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sergeantsporks · 1 year

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Aroace Hunter Week Day 1: Cosmic Frontier/Space

“Hunter?”

An answering groan came from behind the couch, and Gus leaned on the back, peering down at Hunter. “You finished, huh?”

One hand reached dramatically for the ceiling. “Need… more… Cosmic Frontier… books…”

“Yeah… that’s the last of them, buddy. There are no more.”

“Where’s the author? I’m going to demand he publish another.”

“He’s like, old now.”

“So’s Eda, that doesn’t stop her from doing crazy stuff.”

Gus wiggled his eyebrows. “What if I told you… that there’s a whole internet worth of Cosmic Frontier books? More than we could read in a lifetime? And we don’t need to commit crimes to get new content?”

Hunter sat straight up. “I’d say you’re lying. Go on.”

“It’s true! Luz was telling me that she used to write a lot of what was called ‘fanfiction’ for Azura, where she continued storylines, or made up entirely new ones with the same characters! And she just put them online! For free! For anyone to read!”

“You can do that?! Just make up content?! Without being the original author?”

“Apparently! And I bet there’s some for Cosmic Frontier!”

Hunter launched himself towards the stairs. “What are we waiting for?! Let’s go!”

Gus scrambled up the stairs with him, going all the way up to Luz’s room. “Luz can we borrow your computer, it’s super important, we need to find Cosmic Frontier content this instant.”

Luz rolled her chair to her desk. “Oh my gosh, I’ve been waiting for this moment. Welcome to my realm. Here.” She pulled up a webpage. “Library of Our Own is a good place to start, they have a good filtering system so that you can take out any search results you might not want to read.”

Hunter took her hands. “Luz. I don’t think you understand. I will read. All. Of the Cosmic Frontier content. That I can find.”

One of Luz’s eyebrows went up, but she shook her head, handing him the computer. “Alright, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Thank you. We will return your laptop in three to five business days.”

Hunter grabbed the computer and headed for the door.

“Wait, I’ll need it before then!”

Hunter and Gus ran back to the basement, rushing to the couch. Hunter cracked his knuckles, holding down the Shift button with one finger and using his index finger to hit the c. then o. then s. Gus groaned.

“Ohhhhhhh you type so slooooowwwww.”

“I am making sure I spell it correctly, Gus.”

F… r… o…

Gus reached over him, typed in the remainder of the word, and hit enter.

“Over one hundred thousand,” Hunter whispered, “One hundred thousand books for us to read, Gus!”

“What did I tell you?! What’s the first one, what’s the first one?”

“Uhhhhh Intergalactic Relationships. Oh, I bet it’s a political setting! Uhhhhh, let’s see, Avery/O’Bailey, awesome, has our favorite characters in it.”

Gus peered at the tags. “What’s slash mean?”

“Probably there’ll be an assassination attempt or something.” Hunter clicked on the link. “I know I read faster, let me know… when you’re ready to…”

He slapped a hand over Gus’ eyes.

“Hey!” Gus tugged at his hand. “Hunter, what—let me go, what is-?”

“How do I get rid of the tab—where’s the back—LUZ,” Hunter howled, “YOUR LIBRARY IS A DEN OF INACCURACIES AND CHARACTER SLANDER!”

Gus managed to wriggle out of Hunter’s grasp long enough to take a look at the words. “Oh. Oh.”

Hunter slammed the laptop shut, hiding the offending fanfiction from view. “SLANDER,” he yelled again. His ears and face flushed a bright pink, “CALUMNY!”

“Avery and O’Bailey would never,” Gus protested, “That is so out of character! They were like…” he waved a hand. “You and me! We’re Avery and O’Bailey!”

“Exactly,” Hunter agreed, “Exactly. And plus—plus, plus, romantic and intimate relationships between crew members of differing command levels are forbidden to make sure relationships are aboveboard and not nefarious! It’s not allowed! LUZ!”

Hunter stormed up the stairs, and Gus chased after him. Luz rolled around on the floor of her room, clutching her sides and laughing.

“Luz! This isn’t funny! People are just out here posting the most—most outlandish stories that would never happen in the real Cosmic Frontier! I mean, relationship aside, even just the level of description-!”

“Thats—” Luz gasped, “That’s the—it’s the—the—point—of fanfiction!”

“Well—Hunter sputtered, “What if I—what if I wanted to just—to just—to just make Captain Avery kiss a swamp frog?! What if I—what if I made O’Bailey not a clone?!”

“That’s an important part of his character!” Gus protested, “You couldn’t!”

“Oh—oh—” Luz sat up, hiccupping. “Haaaaaaaaaaaaa. You could if you wanted. Fanfiction doesn’t have to be exactly like the original book. That’s the point! You can do whatever you want.”

“Well, I don’t want to read… to read… Avery ex O’Bailey slash!”

“Wow. You picked a winner for your first one, huh? Okay, okay, give me the laptop.” Luz opened the computer back up. “People can write what they want.”

“It’s not in character,” Gus complained, “They’re like family.”

“Burn it,” Hunter agreed.

“Alright, alright. But that’s the author’s decision, not yours. So, instead of freaking out… look here. See how I can exclude certain things? I’m going to exclude ‘Avery/O’Bailey’ aaaaaand… sort and filter. See?” She turned the screen back towards them. Intergalactic Relationships had disappeared. “Now no fic that has that relationship will be in there, okay?”

Hunter squinted at the screen. “That’s… a lot less.”

“Well, you picked a popular ship to hate with your whole heart and soul. Good luck.”

Hunter scrolled through the fics. “This will. Still keep us… oh, are you kidding me? This is another lower-ranked crewmate with Avery! And one with O’Bailey and a new recruit called Y/N?! Luz, why are there so many of these?! They’re not allowed! In the Cosmic Frontier universe!”

“They might explore that in the fic, actually, forbidden romance is a popular trope. Look, if you want to see some no-ship, platonic content, maybe you should just write some yourself? Finding it here might be hard.”

“I do want platonic family content. We can do that? But we’re not professional writers!”

“Neither is anyone else on this site. Well, some of them might be. But mostly not. Point is, anyone can write Cosmic Frontier fanfiction. If you’re struggling to find the content you want, you might just have to make it yourself.”

Gus tugged on Hunter’s sleeve. “Remember the other clone that broke free like O’Bailey, then got killed protecting Avery?”

“Yeah, 78. That was… really depressing.”

“Okay, hear me out, hear me out.” Gus spread his hands out. “We make up a way for him to have lived!”

Hunter brightened. “And he can be secretly working to take down the clonemasters, just like O’Bailey is!”

“Then we can make him meet up with the crew, and he can join the family!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah! He can take the oath! And then it can be about him figuring out all of the dynamics between the crew and learning to be a part of a family that isn’t like the clonemasters!”

“Right! I think there could be a lot of conflict where he still kind of thinks that Avery is like a clonemaster, but eventually, he realizes that O’Bailey and Avery are actually friends and brothers!”

“Yeah! Let’s do it!”

“Okay!” Gus snatched the laptop from Hunter’s hands. “But I’m going to do the typing.”

“Fair enough.”

#aroace hunter week 2023 #day 1: cosmic frontier/space #toh #the owl house #aroace hunter #toh fanfiction #toh hunter #hunter wittebane #luz noceda #gus porter #my writing

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pragmatic-optimist · 1 year

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An Appeal re: Anon Asks

For the last week (although honestly, the last six months), I've been having conversations on and off about the responsibility of answering asks on your blog and the impact it has on fandom as a community.

At some point during Season 2 of Lone Star, the Anon asks, in particular, got truly out of control, and it's only gotten worse over time. Your blogs are your blogs, and I respect that. At the same time, as a fandom community, we share this space. Whether or not we all know one another, we're all coexisting in the tags and on this site. It takes a lot of emotional labor and time to filter and block on Tumblr, especially when folks don't tag consistently or correctly. Like many in this fandom, I also want to have fun while I'm here, but it's hard to do that when there seems to be little to no discernment in answering asks or properly tagging them.

When it comes to unnecessary negative comments on fanfic, we often say, "it's not hard to close out of something if you don't like it." The spirit of that applies here, too. It's easy not to answer an ask, especially an Anon ask.

If someone isn't putting their name on something they're asking you to post to your blog, I would argue it requires an additional second and third look and careful consideration of how you answer it. (Certain asks are answered flippantly and then tagged for all to see, but that is an entirely separate post I won't be writing).

Everything you share gets eyes; how many depends on how loud of a voice you're considered in the fandom. And it's been my experience that the louder the voice, the more substantial the likelihood you'll find problematic Anon asks in your inbox. Answering these asks on your blog gives them a platform, and tagging them gives them an audience outside of your followers. If you're a "big blog," it increases the odds that some of us will also be subjected to these problematic asks through reblogs. All of this broadly impacts fandom conversation because now it's deemed acceptable to send XYZ type of ask, use XYZ word(s), bring up XYZ topic, or talk about XYZ actor(s) or character(s) in any type of way.

The whole "this is Tumblr, it's not that serious" argument is privileged because some of this stuff is serious for someone like me (and others in this space). I can't just pretend someone isn't implicitly making it seem okay to say certain things, especially if their blog is looked at as a popular fandom source.

This ask is just one example of what I'm talking about:

It's the use of a racialized fetish term, and honestly, it's super cringe. Seeing this in the show tag is deeply uncomfortable as a Latinx person. What was the point of answering this ask and then tagging it? It serves no purpose and hangs out in the show tag like we all just throw it around (we don’t). It's been brought to attention, and still, it lingers.

A fandom community should be safe and fun for all, but we don't live in a perfect world, so it takes work. Part of being in a community and doing the work is kindly holding people accountable to make it that way and being willing to have constructive conversations when concerns are raised. It's not accountability if you only show "remorse" when your friends bring something to your attention, and then nothing changes.

Accountability also ceases to exist when the fandom community chooses deep avoidance, handwaving things away whenever someone tries to share a concern. I have no idea why this keeps happening here, but I do know that every time it happens, it is profoundly isolating and makes it clear that fandom is only meant to be fun for some. The rest of us have to either put up with it or leave.

If that's the message the Lone Star fandom intends to send, it's being received loud and clear.

****

(Edit: the post is finally down, but I’ve shared a screenshot because it took three days and more than one person to address it publicly and this is exactly what I’m talking about.)

#this isn't me telling people what to do #this is me imploring folks to PLEASE give some extra attention to what you're sharing and tagging #and engage when someone tries to bring up a concern #this is a personal post because i have truly reached my breaking point #i kept hoping things would sort themselves out but they won't #and my expectations that this post will even be understood are low 🙃#and if you're reading this thinking it's not all of us #i do know that but that isn't the main point i'm trying to make here #this shit is hard by the way #and we're not out here doing this for fun #it literally sucks to be the one calling stuff out #911 lone star #911 lone star discourse #911 lone star fandom #sonia shares #that thing you queue

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immortalpramheda · 1 year

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(Hi, just wanted to preface this by saying I’m a huge fan of your gifsets and really appreciate all the time and energy you put into making them look so beautiful) I’m so sorry to ask if this is an inconvenience but I was wondering if you would be able to tag ‘raven reyes’ in a recent post you reblogged featuring her and Bellamy in 1x11? I just wanted to ask for filtering purposes since I love seeing the content you put out but also kinda get triggered by braven content on my dash (blame my chronic bellarke affliction 🥲). Again, so sorry if this a bother, just thought I’d reach out since I’m a genuine follower + a firm believer in curating one’s own online experience. Hope you have a lovely day and ty again for all that you do 💕

Hi! Sorry I'm usually good with tagging my posts correctly but since that gifset was focussed on Bellamy I didn't even think to tag Raven, but I have gone and fixed that now.

