#she's got a crack on her back and not just like a tasteful little spiderweb | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

neteyamm · 1 year

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untitled bc yeah

pairing jake sully x na’vi!reader (female coded)

warning(s) nsfw, minors dni, oral, kinda na’vi heat?

author note this was literally going to be in a fanfic i was writing, but then, i like scrapped it and wrote this in thirty minutes. lol, is kitty offensive? jake’s great great great grandparents x20 was gen z. think on that. this is actually like crack? like crack wit smut? idk. enjoy i guess. jake’s pussy whipped, sooo. lol accidental third person? well, its third person limited, bc it’s jake pov? that happened accidentally tho. soz <33 unedited … yeah <33 my descriptions are actually shit and i think i gave jake adhd? lowercase very much not intended. i spent too much words on fucking silk. that had no reason being there :) it was fun tho. somehow past tense but not? idk not edited so yeah. enjoy again ig.

that small area, filled with overgrown trees, bushes and plants, lush greens and illuminating purples, had already been claimed before jake stumbled into it. it was hard to find, and it had been a mistake on his part in finding it, he’d took a tumble from the tall trees, fell through some pretty hard branches, and landed before the slender covered entrance. at first, jake thought he was looking at cloth, that somehow the na’vi had created silk fabric. he’d touch it, shocked and slightly excited, only to feel as if he’d touched a spiderweb. the silk, he’d realized, was natural — made from a bug larvae, most likely. jake had pushed the silk aside to the reveal small area. the ground was the most softest marsh he’d ever stepped on, nearly tickling his feet when he dragged them. the plants, the bushes, the trees, everything was alive and glowing, the ground tracking his footprints, it was nothing short of amazing.

he’d turned to leave, wondering if neytiri had ever been here, when his ears perks up. the tall tale sound of a hiss. it sounds like bees in someone’s throat, and escapes in a bone-chilling sound that even now, as a true na’vi and could very much make the sound himself, leaves him nervous and admittedly a little weak in the knees. he could remember when meeting the clans with tsu’tey and neytiri, asking them to fight the humans, he would steel himself when hearing it. there were so many different sounding hisses, and yet jake thinks his clan took the cake for the scariest ones.

he shakes his head. the point being, the sound makes his hairs stand and his tail to swish nervously. he turns, looking up to see a na’vi woman, an omaticayan, squatting in one of the lower branches covered in illuminated moss. she holds a dagger carved from their newest hometree, after many months of searching, tsu’tey found one suitable for their many people. she hisses again, defensive, and he smells it then. it’s like a light switch goes off in his mind. the reason he hadn’t seen neytiri, or any of the unmated women, it was the change of the tide — they called it — and when that happens, unmated na’vi women go into heat.

it’s also the reason he hadn’t seen tsu’tey all day. it makes sense now, he honestly thought they were avoiding him. he wants to slap himself now. how disrespectful of him to stumble into a woman’s marked territory, during her heat no less. he holds his hands up and walks backward, barely withholding a flinch when she hisses again.

“uh, sorry, ma’am. so sorry, didn’t mean to … what’s the word? hm, uh, embark? no, definitely not the word. uh. sorry to invade your territory?” he backs away slowly, least he accidentally starts a chase he did not want. “i’m just gonna—”

“are you mated, toruk makto?” compared to her hiss, her voice is quiet nice, hm, like honey he thinks, smooth sounding, sweet tasting, almost like her scent—he snaps out of it. her words correlate in his mind.

he honestly forgot he was the toruk makto for a moment. the war had been months ago, and despite the fact that many people won’t let him forget that he was the sixth, it was easy to forget when people got over the awe. got over the awe and saw that he was really just a clumsy guy, with a too big heart, a little too smart mouthed, and great enough warrior. he takes pride in being the head warrior, just beneath tsu’tey.

“no…?”

“was that a question, toruk makto?”

“no?” he looks around for a moment, before back to the woman. he noticed it then, she was actually quite beautiful. huh. her hair wasn’t braided, and from the slight waves, he assumed she’d just taken them down. oh, he abruptly looks away. she wore the customary loincloth, yet only a single beaded necklace, with tiny beads extending from it like dripping water, covered her nipples.

“do you want a mate?”

now that he thinks of it. he hadn’t really been looking for someone to mate with forever. once he realized neytiri was destined for tsu’tey, and they had some odd partnership going on between them—he got over that crush painstakingly slow. not to mention, tsu’tey could be scary, and jake didn’t want to mess up his position as the next olo’eyktan. no, no, jake wasn’t looking for anyone, despite the obvious looks he was receiving. he looked back to the woman, she was staring at him with clear eyes. wait. . . was she offering?

“what’s your name?” he questioned, dropping his hands when realized he still hand them up like a idiot.

“(name) te tshaka de mo’at’ite,” she says, confidently. he blinks. now, why has he heard that name before? oh, oh! the mystery woman! he remembers it clear as day now. the younger sister of the three sisters, the deceased one, the next tsahik one, and the mysterious one. that’s what, he couldn’t even remember the dead avatar driver’s name now, had said, anyway. the avatar driver had thought he was being funny, until grace practically kicked his ass and nearly cut him off.

jake couldn’t for the life of him remember seeing her, he could remember hearing her name being called, her voice talking, but she was never in sight. “neytiri’s sister?”

“yes, neytiri is my older sister by a single cycle,” she grits her teeth, a hand briefly pushing at her lower belly. “you did not answer my question, toruk makto. do you want a mate?”

“uh, are you sure this isn’t your heat talking?” jake couldn’t help but wonder. what if it was someone else that barged in, would she say the same?

“i have seen you—”

“you have?” jake raises a brow.

“i have watched you—”

“you have?” jake raises both brows.

“i have followed you—”

“you have?” jake couldn’t help the voice crack or raise in pitch. he never noticed anyone following him. oh man, this shouldn’t be as flattering as he’s taking it.

“i decided that i will have you,” she finishes, not an ounce concerned with just how odd she sounds. she is confident, jake will give her that, to outright tell someone that you will have them is ballsy.

“you will?”

“I will. I am glad it was you who stumbled upon my thicket. otherwise, i would have injuried them.”

well, that settles it. jake always liked a woman who could kill him, and well, (name) looks fierce and ready to kill him. besides, jake’s a simple man, someone willingly to be with him? forever? hah, if his old buddies from earth could see him now. they were always saying jake would never find a girl or guy, he wasn’t the best at flirting.

“well, here i am, have me?” he understands his old buddies, now. he cringes, by eywa, did i really say that?

(name) gives a rich laugh, it causes a shiver to run down his spine, and he only has half a second to catch the lunging woman. they tumble through the soft marsh, nearly sinking into it as she settles quite contently on his lap. she brings her quene around, and jake does the same, watching in morbid fascination as the tendrils coil and link around the other.

it only takes a second for their minds to connect, emotions bursting full and richly around their interlinked minds. there’s no love there, not yet at least, but its overwhelming, heartwarming and thrilling all at once. he could feel her brushing against his mind, squeezing around his brain, settling into the missing blanks, melting into the crevices and nooks. it feels good, it feels right, and he’s suddenly heavily aware of the stabbing pain in her lower belly. amazing how she kept a clear mind with that amount of pain, geez.

he wonders, briefly, if this would have felt more special if they took things slow. but then, he’s struck by unbridled lust, and forgets his wonderings. well, it’s been years since he’s last did anything, really, and her scent was starting to coat the air thickly.

“so,” jake starts awkwardly. does this count as a one night stand, we just met, and now we’re about— his thoughts blank when she grabs his hands, pressing them against her tits. the beads dig into his skin for a moment, but they’re easily removed, and suddenly it’s skin on skin contact. he squeezes, instinctively really, and draws out a breathy whimper from (name). his eyes widens briefly, and he feels like inexperienced teenage boy again with his fast he hardens.

she must have felt him, there’s no way she hadn’t, her hips move upwards slightly, then back down. it’s his turn to whimper at the friction of the cloth and the pressure of her weight on him, practically suffocating his cock. he decides, last minute, to give her perky nipples a little twist and he savors her sounds. she really did sound good, like — his eyes caught the silk curtain swaying gently — like honey dripping onto silk.

her scent rolls around his nose, strong, thick, and heady. he rolls them over without a second thought, hands sliding down to her loincloth. his eyes meet her’s, and he raises a brow. “may i?”

she twists her hips a little, impatience nudges against his mind, “please,” she purrs, litreally, it starts in her chest and settles in her throat. like a cat. like a kitty. oh, he shudders.

he makes easy work to untie the strings, the cloth falling away aimlessly, and that is all it takes for her arousal to truly be smelt. he gulps, swallows harshly, gulps again. shit, is it hot? why does it feel like his control is breaking? her inner thighs were glistening and as she happily, and proudly spreads her legs, he couldn’t help the groan of utter pain. his cock throb painfully, his chest ache painfully, this has to be a crime. he’d never once in his life seen a cunt so pretty.

his mouth waters, and he swallows again, least he starts drooling everywhere. he knows that wouldn’t be an appetizing sight. he shakes his head, back on track. he clenches his fingers, before scooting himself back, settling on his belly, and eye level with this beautiful, beautiful cunt.

“pretty,” he unconsciously mutters, mesmerized. her pink bud peeking out between her puffy lips, his eyes catching sight of tiny droplets sliding down and disappearing into the marsh below them. “god, such a pretty pussy.” it felt wrong to call upon eywa, what if she heard? what if she saw? he doesn’t think the mother goddess needs to see this.

