyes burning with a ferocious and frightening intensity. “The enemy draws near. She will soon be at our gates.” He withdrew his pencil and blew fiercely on the pointed tip. “We must be ready to meet her.”

Jeff and Grant rolled their eyes. It was way too early in the morning for this.

“She’s not the enemy,” Jeff said.

“Well, you’re a traitor,” Gareth replied. “Yeah, Eddie told me you’re the one who invited her, you Judas.”

“What? Oh c’mon, man, don’t start that now.”

“How’d she do it?” Gareth asked. “Did she blackmail you? Bribe you? I didn’t realize your loyalty could be so easily bought, Jeff.”

“Dude, what are you talking about?”

Grant, ever the rational one, said, “Ignore him. Gareth’s just mad she beat him in the spelling bee last year.”

And that’s when Gareth fired back with unseemly anger: “She did not beat me in the spelling bee! That whole competition was rigged right from the start. Every round, she got the easiest words while I got stuck with all the hard ones. It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. I’m telling you, the whole thing was a sham!”

Jeff and Grant exchanged an amused glance. “My mistake,” Grant said while Jeff snickered. “Clearly you’ve moved on from this.”

Gareth waved him off. “Oh shut up, Grant. Look, this is about way more than a spelling bee, okay? That girl is a heartless, horrible devil-woman. I will not break bread with her. I will not fight alongside her on the battlefield. I won’t, I won’t, and neither will Eddie.” Gareth clapped Eddie on the shoulder and said, “Right, Eddie?”

The older boy flinched, looked up, and pulled the left speaker box away from his ear. “What?”

“We’re standing together, right? Against our common enemy?”

Eddie’s eyebrows knitted together. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

And now Scott Sloman had heard enough. “Are you guys even listening to me? Come on, this is a huge moment for us… for me, especially. I need you all to be on your best behavior today. No burping. No farting. Sit up straight and keep your elbows off the table, gentlemen. Today, we have a young lady gracing our party.”

Gareth sneered. “She’s no lady. She’s a hellbeast.”

Scottie slammed his fist on the table. “See, this is the kinda shit I’m talking about! You psychos are gonna scare her off before she even—” He saw that Eddie had already put his headphones back on, an act of subtle but profound defiance. Scottie’s jaw dropped. “Eddie… Eddie… Hey, Eddie, I’m talking here.”

“Leave him alone,” Jeff said. “He’s getting into character.”

Scottie scoffed at that. “Oh please… Eddie uses the same character for every campaign. If he doesn’t know his character by now, he never will.”

He snatched the Walkman off the table and yanked it away, viciously ripping the headphone jack from the plug.

Eddie’s head jerked up in startled surprise. “Dude, what the fuck—”

“I’m doing this for your own good, Eddie. It’s about time you learn how to socialize with the fairer sex.”

Eddie glared at him, exasperated. “I know how to talk to girls.”

“Really?” Scottie shot him a dubious look. “Okay, Eddie… how many words have you said to that cheerleader you think’s so cute?”

“Zero,” Grant answered for him. “He’s said zero words to her.”

Eddie just sighed miserably. “Can I have my Walkman back, please?”

“No, Eddie, you can’t,” and Scottie set the cassette player on the shelf behind him. “See, this is exactly my point, you guys. We have a huge opportunity here. A girl is coming to play D&D with us. And not just any girl. One of the popular girls! Do you guys understand what this means? If we play our cards right, maybe she’ll start bringing her friends. Her popular friends. Her pretty friends.”

“Is that what you think’s gonna happen?” Jeff asked. “You think a bunch of cheerleaders are gonna wanna play D&D with you?”

Scottie shrugged and said in a waning voice, “Well, you never know…”

Eddie put his head in his hands. “I knew this was gonna happen. I knew this was gonna happen. She’s not even here yet and she’s already ruining the game.”

“Hey, where is she, anyway?” Grant said. “It’s already after ten. Are we sure she’s even gonna show?”