Thanks for reaching out and for your kind words 💖

#ask #anonymous

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kareenvorbarra · 2 years

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light Moira’s Pen spoilers below!!! I am on mobile and I have an iPhone so I have that fucked-up apostrophe that tumblr recognizes as a different character from the regular computer keyboard apostrophe, so I’m going to put a spoiler tag on this post but I truly have no idea if people’s filters will catch it correctly!

Now that the book is officially out I am going to tell you all that Juliana and I got our copy of Moira’s Pen on Friday because that’s when the local bookstore we pre-ordered it from told us it was ready to pick up! So I have read it and I have been sitting on my thoughts all weekend waiting to see everyone’s reactions. Overall I really liked it. I got some stuff I loved that I totally wasn’t expecting (so much Brinna content???), and got absolutely none of the thing I was sure I was going to get (Laela and Kamet actually talking to each other) which was pretty soul-crushing but I think I am at peace with it now??? Anyway if you wanna talk to me about it PLEASE do

#fandom musings #moira’s pen spoilers

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lewishamil10n · 2 years

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I’m sure you are MIGHTILY SICK of this topic but when I follow a person’s tag I immediately go and filter name x reader. I don’t go to everyone who correctly tags their content as name x reader and say, oh this shouldn’t be in the name tag. Get some agency and backbone, anons! Tumblr makes it so easy to do now, a few years ago we didn’t even have filtering 💀💀💀 I’ve watched in horror at your anons today, ignoring the ~rules~ of the internet/fan spaces and then upsetting themselves, absolutely incredible levels of immaturity

no but literally!! do you know how long my filtered list is! it's honestly such a convenient feature and one of the few things on this website that actually WORKS, i haven't seen anything i didn't want to see unless it was untagged. and i rarely follow people who don't tag, anyway.

oh my god do you remember when we had to simply put up with mistagged posts? when someone would make a generic ass post about their otps and then tag it with every ship under the sun, and there wasn't shit we could do? and then all the effort we went to to get tumblr savior, and then xkit came up with blacklisting... and i did all of that, because i knew curating my experience was my responsibility. truly the people on this hellsite these days don't know how easy they have it.

#asks #anonymous

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re4rleon · 2 years

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Acquainted || William Afton x afab/f!reader

s -> you and michael spent the night talking and working on a group project; however, he’s not the one you’re getting acquainted with after hours. wc -> 3241 cw -> age gap (college reader x dad william), slightly gaslighting?, two uses of sir, female terms of endearment (miss, baby girl), vaginal fingering, riding, dirty talk/degradation, unsafe sex (no condom), brief spanking, vaginal felching an -> this is the longest thing I’ve ever written, and I’m so proud ahhh I tried to pace it correctly, but if it’s bad I’m sorryyy tagged -> @astrobunny @karenjesmus @politeyounglesbian (if you didn't want to be tagged, just ignore this! you three just responded that you wanted this fic in a previous post of mine <3) ao3 -> https://archiveofourown.org/works/38564013

Random group assignments were the worst, and this wasn’t even one of your favorite classes. Sure sustainability was interesting, but how were they supposed to observe and create an artificial – yet still just as beneficial – ecosystem.

“My dad has a pond out back that we can imitate using an aquarium or something.” Michael mentioned, knocking you from your thoughts. You completely forgot you were supposed to be discussing ideas and making arrangements.

You took the pen out of your mouth and nodded, “That would be great, actually. Different types of fish are going to need different environments, which can be emulated with props.”

“Exactly.” and just Michael said that, people were starting to filter out of the classroom, signaling it was time to make their way to their next class, respectively. “Here, put your number in my phone, and I’ll send you my address. Wanna swing by around 6?”

Nodding, you put your number in and gave it back to the boy. Quite honestly, this was the first time you had spoken to him. You knew him only by his voice because he had an intoxicating accent, but you knew nothing about him. You supposed that was about to change.

You got there at 6 on the dot. The house was… magnificent. It was fairly secluded, and the pond outside was more like a personal lake.

“There are only koi fish in here, but we can still examine their environment.” Michael had said, but you were too busy trying to be in awe without looking like an idiot.

Michael was actually really pleasant to be around. He would make you laugh, and you had a lot of the same interests. You got to see around the house, all the pictures on the mantel. “My dad’s here, but he’ll probably be working the entire time.” he said when looking at one of the pictures of them together. They were quite similar, the dad having more distinct features and a lanky stature. His name was never mentioned.

Before either of you realized, it was nearly midnight. Michael proposed that you just stay the night and you could both head out for class in the morning, even being a gentleman in saying you could have his bed while he slept on the floor. It was late, and you were in an unfamiliar area; it didn’t really take much convincing. He gave you one of his oversized, albeit musty, shirts and turned the lights off.

You woke up at some point in the night, suddenly aware of the terrible case of cotton mouth you had. Tossing, turning, trying to forget it didn’t help, so you took a deep breath and braved your way through the house to their kitchen for some water. The open layout made it easy to find as it was just down the hall from Michael’s room; however, you didn’t expect to see another, much taller body standing at the end of the island. He turned towards you as the floor creaked when you walked on the tile.

“Oh, Mr. Afton.” you said almost sheepishly.

“Hello.” he drawled, his accent noticeably thicker and deeper than Michaels. He stood well above you, he hand swirling what you assumed to be some type of bourbon, based on the decanter. Easily, he was one of the most attractive men you had ever seen. “Miss?”

“Ah, sorry,” you laughed, “Didn’t expect to see anyone up at this hour.” You suddenly became conscious of the fact that you were only wearing a long, white button up as you checked the clock in the hallway, reading 2:14 am. “I just came to get some water.”

“Of course,” the man muttered, taking a glass that was sitting on the counter top and sliding it over. “Purifier's in the fridge.”

“Thanks.”

It took a second for you to even realize you were staring at the man before you moved towards the fridge and bent down to pull the tab. Trying as you did, you couldn’t quite stop the shirt from riding up, the air hitting your ass almost making you drop the glass. You prayed the glass would fill quickly, and when it did, you shot up and closed the door, turning to find… Mr. Afton looking directly at you.

“Did- did you just get off from work, sir?” sip.

“Yes. We had a last minute, emergency meeting, and” he shook his head, pinching his nose, “I work with idiots. And please, call me William. The last woman that called me sir, well…” he didn’t finish the thought, but the smirk he wore as he took a sip of his whiskey told it all. Your legs squeezed together, tighter in response.

A few more sips of your water to quench an insatiable thirst and William was talking. “Michael told me about your little project. Did you finish it?”

“Oh yes! We were able to finish it pretty quickly. Time got away from us when we were talking, though.”

“Talking, hm... I can see that.”

You looked over to see William give you a once over, and it made you realize what that sounded like. “No, no, just talking, I swear. Michael was just kind enough to lend me one of his shirts to sleep in.”

“Mine.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s my shirt.” Oh. And suddenly the musky smell made sense. It was just a storage smell, it was cologne. His cologne. “Don’t look so scared. It’s not like I’m going to ask for it back right this moment.” he laughed and finished his drink without even a shiver. He leant back against the counter, abandoning his glass, and started again, “Looks better on you anyhow.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped as if it were expelling the hot air that heated your cheeks. How was this man so effortlessly charming? “Thanks.”

“Hop up.” he nodded to the island you were leaning on, “Let’s have a chat, shall we?”

It happened without a second thought – you were enjoying yourself, honestly – but you immediately stiffened and jumped a little on impact. The island was chilling compared to the warmth that was conjured between your legs. A nervous laugh came out as you wondered what William must be thinking, but when you looked at him, he just had a slanted sort of smile. “It’s cold.” you offered.

“Why of course it is.” he said, pushing himself away from the counter and closer to you, smirking. “Because you’ve been naughty and not worn any underwear.”

You knew he knew, you felt the shirt ride up moments before, but you didn’t think he’d bring any attention to it. It’s a perfectly normal way to sleep, but the way the words came from his mouth made it sound so taboo. No words were forming in your head or your mouth; you just watched him come closer and closer until he was breathing in your ear, his hands dangerously close to your thighs, “Please, do stop me if I misread the situation, but I don’t think I have.” His fingers inched their way up one of your thighs while the other stayed planted on the island.

It was true, you wanted him more than you’d wanted anyone, but you didn’t think it showed. Surely you can keep your emotions hidden well enough, or maybe he’s just that experienced and keen-sighted. The way he got so close and then lightly scratched his nails back away had your legs trembling, and then it was gone. Instead, his thumb pulled down on your bottom lip, down your neck, through the collar, and right onto the topmost, fastened button. You didn’t have time to process before he was quite literally ripping his way through the top four or five buttons, popping them off somehow without breaking the thread, making your breasts bounce from the force. You gasped loudly, bracing yourself, and he simply looked you dead in the eye and whispered “Shhh” completely unphased. You wished you had something to grab onto, but you settled for covering your mouth with your hand.

Seeming satisfied, William moved the hand back down between your legs, this time almost immediately finding your clit and making you tense.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. All this just from looking at me, huh.” but you couldn’t respond, which in and of itself was a response, you just focused on your breath, trying to wrap your head around the pleasure coursing through you. His fingers moved in a petting pattern, slipping across your opening to gather the wetness and ending on your clit and rubbing little circles. Somehow you could feel yourself getting even wetter as it started dripping from you. Then one finger entered you, emitting a whine, trying to press yourself down against it, greedy for even more. And he obliged, adding another without resistance.

“Look at you, you dirty little whore. Taking my fingers like they belong in you.” he urged, curling them to accentuate his point, and you moaned through your hand as he kept hitting your g spot. They were so long, none of your dildos could even compare, but they fit so perfectly against every part of you. He started to scissor them, still curling them occasionally. Your toes curled as you stretched, trying to grab onto something, anything, your feet hooking onto the back of his thighs.

“M-more, sir.” you weren’t entirely aware that you called him sir, and when he added a third finger, you didn’t really care. It felt incredible, having his fingers in you, having him hovering over you, occasionally feeling his breath on your ear. You wondered how far he meant to take this, the familiar bundling of nerves starting to gather in the pit of your stomach, but like if on command, he pulled his fingers away, making you whine at the emptiness. You looked up at him just in time eto see him putting the three fingers in his mouth and sucking, humming in satisfaction at the taste. The sight took your breath away.

When he pulled his fingers from his mouth, it made a pop, and he looked at you, motioning for you to sit up. You did and he put his hands under your ass like he was going to lift you. Your arms went around his neck, and he indeed did lift you. “Where are we going?” you asked, head in the space between his neck and shoulder. He held you so easy, you weren’t worried in the least bit. He didn’t bother to respond, only moved to the next room, the living room, and onto the sofa, falling back and having you straddle him. You were so much closer now, faces inches apart, your nearly exposed breasts against his chest, your dripping wetness soaking the obvious cloth-clad boner beneath it.

“Hi.” you said, not knowing what exactly to do next since you were enjoying him calling the shots. He just lunged forward, kissing you with a fervor, nose smashing against yours while his hands tangled in your hair. It was good, it was fantastic, honestly fuck college guys, they were nothing like this. Pleasure teetering on pain with him taking control of every last detail, you could live in that moment for forever. He was the one the break apart when he felt you rutting against his lap, and he went to undo his pants.