“hurry, jake,” she whines above him, twisting her hips again, and his eyes tracks the movements. she’s practically waving her cunt in his face. he groans.

“patience, kitty,” he mutters, debating if he should eat or finger, hm. shit, he really wants to taste her. “you want me to touch you?”

“yes, please,” she whispers, sounding shy all of a sudden. he chuckles at that, barely dodging the thump from her tail against his face.

jake uses his index and thumb to spread her puffy lips, his eyes flutter, his breathing is caught, he could die right here, he could die a happy man right here, right now. jake can’t even call it glistening anymore, she’s practically a river, so wet, dripping and dripping, her pretty hole clenching around nothing.

he leans forward, flattening his tongue, and giving her a generous swipe. her taste melts on his tongue, heady and sweet all at once, he swallows like a man starved and does it again. his tongue nudging against her hole, catching the juices that exit. “ooh, fuck, you taste so good, babygirl,” he groans. he really feels like praying.

“j-jake,” her whimpers and mewls were like music to his ears, and the moment she grips his hair, his hips jerk and he has no choice but to eat her like a man straved. he slurps as much of her juices as he could, before turning his attention to her neglected bud, swirling around the engorged bud slowly, eyes fluttering open to watch the way her body responded.

he swirls on the left side, her belly clenches. he swirls on the right side, her thighs shudder against his head, a true moan ripped from her throat. “so pretty, you moan so prettily,” he grins against her cunt and attacks that spot with vengence.

he uses his free hand to wrap around her thigh, prying it open as they begin to close around his head. she shudders above him, fingers tightening around his hair, pretty sounds trembling from her lips. he swirls and slurps, sucks and nips, and he could only feel himself growing harder by the second. “j-jake—haah!—m’gonna cum!” she warns, spreading her legs a little wider and practically shoving her cunt into his face, and he happily takes advantage of it.

he wraps his arms underneath her thighs, hands settling on her hips in soft grip, locking her in place as he brings her closer and closer to her release. she’s not quiet anymore, sounds ringing above them, her mind is blissful against his — thinking of nothing but the strings of pleasure. it only takes a well placed swipe of his tongue, a tiny nip of his fangs and—

“j-jake—m’cumming!” she cums with a sequel, thighs nearly locking around his head, but he grabs them in time. he’d seen what a na’vi women’s thighs could do to a head. he happily licks up the steady trail of white leaking from her hole, listening to her soft whimpers and satisfied purrs.

“good, kitty?” he asks, propping up on his elbows to get a good look at her. he nearly starts kicking his feet at the satisfied expression on her beautiful face.

“mhm, very good, jake,” she grins, fangs on display, and goddamnit, he’s going to burst from that image alone.

“you want some more, pretty girl?”

her cheeks bloom like anemones, eyes casting downwards, and her grin turning shy. she’s so fucking cute, it hurts, really. “i need your cock, jake.”

“oh?” he raised a brow, condescendingly, “you need it?” she nods, eagerly. “if you didn’t need it, babygirl, would you want it?”

“yes,” she shudders, “please, jake.”

“hm, let me see,” he mutters, dragging himself onto his hunches. he chuckles when she props up on her elbows eagerly, watching his fingers untie his loincloth with lustful eyes. he sighs when the cool air hits his cock, the tip an angered magenta and leaking clear pre-cum. air sucks through his teeth when she reaches forward, grabbing his cock in a tight grasp. “careful, kitty, don’t hold too tight for me, yeah?”

she leans down, mouth dropping open, and he stops her, index underneath her chin. “later, pretty girl,” he promises.

her lips pout, slick from spit and brusied from biting, “but, you—”

he gives a quiet tut, “i’ll train your pretty throat for me, later. right now,” he grabs her waist, forcing her on to her back. she gives a startled look, pretty eyes wide, and mouth popping open. “i need to fuck your fat cunt, until the only thing you remember is my name, hm?”

she shudders, hands reaching for his. “please,” she begs prettily.

ugh, he hopes na’vi can’t have heart attacks.

#avatar smut #avatar way of water #jake sully #jake sully x reader #jake smut #jake sully smut #babygirl only sounds right from jake’s mouth #avatar 2009 #he’s literally it #.masterlist.

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anonymousfoz · 11 months

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Monster (Scrapped WIP)

"Boss?" I run towards the desk in the top floor. "Boss?" I let out a small whine and begin to sniff around the desk. Nothing, he was gone. He couldn't had left that early or without me. I begin to panic until I hear footsteps. Intruders, the boss had left me to defend his numerous files of future plans. That was why he was gone. He was giving me another test, he could had given me some food to prepare for this test, but never the less a test it was. I quickly head to the door, and stand my ground as two intruders come up the stairwell. One was in a beautiful yellow and orange suit with black spots for the eyes and a spider logo in the middle. It reminded me of the colors of the sun. I never really seen the sun other than through the windows of the building. Then other one wasn't wearing that much of a suit, a flannel shirt and jeans, however he had a metal helmet on. The one with the casual attire was much taller than the other.

"We came up here to fight some villain!" Was the tall one underestimating me. I give him a verbal cue of my aggression. The tall one came over and got in a squatting position before touching my head. I bit his hand and using some of my strength I fling him towards the other intruder. The yellow intruder ducked out the way and something white came out of their hands, attempting to catch the other one. It looked like a spiderweb pattern but appeared soft. She looked down at me before heading to the other intruder. I let out a huff and sit down in my position. "This is embarrassing. I should be facing super villains not their dingy mutt." "I am not some mutt! I am a loyal companion!" The intruder in the yellow suit looked back at me. They came closer to me. "Stay back!" I bark and growl but all they do is pick me up and take me down the set of stairs. I attempt and try to get out of their hands but I cannot escape. "You either have me hold you, or Titan can hold you." I quickly stop, it was clear Titan was the larger intruder. I kept growling but I was contempt not being held by the person who I had just upset.

Eventually the yellow intruder put me down. I immediately bolted away only to get struck down by some big net. It was made of something organic and was like the spiderweb net from earlier. I attempted to chew my way out only to gag out the material. "Isn't your webbing venomous?" The larger intruder pondered while I continued to try and chew my way out. The yellow intruder walked over and formed a leash out of the material before putting it around me and getting me out of the net like thing. I growled at her but the bigger figure gave me a stare down while he cracked his knuckles one by one. "No. It's not venomous, but no one should eat it." The yellow figure responded. I had tried to get away only for the yellow figure to wrangle me back in. I growled and attempted to bite the figure yet she didn't do anything against me. "Listen here you little mutt. Your 'little 'boss' left your punk ass, you are nothing and we shouldn't even be helping you out." "Titan.." "I am not a mutt!" I snapped back at the larger figure, my anger only rising. "Then what are you? Some sort of monster! What you don't like being called that?" I growled at him and tried to lung as him as he continued to taunt me. The leash had became lose and I tackled him, mauling and clawing him. Biting into his flesh and tasting his sour blood before the yellow figure picked me up again. "What the hell Sunshine?" "Sorry, my hand slipped." The yellow figure rolled their eyes and gave me a pet. I could feel my tag wagging as I continued to look at the one named Titan. I licked the blood off my fur near my mouth. It wasn't long before the two separated and I was taken to some secret place. The yellow figure remained quiet and calm and eventually put me back down. We walked for a while and eventually I became tired. I laid down and fell asleep, the worse choice I could had made as when I woke up things only became worse.

I woke up in a dark place, my eyes adjusting to the darkness before trying to get out of some grasp. I could hear snoring and let out a yelp as something grabbed my tail. "Que paso?" A stranger goes to turn on the light. They looked at the lock which read 23:43. There were other clocks around the room, some with flags above them. The stranger quickly looked over at me. Their skin was as smooth as sandstone, hair as black as blackberries. Their brown eyes stared into my eyes as they were quickly confused. "Why am I here?" I demanded knowledge of current location, the stranger created the same organic material you had seen with the yellow figure to grab a blanket from across the room. "You are at mi casa" I quickly tilted my head before the stranger sighed. "Mi casa is Spanish for my house. Look you either stay here, or stay with Titan and he rather keep you in a cage." I didn't like the response but it was better than nothing. "Look. We started off on the wrong foot. Everyone calls me Sunny or Sunshine. I'm a hero at the National Hero League of the World, or NHLW for short." "The same people after my boss!" I begin to growl and get defensive however the teenager seemed not to care. "Yes. He has kidnapped people and killed numerous. We are trying to find his location, maybe to return you, maybe to arrest him, whatever." She got up and went to grab something from her fridge, maybe a weapon. She grabbed a bottle of water and a slice of pizza. She quickly put the pizza on a plate and put it into a microwave. "We got tons of paperwork on him from the location we find you at. On the couch, the yellow one with black stripes, there is the files about you and your past." I looked over at the couch. My past? Boss never wanted to tell me about that, however the stranger had told that they had your past in files. You couldn't help to want to look. The microwave beeps got you alert again, the strange stumbled over to the table by the sofas and put the plate down. "You didn't eat before, so here is something if you want to eat." I sniffed the air, the smell of cheesy goodness on a plate with pepperoni. I went over and quickly ate the pizza while the stranger began to clean out my fur. Why did they care so much? After eating the last scrap of pizza and getting my fur brushed, she began reading the files out to me. I couldn't read at all, boss refused to teach me. The stranger talked about an orphanage when I was young, not a shelter but an oprhanage. There were pictures of a child I didn't recognize, was that me? I was a human at some point? They talked about horrible experiments, some I didn't remember taking part in. This had to be made up, propaganda, false. But why would there be photos, and records. How would they know about the orphanage or the experiments that I did remember. I let out a small whimper before the stranger put the files down. She sighed before she turned on the television. I quickly begin to watch, Boss had never let me do anything like this. The strange quickly fell asleep on the couch but I continued watching the televsion when a report of my boss had stopped the broadcast, before it contuined on with the show from eariler. There was a ton of information I took in that night. It opened my eyes to the real world.