“She probably won’t,” said Gareth. He leaned back in his chair, satisfied and smug. “Yeah, I bet she chickened out like the coward she is. Screw her, I say we start without her.”

“We’re not starting without her,” Jeff said. “Look, she’ll be here, okay?”

“Spoken like a true traitor.”

“Dude, stop calling me a—”

Suddenly, the doorbell chimed. The sound echoed over their heads like a distant warhorn on a cold, fog-covered battlefield. Gareth reached for his newly sharpened pencil and held it like a knife.

“She’s here.”

#writing update #preview #dancing with myself #dwm #dwm short #ambrossart

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anonymousewrites · 2 years

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A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 1) Chapter Three

Chapter Three: Suspicious Cab

Note: Very sorry I didn't update this Monday, I have had a hectic week.

John sighed as he realized Sherlock and (Y/N) had disappeared into the night. He was also growing exasperated as Donovan continued talking.

“One day, he’s going to be the one putting the body there. Probably will be that poor kid,” said Donovan with fake concern. “I’d watch out. He doesn’t have friends. Just uses people. And he’s turning that kid into a freak just like him.”

A few minutes away for Lauriston Gardens, (Y/N) was lowering themself into yet another trash bin as Sherlock foraged through the other next to them. So far, they hadn’t found a sign of the pink suitcase, and it had been almost an hour. However, there were only so many places the killer could have hidden the case, so they were bound to find it eventually.

And find it they did. “Sherlock!” called (Y/N) as they pulled the pink case from underneath a bag of rubbish. “Got it!”

Sherlock hopped out of his own bin and took the pink case from (Y/N)’s hands. He then reached back up and lifted (Y/N) down as they sat on the edge of the bin.

“Perfect,” said Sherlock eagerly, gazing at the suitcase. “Let’s head back to Baker Street and look through it.”

“Showers first,” said (Y/N). “We smell like death.”

Sherlock grinned at the joke as he hailed a cab.

An hour later, washed and not smelling like rubbish, Sherlock and (Y/N) opened the case and searched through it. Clothes, toiletries, makeup, a book, all was there. All was there, except for Jennifer Wilson’s phone.

“Murderer must still have it,” said (Y/N).

Sherlock nodded. “Number is on the luggage label. We’ll text it and draw them out.”

“My phone is dead, and yours is on the website. John’s would be best,” concluded (Y/N).

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll text him.” After he sent the texts, he glanced at where (Y/N) was endeavoring to cover a yawn. “You should sleep. It will take some time to get a response.”

(Y/N) shook their head. “I’m fine. I want to help with the case. I want to think on what we know. Maybe I’ll figure something out.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Your mind will be useless if you don’t get proper rest.”

“You don’t sleep much,” argued (Y/N).

“I’m older, and my mind has finished developing,” said Sherlock. (Y/N) opened their mouth to argue but was met with a disapproving glare (neither saw it in the moment, but if John was there, he’d describe the scene as a father trying to get his stubborn kid to bed).

“Fine, I’ll lay down. But I won’t promise I’ll sleep,” said (Y/N).

Sherlock considered for a moment. “Alright.” He nodded.

(Y/N) flopped down on the sofa and closed their eyes. Their mind was abuzz with information as they reviewed all of the facts they had and tried to surmise how the serial killer was getting around and forcing his victims to kill themselves. The next thing they were aware of in the real world was John talking to Sherlock.

“Nicotine patch. Helps me think,” said Sherlock.

(Y/N) opened their eyes and sat up. They glanced at the patches. (Y/N) remembered that Sherlock had done drugs, but after he figured out that their mind linked drugs to abandonment due to their mother, he had switched to smoking and nicotine patches. (Y/N) had never told him that they felt uncomfortable and anxious around drugs now, but Sherlock had quietly understood and even made a change to make them more comfortable. It was yet another reason they felt safe with him, even if people claimed he was dangerous.

“Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days,” he continued. “Bad news for brain work.”

John raised an eyebrow. “And it’s good news for breathing?”

“Oh, breathing. Breathing’s boring,” said Sherlock casually.

“Is that three patches?” wondered John incredulously, catching a glance of the other two patches on Sherlock’s sleeves.

“It’s a three-patch problem,” said Sherlock as if that explained everything.

“Can we borrow your phone?” asked (Y/N), startling John, who hasn’t realized they were awake.

“My phone?” he questioned in confusion.

“Yes, mine is dead, and Sherlock’s could be recognized,” said (Y/N), nodding and getting up to look for a lollipop.

“What about Mrs. Hudson?” asked John. He was exasperated at the fact that he was called all the way back to 221B just to let Sherlock use his phone.

“She’s out tonight, bingo or something,” said Sherlock, shrugging.

“I was on the other side of London,” said John indignantly.

“There was no hurry,” said Sherlock.

John sighed and handed the phone over to (Y/N). “So what’s this about? The case?”

“Her case,” murmured Sherlock as he laced his fingers and began thinking of how exactly to text Jennifer Wilson’s phone.

“Her case?” John asked.

“Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake,” said Sherlock absently.

“Okay, so he took her case. So?” asked John as (Y/N) glanced at the suitcase label for her phone number.

“You’re touchy right now,” noted (Y/N). They glanced at John’s tense posture. “What happened?”

“Just met a friend of Sherlock’s,” said John.

“A friend?” (Y/N) furrowed their brow. He’s already met Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Not really anyone else to meet.

“An enemy,” conceded John.

“Ah.” That makes more sense.

“Which one?“ asked Sherlock curiously.

“Your archenemy, according to him,” said John. He frowned. “Do people have archenemies?”

Mycroft, identified (Y/N). “Did he offer you money to spy on us?”

“Yes,” said John. “Also said you should do something better with yourself than be a consulting detective.”

I’m not working for the government, thought (Y/N). So many rules, no thank you.

“Did you take the money?” asked Sherlock.

“No,” said John. He may not have known Sherlock and (Y/N) for king, but he wasn’t going to go spouting their going-ons to a random man who seemed rather threatening.

“Damn,” muttered (Y/N).

“Pity, we could have split the money. Think it through next time,” said Sherlock.

“Who is he?” asked John, thinking back to the man who could move private businesses’ security cameras and contact telephones.

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met, and not my problem right now,” said Sherlock, steepling his fingers. “(Y/N), text these words exactly: ‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.’ “

“Got it,” said (Y/N), nodding and sending it.

“You blacked out?” questioned John in confusion.

“What? No, no,” said Sherlock, shaking his head.

“Here you go, John.” (Y/N) tossed his phone back to him.

John was about to thank them when he saw Sherlock looking through a pink suitcase. “That’s…That’s the pink lady’s case. That’s Jennifer Wilson’s case,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, obviously,” said Sherlock. Seeing John’s staring, he added, “Perhaps I should mention we didn’t kill her.”

“I never said you did,” said John.

“Why not? Given the fact we have the case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption,” said Sherlock.

“Do people usually assume you are murderers?” asked John concernedly.

“Well, people have said that because I’m this cold at fifteen I’m going to become a psychopath,” said (Y/N) with faux-cheerfulness.

“You met Donovan and Anderson. You heard what they think of us,” said Sherlock, shrugging.

“Okay…But how did you get the case?” wondered John.

“We looked,” said (Y/N). “The killer to her to Lauriston gardens and must have kept her case in the car by accident. No one can be seen with such a case without drawing attention, and if the killer is a man, which is statistically more likely, people would notice him even more. He’d need to get rid of it.”

“It wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake, so we checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took us less than an hour to find the right bin,” said Sherlock.

“Pink. You got all of that because you realized the case would be pink?” John was incredulous.

“It had to be pink,” said (Y/N), shrugging like it was obvious.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” muttered John to himself.