“Sorry, darling, don’t have a condom. I didn’t exactly plan on fucking anyone.” The smirk on his face might as well be permanent as it fit him so well, his words coming out between his heavy breaths.

“I don’t care.” The only thing on your mind was William and having him take over every one of your senses.

As soon as his member was free, he let out a sigh. It was pulsing red and large, lying against his stomach. You swallowed as it would definitely stretch you more than his fingers had, but it didn’t stop you from wanting it right then. He gave it a couple of pumps, and then reached to your pussy to gather some of your wetness, using it as a form of lube. You gasped at the touch, and he just winked. “Don’t worry. I know you’ll make more, my little faucet.”

You blushed at the obvious nod to how wet he made you, and you just hid your face in his neck, reaching your hand down to try and help guide him to your entrance. You were tired of waiting.

“Eager, aren’t we? Just remember to be quiet. Michael is sleeping just a few doors down.”

Shit, Michael. You didn’t know if you could, but if it meant having his dick in you, then by God you’d try.

Even with just the tip in, you started to moan against his neck, and hearing his low groans didn’t make it any easier to hold it in. The stretch burned, but it wasn’t unbearable. You sank down an inch or two more and stopped to catch your breath. William’s head was thrown back against the back of the sofa; your hand snuck down to rub your clit.

“So… full.”

“I know, darling, I know. God, just- just a little bit more.” You nodded, breathing in and sinking lower.

The goal you had was to take the rest of him, but your hands started shaking on his chest. Everything about this man was above and beyond, and it was almost too much, a little bit more was a flat-out lie. Right as you were about to take another break, you felt yourself hit his thighs, completely seated, and you sat back, the shift pressing against something in you that made you shudder. William simply placed his hands on your hips, breathing clearly labored but focused on you. “Tell me when I can move.”

It didn’t take long, seeing the man in the state he was in, hair a mess, sweat on his forehead, his dick pulsing inside of you- as soon as you gave him the go-ahead, he held tight to your hips and bucked up, eliciting a shared moan from the both of you, one that he deafened by placing his lips on yours. The pace was slow at first, but once he was able to set a steady rhythm, he was almost animalistic. With every thrust, your breath was getting knocked out of you. He was placing kisses from your ear, down your face and neck, sucking once he got to the junction above your shoulder.

You tried to stay quiet, you really did, but when he sucked on a spot too long, too hard, teeth digging into the edges, you let out a scream, hurriedly stuffing your face against him. He didn’t let up for a second, if anything he made it worse by smacking your ass on every other thrust. The edge you felt from his fingering was back and growing. He filled you, wall to wall; with every drag out he took a part of you, and with every thrust in he gave it back tenfold.

“Will- iam.” you cried, trying to stay quiet, but God he was making it hard.

“Yes, baby girl?” He was just teasing now.

“Close, close, close.” you whined, almost panting against him.

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense, darling.” How was he still so put-together? Oh, it didn’t matter as he grabbed your hips and held them down against him, rutting his cock deeper than it’d been. It was just rubbing on your g spot, and when he whispered “Cum for me.” directly in your ear, it just pushed you over. Spasms took over your entire body as you came, William continuing to grind into you throughout. And as you got tighter, rubbing on every delicious inch of him, William also came with a low grunt, thrusts getting shakier until you both collapsed, breathing heavily and boneless. Warmth overcame you from the inside out.

If you were to bet, you indeed would bet that your legs weren’t working right now, and your arms were only good to loosely hang on to the man supporting you. His arms were wrapped tightly around your shoulders, his head leaning on yours, a momentary thought crossed your mind that you wished you could just stay here for the night. But alas…

Reluctantly, William carefully pulled out of you, placing you beside him on the sofa while he readjusted his pants. You heard him get up, but you still couldn’t move. Your eyes were closed and your head rested against the back of the sofa, posture be damned.

William’s hand nudged your legs apart, but you groaned as you felt the mixture of cum leak out. You should get cleaned up, at least off the couch, you should- fuck. Your body was wracked with intense spasms at the feeling of his mouth on your pussy, starting from the bottom and licking all the way to your clit before he swirled it. “William, what- what-”

“Cleaning you up, love.” he mused, licking his lips before diving back in.

Your hands grabbed onto his head and into his hair on instinct, as you couldn’t decide if you wanted to push him away or pull him closer. It was an odd sensation, as you felt drained but warm and tingly and overstimulated and his tongue could do magnificent things. He alternated between sucking the cum and sucking your clit, and you didn’t even realize it, but your thighs were framing his head. He reached his arms around so that he was holding your thighs, grabbing and pulling at them, all the while you were pulling his hair.

It didn’t take long until you were moving your hips, working with his tongue, riding it. He would make noises occasionally, the humming of his lips going straight up your spine. You were close but it was different; it was so much stronger. His tongue licked into your pussy, along the walls, curling to get all he could reach, his nose was perfect height to nudge at your clit.

“’m close.” you whispered, continuing to ride his face, only with him moving to suck on your clit and moving one hand to quickly thrust three fingers into you, in and out in and out. You came with a silent scream, mouth wide open without a sound, breathing stopped, only focused on William.

As soon as the first tremble hit your stomach, he pulled away, taking care to curl his fingers to get the last drops of cum from inside you. You barely cracked your eyes open to look down and see William sucking on his fingers, savoring your taste to the literal last drop.

“Thought I might suffocate down there.” he teased.

“Sorry.”

“Oh don’t be. I quite liked it.”

He stood and helped you lay down, covering you with a blanket and providing another to act as a pillow. You tried to speak, but William just tutted at you, softly running his fingers through your hair and down your cheek. “Shh shh. I’ll go tell Michael you fell asleep out here, so he’s not confused in the morning.”

All you could do was nod, but before William went through, he leant down right next to your ear and whispered, “Next time, don’t walk around my house dressed like a whore. Put some pants on.”

You’d never put on pants again if it meant you could be his.

#fnaf #william afton #five nights at freddy's #william afton x reader #william afton x you #william afton smut #fnaf smut #afton thirsting #x reader #mine #fnaf afton #fnaf x reader

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interact-if · 2 years

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Day 1 of the People With Disabilities Month Featured Author Interviews! Please welcome up....Elena!

Elena, author of Apocalyptic Dream

People With Disabilities Month Featured Author

Apocalyptic Dream is a dual-MC, horror-themed otome game that takes place during a zombie outbreak in the 21st century. Follow Mikuru and Toshiro Aikyo, twins who had the misfortune of knowing what was coming.

Navigate friendships, relationships, and learn who to trust…all while trying to survive.

Can you make it through alive?

Author’s Carrd | Author’s Ko-fi | Preorder | Read more about Apocalyptic Dream [here]

Tags: Apocalypse, 18+, Otome

(INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT UNDER THE CUT!)

Q1. So, tell us a little bit about the projects you're working on!

Currently, I'm still in early stages of development for my first Visual Novel project, Apocalyptic Dream. It's a post-apocalyptic zombie setting, with otome elements and psychological horror intertwined. It's got no real filters with language used or descriptive gore (though the artwork is pretty reeled-in), so I've rated it a (presumed) M. It has partial voice acting.

The game has two protagonists, twins Mikuru and Toshiro, and the viewpoint switches between them at predetermined intervals. There are some game mechanics that vary depending on which twin you are currently playing as, and I'm very excited for players to discover them. There are 9 love interests as well, but one can be pursued as either twin, as Mikuru and said LI are bisexual, and Mikuru has a couple wlw routes.

I am the writer, casting director, marketer, character designer, merch designer...pretty much everything except voice actor, composer, or artist. I don't have the capacity to make artwork that would make me feel happy with the vision I have for it, so I have two very wonderful artists on board instead, and will add some in the future for custom BGs.

I admit it's ridiculously ambitious for my first project, currently drafted at 70k words and not even 1/5th finished. I am so grateful for everyone who has helped to fund the game and are excited for its release, it's been mindblowing for me.

Q2. What has been your favorite thing about interactive fiction as a medium? What are some of the biggest challenges?

I really enjoy when they provide truly unique branching and you get to have a totally different experience (either without or beyond a common route) depending on your choices. It's so much effort to get those done seamlessly without plot holes (something I'm sweating over a bit myself right now), and I appreciate it greatly. It makes such a wonderful playing experience, and I want to provide that for others.

It's hard sometimes to really reconcile with the protagonist's train of thought if it doesn't align with your own, so I'd consider that a bit of a challenge. I'm someone who really hates playing as very bratty characters, or someone who just trips on thin air all the time and becomes a damsel in distress. However, I see IF more as just playing as someone else rather than being myself, so as long as they aren't an objectively terrible person (lol), I can shake it off when they say or think things that are a bit unsettling.

Q3. What is something you're excited to explore within your work?

I am really excited to be able to detail and follow through with all of the branches, and use them to further my writing experience. It's really amazing how so many IF game developers have kept their characters' base personalities consistent while exploring so many different paths that could affect how they respond to the protagonist, sometimes to very severe degrees.

Given the bleak setting of my game, I'm really looking forward to putting my characters through the wringer (sorry guys!) and seeing how they react to what's thrown their way while still adhering to their own moral and ethical codes. And to see someone bend or even break them after what they've gone through? It's difficult to write that correctly, and I'm excited for the challenge.

Q4. Has your disability influenced your work? Whether it's worldbuilding, the design, the process, and positive or negative--what is your advice in working with your disability and being creative?

Absolutely. It's unfortunate, but it just is what it is. I have chronic illnesses that absolutely sap my energy on any given day (endometriosis, fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue syndrome, PMDD, major depression, and more), and add ADHD to the mix, and it's nearly impossible to get myself motivated. I spend most of my days making mental notes of the plot progression and script it in my head, without actually getting it down in writing lol. It's very frustrating dealing with executive dysfunction, and spending most of my waking hours in bed.

I also have a small business, Midnight Springs, which is now nearly 7 years old. Juggling the merch design and production for that along with the game has been beyond challenging with how tired and sore I always am, but to lessen some of the load I've been phasing out any new artwork that has no ties to the game and its characters for a while now. I am doing my best to manage all aspects while still chugging along with the scripting and outsourcing direction (art and VA), which is admittedly overwhelming, but everyone in staff and the Kickstarter backers has been really understanding and great about it.

I don't mean to minimize how difficult this is, it's rough. It's often so insurmountable-feeling that I just get stuck for days. But the love for my characters, all of whom I originally penned a decade ago, and the positive (and sometimes very emotional) feedback I have had from my close friends and fiancé proofreading my rough drafts before they are edited has been so incredibly encouraging. It makes me truly excited to keep going, even during the (often very extreme) lows.

Q5. What's an accessibility issue you see glazed over a lot in IF? and what accessibility features would you like to see implemented more in IF?

I think a lot of people don't really understand that reading speed varies between others. This can go both ways, with auto being defaulted at too slow and not being able to adjust it, or too fast. It sucks to have to refer back to a log repeatedly, and I've played some VN apps where the log was actually COMPLETELY borked, and all the scripting for all the branches were just all lumped together out of order, and it was like reading something out of a horror script. I have arthritis and carpal tunnel, and I'm sure a lot of other people have reasons to not want to button-mash their way through a game and would want to avoid repetitive strain injuries. IF should hardly be physically demanding to play through, so this shouldn't be as big of an issue as it is.

Another is definitely quick time events. I am actually a very quick reader, but whenever I am put on the spot I get really anxious, lol. But then take into account that sometimes people aren't able to read through the full set of options before time runs out, and they haven't been able to weigh them in their mind yet to make an educated decision. Thankfully, adjustable quicktime speed has been implemented a lot more recently.