Watching the news and shows for hours straight made me question everything. Why did the boss lie to me, why was the boss so bad? Was I kidnapped as a child? How did I become an orphan? Who were my parents? What was it like without fur? I was beginning to overthink everything until I couldn't take it. I went over to the stran- Sunshine, and began to tap her until she woke up again. "Hm?" I could see the bags under her eyes, it was only 6 am but I had a feeling this was the first time in a while when she got good sleep. "What is it buddy?"

"If I helped my boss, does that make me evil?"

"No."

"Did he kidnap me?" Sunshine took a minute before nodding her head. My world fully shattered, the man I looked up to, the man who raised me… had kidnapped me. Sunshine picked me up and hugged me but all I could do was whimper in sadness.

"It's okay. That's why I have you here, I want to give you a new better life."

"A better life? Like the ones on the televison?" I looked at Sunshine's tired face, she let out a yawn before responding.

"An even better life. But you have to be willing to change and work around me being a hero."

"Can I be a hero?" Sunshine let out a small smile before nodding her head. From that day on, I became a new person.

- There was a knock at the door, Sunshine got up and cracked the door. She was clearly talking to someone and was getting less and less happy.

"We do everything together, why have you gone silent." Sunshine sighed and opened the door. I quickly walked over to see Titan. I stared and then got on the sofa.

"You been doing all this, over that monster?" I pretended that I couldn't hear him and watch the television.

"Don't talk to her like that. Besides, tommorrow we go through recruit training."

"You aren't serious? Training that mutt?"

"I prefer monster over mutt." I corrected him, I liked how it sounded honestly. I didn't care about being called a monster however, I wasn't a mutt.

"I don't care what you prefer."

"You are either going to call her what she wants, or you can leave and I'll see you tommorrow." Titan looked at Sunshine with such disgust and left, slamming the door. Sunshine sat down beside me and looked sad. I began to lean on her and she began to pet me. "Sorry about him."

"It is fine. Plus I love the ring of Monster."

"You could have it as your hero name if wanted."

"I can?!" Sunshine smiled and grabbed her phone with her web powers. She was ordering pizza while I changed the television with my paw. I had found some crappy romcom, while it wasn't what I wanted at first. It proved to be interesting.

The next day I was taken to the NHLW. I hated it, so many people there trying to attack me and calling me names. However, Sunshine had my back and nearly fought a few of them. We eventually made it to Sunshine's room in the NHLW headquarters. She sighed as she quickly bandaged her arm. She had got a burn protecting me from one of the fire heroes.

"Will you be okay?" I walk over to her while I go up on her couch. Before Sunshine could answer she opened the door. I sniffed the air before i began to growl, it was the one person who I hated most, Owlboy. They were out of uniform but I could recognize it was them because they still had the scar above their eye, that I had given them.

"Heard you had that monster here. I just wanted to stop and see how the mutt is doing Sunny."

"You step inside and I will punch your teeth out" The owlboy stepped, I assumed this behavior wasn't normal for her but I didn't seem to know the normal Sunshine.

"Chill Sunny," the boy came inside. "I just have a few snacks and treats."

"Drippy, if you done anything to those. I will make you see literal stars."

"I got it, Sunny. I will not hurt the mutt." OwlBoy came inside, he was nothing like I had thought he was. Much smaller than I thought. He walked over to me and placed down treats before grabbing me by my neck. Sunshine quickly grabbed him and the two began to fight and yell. I walked outside the room and sat outside. Some more heroes came over.

"Aww, such a cute puppy." I didn't know which hero this was, all of them were out of uniform. So many scents around to where I couldn't identify anyone. They came over and pet me, it felt nice from all the hostility but that didn't last long.

"Don't touch that. It's the Punishers pet dog." I knew that voice, Midnight.

"I am not a dog."

"It speaks." Midnight rolled her eyes and I glared at her. "Nice to see you pup." The other hero was confused but in reality me and Midnight were close together, Midnight close to the Boss and me before she betrayed, however she was friendly and nice to me. I punched her with my paw until I saw Owlboy go through Sunshine's door. Midnight quickly ran over and hugged Sunshine to stop her from hurting Owlboy.

"What did you do now Drippy?" The other Hero ran over to protect me from anything, else. "Sunny is never upset, so what did you do?"

"I went after Punisher's mutt."

"I'm not a dog." I responded and Owlboy glared at me. "Then what are you?"

"Punisher loves testing on people, possibly that happened." The hero stood by my side while I was very confused on how many people hated me, or knew what happened to me.

"I am here to become a hero, like Midnight."

"Good luck mut-" A web had suddenly appeared on Owlboy's face. The other hero took me back into Sunshine's room and put the door back into the frame via some ability. The rest of the day was the same. People trying to hurt me or being supportive of me. I didn't mind either or, I was happy to be reunited with Midnight and Sunshine was going to teach me to read.

#Scrapped writing #Monster #spidersona #superhero #writeblr #fiction #writing #my writing

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whythinktoomuch · 3 years

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ii. apocalypse now & again

(pt. i)

Kara woke up and realized that she was going to die.

Too many of the drones had survived the explosions and were still closing in on her. What little strength she had left after quite literally digging her own grave was presently and painstakingly strained just from her efforts to climb onto her knees. And on top of all that—of everything that possibly could have gone wrong for her in this moment—her helmet was cracked.

The abstract red numbers warning Kara of the kryptonite levels in the area seemed redundant now, what with that unmistakable chill already flooding her bloodstream.

“… Alex,” Kara gasped out, barely able to hear herself over the ringing in her ears. “Hey, Alex… Are you there?”

Her words were met with not one whisper or even a crackle of static, and for once, Kara was inconsolably disappointed to hear no one yelling back at her. With her teeth gritted, she shoved herself off the ground as hard as she could, drifting barely a foot into the air before the first drone crashed into the back of her head.

Kara toppled back onto the ground, knees skidding across the rubble in a shower of hot sparks. The impact had her head reeling, her mouth filling with a taste that she was now idly recognizing as blood. But there was no time to consider any of that as the drone doubled back. Kara scrambled out of the way, narrowly avoiding another collision, only to be struck by a second drone smashing right against her ear.

Out of breath but swearing, Kara whirled around and snagged the fast approaching drone into a bear hug, squeezing and squeezing until it crunched in her arms with a frantic whir. Then with a burst of heat vision, she shattered the other as it came straight for her face.

Kara used her heat vision to pick off several more drones from a distance, but of course, more and more just showed up to take their place, never wavering, never slowing… and eventually, Kara just had to laugh. Because her exhaustion was catching up to her. And Alex was hundreds of miles away. And to get out of here alive, Kara would have to somehow defeat the entire horde of drones, while all they had to do was wreck her suit a little more.

Though admittedly, it’d be overkill at this point, given the crack now spiderwebbing across the glass visor of Kara’s helmet.

Either way, it was over.

So, Kara laughed, grabbed at her chest in a reflexive gesture only to meet the unforgiving metal of her suit, then dropped to her knees. “Alex!” she shouted herself hoarse, because maybe if said loudly enough, the words would still be lingering in the air by the time her sister arrived. “Alex, I’m sorry, okay? You were right, and I’m sorry!”

Then she just waited—chest heaving, eyes narrowed but never blinking despite the heat pricking at the corners—because she definitely had to see this through to the bitter fucking end. That much, she owed everyone, including herself.

Except the end didn’t come.

Not this time anyway.

No, instead came a silver sphere, emerging seemingly out of thin air to hover right before Kara’s face. It flashed a blinding white just once, and everything fell absolutely silent and still. Kara’s suit powered down completely, the drones collectively dropped from the air like marionettes with cut strings, and all the lights in the immediate vicinity blinked out.

Laughter welling up all over again, Kara could only collapse onto her side in something akin to sheer relief.

The first person to occur to her, of course, was Alex, who had already saved her ass from similar scrapes on many occasions. But that couldn’t be it. Alex was too far away. It’s why Kara had to take on this mission on her own in the first place.

Then she considered maybe Winn or James, which made even less sense, given how the deceased hardly ever came back to do things like save people’s lives. Not even hers. Not even in the most dire of situations. That’s, unfortunately, just not how life worked these days.

Then she considered Alex again because the kryptonite was clearly bleeding into her brain now, and it was getting rather difficult to remember why it couldn’t have been Alex who’d just saved her. Maybe Kara did shout loud enough after all…

But then, a set of footfalls drew near, metal scraping against metal at a steady pace until a heavy boot struck Kara firmly in the chest, flipping her onto her back where she settled with a grunt.

“So glad I got to you first,” came a self-assured drawl, and Kara promptly found herself face to face with a handheld cannon of sorts. “Would be a pity to come all this way and not get to kill you myself.”

And… Kara’s jaw just dropped.

Not because of the words, nor the intentions behind them—though perhaps they both merited some attention as well—but that voice.

Kara gaped up at her supposed knight in shining, lead-lined armor because her voice—that low, husky tone paired with that very specific lilting cadence—was making her reconsider some very fundamental things about how the world might work.

Namely, that people wouldn’t come back from the dead just to save her life.

Mind still reeling away, Kara tried to sit up, only to be slammed back into the ground, hard.