“Because you’re an idiot,” said Sherlock. When John looked at him, startled and offended, the detective waved him off. “No, no, no, don’t be like that. Practically everyone is. (Y/N) and I are exceptions.”

“Now look. Do you see what’s missing?” said (Y/N), nodding to the case.

“From the case? How could I?” asked John in confusion.

“Where’s her phone?” (Y/N) pointed to the label of the case. “She obviously had one, we just texted it, but it’s not here and it wasn’t on the body.”

“Maybe she left it at home?” offered John in explanation.

“She had a string of lovers, and she was careful about it. She never would have left her phone at home,” said Sherlock.

John accepted the explanation. “So then why did you send the text?“

“Well, the question is where is her phone now?” said Sherlock.

“She could have lost it,” pointed out John.

“Or…” began Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

“Or…the murderer. You think the murderer has the phone?” wondered John.

“She might have left it when she left her case or maybe the murderer took it from her,” said (Y/N). They twirled their lollipop around between their fingers. “Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.”

“Sorry, what are we doing? Did you just text a murderer?! What good will that do?!” John was aghast, and just as he took a deep breath, the phone began to ring. Everyone froze and looked at it.

“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her.” Sherlock’s eyes gleamed victoriously. “If someone had just found that phone, they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer…”

The ringing stopped abruptly.

“…would panic.” (Y/N) grinned. They always got immense satisfaction when a criminal made a mistake and fell into a trap they set.

Sherlock, satisfied, stood and began pulling his scarf and jacket on, tossing (Y/N) their sweater.

“Have you talked to the police?” asked John, watching them get ready to leave without a care in the world.

“Four people are dead, John. There isn’t time to talk to the police,” said Sherlock.

“So off to Northumberland Street we go!” chirped (Y/N) brightly. Due to it being a chilly night, they grabbed an additional jacket and threw it on.

John sighed as if over their antics, but nonetheless, he followed Sherlock and (Y/N) out into the brisk air of a London night.

“You think he’s stupid enough to go there?” questioned John as they walked.

“No, I think he’s brilliant enough,” said Sherlock with a smirk.

“The brilliant ones are always desperately trying to be caught,” said (Y/N), a Cheshire smile on their face.

“They are?” John frowned and furrowed his brow.

“Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight!” exclaimed Sherlock, waving a hand dramatically. “That’s the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience.”

I don’t know if he’s being self-aware or oblivious, thought (Y/N). Well, I’m aware of short-comings, at least. And I have a lot.

“This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city,” continued Sherlock. “Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but no one saw them go. Think!” He was half talking to (Y/N) and John and half talking to himself. “Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

(Y/N) shrugged in answer. “Dunno. Who?” asked John.

“Have the faintest.” Sherlock snapped back to casualness in an instant. “Hungry?” He nearly skipped up the stairs of a small restaurant entrance.

“Didn’t realize I was, but I am!” said (Y/N).

“You should be more aware of your own needs,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

“Eh, I could have gone on for a few more hours,” said (Y/N), shrugging the comment off.

Sherlock gave them a pointed look out of the corner of his eye. “During a case is not the time to conduct experiments on how much your body can handle. So we’re eating.”

“Sounds good to me,” said (Y/N).

John smiled to himself as he watched Sherlock, called a freak and uncaring, made sure (Y/N) ate enough. It was a rather domestic scene. Or, at least, John thought it was these strange geniuses’ version of domesticity. Either way, it made him like the pair and respect Sherlock a little more than the carefree air he put on did.

(Y/N) settled in and, while watching the people and cars passing outside, began eating. Sherlock and John had also ordered food, but Sherlock was doing no eating as he stared out and tried to figure out who could be the murderer while John shifted uncomfortable from the silence.

“So…Sherlock…you have a girlfriend?” asked John in an attempt to make conversation.

“No, not really my area,” drawled Sherlock as he gazed out across the street.