One thing I saw suggested in an accessibility panel in a virtual VN event I was an audience to and hadn't really thought of was a dyslexia-friendly font option, so I will be implementing that as well. Inverted controls are another thing that I only really see offered in RPGs or fighters, but not often in IF.

Q6. What is something you'd love to see in interactive fiction?

I would really appreciate if devs who have no idea how to approach mental health issues would just...not, or consult someone who does. I've quit at least one IF game because the protagonist says some really damaging, narcissistic things to characters suffering from depression or other MI. They may not be real, but the players are, and if any of us have the same conditions we are used to hearing that more than enough already.

I'd also love if more protagonists were voiced (in games that otherwise have voice acting already), instead of being nearly entirely a blank slate. If a character is given a name you choose as the player, and they aren't voiced, and have no face in CGs, then it can be super jarring if they say something you don't like. After all, they're supposed to be a Mary Sue at that point, right? So I'd love to see more devs commit to having their protags just straight up be their own fully fleshed-out people.

Q7. Any advice to give to aspiring devs?

Believe in yourself! This is hard, and sometimes I don't know why I decided to do this. But if it's something you want, reach for it and don't let anyone tell you that you can't. Find a community, big or small, that you can talk to - I've met some really friendly indie devs through discord servers, a couple whose games I'd actually supported on Kickstarter prior!

Also, don't read reviews once it's published (or once the demo is released). Have someone else relay constructive or happy reviews to you, do not do that yourself. Especially if you have anxiety like I do. Reviews are insanely varied and often not even a little bit productive.

Take care of yourself, pace yourself, and don't set definitive deadlines. If you are having an "off" day, do not force yourself. And good luck! (Speaking to myself a bit with these ones.)

#if: events #People With Disabilities Month 2021 #interactive fiction

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mashep23 · 3 years

Text

Traffic Jam Session

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Female!Reader

Word Count: +1.5K

Warnings: Nat being ridiculously confident and flirtatious? I think that deserves a warning. This is just pure self-indulgent fluff.

Summary: Stuck in a traffic jam, another commuter requests that you turn your music up

Inspired by this meet-cute prompt:

We are caught in an extreme traffic jam and have been sitting next to each other, parked, for the last five minutes. Your radio is playing my absolute favorite song so I ask you to turn it up. We spend the rest of the slow traffic aggressively singing along to the music at each other.

Prompt list found here

A/N: I tweaked the prompt just a little, hope it's still enjoyable. This was so much fun to write!

Thank you to @river-soul for her incredible beta skills and endless patience 😭❤️ and @whisperlullaby for workshopping with me 💗

Disclaimer: gif not mine

It's a decently warm day, sunny and clear, and the azure blue sky is dotted sparsely with clouds. A breeze blows through the car windows, playing with the feathers on your dreamcatcher hanging from the rearview mirror while you're stuck in traffic. You had been creeping along for the better part of 20 minutes, but you've been at a standstill now for almost five.

Typically one to drive home in silence to decompress, today the stillness and lack of road noise makes you want to turn on some music instead. Since nothing playing on the local stations feels right, you sync your car Bluetooth with your phone and scroll through your music streaming apps. A playlist you made simply entitled "Happy" seems to fit your mood and the gorgeous weather so you press Shuffle All and settle back in your seat.

The soothing, light-hearted Put Your Records On filters through the speakers and you can't help the smile that curves your lips as you close your eyes. Propping your arm on the window, head on your hand, you bask in the sun's warmth. You periodically crack open an eye to check on the car in front of you but there's no change. Everyone on the road has parked and resigned themselves to the long wait.

Your playlist contains a wide variety of genres, cherry-picked songs that unfailingly lift your mood. They're radio hits, usually well-known songs, and easy to sing along with. You happily bop your way through your playlist, getting a little more energetic, singing along to each song.

Walking on Sunshine just finishes and the next song is cueing when you hear a sweet voice ask lowly, "Do you mind turning it up a little?" You grin and twist the volume knob so I'm Gonna Be (500 miles) plays louder before looking to the eavesdropper that's enjoying your tunes.

Holy shit. How did you not notice the car next to you? There is no way they were there the whole time. They're all beautiful. Two men, two women - blondie is driving, two brunettes are in the back seat, and a redhead is in the passenger seat. She was the one that spoke and she grins gratefully, leaning closer, head tilted out the window. You turn it up a little more as she starts singing along.

You grin widely and start singing with her. Her companions in the car laugh and join in good naturedly, cheering as the two of you belt the call-and-answer part of the song.

When the song ends, you're both breathlessly laughing, smiles wide. You turn your stereo volume down even as the next song starts to play and stretch out for a high five. She gives your hand a satisfying slap as she laughs joyfully.

"That was so fun! Thank you so much, I love that song."

"I do too! You're a great partner! And the back-ups were awesome!" You playfully finger-gun point at the driver and backseat passengers. They cheerfully laugh and thank you. You don't remember the last time you smiled this hard.

"I'm glad you didn't mind - I could barely hear it. I had Steve try to get closer but that didn't really help much, so I just decided to ask you." She gives you a sheepish but pleased smile and you return it.

"Oh no I don't mind! I haven't had this much fun in ages!" You can't seem to stop smiling but maybe it's okay because she's smiling at you, too.

"I'm Nat," she says suddenly, and you don't hesitate to tell her your name. She repeats it quietly, still smiling softly at you.

There's a stretch of silence, you're both just looking at each other and one of her friends clear their throat, causing you both to blink. You think maybe you should be embarrassed but she doesn't appear fazed in the slightest.

"In the spirit of introductions, hello beautiful. I'm Sam." The male brunette sitting behind Nat says smoothly after his light cough. "This is Wanda, up there is Steve." He gestures to the woman beside him and to the driver, respectively.

Your gaze never leaves Nat. You can't tear your eyes from her even as Sam speaks, catching the quick tightness around the edges of her mouth before it relaxes again as you smile and respond to her rather than Sam.

"It's nice to meet you," you say sincerely to Nat. Her answering pleased expression as she returns the sentiment warms you. A pleasant tightness fills your chest as her lips quirk at something Sam mutters under his breath. The woman next to him, Wanda, laughs quietly.

"So, you know, we're gonna be here for a while. Let's see what else you got to listen to." Nat grins expectantly at you with a raised brow and you mirror her expression as you turn the knob.

You're pretty sure you've found your soulmate when her eyes spark in delight and she belts along effortlessly to Sweet Caroline, arms spreading dramatically as she almost nails the driver, Steve, in his face with the back of her hand. Sam and Wanda cackle as he shoves her arm away in mock affront and she sticks her tongue out at him.

You can't help but laugh at their antics, watching her perform, directing her friends' involvement ("bah, bah, bahh") before she turns to you ("so good, so good, so good!"). This is quickly becoming one of the best times you've ever had.

The song continues, both of you sharing the lead, absolutely ridiculous and uncaring of the scene you're making. If anyone in the surrounding cars felt disgruntled at the impromptu concert, you'd never know it. The girl in the car next to you has your undivided attention.

You're not sure how long it's been, how many songs you've played and sang along to, but after a while, traffic slowly creeps to life. Steve taps Nat on the arm during a lull between songs and you lower the volume as she turns to him. He gestures at the line of cars ahead, the ones directly in front still unmoving but in the distance you see brake lights releasing, vehicles rolling forward.

She turns back to you, chewing the inside of her lip as she looks at you thoughtfully. She seems to make a decision and reaches her hand out to you.

"Here, let me see your phone real quick." She makes a single gimme motion, fingers flicking closed then open as you hand the device over. Your lips spread into a wide smile at the triumphant look that crosses her face.

She beams at you before dropping her gaze to the phone, fingers moving quickly across the screen. You hear an unfamiliar notification tone and she pulls a phone from her lap, holding it up to show you.

"I text myself from your phone. Now we have each other's numbers. I wanna be able to call you later." She's unabashedly smug as she hands your phone back and you wonder if your face shows just how pleased you are.

You look down at the message thread she left open for you, the unsaved number displayed at the top.

"Traffic Jam Hottie 😍"

The single line of text and emoji sent from your phone to the number makes you bite your lip and shyly cover your smile with your fingertips. You look at her with raised eyebrows and she correctly interprets your unasked question and shrugs.

"That's your contact name. I'll probably never change it, not even after we get married."

It's sly and nonchalant, how she slips that in there, smooth as you please. Your jaw drops and her friends all seem to choke on air but her gaze, locked on you, is unwavering. The flirtatious expression on her face is simultaneously sincere and mischievous as she watches for your reaction.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, your chest feels tight and pleasantly warm. Your smile stretches so wide your cheeks hurt as she winks and you're so giddy, you don't care how eager you look in this moment.

You quickly save her contact information and smirk, wiggling your phone at her.

"I'd hope not. I think having matching contact info is pretty cute and kinda romantic. A fun story for the wedding toasts." You grin cheekily.

Her expression shifts, full of mischief, a quirk of her eyebrow that makes your breath hitch and sets your heart racing as her friends whoop with glee at your banter. Her lips spread in a sly smile and you can't help but return it. You're positive you've never smiled this much in your life.

Too soon, the gridlock lets up and you both start moving with traffic. The cars in front of you begin to roll, the lane speeds varying enough to cause you to separate. She's still grinning at you as they get further ahead. You can faintly hear their teasing and you catch a glimpse of her profile, smiling and laughing, before she's no longer visible.

They take an exit as you continue on and you barely have a moment to mourn that they're out of view before your phone vibrates in your lap. Picking it up, you grin madly at the screen, the contact "Traffic Jam Hottie 😍" scrolling across the top.

Accepting the call, you hear it connect through you car speakers, her friends still audible in the background. Your heart stutters when she purrs her greeting.

"Hey hottie."

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

Tagging some of my amazing discord family: @buckyownsmylife @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog

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wild-karrde · 8 months

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FANDOM FRIDAY IS BACK! START SENDING YOUR FAVORITE FANDOM CREATIONS FROM THIS WEEK IN FOR ME TO QUEUE UP FOR FRIDAY!

The goal of Fandom Friday: provide a place where people can shout-out their favorite creators from the week, whether it’s a piece of fan art that made you smile or a fanfic that moved you. Drop a link to your favorite creations this week into my ask box along with what you loved about it, and I will give them a shout! It doesn’t have to be Star Wars either! If it’s on another website (AO3, Twitter, etc.), please be sure to state that as well.

This happens each week, so don’t feel like you’ve got to get out everything in one week. Just keep track of them throughout the week or send me an ask whenever you find something, and I’ll drop them all on Fridays (or throughout the weekend if I get a lot). You may submit for this week until THURSDAY MORNING (I’m in the Pacific timezone). Anything received after that will roll to the next week. A summary of the weeks’ recs will get added onto this post on Saturday, so check back here for all of the awesome fics and art! And be sure to go give the creations on that list some love (and don’t just share the ask responses I put out).

This week’s submissions will start posting on Friday, September 15.

Rules and additional details under the cut! PLEASE make sure you read the rules before sending something in. If your submission violates any of the rules, I will delete it.

Rules:

Please send submissions to my ask box (sending them all to one place makes wrangling them easier each week). In your ask, please include the creator’s handle, a link to their work/post (if links aren’t working for the ask, please DM me them), and what you loved about it!

Please ensure the link is to the creator’s original post and not your own reblog or repost of their work (if they’re on another platform). The idea is to drive people to visit the creator’s page!