“Down, girl,” Lena said, grinding her boot into Kara’s chest, the weight of her entire body behind the gesture. But that was fine.

It was fine because Kara could still draw some breath into her lungs, could still use some of that breath to talk, and she could certainly still say some things that she hadn’t uttered aloud in many a year. Like her late wife’s name, for instance.

The cannon in Kara’s face wavered, but didn’t lower. “Shut up,” Lena hissed down at her. “Don’t talk. Don’t even think.”

“So… it is you…” Kara said, and she gently wrapped her fingers around Lena’s ankle—the only part of her that she could still reach from her position—and just cried.

With a startled gasp, Lena stumbled away, wrenching herself out of Kara’s grip. “What the fuck…? What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Kara sobbed out, trying not to choke on her own tears and snot and the slight taste of blood still lingering on her tongue. She suddenly, irrationally, wished that she could just take off her clunky suit. Just to eliminate some of that distance between her and Lena. Just so she could touch the chain hanging around her neck without any hindrance. “Just… just wanted to say, hi.”

Lena kept her distance, studying Kara in a stony silence, and Kara started to see things that she should probably would have noticed sooner if her body weren’t actively shutting down on her. Like the green glow of Lena’s weapon and the kryptonite cartridges strapped to her belt. Or that she was clearly wearing a lexo-suit. Or how the swirly edges of her own vision were starting to darken, and how the chill of kryptonite was currently all she could feel.

“Hey,” Kara called out, sniffling only slightly now. “Am I dreaming?”

“… No.”

Kara nodded thoughtfully to herself. “Okay, cool, cool… So, I think I might be dying then.”

“Yeah,” Lena said, after a brief pause. “Probably.”

“Cool.” Kara tried to flash a thumbs up, but no part of her body wanted to cooperate anymore. Her exhaustion had eaten up all her drive. “Hey, can you tell Alex something for me?”

Lena sighed, but she finally stepped closer, practically in reach. “Okay, sure.”

Kara fumbled for some words and the correct order that one might put them in, but then Lena took off her helmet, and nothing else mattered anymore. Because Kara was perfectly content to just watch that ripple of dark hair, streaked with a light gray that was just… nice to look at.

She never got to see her Lena’s hair do that.

Kara’s shoulder was being shaken so violently that she had no choice but to open her eyes and see Alex’s worry-creased face peering down at her.

“Dumbass…” Alex grumbled, releasing Kara’s shoulder with a dirty scowl. “That’s the last time I let you go anywhere without me.”

“Whatever you say, director.” Kara laughed, but it hurt. She then tried to do a salute, but her everything was still too weak to move apparently. But at least she was still alive.

… Wait.

Kara repeatedly tried to sit up on her bed, and Alex repeatedly shoved her right back down until she gave up. But still, she had to check, had to know that it wasn’t all just a dream.

“Where’s Lena?” she demanded, and the look that Alex gave her in response was so deeply pained that Kara almost felt pathetic for asking.

“… Kara.”

“No, I saw her, Alex,” Kara said, shaking her head, then immediately stopping when her entire body somehow got dizzy from it. “Shit. Ow, ow… But wait, no—But seriously, I saw her, okay?”

“I’m not surprised that you did. You almost died, Kara. Actually, I’m pretty sure that you were dead for a few minutes back there. Again, I say, you fucking dumbass.”

“But I didn’t die. Because she saved me,” Kara insisted. “No, seriously! She took out all the drones with some sort of EMP device, and, and… we talked! And she had gray hair, and I think maybe laugh lines? And yeah, I almost died because my helmet got cracked and stuff. But now, I’m here and I’m fine, so… everything’s fine, right?”

Alex frowned, then somehow settled on the least important part of Kara’s briefing, “You cracked your helmet?”

“Ugh, yeah. The glass visor part. When I fell,” Kara said, waving her hand dismissively. “So sorry about that, by the way.”

“Suit looked fine when we got to you,” Alex said with a shrug, before irritably exclaiming, “Jesus christ, Kara, enough! I’ll just have a guy get the helmet for you, okay? So, just stop trying to get up already.”

Huffing, Kara fell back onto her bed with her arms folded and waited. But when someone eventually showed up with her helmet in tow, she was surprised to see that it was somewhat worse for the wear but perfectly intact. Even up close, with the helmet out the tech’s hands and in her own, Kara couldn’t detect even the slightest blemish in the glass.

Pouting ever so slightly, Kara shoved the helmet back into the tech’s arms.

“… Satisfied?” Alex asked, rolling her eyes when Kara just shrugged one shoulder. “Great. Listen… You just need to get some rest, okay? Once you’re back to full strength, we can work through your… you know, memories together. And hopefully, it’ll make more sense by then. Sound good?”

Kara just nodded, suddenly all too willing to be left to her own devices in the relative quiet and darkness. She accepted a gentle shoulder squeeze and the promise of another session with the sun lamps within the hour, and just curled up under the sheets.

It’s not like she hadn’t conjured up images of Lena before. Kara had been close to death enough times that it was only inevitable that she’d fall back onto memories of her dead wife at some point or another. But this was different. Whenever her brain was just playing tricks on her, Lena appeared to her the way Kara remembered her: warm and loving, bright green eyes, long dark hair smelling of lavender, and alive and young.

Never before had Kara encountered an appropriately aged version of Lena, with creases gathered around her eyes and forehead, hair gloriously faded into the most lovely blend of light grays and white amongst all that black… The Lena that could have been if only she had lived out all these past years alongside Kara.

And she was never in a lexo-suit, of all things. Lena was always wearing one of her classic pencil skirts or Kara’s NCU sweatshirt, or something. Oh, and of course, her wedding band.

Instinctively, the same way she always did when it occurred to her, Kara reached for the chain around her neck, seeking out the familiar weight of the rings that hung from there… only to jolt upright with a gasp that dried up her entire throat.

She ripped the necklace off her head, almost snapping the chain, which in and of itself was telling. Because her chain had been forged out of an extraterrestrial metal amalgamation that not even the Girl of Steel would have been able to break. The one now clutched in her hand, however, was just plain white gold.

Heart pounding in her ears, Kara stared down at an engagement ring fitted with a modest cut of diamond, somehow occupying the very spot where two simple wedding bands—hers and her Lena’s—should have been. Then something drove her to check for an inscription, and sure enough, engraved on the inside of the ring was a series of kryptonian characters, denoting a term of endearment that Kara had never used, but apparently could have in another world altogether: my dearest heart.

#2222 words because that's how i get my kicks n' giggles hue hue hue hue #will there be a part three? who knows #better question is Should there be a part three amirite?#my words.

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roach-works · 5 years

Text

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted: Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion. They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees. “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

#long post #writing #fic #autism #changelings #fairies

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sociallyawkward--fics · 3 years

Text

Dirty Little Secret

Hello I just finished this and I have not edited it and I am never going to reread it lol. It is probably disjointed, OOC, and incomprehensible. Welcome to my super sick and drug-induced It oneshot. Also for the title I was torn between this and ‘truth or dare’

My friends also told me I had to put this joke in the author’s notes: “I’m paying homage to the original It. King was on coke when he wrote it, and I’m on a wild amount of cold medicine and illness”

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Summary: Miraculously, they all lived. They killed that damn clown and they lived. Now, Richie just had one last thing to say.

Word Count: 1877 words

[ao3 link]

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The sounds of his old friends splashing around in the quarry faded around him. Distantly, as though he wasn’t in his own body, Richie could hear them cracking jokes and laughing at each other, as if the seven of them hadn’t almost just lost their lives.

As if Eddie hadn’t almost--

Richie focused on cleaning his glasses. Without them on, it was blurry and hard to tell, but he thought there was still blood embedded into the new spiderwebbing of cracks left on one of the lenses. It wouldn’t come out. Really, it could be anyone’s blood, he’d lost track of their injuries by this point.

But Richie knew who’s it could have been.

Bev had said the Deadlights gave her visions of their deaths, but he hadn’t known just how vivid they could be until he dropped out of them himself. He’d opened his eyes to Eddie being skewered above him, helpless to do anything but scream his name, the Loser’s a chorus of the same. Then, he blinked, and Eddie was above him laughing and cheering his “victory.”

Richie had barely rolled them out of the way in time for one of It’s massive claws to dig deep into the stone where they had been laying. Pennywise made a noise of rage, but Richie hadn’t allowed himself even a moment to think. He’d grabbed Eddie and ran.

And now here they were. They’d killed It, crushed Its heart in their hands, and Derry was safe. They were safe. Eddie was safe. Richie sat on a rock in the dirty quarry water, distantly aware of the splash wars going on while Eddie chopped his hands and told them how unsanitary it was, cleaning themselves in dirty water. Richie knew he was being unusually quiet, and someone was bound to notice soon, but he felt like if he didn’t laugh, he was going to cry.

And for once, Richie was all out of jokes.

Then, the absolute worst thing happened: Richie was dragged into the spotlight.

Apparently, the other six Losers had been recounting the “best moments” of their battle. Richie didn’t remember much, truthfully, aside from running for his life and sniveling like a little kid.

“Hey, Rich,” Beverly called. “What was that whole ‘Truth or Dare’ thing about anyway?”

Richie let out an awkward laugh, plastering a smile onto his face. He’d gotten good at it, over the years, with how much he hated his own act, but now it just felt stiff and misshapen. He waved his hands in the air as he spoke, his glasses flopping around precariously in his grip.

“Oh, you know, just something that damn clown had brought up.”