“So…do you have a boyfriend?” questioned John, misunderstanding the response a little. “Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine, why would I keep (Y/N) around if I didn’t think so?” asked Sherlock.

“Either way I go is not a heterosexual relationship,” said (Y/N), nodding.

“Ok, so unattached, like me,” said John, nodding.

This time, it was Sherlock who misunderstood. “Look, John, I’m flattered, but I consider myself married to my work…”

John shook his head. “Oh, no, I wasn’t suggesting…” he trailed off awkwardly.

“Hey, Sherlock, what do you think of that cab?” said (Y/N), pointing out the window to save themself further secondhand embarrassment.

“Cab?” Sherlock furrowed his brow before brightening. “Oh, cab! That’s clever!”

“Why is that clever?” asked John, once more being confused. He looked out at the taxi. “That’s him?”

“Don’t stare,” said Sherlock.

“You’re staring,” shot back John.

“All three of us can’t stare,” said Sherlock as he stood and pulled on his coat, forgetting the food growing cold in his plate. (Y/N) finished their bite before grabbing their jacket and following him out with John.

As they left the restaurant, the cab pulled away from the curb. Sherlock and (Y/N) didn’t hesitate to run after it, not even glancing at traffic. Sherlock grabbed (Y/N)’s jacket collar to tug them away from some of the oncoming cars that were unceremoniously honking their horns and yelling at the pair.

“Damn,” sighed (Y/N).

Sherlock held up a hand as he squeezed his eyes closed and concentrated. They snapped back open. “Right turn, one way, roadwork, traffic lights,” he said rapidly.

He sprinted down an alley, and (Y/N) followed after him with John. They clambered up a fire escape and leapt across onto another building before sliding down another ladder onto the lid of a trash bin and hoping to the ground. Finally, they arrived outside of an alley where the cab was moving down the street.

Sherlock jumped out in front, and it screeched to a stop. The cabbie’s eyes widened as his gaze passed over the group. Sherlock was paying attention to the passenger and throwing open the door while holding up a police badge he’d nicked from Lestrade, but (Y/N) noticed and tilted their head questioningly as the cabbie’s attention quickly switched from them to Sherlock.

“Police! Open up!” announced Sherlock. He hissed in frustration as he observed the passenger. “No. Teeth, tan. What—Californian? LA, Santa Monica, just arrived.”

“How could you possibly know that?” asked John between gasps for air.

“The luggage tag,” said (Y/N), pointing as they caught their breath.

“Probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route your cabbie was taking you?” said Sherlock to the rather confused passenger.

“Sorry, are you guys the police?” asked the Californian.

“Yeah, everything alright?” asked Sherlock (pretty unconvincingly, if (Y/N) said so themself).

“Yeah…” The man still had a perplexed look on his face.

“Welcome to London!” said Sherlock cheerfully.

“Any problems, just let us know,” said John. He, (Y/N), and Sherlock made a careful getaway a little ways down the street.

“Basically just a cab that happened to slow down,” said John.

“Basically,” said Sherlock, nodding.

“Not the murderer,” said John, panting still.

“Not the murderer, no,” agreed Sherlock.

(Y/N) was quiet. Something still struck them as off about the entire cab situation, but since they couldn’t name what, it felt like just an illogical nagging. Frustrated, they crossed their arms and tried to think, but nothing appeared. What was it that was bothering them?

Shaking themself out of it, they nodded. “Wrong country makes for a good alibi.” I’ll figure out my problem later.

“As they go, yes,” said Sherlock, with a little chuckle.

“Where did you get the badge?” asked John, a grin on his face. “Great to have.” Sherlock just smirked and handed it over. John let out a laugh. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“I pickpocket him when he’s being annoying,” said Sherlock cheerfully.

“You should try Donovan and Anderson next,” laughed (Y/N).

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Good idea.” John tried to hand the badge back to him, but he waved it off. “Keep it, I’ve got tons at the flat.” John pocketed it before chuckling.