The creation does not have to have been posted this week! It can be something older. Also, don’t worry about whether or not a rec is a repeat from a prior week. Just looking to celebrate things that made an impression on you this week, whether you’ve seen it before or not!

NSFW is alright! Just make sure you note it in the ask so I can flag appropriately! Since I’m including 18+ material, minors may not participate. 18+ posts will be tagged with NSFT/lemon/lemony lemon (trying to cover all my bases).

NO incest, underage, cl*necest, master/padawan (or similar power dynamics), dub-con/non-con/rape. Also, no H*rry Potter. There are a few others that I also won’t share due to my discomfort with them (i.e., R*xsoka), so if you’re not sure, ask. Also, many of you submit multiple works at once, and that’s fine, but if one of those works contains something that violates the rules, I will delete the entire ask, so something to be extra careful about when submitting!

If your rec involves spoilers from a show that’s currently running, please include that info in the ask so I can tag it appropriately (I will normally tag a few different ways, but I always use #<show title> spoilers if you need to filter, for example: Andor spoilers will be tagged #Andor Spoilers). I will stop tagging spoilers two weeks after the show stops airing.

You can submit GIF sets or edits, but please ensure you are submitting from the blog that actually created them. Wanted to add that caution since there’s been a lot of people stealing/reposting GIFs and edits in particular recently. So just be cautious.

Try to avoid commentary in your ask that might make others feel bad (“the only person who knows how to write XXX correctly…”). It’s important to be able to appreciate creators without making others feel bad, so let’s try to keep the commentary complimentary without being off-putting for other creators.

Self recommendations are allowed and encouraged! Shout out your own hard work! You deserve the recognition!

*Rules subject to change so PLEASE make sure you read them before sending something in. If your submission violates any of the rules, I will delete it.

**If you have any questions about any of the rules, don’t hesitate to DM me!In addition to sending me asks, I highly encourage you to go either leave a comment on and/or reblog someone’s work (tag me or use the #Fandom Friday tag if you do!). Let’s get the interaction back up on this website and show the creators that work so hard on their stuff some love!

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ilovetyblackthorn · 3 years

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“I will always choose you." | A KitTy Fic | Chapter 1 - Home is where family is.

“I will always choose you.”

“You were always a liar. Why didn’t you choose me?”

⁃⁃⁃❖⁃⁃⁃

Chapter 1

Los Angeles Institute.

Ty’s home.

Home. What a foreign word, after living so long at the Scholomance. After sharing his home away from home for so long, Ty didn’t know if he was relieved or not at the prospect of having his old room back. After living so long with a roommate, he didn’t know how long it would take him to settle down entirely, alone, without having to drown out Anush’s never-ending chatter with his music or waking up on his right side and seeing Anush’s peaceful face asleep. They were the little things that he called part of his ‘home’ like the posters of boy bands on the wall, paint splatters on his clothes, watches and other knick-knacks that didn’t belong to him, all the courtesy of Anush, who he once called his boyfriend, but now, his best friend.

Of course, the best friend part hadn’t changed; apart from Livvy, Anush was one of the only people who understood Ty.

Apart from a certain blonde who had run for the hills for reasons Ty didn’t comprehend still, but he was not going to think of that.

No. Thinking of… him would do no good. It would just cause a breakdown, and Ty couldn’t risk that.

No. Because Julian had just returned for good from his trip around the world with Emma, who, believe it or not, was already his fiancee.

That was another change that Ty had to get used to. But somehow, he didn’t think it would be much of one. Jules and Emma were already like a married couple, even when they were parabatai, and Ty had always suspected there was something more than platonic love between them. But he found out - they all did - that they had been in love with each other all along, and was that really a shock for him? No. Just that they PDA’d a lot more.

Ty stood on the steps of his home and took a deep breath of the salt-dissolved air that he had missed so much in the early months of his stay at the Scholomance, and felt the familiarity of the atmosphere settle into his body. Although Ty had changed quite a lot in the years he spent in the cold mountains of the academy, the Institute had not, and that was very reassuring for him. He felt grounded here. Confident, and no longer helpless, as he was so many times in the past. He was a Centurion. He knew what to do.

Ty walked forward and put his hand on the door. Immediately, it swung open.

A boy stood in front of him. Ty tried not to gawk as he looked on, stunned. Okay, maybe not visiting in five years was a bad idea.

Because the boy he saw in front of him, with blue-green eyes and tousled brown hair, classic Blackthorn look, was definitely not the youngest brother he remembered. Octavian, or Tavvy as they called him, had certainly grown into his looks and still was growing.

It was rare when Ty ever was surprised. But seeing his youngest brother, now thirteen, stand in front of him with an unreadable look on his face was like a punch to Ty’s stomach.

He had not thought of this when he’d decided, Screw the odds, and went off to study at Scholomance, partially because he’d always wanted to, and partially because of not being able to be in the places he knew he’d been in with Kit, but it seemed he had missed out on a lot. There was a curious light in Tavvy’s eyes - could he even call him that? - but other than that, he could not read him at all. Octavian’s Blackthorn cheekbones, mouth and jaws had developed enough to give him a handsome roguish look that immediately reminded him of his own father, uncle, and older brother. Octavian was the spitting image of a Blackthorn of their generation, and as Ty tried to locate his voice, Octavian said tightly, “Ty.”

No greeting. No “hello” or “good to see you”s. Just ‘Ty.’ There was something definitely wrong here. “Hi… Tavvy.”

Tavvy’s jaw ticked. “That’s not my name anymore. Not that you would know, of course.” There was a venomous undertone to his voice. “It’s Octavian.”

Ah. I guessed correctly. “I’m sorry. Octavian. Hello, brother.”

“Am I?” Octavian said abruptly. “Am I your brother? Because last I checked, brothers actually care if one of them lives or dies.”

As the statement sank in, Ty flinched slightly and frowned deeply, hurt seeping into his heart, along with bewilderment. “What do you mean? Of course, I care whether you live or die, don’t be ridiculous Tavvy.”

As the old nickname rolled off his tongue, Ty knew it was a mistake. Octavian’s sea-green eyes darkened with rage, and... betrayal? “It’s Octavian. And I’m not being ridiculous. Stop treating me like I’m a child, brother.” The last word was a mocking snarl, and although Ty had a few inches on Octavian, he clearly felt the waves of rage and intimidating wrath roiling off him. Ty was speechless. This was not the Octavian he knew.

Something was terribly wrong. And I think it’s my fault.

“Do you know why I asked you if you were really my brother?” Octavian said, his voice cracking as some emotion penetrated his brother’s emotional walls, and Ty found his own eyes darting on his brother’s face and finally resting on his eyes. It chilled him to the bone to see hurt swirling in there, along with a healthy dose of sadness and… loneliness. Octavian leaned in, the glaring intensity of his gaze ramming into Ty like a firetruck, and said, “Because.”

Ty’s eyes widened as his brother leaned back again, the unreadable look rippling across his face again. “Because?”

But he never got to know the answer as a blonde woman barrelled down the hallway leading to the front door and yelled, “Ty!”

And as abruptly as he had appeared in front of Ty, Octavian vanished again, but Ty couldn’t think of it again, not when the entire family was running to greet him, without the obvious exception. Ty was shaken but he quickly put it out of his mind. Octavian could wait. Now… he really felt how much he’d missed his family.

Home is where family is.

With that thought, Ty let Emma embrace his way back into his own world.

****

Okay, it’s official. Not visiting in five years was definitely the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Not that I haven’t had many.

Immediately a familiar face made an appearance in Ty’s mind, and Ty balled his fists as the betrayal that arose every time he thought of him, resurfaced and made his stomach churn. Shoving that thought out of his head, he followed Julian, Helen and Aline down the very familiar but yet very alien hallway. Helen and Aline had made a few slight changes to the Institute whilst running the place, and Ty had to admit, the now polished and sophisticated interior was a pleasant scene, although a little foreign.

It would certainly take a while to get used to though.

“Ty?” Julian said, looking over his shoulder. He had a perpetual smile on his face, as well as a tan. Ty noted that Julian must have become paler whilst staying in London; he and Emma were both sporting newer tans. London hasn’t changed then. “Yes?”

“Do you like the modifications?”

Caring, protective Julian. Always looking after everyone around him, and making sure they were okay. Ty felt a sudden rush of affection for his older brother. “I do, I suppose. It looks elegant now. Soothing. It’ll take a while to get used to but I’ll be fine. I like it.”

Julian smiled widely at him, as did Helen. “I’m glad you do, brother,” she said, reaching over and touching his shoulder lightly. He smiled at her. Aline, as usual, looked confident and proud beside Helen. “Of course he does, honey. We picked soothing colours and familiar things just for him.”

Oh, so that’s why they demanded to know which colours I liked and found soothing, Ty thought, smiling internally. It pleased him to know that even though everything else had changed, their love hadn’t.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed they’d already reached the training room and stopped only when Julian’s voice filtered through. “I think, out of all the places in the Institute, the training room has had the most changes.”

Ty looked up, frowning slightly. Julian inclined his head. “Wanna look?”

Ty nodded.

Julian then pushed open the door.

And there stood Kit Herondale, holding a crossbow in his hands.

Oh… God.

Julian Blackthorn, THIS IS A CHANGE?!

⁃⁃⁃❖⁃⁃⁃

LMAO. no really. lmaoooo.

tagging @gayforcarstairsgirls @buttcrflys-rose @ghafa-dale @ddepressedbookworm @tinypenguinenemy @the-enchanted-dreamer @khaleesiofalicante @blackasmysoul @noah-herondale-lightwood @gabtapia @roseberrylight @bookwormslounge @usual-disaster-bi @blindbandit1515 lmk if u wanna be added/removed from taglist!

here's chapter 1! hope u like it, cause it's my first time writing a longer fanfic. :D

#kita writes #ty x kit #i'm in love with ty blackthorn #ty blackthorn #kitty #kit herondale #the shadowhunter chronicles #the dark artifices #tda #tda fanfiction #twp #tsc fanfiction #the wicked powers #iwacu #iwacu chapter 1

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lulu-zodiac · 3 years

Text

Hidden in Plain Sight

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Jeremy Bradshaw

Tags: Early seasons Dean, pre-podcast Professor Bradshaw, denial, unresolved sexual tension, bickering, smut, gratuitous owl references, case fic

Summary: It's the fall of 2006, and a string of grisly deaths linked to local lore brings Sam and Dean to the village of Bridgewater. There, Dean finds himself working closely with the frustrating and unexpectedly compelling Professor Bradshaw.

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Dean feels about as comfortable in old colleges as he does in churches. There’s the same sense of exclusivity, that same reverence of things Dean has spent his life stuck on wrong side of. This campus even feels a little like a church, with its old architecture and sprawling ruby ivy and slit windows like narrowed eyes. His footfalls echo heavily along the cold stone corridor, making him feel uncomfortably aware of his own existence.

The door he’s looking for is old and made of oak, nestled in an alcove near the staircase, with a small plaque on it that reads Professor J Bradshaw.

Dean pauses for a moment, then knocks abruptly, suddenly noticing his knuckles are still smudged with earth. From within, a muffled voice instructs him to enter, and he does so, wiping his hand surreptitiously against the side of his leather jacket.

The first thing that hits him is the sheer volume of books in the room; they clutter every available surface, piled high in front of the big bay window like a strange line of defense. There are stacks of loose papers everywhere too, haphazard but clearly organized, some held in place by empty coffee mugs or odd-looking artefacts. The air is bright and warm, like this room catches the sun when it’s slow and mellow in the afternoons.