Bill laughed. “Why would he b-b-bring up Truth or D-Dare?”

Bev swam over and started poking at his sides as she laughed. They were all laughing so much. They were clearly handling the trauma far differently than him.

“Why would It use that?” She teased. “Got something you’re afraid to confess, Trashmouth?”

Richie forced out another laugh, sounding weak to his own ears. More than you know.

Instead, Richie reached for a distraction. “Yeah, how fast it took me to finish with Eddie’s mom--”

“Beep beep, asshole!” Eddie shouted, and Richie’s next laugh felt a little less desperate. Teasing Eddie was familiar and comfortable, and Richie was almost tempted to put his glasses back on to see the adorable way his jaw clenched with annoyance.

“Remember that one time Bill dared Mike to smuggle one of the sheep into his grandfather’s house?” Ben asked, and if Richie wasn’t so gone on Eddie, he could’ve kissed him. Intentionally or not, he’d just saved Richie a whole lot of floundering to keep the attention off where he wanted it least.

The group laughed and Mike shook his head with a grin. “He was so mad,” Mike said. “I thought for sure he’d make me sleep in the barn for that.”

“Or what about the t-t-time Eddie dared Richie to eat that year-old twinkie we f-found in R-R-Richie’s room,” Bill said.

Even Richie had to laugh at that one. “Yeah, where was the concern for my health there, Eddie Spaghetti?”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie snapped, though there was no heat behind it. “Plus, those things never fucking expire. They’re garbage, but that wouldn’t have hurt you.”

“Oh yeah? It tasted as bad as your mom’s--”

Eddie splashed Richie, sending a wave of nasty quarry water into his mouth and preventing him from finishing his sentence. He sputtered and coughed, laughing as he spit it out, and the weight of everything felt a little less oppressive now that he was laughing with them all.

“Oh!” Bev said, “What about the time Stan dared Bill--”

Richie grinned as he went back to trying to dig the blood out of the cracks in his glasses with his nails. They were short and stubby, so it wasn’t exactly easy, but he managed to make some progress. This time, though, he made sure not to tune his friends out. He listened to each of their stories, letting their laughter wrap around him like a warm, worn, familiar blanket, just like he had always been searching for when they were kids, and slowly felt his shoulders relax. And as they were laughing, the thought occurred to Richie.

What was he so afraid of?

This was Richie’s family. After everything they’d been through, killer alien clowns and all, would his sexuality really be the thing to break them? It’d be a little silly at that point, Richie thought.

A little silly, and a lot unfair. And who knew how they’d react? He’d seen them all in their underwear, shared blankets and chairs and beds with them, held them close (he wished he could do that now, but he wasn’t brave enough to be so touchy as an adult). What if they accused him of taking advantage of them when they hadn’t known? What if they were disgusted by him? What if they forgot him again, but this time by choice?

Richie was forced out of his thoughts when someone shrieked, and he promptly realized he’d allowed himself to tune everyone out again as he catastrophized. His head shot up at the shriek, his heart pounding in panic. Instead of a psychotic clown or a gruesome murder, Richie caught sight of Ben, who had seemingly heaved Beverly out of the water, tossing Bev as far as he could back into the murky water. She came up sputtering and laughing, arguing that whatever she’d said had definitely happened, no matter what he said.

Bill and Mike were leaning on each other from the force of their laughter. Ben had a sly grin on his face, though the corner of his lip was twisted a little in embarrassment as Bev kept hounding at him. Stan wasn’t outright laughing so much as he was grinning, but that was pretty much the same thing when it came to him. Eddie was laughing so hard that his cheeks had gone pink.

Richie promptly realized that if he didn’t do it now, he was never going to get up the courage to do it again.

“I’m gay,” Richie said loudly, the words echoing uncomfortably across the quarry.

The sounds of splashing and play fighting stopped and Richie heard more than saw everyone turn toward him. He kept his glasses off, eyes focused on his hands. If he had to look at them, see them clearly, he wouldn’t get through this. Every cell in his being was telling him to bury this with a joke, to move on and make a funny and forget the whole thing, but he couldn’t. Not this time. He needed to stop hiding.

“I’m gay,” he said again, quieter this time. “That’s why It brought up ‘Truth or Dare.’ Because I wouldn’t want anyone to pick truth.”

Richie kept his head down, but he heard the others moving through the water. He startled when he felt Bev’s arms wrap around one of his own. Richie looked up and saw his friends (or, really, saw blobs shaped vaguely like his friends) all coming toward him, wrapping themselves around him where he sat.

Ben curled himself around Richie’s knee, right below Bev. On Richie’s other side, Mike, Bill, and Stan all crushed in trying to wrap around him in some way. Mike ended up wrapped around Richie’s leg, which probably looked ridiculous, if only Richie could see, while Bill and Stan curled up around his arm and side. Then, Eddie came up behind Richie, wrapping his arms carefully around Richie’s shoulders and resting his head on Richie’s own (probably taking advantage of being taller than Richie, for the moment).

“We’re proud of you, Rich,” Stan said quietly.

Tears stung at Richie’s eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He sat there for a few minutes, soaking in their warmth and care, closing his eyes and letting peace finally overcome him. The secret, his dirty little secret, had finally been aired. He didn’t need to be scared of it anymore, at least not in this small circle (coming out as a public figure was an entirely different story, and Richie sure as fuck wasn’t ready for that yet). Pennywise’s words, echoing in his head since they were said, finally began to quiet.

“Thank you,” Rich said eventually, his shields formed from humor finally coming back up. He could only handle so much emotional vulnerability without making a joke. “I don’t have my glasses on so I don’t know who you people are, but thank you.”

Richie’s friends laughed, and he could feel Eddie’s chin brushing against his head with the force of Eddie’s eyeroll. Richie himself chuckled a little, blinking to clear the lingering tears from his eyes before they could fall. It was then that he noticed his hands: one clasped tightly between Ben and Beverly’s fingers, and the other resting on one of Eddie’s arms, Stan’s hand resting atop his.

“Oh shit,” he mumbled.

He felt more than saw (seeing as he couldn’t see) Beverly and Mike look up at him.

“I legit can’t find my glasses.”

A chorus of “Are you serious?” met Richie’s ears and he almost laughed again, but it was true. Sometime between the six of them latching onto him, Richie’s glasses had completely vanished.

Richie settled in where he sat as the others went off to find his glasses, diving beneath the water and arguing between themselves. The only person who didn’t move away was Eddie, who shifted from standing behind him to sitting next to him. As he heard Bev laugh, followed by a splash (Richie would bet money she just dunked Ben, the two had been attached at the hip and making heart eyes at each other since they escaped Neibolt), he felt Eddie grab his right hand and interlock their fingers.

There was a distinct lack of cold, wet metal as Eddie squeezed his hand, and Richie swore his heart skipped more than a few beats.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one with a secret, Richie thought as Eddie’s head leaned against his shoulder for a few seconds. And maybe, just maybe, Richie wouldn’t have to go home and face his nightmares alone after this.

#it #it (movie)#it (2017)#it (2019)#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrack #stan uris #beverly marsh #bill denbrough #mike hanlon #ben hanscom #the losers club #it fanfic #reddie fanfic #My writing

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remmushound · 3 years

Text

Curse of the Clans part 60! @selfindulgenz @scentedcandlecryptid

Content warning: blood, injury, insults, hatred, nightmares

“Uh…” Donatello was staring at the wall—in fact, he was staring right through it— as he witnessed the truck barreling toward them. “Uh uh uh—we should GO!”

With seconds to spare, Sunita snapped out of her stupor enough to practically tackle the four others and engulf them into her form just as the truck made contact, ripping through the hull of the mech and slamming into the empyrean supply. Sunita’s body absorbed the impact and kept those within her sheltering embrace safe. The green liquid spilled out through the cracks that the force sent spiderwebbing across the glass, leaking out onto the hood of the truck that had started to blare its deafening alarm.

Sunita let everyone go once she had gotten them to higher ground and away from the spilled empyrean.

“How does truck beat alien tech?” Donatello scoffed.

“Well, the mech wasn’t exactly designed for fighting.” Leonardo pointed out.

“Guys!” Raphael pulled himself out through the window of the truck and onto the roof , taking several steps back to avoid the spilled empyrean as he pulled Cassandra free. “I got your message! It was a smash message, right?”

“Uh. Yeah.” April said, shaking her head slightly, “And you really took it to heart.”

“Don’t say smash if you don’t mean SMASH!” Cassandra cheered, thrashing about in Raphael’s grip like an excited toddler.

“Point taken.”

Sunita made extra arms to be able to carry everyone across the quickly flooding room to the truck that was rapidly becoming a landbridge.

“Dad!” Raphael noticed the old rat and immediately ran forward, taking the burden from Leonardo and easily cradling his unmoving father in two hands.

“He’s alive, but he’s hurt— we have to get him back home.”

Raphael nodded, his breath quickening. He looked back up at his gathered clan, doing a mental headcount of all gathered. “Wait, where’s Mikey?”

“He’s up there with Krang—“

“You left him with Krang?!”

“Guys, this mech is going down!” Donatello said, and his words were true as the mech started to fall apart at the very foundations all around them.

“We have to go now!”

Sunita snared everyone including Raphael, dragging them out of the mech and away from the danger zone.

“No— we have to get Mikey!”

The mech stumbled, the last of the empyrean spilling out and taking the mech down with it. It took one final step and then powered down, collapsing on top of several structures and sending a shockwave that tore up asphalt and ripped through nearby buildings, some breaking apart into a cloud of suffocating dust. The first few seconds all Raphael could do was cough, covering his mouth with one arm while trying to keep his brothers behind him, as if he could spare them the choking pain. Donatello squeezed his eyes shut, clutching to Leonardo who had braced similarly and was holding his breath.