“What?” asked (Y/N).

“Nothing, just: ‘Welcome to London.’ “ John began to giggle.

(Y/N) couldn’t help a snicker themself as they snuck a glance at the Californian, who was now on the sidewalk talking to an actual police officer and pointing at them. “Got your breath back?”

“Ready when you are,” said Sherlock.

As (Y/N) ran back through the alleyways with Sherlock and John, they thought: For all the worry adults seem to have for me staying with Sherlock, I think this is a whole lot more fun than staying in the Children’s Home would have been, no matter how “safe” it’s supposed to be. Who needs a boring family when I have this?

For being such a genius, (Y/N) spectacularly failed to see that what they had was a messy family but a family nonetheless.

#a study of the heart and brain #sherlock x teen reader #sherlock x teen!reader #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock #bbc sherlock #x teen reader #x teen!reader #x reader #found family trope #found family

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arleniansdoodles · 1 year

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Here´s a question i been wondering. Does Atreus get to tell Calliope about his mother? And if yes, what does she think about Laufey the Just.

Yes, he does tell Calliope a bit about Laufey! Within the story, Calliope has already formed a sort of bond/attachment with Atreus at this point, so hearing about his mother doesn't feel as conflicting as it might've been if she first heard of Faye upon learning that Kratos had another family away from Greece. Then Faye would probably feel more like a stranger, someone who stole away Calliope's father, y'know?

In fact, I think I'll show you the scene from my fic! It's early on in the story, with Atreus and Calliope having escaped the Underworld for the first time. They're now heading to Athens, and Calliope's dealing with some nightmares (she was crying earlier in this scene). She's also in the "Father abandoned and forgot about me" grieving stage of her feels journey ^^;; You can find it below the cut, if you're alright with spoilers! XDD

___

“Atreus?” she said after a moment. “D-did he ever tell y-you ab-about me?”

A pause. “No,” Atreus replied. There was something tight in his tone that Calliope didn’t quite like. “He hardly told me about his past. The things he did, and all that. He never told me about you, or your mother.”

“My m-mother is Ly-Lysandra,” Calliope offered.

“Lysandra,” Atreus repeated. He gave her a very gentle squeeze. “I’ll remember that.”

Calliope squeezed him back, as much as her trembling arms were able to manage. “Wh-what is your mother’s name?”

“Laufey.” She heard the smile in his voice. “But you can call her Faye.”

“Does she look like you?”

“She did. She mostly raised me when I was young, since Kratos went hunting a lot. She used to carry around an axe.”

“An axe?” Calliope repeated, startled. “Really?”

“Really. It has ice powers. And if you throw it far, you can call it back, and it’ll come flying back to your hand.”

“A flying axe?” Calliope could hardly believe it. But Atreus had magic arrows that turned different colours when he fired them. And he could turn into animals. What other surprises did he have up his sleeve?

“She also sang to me when I was sick,” Atreus went on. “I’ll sing one of her songs for you, if you want. To help you sleep.”

Calliope sniffled and snuggled closer to his side. “Okay.”

Atreus’ low voice soon filled the room, sweet and melancholic.

(He sings Laufey's song here, from the GoW OST, Ashes)

That night, Calliope dreamed of a tall woman with fair hair and blue eyes. With her mighty axe, the woman chopped up all the bad dreams and tossed them away, then pranced toward the tall mountains in the distance, disappearing into the light.

___

(The following day; Calliope looks through Atreus' journal with his travel entries.)

There was another portrait on the next page. Calliope took in the woman’s braided hair and bright eyes, the mischievous touch to her smile. She looked at Atreus, then at the portrait. “Is this Laufey?”

Atreus nodded. “That’s her. From what I could remember, at least.”

“I like her face. She looks like you.”

Atreus ducked his head, but not before Calliope spotted his shy smile. As she turned to the next page, Atreus asked, “Did Lysandra look like you?”