The second thing that hits him is the man sitting at the desk.

He doesn’t look up at Dean’s entrance, continuing to scribble away in a leather-bound notebook with intent dexterity, seemingly utterly lost in his own thoughts. He’s not what Dean expected; surprisingly young, maybe approaching forty, with a sharp jaw and tousled hair that just brushes his broad shoulders. When Dean clears his throat awkwardly, the man finally looks up with striking blue eyes that immediately pin Dean in place.

“Yes?” his voice is inquiring and several octaves deeper than Dean would have imagined, low and gravelly. He sets down his pen, looking at Dean with piercing focus.

“Uh – hey. Professor Bradshaw?” Dean feels distinctly self-conscious.

“Who wants to know?” the man closes his notebook with a snap and stands with surprisingly fluid ease, eyes still intent on Dean as though he’s cataloguing him.

He’s wearing a faded navy-blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up, slightly crumpled shirt tails poking out at the hem, just visible.

Drawing on years of sizing people up, Dean guesses that the guy probably has no one to go home to at night. If he goes home much at all, that is; the office has a distinctly lived-in look. It’s strangely reminiscent of the makeshift home feel of the impala’s interior.

“Um – Dean. Dean Collins,” Dean answers hastily, suddenly realizing he’s spent a little too long looking. “I’m uh – a student in one of your classes,” he lies the best way he knows how: with a charming smile. “I was wondering if you’ve got a moment? I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions about your work.”

“Come in, please,” Professor Bradshaw sits back down behind his desk, and gestures for Dean to close the door. “Take a seat.”

“Thanks,” Dean shuts the door and awkwardly removes three hardback books and a small, slightly drooping fern from the only available seat in front of Professor Bradshaw’s desk.

“Sorry – let me –” Professor Bradshaw leans over the desk to relieve Dean of the books and the plant. Close up, Dean can see faint lines softening the corners of his vivid eyes, and when he breathes in, he catches a hint of peppermint and the musk of warm skin, strangely compelling. Their hands brush for a moment as Professor Bradshaw takes the items, and Dean flinches, jerking away and planting himself firmly on the chair.

“So – Dean, yes?” Professor Bradshaw settles back into his seat. He’s still looking intently at Dean, gaze startlingly blue.

Wordlessly, Dean nods. He doesn’t know why he can feel the heat creeping up his cheeks.

“You’re not in any of my classes, Dean,” Professor Bradshaw says, with a slight edge to his voice. He reaches for a half-drunk mug of tea on his desk, expression skeptical.

Dean feels his stomach drop. “Uh, yeah – I’m new, just transferred a couple weeks back,” he bluffs quickly, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. He feels strangely flustered, visible.

“No, I don’t think so,” Professor Bradshaw says, flatly. “I believe I would have noticed,” he adds, wryly, with a kind of impatient warmth in his expression that makes Dean’s cheeks flare with heat all over again. Professor Bradshaw merely swallows a mouthful of tea and sets the mug back down, still looking at Dean. “So. Who are you?”

“Alright,” Dean puts his hands up in mock-surrender, smiling wide even though he feels stupidly on edge, knocked off course. “You got me. I’m – uh – a journalist. My boss has me writing a piece on local legends, and I was hoping to pick your brains. Heard you’re the expert on all that stuff around here, and thought I might be in with a better chance of talking to you as a student instead of some annoying reporter.”

“I see,” Professor Bradshaw leans back in his chair, contemplative. A shaft of sunlight filters through the bay window behind him, illuminating a hint of tawny in his dark, untidy hair. Dust motes hang everywhere like suspended snow. “Well, luckily for you, Dean, I find that my students can be just as annoying as reporters. And I still talk to them on a daily basis.”

Dean grins a little awkwardly, “Yeah?”

“Of course, I do get paid to do that,” Professor Bradshaw adds, dryly. “But perhaps I do them a disservice. Some of them are really quite inspiring.” He pauses, raising his mug to his lips. It has an owl on it, Dean notices absently. An overly fluffy one, with a slightly threatening glare. “I daresay I can spare five minutes. What is it that I can do for you, Dean?”

“Uh, so you study the supernatural, right?” Dean asks, clumsily. His hands are sweating where they’re shoved in the pockets of his jacket. “Ghosts and demons and all that shit?”

“I study the lore and mythology of supernatural beings, and why it’s important to humans to create such stories,” Professor Bradshaw clarifies, shortly.

“Right, got it,” Dean agrees, hastily. “But you’d know a bit about the Bridgewater coven?”

“I am familiar with the legends, yes,” Professor Bradshaw replies, reaching for his mug again. There’s an ink stain on the side of his index finger, smudged deep blue. Dean fleetingly wonders if it would rub off easily if he touched it, if it would leave a ghostly imprint on his own skin.

“Yeah – uh – so there’s been quite a lot of interest in the coven recently,” Dean blusters, annoyed with himself for how stupidly flustered he feels, “You know, since those bodies were found last week? At the burial site in Bridgewater Forest that’s associated with the legend? Yeah. Well, anyway, I was – hoping you might be able to tell me a little more about the legend of the coven.”

“I don’t see what the recent tragedies could possibly have to do with the legend,” Professor Bradshaw narrows his eyes skeptically.

“Right – yeah – nothing, I’m sure,” Dean lies hastily, “But the location of the crimes has definitely raised awareness about the existence of the legend, and that’s what we really want to provide for our readers.”

“Well, certainly, I can tell you the history,” Professor Bradshaw replies, briskly, “In fact, I teach an undergrad course on witchcraft in history and my lecture this Wednesday actually covers the legend of the coven. If you want a more detailed, nuanced version, you’re more than welcome to come along then – it’s at 11am in the Milton building. But I’m happy to give you the short version now, if that would be helpful?”

“Thanks – yeah, that’d be great,” Dean says, gratefully. “On a bit of a tight schedule today.”

“Well, the local legend about the Bridgewater coven has existed for almost two hundred years,” Professor Bradshaw starts, and immediately Dean can picture him talking in front of a lecture theatre full of kids. He’s a natural, something inherently captivating about the way he speaks. “In the 1800s, this village was an important site of religious pilgrimage. However, according to the legend, the village was also home to a small coven lead by a witch named Iris. Iris’s coven was said to have lived in secrecy in the forest on the outskirts of Bridgewater for years, and not to have troubled the village people. However, by 1816, the legend claims the coven had become very hostile, specifically towards the church. There were fears the coven had begun indoctrinating – or bewitching – members of the congregation.”

Professor Bradshaw pauses, swallowing another mouthful of tea. The muscles in his throat work, drawing Dean’s attention to the way his pale blue shirt isn’t buttoned up properly. He’s filled with the sudden, inexplicable urge to button it up correctly.

“More and more people started disappearing in connection with the coven,” Professor Bradshaw continues, setting his mug back down on the desk, and Dean jerks his gaze guiltily away from the line of his throat, clenching his hands into fists inside the pockets of his leather jacket. “The rapidly diminishing congregation lived in terror. The remaining members of the church all turned against each other. Then, at the height of local hysteria, Iris is said to have murdered Blanche, the minister’s daughter, in what is portrayed in the lore as some kind of statement of the coven’s power over the church.”

“Bet that didn’t go down too well,” Dean remarks, sardonically.

“Quite,” Professor Bradshaw catches Dean’s eye, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Anyway, according to the legend, the tragedy of Blanche’s death united the warring members of the congregation. They captured Iris and entombed her alive, using her own magic against her to keep her trapped. Iris’s death broke the spell on the members of the congregation who’d been indoctrinated against their will, and peace was restored to the village. The few remaining members of the original coven fled and were never seen again.”

“Wow,” Dean raises his eyebrows, “Very love-thy-neighbor.”

Professor Bradshaw snorts, “Yes. Religious leaders in the 1800s were renowned for sitting down and resolving their problems through compassionate discussion,” he remarks, dryly.

“Okay, but what about the other versions of the legend?” Dean asks, trying to remember the things Sam had told him to ask about, but drawing a total blank. His brain feels weirdly scrambled. It’s hard to remember what happened before walking into Professor Bradshaw’s office. “The other stories about the coven I’ve come across so far all seem pretty different.”

Professor Bradshaw frowns slightly. “It’s true, there are many conflicting accounts. Which is often the case with legends, being human constructions of the past,” he regards Dean slightly disapprovingly over the rim of his owl mug, a kind of skeptical stubbornness in the set of his mouth. “It’s not about knowing which ‘to believe’ – it’s about looking at why historically people have favored one version over the other and what that tells us about them.”

“Right, yeah, but aren’t legends often based on fact?” Dean pushes.

Professor Bradshaw pauses, contemplatively, “Yes. That’s certainly true in some cases.”

“Do you think it’s the case in this one?”

“Possibly,” Professor Bradshaw replies, haltingly. His expression is serious and he hesitates for a moment before elaborating; “In fact, I’m currently writing a paper about the historical figures who feature in the legend of the Bridgewater coven.”

“Yeah? Which ones?” Dean presses. He’s used to having to fake interest to get information out of people like Professor Bradshaw, but for once, he finds he’s genuinely interested. There’s something compelling about Professor Bradshaw’s evidently obsessive quest for obscure answers, something that resonates with all too much familiarity.

“Iris, predominantly,” Professor Bradshaw replies. “I’m very interested in the historical reasons women were condemned as witches. Often, it’s as simple as jilted male lovers using accusations of witchcraft as a means of revenge, or the women using herbal remedies that threatened contemporary male ideas of medicine and the body. Sometimes it’s to do with female homosexuality and society’s unacceptance of same sex relationships or women as sexual beings. Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for gay men to be condemned for witchcraft either. But statistically, more homosexual women died as a result of such accusations.”

“Uh – right –” Dean swallows, looking away. His hands are sweating again, and he wipes them surreptitiously on the insides of his pockets. Clearing his throat, he changes the subject, suddenly remembering the other thing Sam had told him to ask Professor Bradshaw about, “What about the runes?”

“Ah yes, the runes on Iris’s supposed tomb,” Professor Bradshaw’s gaze is suddenly inscrutable in a way that makes Dean’s heart thud uncomfortably in his chest. It sweeps over Dean, lingering and unnervingly blue for a moment, before he continues, “Very interesting. I’ve been studying them a great deal as part of my research. The true nature of them has always remained a mystery, and any attempts to discern their meaning haven’t fitted with the legend at all. I believe they may be key to understanding the history behind the creation of the legend. But,” he smiles, wryly, “It’s not an easy task. They’re unlike any runes I’ve come across anywhere else before.”

“Can I see?” Dean asks, partly out of interest, and partly for some way of distracting himself from the way his heart is still thumping uncomfortably fast.

“You’d have to visit the forest burial site to see them in person, but I do have a couple of sketches of the lines I’m working on at the moment,” Professor Bradshaw gets to his feet and crosses to the cabinet by the window, pulling the top drawer open.

The fall chestnut trees outside smolder amber behind his silhouette, midday sunshine pale gold and still where it filters through the window. Time seems strangely irrelevant. Dean watches as Professor Bradshaw flicks through a green binder, fingers quick and dexterous, skilled and uncalloused in a way Dean’s have never had the chance to be.

Dean swallows and looks away, ignoring the thud of his heart as he stares around at the rest of the room. He clocks a bunch of compendiums of mythology on the bookcase nearest him, and two other eccentric and slightly neglected looking plants. There’s a thick plaid rug on the couch in the corner, not quite concealing a plate of half-eaten toast. On the windowsill, there’s a little tin mug with a toothbrush in it that makes Dean wonder again just how often Professor Bradshaw goes home at all. He finds himself wondering whether Professor Bradshaw has always had nothing but an empty house to return to, or whether that’s a more recent development. He’s definitely old enough to be going through a divorce. The thought sits uncomfortably in Dean’s chest for reasons he doesn’t particularly want to identify.