“MIKE!”

Raphael ran to the mech; Draxum was there first, vines and fists ripping through the rubble, tossing pieces the size of boulders as if they were pebbles. He didn't care that the rocks he threw nearly struck those behind him several times, Leonardo and April having to duck out of the way of the flying stones. Raphael knelt to join him, throwing the stones with just as much fervor but more aware of his family. Everyone else knelt to join, but there wasn’t much they could do with the heavy rubble, some half the size of their body or even bigger.

They cleared a path; a small space that Sunita was able to squeeze through, entering the dark mech below. Her slime gave off the slightest glow to guide her, dimmed greatly by the invasive dust accumulated in her fragile microbiome, but it was enough.

“Mikey? Mikey!” She saw him, little more than a shape. Unmoving. She hurried over to him, to the discarded bricks pinning him down, but she couldn’t move them. “He’s in here!”

More space was made; enough for Donatello to press himself through. He was able to lift the bricks that Sunita had been struggling with, tossing them aside so Sunita could grab Michelangelo and pull him free.

“Mikey…” Donatello took Michelangelo from Sunita, cradling the younger turtle with the affection one might show to a baby. He gently traced a hand across Michelangelo’s cheek and that made the turtle smile, just slightly, and raise a hand up to meet Donatello’s.

Michelangelo was more gray than green, dusty debris covering him in a thick layer that Donatello quickly worked to clean off. When his hand went to brush off Michelangelo’s plastron, it came back wet and red. Donatello stared down at the hand in growing horror before he shook his head, working to clean Michelangelo off faster before crawling carefully through the debris to pass him through the cracks and to Raphael, who handed him just as quickly over to Leonardo.

“Hey… hey hey hey little bro…” Leonardo said; April passed over her coat immediately for Leonardo to wrap Michelangelo inside, shushing him gently as he assessed the injuries to Michelangelo’s plastron. Cracks, a lot of them, and though the amount of blood spilled was very little, Leonardo winced at the thought of how painful such a sensitive area would be. It didn't help that Michelangelo was covered in dust and shivering from the shock of it all.

Raphael looked up from his two youngest brothers to watch as Sunita and Donatello crawled out to join them. Then he looked into the darkness beyond them, to the vague shape looming.

“Get back!” Raphael gathered everyone up in his arms, even Draxum, and pulled them away just as Krang busted free.

The utrom seemed worse off than Michelangelo had been, his slimy body bruised and battered purple, leaking a bright pink substance from his injuries. Several of the spines littering his body were bent or broken completely and some of his tentacles were drawn close to his body instead of being sprawled out like the other ones. His body was borne into the air by a small, floating platform that seemed just barely big enough to bear his weight, the hoverpod bringing him out to face the clan for a final stand.

The chakras all stood ready, weapons in hand; at least, those still able to stand were. Raphael held Michelangelo in his right arm, drawn tight to his chest so he could bring his tonfa forward to protect his baby brother. One by one the lights all blinked to life inside of each of them, soft heats blipping where their chakra were located. Sunita and Draxum, though they had no chakra of their own on display, stood just as strong in the face of pure evil.

Krang wasn’t easily deterred. Frowning, his thoughts escaping his controlled grasp, he closely considered his next move. There were seven of them, sure, but were the right seven? The orange and the indigo were missing and that made Krang grin. They were strong, but they weren’t enough, and in each of them he tasted the weakness that they buried inside, some deeper than others. The sweet taste radiating from Donatello was the strongest, most familiar to Krang much to his delight. The soft-shelled warrior.

Donatello’s mind was weak, just like his stance, and his grip on his weapon. When he looked at Krang, he saw many things; food rotting away in his grip, the water he drank running red, flowers wilting into dust. Cold, hunger, thirst, and most importantly pain. Glorious pain. When Krang looked at Donatello, all he saw was an easy target, and the first on his list to snuff out those irksome lights.

“Donnie

!”

“Huh?” Donatello frowned and looked around. That was Leonardo’s voice! But… where was Leonardo? Then again, where was anybody? From what he could see, he was floating on a solitary island all his own, no brothers no friends no Draxum or dad. Just an empty void, surrounded by smoke. Then the smoke took shape, and from the shape came Leonardo. “Leo!”

Donatello started to run to him, but quickly slowed. There was something strange about the atmosphere, a cold chill that he still had imprinted in his mind. Cold tentacles gripping and squeezing and ripping through the very atoms of his being. Leonardo’s approach only quickened, until his hands slammed against Donatello’s chest and shoved him to the ground.

“You’re so selfish, you know that?” Leonardo’s voice was his own, but empty.

“Wha…? L...Leo…” Donatello could only say as he stared up at the image of his brother with the cold eyes staring back at him, like someone had molded a life-like Leonardo out of clay.

“You just waltz around barking insults and sarcastic comments and hole up in your room all day while we do the real work!”

Donatello tried to back up— and backed straight into Michelangelo. He looked up, and Michelangelo’s eyes that usually held love were nothing but hate.

“You’re a narcissist!” Said the dark clone, “You literally altered us to be more like you and got upset when we were more like you!”

“I… I didn't think…” Donatlelo tried, and his eyes were burning and so was the rest of him as he tried to explain but the words wouldn’t come out.

“That’s exactly your problem! You think too much one minute and then not at all the next!”

Donatello stood up and tried to run, but Raphael stood in his way. “You don’t know when to stop and you just keep pushing all our buttons! You want to change us!”

“N...no! No, I love you guys!”

“Love?” This time it was April’s voice and it hurt deeper than all the others, “What would you know about love?! For someone with such a soft shell, you’re so insensitive and cruel! I ask a simple task of you and you have to go above and beyond and not in a good way.”

“You’re pathetic!”

“The only thing you’re good for is your tech!”

“And even that only works half of the time!”

“If it wasn‘t for your enhancements…”

“You wouldn’t even be on this team!”

“You’d be where you belong.”

“Behind a desktop…”

“And far away from us.”

Leonardo saw Donatello’s light flicker out, and he saw the distant look in his brothers eyes as he stared out at nothing and cried, mouthing words that came out silent. He immediately knew something was wrong, and he reached out with a hand to grab his brother and tether him to reality. Donatello blinked, and the nightmare was gone as he looked upon the tender eyes of Leonardo.

“He’s lying, Donnie!” Leonardo said, “Whatever he’s doing to you isn’t real!”

Then Leonardo was lost in a nightmare. An island of smoke, his senses little more than a distant memory, as if they had all been plugged with foam. His brothers came to him, shapes of hate and spite as they spat their words of discouragement and fraud.

“I can’t believe I ever trusted you.” Raphael said, “I give you the slightest taste of control and you rub with it like it’s your destiny.”

“It’s not.” Splinter was there, and he was whole—not injured. “Winning the Battle Nexus was just dumb luck, like everything you do.”

“And you never trust us to do anything, but expect us to trust you with everything!” Michelangelo this time. All of them were advancing on Leonardo and trapping him with their insults like dark storm clouds closing in.

“You couldn’t even made a portal to save our lives after you put us in danger!” Donatello said, his words most horrible to the slider for that was his twin. “You’re so hung up on being a champion that’d you get us all killed to boost your self esteem! And they call me soft!”

Raphael was next in line and next to grab Leonardo’s hand and pull him back down to earth before being lost to the darkness himself. Shadowed figures, nowhere to hide, surrounding him.

“You’re an animal. A vicious, violent animal.” Did it matter who was speaking? No. Not when then words were all the same to the snapper. All things he tried to tell himself were lies. “At the drop of a dime you could hurt any one of us.”

“Or kill any one of us.”

“And all the people of New York.”

“You try to convince yourself that it’s just a different persona…”

“But it’s not.”

“The savage you is the real you, and this facade you put up is the true persona.”

“Because you’re lying to yourself.”

“Raphie…” Michelangelo whined softly, gripping Raphael’s hand with his own; it was dwarfed by the size of the snappers hand, but he didn't care. Raphael was brought back down to earth, and Michelangelo was sent up.

“How could you be so childish in a time like this?”

“Earth to Mikey, you’re supposed to be focusing!”

“You’re fourteen— you’re not a kid anymore, but you still act like an eight year old!”

The words rang out in Michelangelo’s mind relentlessly, like a broken record.

“You’re so lazy! It’s not hard!”

“Why can’t you just be normal?”

“Just pay attention!”

“You’d be so smart if you’d just just—“

“Put in the effort—“

“And—“

“FOCUS!”

“Mikey!” Cassandra grabbed Michelangelo’s hand and took his place. Krang grinned as he neared the last light dropping out; just yellow and green left to go...

“It’s all your fault.”

“You’re to blame!”

“Their blood is on your hands!”

And the blood was— had hands were red and she tried to wipe them off but the red was growing all around her like a Red Sea— dark silhouettes swimming in it. The ones she had hurt, the faces of those she’d killed imprinted in her mind and coming to her every time she’d blink!

“You saw me burn up!” Mother Jones said, turning the blood to fire— and she was on fire!

“You watched her die!”

“You could have saved me!”

Cassandra backed up and collided with her foot masters.

“We raised you better Cassandra.”

“You betrayed us!”

“And your teachings!”

“And you were such a promising student!”

“No no no no…” Cassandra backed into Raphael, “Raphie help me…”

“Raphie?” Raphael laughed, “You think I like being called that? You think I like you?! Please, you were just the means to an end that overstayed your welcome.”