Calliope hesitated. “I think so. That’s what all the women said.” She tried to bring her mother’s face to mind, but her memory was blurred at the edges. Long, dark hair. A blue tainia and peplos. If only Calliope could draw! Putting it down on paper would surely help her memory become clearer.

#asks #anon asks #god of war #god of war ragnarok #au #atreus #calliope #laufey #laufey the just #writing #my writing #fanfiction #my fanfiction #lysandra

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someabsolutenonsense · 1 year

Text

Okay don’t mind me but two of my literary fixations may have crossed over and I’m now obligated to discuss it

Ignore me or I will inflict upon you my “Yes The Locked Tomb Is Catholicism But Also Look At The Greek Tragedy It’s There I’m Not Making This Up” agenda

Okay so in Agamemnon, the first play in Aeschylus’ The Orestia there’s this scene where Agamemnon comes back from winning the Trojan War and sees his wife Clytemnestra for the first time in years. So Agamemnon if you are unaware is the actual worst and killed their daughter Iphigenia as a sacrifice…it’s a whole thing, basically Clytemnestra’s planning to kill him for very valid reasons. This is relevant cause she’s staged this whole situation to quietly assert power over him with some casual manipulation and taunting of the gods.

So Clytemnestra has these purple carpets like spread out for Agamemnon to walk on to go inside and he’s like arguing

“You’ll draw down envy. That stuff is for gods. I am a mortal. I can’t trample luxuries underfoot. Honor me as a man not as a divinity.” (Anne Carson translation)

“Strew not this purple that shall make each step an arrogance; such pomp beseems the gods, not me. A mortal man to set his foot on these rich dyes?” (E.D.A. Morshead translation)

Basically Clytemnestra is manipulating Agamemnon into an act that puts him above the gods, and he does it and dies by the end of the play. Greek tragedy, am I right? Poetic.

Now we go to Gideon The Ninth page 307. Palamades has brought Harrow to look at perpetual bone in the keyhole of that one door. They have established that this is intense and definitely would need a powerful necromancer to undo. Then we get…

Palamades: “I didn’t bring you here to remove it, I just brought you here to confirm, which you’ve done nicely, thank you.”

Harrow: “Excuse me. I never said I couldn’t remove it.”

Palamades: “You don’t think…?”

And then the narration says…

“It was the Harrowhark of old who responded, the one who walked down dusty Ninth House halls as though crushing purple silk beneath her feet.”

Now…I may be reading into things too far, seeing Greek Tragedy where there is none. But if my analysis is anything than this is saying not only was Harrow walking around like she was above the gods all the time, but she was doing this with ease when even AGAMEMNON, daughter killing Cassandra capturing returning in glory from the Trojan war Agamemnon from the absolute worst most cursed family in all of Greek tragedy, even he was like “oh shit yeah we don’t walk on the purple carpets.” To be clear I’m not making a Harrow-Agamemnon parallel, not really. I’m saying Harrow, probably the most religious character in these fucking books, is compared to an act of utter disrespect to the gods. Harrowhark Nonagesimus of the past just had that kind of fucking hubris. And not that she knew but…she was pretty terrible to God’s Actual Daughter in those “…crushing purple silk…” days too. Just pointing that out. And Harrow set out to become a lyctor, where Agammemnon said “honor me as a man not a divinity,” Harrow said I’m literally going to be a saint I’ll do it all by myself and no one can stop me. And eventually she did get to walk among the gods/saints/lyctors/whatever. To become one even. And it only brought her pain. I could go on, and perhaps make my thoughts more coherent, but not now.

Also sidenotes, Harrow’s dad’s name is Priamhark and Priam was the king of Troy, another person who fought (against Troy) was named Palamades, the books all include dramatis personae and are split into acts, Harrow starts with a prologue and a parados like in a Greek Play, and I could pitch Gideon’s 2nd person narration from inside Harrow’s mind as a Greek Chorus though that one’s a bit more of a stretch.