“Here we are.” Professor Bradshaw’s gravelly voice, suddenly much closer, makes Dean jump. He glances around to find Professor Bradshaw standing beside him, holding out a sheet of paper. The smell of warm skin and peppermint catches Dean off guard, stronger this time, and still strangely compelling.

“Uh – thanks,” Dean says awkwardly, taking the proffered page. He feels Professor Bradshaw’s fingers brush against his fleetingly, warm and ink-stained.

Dean swallows, forcing himself to focus on the page in front of him even though his cheeks are hot with something he doesn’t want to think about. The sketches are good, a few strange vaguely Norse reminiscent symbols drawn hastily with accompanying, scrawled notes in the margins. There’s something about the runes that niggles at Dean’s brain, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, like something he’s known his whole life but can’t put his finger on.

“These are interesting,” Dean he frowns, tracing his finger along the two last symbols.

When he glances up, he finds Professor Bradshaw looking at him intently, blue eyes inscrutable. “Yes,” he says, leaning back against the desk and folding his arms across his chest. “Those are the ones which struck me too,” he’s speaking a little quieter, low voice distracting Dean from why the runes are so familiar. He hopes he can remember them, that Sam will be able to place what he can’t about them.

“So, uh, this tomb. The one with the runes on it – that’s definitely where that guy’s body was found last week? It wasn’t just nearby or something?” Dean forces himself to ask, ignoring the way his heart is suddenly thumping again. “And the girl found the week before – she was directly linked to the burial site too?”

Professor Bradshaw clears his throat, unfolding his arms. “I believe so, yes.”

“And that doesn’t seem – I don’t know – a little strange, to you?”

“Human beings committing violent acts against each other is generally something I find a little strange,” Professor Bradshaw replies, in clipped tones. “But beyond that – no. Now –” he breaks off, glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid I have a seminar to deliver in ten minutes,” he confesses, and there’s something unfinished about the way he says it, something almost reluctant. Like he half wants to stay here talking with Dean.

“No problem,” Dean stands, and takes a last glance at the sketches before handing them back, trying to commit them to memory. “Thanks, Professor.”

Their eyes meet as Professor Bradshaw accepts the page, and the room suddenly feels very airless, a pause suspended between them. Neither of them moves away.

This close, Dean can see miniscule flecks of grey like tiny stars lost in blue of Professor Bradshaw’s eyes, the way that his full lips are slightly chapped, like maybe he worries them between his teeth when he’s thinking. They’re soft pink and warm-looking, and Dean wonders fleetingly if they taste like peppermint tea.

“It was nice meeting you, Dean,” Professor Bradshaw says, gently, and his eyes are so blue.

“Uh – yeah – you too. Thanks. I’d – uh – I’d better get going,” Dean stammers, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and cursing the way his cheeks are suddenly flaming with heat. His thoughts churn unsteadily; he ignores them the way he’s learnt to.

Still feeling strangely wound-up, he nods awkwardly at Professor Bradshaw and turns reluctantly towards the door.

“Wait a moment, Dean –” Professor Bradshaw’s voice halts Dean in his tracks as he reaches the door, and Dean turns expectantly, heat thumping a little painfully.

“Yeah?”

“Here – you’re welcome to borrow a couple of books on local history,” Professor Bradshaw is pulling a couple of books down from the overflowing cabinet by the window. “They should have a bit more about the legend of the coven that you might find interesting. Divergences of the legend and so forth. I’ll need them back by Thursday morning as I’m teaching a class on them in the afternoon, but you’re welcome to borrow them until then if they’d be helpful.”

“You sure?” Dean takes the proffered books awkwardly, and swallows the strange disappointment sinks in him like a stone as Professor Bradshaw steps back again. “Thanks.”

“As I said, I’m also giving a lecture on Wednesday where I’ll be examining the history behind the legend of the coven. I meant what I said - you’d be more than welcome to attend,” Professor Bradshaw says, sincerely. His eyes are intent, and there’s a hint of something almost like hopefulness hidden in the depths of his gravelly voice. Working on long ingrained instinct, Dean chooses to ignore it.

“Thanks, I’ll – I’ll see what my schedule’s like,” Dean replies, haltingly.

“Of course,” Professor Bradshaw agrees. He turns back to his desk.

“Can I ask –” Dean pauses, watching Professor Bradshaw stuff another notebook and a stack of handouts into his briefcase. “You said you’re writing a paper about the runes at the forest burial site– do you go to there much?”

Professor Bradshaw glances up, distractedly. “Yes, I spend time there every week.”

“So you haven’t noticed anything – I don’t know – anything unusual when you’ve been there recently?” Dean ventures.

“Unusual how?” Professor Bradshaw closes his briefcase with a snap and looks up at Dean properly, eyes narrowed with sudden skepticism. It’s stronger than the hints Dean has caught at other points during their conversation, sharp and blue, a world away from the observant warmth of a few moments ago.

“I dunno – odd noises, sudden drops in temperature, shadows –”

“Just what are you asking me?” Professor Bradshaw demands, voice clipped and defensive.

“Have you seen anything like that?” Dean presses, stubbornly. Irritation prickles his skin.

“No, I haven’t,” Professor Bradshaw says, bluntly. “And you know why? Because yes, I study the supernatural – but it’s not real, Dean. I don’t know what kind of sensational article you’re writing about local lore, but I can assure you, lore is all it is.” He winds a striped scarf haphazardly around his neck, and grabs his briefcase off the desk. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”

Sam is eating some gross looking granola yoghurt pot with a plastic spoon when Dean eventually clambers back into the car, feeling distinctly frustrated.

“You took your time,” he remarks idly, raising an eyebrow as Dean adjusts the mirror with an unnecessary amount of force and turns on the ignition.

“Goddamn waste of time was what it was,” Dean mutters mutinously, pulling out of the space and then immediately being forced to hit the brakes when a cluster of students cross the parking lot in front of him. He grinds his teeth and resists the urge to honk the horn. “Thought I was getting somewhere but he completely shut down the minute I asked him if he’d noticed anything weird at the burial site.”

“Suspicious?” Sam frowns, through a mouthful of granola.

“No, don’t think so. Just really damn touchy,” Dean drums his fingers impatiently against the wheel as he waits for the students to move, “And a bit of an asshole. I dunno, suppose working in his field he’s probably used to people thinking he’s just some lunatic who believes in the supernatural.”

“And does he?”

Dean snorts. “No way. He’s got a real bee in his bonnet about it. You’d think someone who’s spent the last twenty years with their head buried in books about ghosts and covens and demonic possession might be a little more open to the idea,” he shrugs, and gives in to the temptation to lean on the horn, reveling in the brief satisfaction of making the students jump and scurry out of the way, “But no. The guy’s absolutely blind to it all, and could rival you on stubbornness.”

Sam purses his mouth in annoyance, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Get anything useful at all?”

“He did lend me a couple books,” Dean admits, nodding in the direction of the backseat. “Have to take them back on Thursday morning, though. He needs them for some class.”

“He leant you his books?” Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Dean shrugs, skin prickling in annoyance, “What of it?”

“Dunno, that’s just,” Sam swallows a mouthful of yoghurt, “Pretty trusting. Academics usually treat their books as if they’re their first borns.”

“Don’t mess them up when you read them, then,” Dean says, dismissively, as they pull out onto the main street. “You find out anything useful about the victims?”

“Not really,” Sam leans back in his seat with a sigh, “Both from middle class, religious families. Seem to have been pretty well liked by people. Hard to establish any link more than that. The wife of the guy that was killed last week seemed a bit cagey, though,” he shrugs, “Might be worth a second visit to see if she’s holding out on us about something.”

“Right,” Dean drums his fingers impatiently against the wheel as they wait for a light to change. It’s starting to drizzle, tiny flecks of grey hitting the windshield. “Are we still definitely thinking ghost?”

“Seems like it,” Sam affirms, “The way the victims died definitely points to a vengeful spirit. But the place they were killed – connected to the burial site associated with the coven? I don’t know, I was thinking maybe it’s no ordinary ghost. Maybe it’s the vengeful spirit of a witch, and that’s why it’s so powerful?”

“Hm,” Dean mulls it over, flicking the windscreen wipers on as they continue to wait. They squeak slightly, repetitive and familiar. “You could be onto something there.”

“Yeah?”

“Professor Bradshaw was telling me about the local legend of the coven. Apparently, its leader was entombed alive by a bunch of angry churchgoers,” Dean steps on the accelerator as the light finally changes, and the rain-slicked village slides past in a blur. “That’s got to be some pretty good vengeful spirit material right there. And you said the victims were both religious, right? Can’t be a coincidence.”

“Why now, though?” Sam frowns. “It’s been what – two hundred years? There must have been plenty of churchgoers who walked by the burial site before now.”

“Dunno,” Dean shrugs, staring out at the rainy smudge of fall colors. The chestnuts trees lining the street are the same smoldering hue of amber as the one outside Professor Bradshaw’s window.

They drive in silence for a few moments, wipers squeaking.

“Okay,” Sam says, at length, “So I’m thinking – we go check into a motel, get through as much of these books from your professor as we can while we wait for the rain to stop, and then check out the burial site later this afternoon before it gets dark?” Sam asks, chucking his plastic spoon in the empty yoghurt container.

“He’s not ‘my professor’,” Dean says defensively, and suddenly has to step a little too hard on the breaks to avoid running a red light.

“Alright,” Sam says, slowly. “Okay.”

“Anyway, yeah,” Dean blusters, hastily, ignoring the weight of Sam’s gaze on the side of his face, “Works for me. But first,” he flicks on the indicator and pulls into a space near a little line of local shops. “Food. Not that yoghurty shit you’ve been eating. Real food.”

The forest is steeped in quiet in the way all ancient places are, fall singing the leaves on the gnarled branches that claw their way towards the fading gold of the late afternoon sun. Dean breathes in the wet, cloying smell of moss and follows Sam’s careful path through the trees. There’s a chill in the air, but the handle of Dean’s blade is hot in the palm of his hand.

“How much further to this place?” he hisses at Sam’s back, swatting a frond of bracken out of his face and casting his gaze edgily through the twisting branches and burnt amber.

“Nearly there, according to –” Sam stops so abruptly that Dean nearly collides with him, throwing out a cautionary arm.

“What?” Dean whispers urgently, instantly drawing his blade. His heart is racing now, whole body tense, coiled, ready to attack. His gaze flickers rapidly through the mess of branches and he stands on his tiptoes, trying to see past Sam’s stupidly large frame. “Sammy,” he hisses, impatiently, when Sam doesn’t immediately answer, “What is it?”

“There’s something there,” Sam breathes, almost inaudible. His posture is still, alert. Dean can see Sam’s hold on the gun in his back pocket tighten.

“What kind of something?” Dean whispers, craning his neck to try and see. The light seems somehow dimmer already, the fading sun sliding further towards the ground. When he breathes in, the smell of wet leaves is stronger, now that they’re in the heart of the forest. His heart is thrumming so fast but everything else feels suspended in time, unnaturally still.

“I think it’s a person,” Sam murmurs, and somewhere close, Dean hears the brittle rustle of dead leaves, loud and unnerving in the wooded quiet. He watches the quickened rise and fall of Sam’s shoulders as his breathing suddenly sharpens. “They’re holding something. They – shit, Dean, they’re coming this way.”