“Cassandra, those nasty words aren’t true…” Splinter’s grip was weak, but he forced himself to grab her. The evil, nasty lies rung just as clearly in his head as they did in Cassandra’s, and he couldn’t stand for that. The angry words came to him next, his sons and his mother and his grandfather and his ancestors, a suffocating amount of them.

“You failed us.”

“You were content to destroy us!”

“To never have children.”

“To abandoned the legacy of our clan for fame and fortune.”

“The best thing you ever did for thid clan was be expirmented on.”

“You didn't train your sons…”

“You didn't remember the stories…”

“You let Shredder live and walk again!”

“I’m sorry mama…” Splinter shrunk into himself, almost believing the words true until April grabbed his hand and pulled him out.

“Stay with me Splints…”

April was lost now, the turtles surrounding her with their cold, empty faces.

“It’s been months, April. Months! Yet still you refuse to recover.”

“You tried so hard to ignore the past that you almost destroyed the future!”

“The only good thing that came of you was being a vessel for Karai.”

“But your importance has quickly waned.”

“You’re not one of us. You’re human. You don’t belong in a mutant world.”

“You belong with your own kind.”

“Even though you should have died like Karai did.”

“Like we’re going to.”

“Like the story goes.”

April took those words and several more, but even as the brothers advanced on her to fill her head with fibs to rip her apart, she never stopped smiling. Even as she cried, she smiled, and when the images ran out of things to say, she looked up at them. Her heart was glowing brighter than ever before, the green enough to swallow her in its pulsating light. Those were all things she had told herself, over and over, so much that had lost their meaning to her.

“That’s a lie. It’s all lies. Karai never died.” The words pushed back the darkness, and she kept them coming. “She was only lost. Lost to the nightmares, fighting the darkness. The Shredder. I… I was lost after my fight with the Shredder too…”

“What are you doing?” Raphael’s voice slowly melted away into Krang’s.

“And I still am lost. Lost with this new power, lost with this pain that won’t seem to leave me alone. I’m lost but I’m still here, and every day I find another peice of myself to fix the puzzle. Who knows if I’ll ever find them all. But I know one thing I have found; why I’m still here. My purpose. Destroying you.”

#this chapter HURT #especially writing Mikey and Casey’s parts #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #tmnt au

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whump-town · 3 years

Text

It’s A Wonderful Life

Part One & Part Two

Have a great night everyone!

There’s smoke hissing its ascension to the sky. Thick and black near the hood of the car but as it goes up he finds he can’t track it much further than a few feet. It wisps off, sweltering to nothing. The world has sunken into this pitter-patter of noises. The soft tink, tink, tink of cooling metal and engines filling the air.

Letting his eyes slide shut, Aaron falls.

Haley.

a cold hand brushes down his cheek

she looks down at him, her kind smile

she says something to him… he loses it

He blinks his eyes open, blood-caked to the corners. It’s sticky, thickly hardening all over his face. He can taste it on his tongue, down the back of his throat. Which aches from the smoke burning his airway. He coughs hard, jostling his sore body, and for a moment he finds himself hovering. Unable to breathe in as his body tenses. His vision dancing black dots as the pain threatens to pull him back under.

Gasping he wraps his right arm around his torso, crying out when his trembling fingers hit raw, split skin. He closes his eyes, trying to force himself to calm down. Breathe. He just needs to breathe and the rest will come along. Though it hurts to expand his chest and his throat tries to close around itself he forces steady breaths.

Holding it in each lungful… and releasing it as slowly as he can. Steady.

Something rustles behind him and he remembers Jack-- if his heart is racing, fear nearly overcoming every tactical and first-aide training rule he’s ever been taught then Jack has to be terrified. It hits him, that the severity of his own wounds can not be the priority. No matter what happens has to stay awake. Has to be present so that someone can explain to Jack what’s going on. So that he gets out of here.

“Jack?” The crack of his own voice startles him and he knows Jack doesn’t like it either. Jack whimpers softly behind Hotch, kicking his little foot out in protest. Great, he thinks, solid one, Aaron. Rasping and slurring his son’s name is not the best way to connect. He clears his throat, needing a moment to recover as he puts all of his energy into steadying himself. To sound confident, of a sound body. “Buddy? You okay?”

He’s not sure what exactly it is that he’s expecting. There’s no way Jack’s going to use sign language, he doesn’t even know the sign for okay and if he did Hotch wouldn’t be able to see it.

The realization of what he has to do… is too much.

He pulls in a shaking breath, frustrated with himself. He can feel himself slipping, losing his facilities. The strain produces sharp pain in his chest but he ignores it. Forcing his right hand off of his side he tries to wipe the blood off of it, rubbing his palm into his dress pants. Then, despite how deeply his chest aches, he forces his arm back. Slipping it back until he comes in contact with one of those light-up sketchers.

Jack giggles and taps his foot against Hotch’s fingers.

To think he’d thought those shoes were impractical…

He winces, holding his breath as a wave of intense pain spreads across his chest. A stabbing pain that leaves him lightheaded. “Jack…” he tries to lift his head. To force himself to stay awake but with a muffled grunt his eyes roll into the back of his head. Body limply leaning to the right.

aaron?

haley draws lazy patterns into his bare hip, smiling at him

he opens his mouth-- a question on the tip of his tongue

she smiles and leans close, silencing him with a gentle kiss

her fingers slip up the back of his head

“stay here,” she whispers, “just a moment longer”

self-preservation has never been his finest skill

The windshield is a spiderwebbed mess.

This isn’t the first time that he has been trapped between a steering wheel and a splintering windshield. His history with Bureau lent SUV’s and using them like federal grade battering rams is well known-- something either gets him a little heat or a strangely approving nod.

Through the windshield, he sees an accumulation of red. Not the splatter of his blood on the glass but the cars. A firetruck pulling up just feet away with a mighty puff of exertion and the great low hum of the engine.

His ears, never having healed properly after the bombing in New York, a ring with a sharp ache. Crying, strained borderline screaming shakes the car. His chest aches with the intensity of it. Stomach twisting sickly with each miserably, pitched, nearly choked inhale.

Jack.

Jack is kicking at his hand, blindly lost to isolation. Unable to communicate, probably overstimulated. Everything just keeps so loud and Hotch can’t stand that he can’t do anything to help. He doesn’t have anything, actually. Not those ear muffs Garcia spent so long researching, that muffle out all the sound. They’d had a bit of trouble trying to find the right size.

He-- He always about the things that Jack needs. Extra socks and pants and one of those knit hats that he likes to wear regardless of the season. Hotch thinks he likes to feel the pressure against his ears. Jack likes to crawl into his lap and place one of Hotch’s hands over each of his ears. He feels immense understanding for his son in these moments. Rocking back and forth and making the happiest little noises...

He needs to do something. Find it within himself to get out. He can calm Jack down, he just needs to get back there.

All he manages is a choked inhale, Jack’s poor little sobs breaking as makes himself breathless. Gagging, weakly trying to spit the copper taste in his mouth, Hotch chokes on the thick warm blood sliding down his throat.

“you’re scaring me, aaron.”

he looks at her…

trying to make every detail of her face a permanent fixture in his mind

the blonde hair that he was so glad that Jack got

better that he look like her

Haley is everything sweet; the only good thing he ever had

and Jack is so much like her gentle and loving

“aaron?”

he leans into her touch, “I’m okay”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Two hands brace both sides of his neck, at the base. Hands padded by thick gloves. “Brown-eyed boy!” the other man greets. “How’s your head feeling, big fella?”

Hotch opens his mouth, lips twisting into a pained grimace as he grunts. Pale, half-lidded eyes rolling back. Writhes, sucking in small rasped breathes.

“Easy,” the man soothes. Hotch is moving too much, jostling his spine dangerously. Given the state of his side-- flesh torn open by his door having caved in. The whole thing buckling in. Carl, the man currently using his own hands to hold Hotch’s neck, is providing as a brace, a point guard. He sits wedged right there with him, ready to help the guys on the other side.

“Just hold still,” Carl whispers. “You’re okay.”

Having George Foyet stand overtop him, the blade of his knife dragging down his flesh. Taunting, playing… he’d known then what was coming. Expected the blinding pain and known that no matter what he did, no matter what he felt he could not show fear. Could not submit to showing his pain.

Here, the vague chill of numbness spreading down his toes. Knowing that he can’t feel his feet, that he isn’t moving them either. Nothing-- not the prospect of dying here in this car-- is as harrowing as the realization that he can’t see or hear Jack.

He swallows thickly, draining his body of its resources as he struggles to bring himself to full consciousness. His lips part but he hasn’t got enough air.

“Alright, alright.” Carl tries to keep him calm but he sees the blood. Watching the blood bubble, foamy and pale as it slides down Aaron’s chin. “Don’t speak,” he rushes. Carl leans his head out the car’s window, shouting down to the other worker’s slowly working out how to get the door open. “He’s got busted lung guys, you’re gonna have to be quicker.”

“How bad?”

Carl looks back to Aaron, wincing in sympathy. “Just hurry, he’s not going to be able to take much more of this.”

“J,,,” Aaron can’t breathe. Each breath a little thinner, the taste of blood heavy on his tongue. “Jack,” he mouths, voice catching on just enough of the sounds that Carl understands.

The other man nods, smiling as he motions with his head to their left. “Jack? Is that your boy’s name?” Carl laughs, easy, light. “He’s sitting out there with my partner. Kid’s got so many rocks in his pockets, I don’t know if we’ll be able to pick the poor fella up.”