Dean reacts immediately and on nearly twenty years of protective instinct; he shoves Sam out of the way and stumbles out into the clearing, blade brandished in front of him.

---

#did i really just create a new ship tag on ao3 just because i couldn't get the idea of early seasons dean and pre-podcast jeremy meeting?#yes #yes i did #feedback truly makes my day <3 #crossposting from ao3 #bridgewater #bridgewater podcast #supernatural #dean winchester #jeremy bradshaw #dean x jeremy #spn fanfic #dean fanfic #my stuff #my posts: fanfic

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haven-in-writing · 3 years

Text

To be the knife against his throat

TW- There is a bit of violence throughout each chapter so if that makes you uncomfortable please don't read ahead. I try to put the proper warnings when possible but unfortunately I do tend to forget. As this story progresses I will try to be more aware of this. Thank you beautiful people so much for reading!

Catch up with the first and second chapter if you haven't already!

Tag list as of 9/27/21 @avengerstanforlife, @dark-night-sky-99, @emergenciesstory , @bookscoffeeandracoons, @krystallynx

The following morning everyone in the compound was woken up to loud screams. Well, one loud scream coming from a certain trickster god. The team ran into the kitchen area to see you on top of Loki with a knife hitting his metal cuff attached to his armor. Growling in frustration, you punch his side, as he weakens his grip on your hand that holds the knife, you push further and the tip of said knife touches the base of his neck.

“Y/N NO!” The group collectively shouts as you draw a small amount of blood from the pressure you put on the knife. You lean down next to his face, whispering something that not even Friday could pick up on. His Adam's apple dips as he gulp’s from the assumed threat that was whispered. No one tries to approach you in case you decide to plunge the knife into his throat, but without any warning Loki smirks as a flash of green magic pushes you into a portal and leaves you falling in your ass a good distance from the god.

The inhumane growl that leaves your throat stops everyone in their tracks. Staring him down, Loki puts both hands up as a sign of peace.

“I mean no disrespect lady, I simply wished to not be in such a compromising position,” he explains quickly before your knife could find a home in his body.

“Just stay the hell away from me Loki,” you all but hiss at him before stalking out of the room ignoring the team's questions.

The group surrounding them doesn’t make a move, watching Loki for any signs that he will retaliate as Thor walks as quietly as he can slightly behind you. The two of you walk in silence to your private workshop. No one tried to stop and talk to you, practically feeling the tense energy you were exuding. As you entered the shop, Thor gently closed the door and cleared his throat.

“I know my brother can be infuriatingly frustrating to deal with, I do hope that this flaw of his doesn’t make it unbearable to be around either of us,” Thor finishes his sentiment quickly before you have a chance to speak.

“Thor, I promise I won’t actually kill your brother, I’m sorry you have to deal with this at all. Just- just keep him away from me. Okay?” you quickly continue, “He left me to die once, which only taught me that I can rely on no one. I don’t trust this team, I don’t trust normal people, and I especially don’t trust Loki. So back off.”

You leave Thor standing in the workshop baffled by the raw emotions you had shown in your brief tangent. As quick as you left, Loki entered the shop moments later, a flash of green being the only warning Thor had before he was staring at his brother.

“Lady y/n just left so it would be wise to make your leave quickly as I am unsure of whether she will return here or not,’’ Thor warns quickly and quietly.

“I did not realize she was still alive, I didn’t even bother to give her a proper burial,” Loki says, lowering his head with shame. “It was the least I could have done.”

Without another word, Loki disappears with a flash of green light. Thor breathes out gently and turns to leave the workshop. As he is about to switch off the light, a map on the wall catches his attention. A map he hadn’t seen in over a century, when the nations of Midgard were being claimed and fought over. Any doubts in his brother's memory were long gone with this artifact on the wall encased in glass. It was too frayed and battered to be a replica. With more questions brewing in his mind than ever, Thor shuts the workshop door and with a shake of his head, makes his way to his chambers.

He is so engrossed with his own thoughts, he doesn’t manage to catch the red headed spy lurking in the shadows, having heard every bit of conversation from her post.

Until now things had sailed pretty smoothly with the Avengers. Until now your identity has been easily covered up by half truths and diversions. That was until Loki had to come along and cause chaos as always. At least the lore surrounding him was consistent.

Taking a moment to pause and collect your thoughts, you find a way to minimize the fallout heading your way. The team was gonna find out eventually so why not get ahead of that curve. The only way to do that would be going against your better judgement. The only person that could persuade the Avengers to not completely turn you out. Maybe two people? Why would they not completely dismiss you, after all they were just a rag tag group of superpowered freaks. The amount of times you had saved their butts didn't matter, at the end of the day, you lied to people that trusted you. They would never trust you again.

So who was the better option?

Tony treated you like a daughter, always trying to cheer you up when you were down. Y'all even had a secret handshake. He would be beyond insulted that you didn't share this overwhelmingly important detail of your existence with him. Now on the other hand, Director Fury. Would he even care? As long as you were on the good guys team aka his team, he wouldn't let you be taken away. Right? Or maybe he would want to dissect you like the Hydra vermin had tried oh so many years ago.

Fury, like the team, would have no reason to believe or trust that your intentions were as true as you had once said. An impossible situation for the impossible creature you were. What a dilemma.

Shaking off the thoughts crossing your mind, you text one Tony Stank, the only contact you had listed in your phone besides- well, nevermind it’s not important. What is important is the text you’re about to send. If it’s not worded correctly, Tony would assume the worst and immediately try and track you down.

“Hey Stank-face,” you punch into the old flip phone.

“Why did I even tell you that story,” He texted back quickly.

“Because you were drunk and have no filter, duh,” you smile for a moment but quickly mask your face and continue texting Tony, “I have a favor to ask.”

There’s a brief pause before he replies.

“What’s up?” There’s no hiding your smile now, you can always rely on Tony to pull through.

“Meet me by the burger stand, next to the old warehouse at 5pm?” Nervously picking at your nails while waiting on his response, you notice a black bike peeking around the corner of the alleyway you were across from. Shit.

“Sure thing Jelly-bean, everything OK?” No, not ok but it would be. Just have to get ahead of the fallout.

“Yeah Tones, all good, just got something to talk to you about. I would like for this to stay between us for now if you don’t mind. Gotta go, I’ll see you at 5.” Taking the sim card out of the phone you toss it in the trash bin and start walking, keeping an eye on the little stalker you've managed to catch.

#avengers fanfic #avengers fic #marvel fic #avengers fanfiction #avengers #marvel #iron man #natasha romanoff #the avengers #vampire reader #loki x y/n #loki x reader #slow burn #so slow it'll make you hurt #loki x vampire reader #vampire!reader #please reblog if you like this #please reblog

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villainsandvictimsalliance · 3 years

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I'm am completely tired of people crapping on villians and not trying to understand their perspectives I am really sick of the fandom doing all this

Me too, anon, me too. That's exactly why I create this blog.

I've said it before, but if someone decides to ignore the villains and their narratives through the manga, that person is not going to be able to read correctly the main arc.

In bnha / mha, the villains are not simple side characters. Shigaraki Tomura has the same relevance as Midoriya Izuku, for example. They are direct parallels and together they work as the representations of the theme. If my speculations and metas are correct, you have all the main characters directly interacting with the villains to reach the climax of the series.

Besides, it really frustraste me that people are unable to appreciate a character and how that character is written just because that said character is not "good". It completely takes the depth of the characters and the complexity of their buildings and create a shallow storyline. Even the characters in kids TV shows have different degrees of good and bad traits, because we are in an era of writing where we're exploring how real a character can get.

People can say "I like shallow, simple characters with very explicit plots that don't challenge my comprehension or my mind" and that would be perfectly fine, there's no shame in liking simple stuff. Instead, they invent every type of excuses to hate characters? And I mean, you can hate a character for your own personal reasons, but instigating a crusade against that character and the fans?

Also, many fans are unable to understand that there are not universal rules to judge characters WITHOUT the context. Lately I've seen so many people bringing things out of context and directly violating the original material not in rational ways (admitting something is fan modified, fan made, personal takes, etc) but in harmful serious ways, by telling others that what they see is the only possible point of view on the matter.

For example, I'm totally able to say that I hate Overhaul in the canon for what he did but I'm pretty much interested in the implications of his writing. I can write many aus about Overhaul without liking the character in a sentimental way, just because I as a writer want to explore the possibilities within this character. I can totally say Boku No Hero Academia is not the best written manga and still entirely love and rant about the worldbuilding daily.

When it comes to the villains, it is simply annoying to me how people refuse to acknowledge that they are some of the best written characters in the manga. Toga is one of the best written female characters in mha / bnha, Dabi has an intricate personal arc that involves the values of the hero system itself and Shigaraki Tomura is— I don't even have words for the amount of dedication Horikoshi put in Tomura. He's been driving the plot along with Izuku this whole time. I can even argue that Shigaraki is better written than Izuku, because he is way more deep in terms of motivations, psychological traits and way of acting.

People is free to hate the villains, but to refuse to see the greatness of their writing? And even then, it's incredible the amount of issues I've seen within the fans regarding the villains.

For example: Spinner as a character represents the racism within the bnha / mha world. He is an incredible character, he narrates the MVA arc, he's been there for the almost every arc of the villains... And yet he lacks popularity. Why? I know studio bones tends to take him out of the anime, but this also has a reason. Why studio bones thinks Spinner is not as relevant or popular as the others? It's safe to assume a group of fans don't care about him only because he "doesn't have the look".

Sometimes when I point out that the League is right about MANY issues within the hero system, some fans go great lengths to defend the heroes and shut down my arguments. I don't personally understand how people likes to ignore the fact that pro-heroes in bnha / mha are a mixture of the police-the army with the celebrity world. In the real world, we're right now living a whole situation regarding the values behind the police existence and the negative side of putting celebrities like they are gods. You can clearly see it reflected on the bnha / mha universe, the villains clearly point out the privileges of the pro-heroes and why the system promoting and manipulating such privileges has created the catastrophe they're going through. But apparently fans don't want to read that? Because heroes are supposed to be good and villains are supposed to be bad, I guess. They don't understand the hero-villain narrative has been dehumanizing the characters and the main arc of bnha / mha is working on it to show that more than heroes and villains and citizens, there are complex humans who don't fall into an absolute.

I'm sorry for ranting about this anon, but every time I read "villain fan" as in derrogatory, I laugh because I'm baffled. Most stories need a good antagonist for it to work. There are MANY types of antagonists and MANY types of villains and they just– they just ignore it? Like it is nothing? And then they pretend to judge the villains by only taking tiny parts of their personalities and stories and they pretend to say that is accurate?

I don't know what to say to that. I can only write meta to help people understand the villains better and show them why they are so important and impressive. If they don't want to acknowledge it, that's their problem.

I love to talk and discuss people with different points of view as long as we're able to keep things respectful, but the minute they start attacking me without even listening to my arguments, good bye.

I thank God for the block button every single day of my life.

Well, I hope you're having a great day, anon. Please remember to drink water, take your meds, eat enough, sleep enough and don't forget to breath deep and use the block button and the content and tag filters as much as you want.

#Shan's asks #Long post #Shan's personal opinions #Shan's mha opinions #Shan's bnha opinions #Shan's lov opinions #bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #league of villains #lov #Mha spoilers #Bnha spoilers #shigaraki tomura #dabi #Toga himiko #Midoriya Izuku

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