Hotch looks as far to the left as he can. Eyes burning with the strain. He can see out the door, vision blurring just enough to obscure the asphalt. To Jack. His happy little hands dancing up at his head as he rocks back on forth on his feet. Unaware of the wreckage just behind him.

Shutting his eyes he smiles too. For Jack and his little clicks, above all else, he just wants to hear those little clicks.

“Stay with me, pal. We promised Jack you’d be alright. Come on--”

But Aaron knows that’s not true. He’s worked these scenes a thousand times. Knows what to say to the children when they ask too many questions-- “Where’s mommy?” “Is my daddy gonna die?”-- and how far to move them from the scene. How to point out clouds shaped like castles so that they don’t hear the pained cries of their mothers. Drawing their attention to the grasshopper in the tall grass so that when the EMTs shout with fear, their fathers bleeding out on the asphalt with nothing but rough gravel beneath them… they never suspect a thing.

This day, this moment will be remembered by the person who took the time to talk to them. Who sat with them in the grass. Not the blood.

Jack will not ask where his father is.

And Aaron finds a great bit of relief knowing Jack won’t be lied to.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #jack hotchner #haley hotchner #hotch whump #hurt hotch

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themagicmistress · 3 years

Text

Heere’s an excerpt from the first draft of ‘Flowers, Soft Beneath My Heels.’ Scrapped most of it, but I liked this scene! Soo, here it is

Rumblecusp is a nice place. The sky is clear and has been most of the days they’ve been here. The air is still and windless save the light breezes that simply ruffle the tree leaves.

Despite the relative peace of the environment, which on any other day would be idyllic, her view of the town is one of slight chaos, and in a different way than it had been last night. People are angry, stone-faced and yelling at each other, faces darkened with rage. Yelling is fine. She has a feeling they’re just doing it to do something instead of nothing in their situation. Some, however, wander through the village with lost faces, looking pleadingly up at the sky as if for answers. It has none to give them, she knows. The Moonweaver has said her piece.

But Yasha’s not looking for trouble, or any of the previous followers of the not-god. She peers curiously around the village, trying to call back to mind the location Anola had told her to go looking for.

She has to knock on a few doors and then awkwardly backtrack as she’s met with more than one tear-streaked face until Yasha finds an older man with a long wispy beard and weary black eyes.

“No alcohol here,” he says roughly and goes to slam the door. She wedges her toe between it and the frame before he can. His eyebrows fly nearly to his hairline. “Of course,” says the man she really hopes is Kresh, “I could always reconsider.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Yasha reassures and he leans back from her a bit. “I’m not going to hurt you,” She says more insistently and Kresh nods quickly. She stifles a sigh. “Look, I’m just looking to buy something nice for a friend and Anola said you were the person to go to.”

The pressure on her foot lessens and the door swings open. “Oh,” his face is sheepish, “Something sweet, right?”

“Yes,” Yasha tells him. Her heels ache and her heart’s still hopping a half-beat too fast from the earlier scare. She wants to be safe beneath the protection of the dome, her friends breathing warm beside her.

The candies are twenty-five gold, a bit more than mainland prices, but well worth it.

She sticks her head into the dome and there’s a second of relief as she sees them all sitting next to each other, not having moved an inch.

“Jester?” Yasha makes sure her voice is quiet with Beau leaning against Caleb’s shoulder, the two of them having dozed off. “Can I talk to you?”

Jester looks up from underneath Fjord’s arm, who doesn’t appear to notice his own slow attempts to pull her closer. “Sure, what do you want?”

She hesitates. “Just about stuff. Stuff that happened today.” The cleric’s face falls and for a second Yasha feels bad but she didn’t want Nott or the others to bug the tiefling about the candies.

“Oh. Coming.”

They don’t go far from the dome, Jester’s steps short and hurried. She’s also reluctant to go far, to stray more than she needs to.

Yasha pulls out the small sack out and hands it to her. “Here. I thought you’d like these and I also thought you’d prefer to not share, so… here I am giving them to you away from the others.”

The moment Jester figures out what the rock-like amber stones are, her face lights up. “Yasha!” she gasps, and her face breaks into a grin, “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Well, I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, and tonight was a lot. So.” She rubs the back of her neck. “You deserve it.”

Jester pops one into her mouth and groans and her stomach does a split-second drop as she thinks oh-no-I-messed-up before she realizes it’s a happy noise.

“These are so good!” Jester shoves the bag back into her hands, “They’re really sweet and sorta crunchy at the same time. Holy cow, I can’t believe you got these here, Yasha, because when we leave I’m never gonna be able to get them again.” Her words are a little garbled with the candy in her mouth, but then she gives a pointed look to the bag. “What are you waiting for, are you going to eat one already or not?”

“They’re for you,” she refutes.

“Yeah, but I want you to have one, so eat it,” she tells her flatly. Yasha eats the candy.

It’s a little caramelly and it melts in her mouth, with tiny hints of vanilla, all flavours she only knows because of Jester. It spreads in her teeth, sticky but pleasing, and in the center is a hard middle she discovers is a nut as she grinds it between her molars.

The tiefling’s fingers are deft, plucking candy after candy from the bag. They don’t shake and her friend’s demeanor remains unbothered by the night’s events.

What had her face looked like, fingers clenched around green robes, eyes teary toward liquid moonlight? She can only see what Jester shows her now. Someone delighted, maybe a little too delighted, by a simple gift of confectionery. Yasha only knows how she felt, watching a friend drift into the sky, glittering with chains like early morning dew on spiderwebs. Her pulse drumming in her ears, a war drum, teeth clenched, sword clenched, and useless.

Would that she could fell a god for her friend, but Yasha has never been able to claim herself saviour.

“Wanna ‘nother?” Jester offers, face curious now. She swallows. “How are you, Yasha?”

She blinks, taken aback. “I’m fine. Jester, are you okay? That’s— that was a lot up there.”

The answer is immediate. “I’m—” Jester stops. Frowns. “I’m fine too. You don’t need to worry about me, Yasha. I got what I wanted, didn’t I?”

That’s one way of looking at it. She got what she wanted, so all the other stuff, herself gone forever, separated from her friends, the Traveler, didn’t matter. A rationalization, driven by necessity, like the kind Yasha made in battle. Help Beau before she’s impaled on those spikes below her instead of helping Fjord, it’s fine Caduceus is right there next to him, and don’t waste any effort on that last guy Caleb’s about to torch. A different kind of survival, the kind where you swath your hurts in anything that makes it stop just so that the raw and aching parts of you can shrivel and die inside your chest. Whether that means smiles or bloody fists.

“I don’t think you wanted this,” she says softly. “Things suck. And they’re going to keep being like that.”

Jester’s lips press together very tightly. She doesn’t look at her. Yasha has never thought of any of her friends as delicate, but now, she thinks that’s the problem. They’re strong. All of them. Strong enough to fight false gods and save villages and reverse death. Strong enough to face horrors most would never dream, and then lose. Someday, she fears they’ll go charging in somewhere they shouldn’t, into a chamber of laughing mouths, swallowing her whole. A clouded night and a clear moon leaving them devastated beneath it, one less to their number.

Not tonight. But it was close enough that her mind instinctively shies away from it.

“You ever think that maybe you put too-high expectations on someone without knowing it,” Jester says, breaking the silence. She tugs at the sleeves of her high-priestess outfit, “And then they try to live up to what you want them to be, but they can’t and then it goes wrong and you know that when it does it’s because of you and kind of really your fault? Like you were the one to set them up for failure in the first place?” It all comes out in a rush, her voice wobbling on the edge of tears as she rambles. “D’you ever feel like that, Yasha?”

There’s a tumultuous set to the lines of her mouth, pulled back into a grimace, too stiff for smiling, too desperate for frowning. What do you say to something like that and how can she say it with Jester looking at her like she knows the answer to her question, the plea she’s making. How do I make it right?

She licks her lips, still sticky-sweet.

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

“I know,” she whispers. And then, softly, an admission of guilt, “but I would have left you guys. I would have.” Jester chuckles. “How did this happen? I didn’t mean— I mean, how did I even make him a god?”

Yasha doesn’t know anymore than she does how to make Jester feel better now. To reassure her this wasn’t her fault, at its core, none of it. “I don’t know.”

“No. That’s alright.” No words have ever sounded so small.

She thinks of Zuala. She’s always thinking, at least a little, about Zuala, but right now she thinks of her pulling them up the side of a hill, a little ways away from the tribe, about the way her fingers had fit neatly between Yasha’s own and how the last thing she remembers before leaving Xhorhas is the sound of thunder.

“You ever think,” Yasha repeats slowly, “people choose to leave because of you? Or not you personally, but because of your decisions, the choices you make. And when you think back, you realize if you had done something different, they might not have chosen to leave at all?” Jester listens in rapt silence and then her mouth opens into a horrified little ‘o’ and Yasha forges on. “And then, if they’re going to leave, should I just go first so I don’t have to watch them do it?”

“Yasha, we’re not going to leave you,” Jester says, almost demanding, voice cracking with the remnants of tears swallowed back.

“No, I know. But I’ve always left you guys,” She says, the night cold against the back of her throat. “And today, you almost left us. You weren’t going to come back from that. We would have gone to get you, but would you have tried to come back to us?”

“Of course!”

“Even if it meant leaving behind the Traveler?” Yasha asks, “Even if it meant letting him take his punishment?”

Jester bites her lower lip and Yasha watches as a brief conflict plays out across her body, fists clenching and unclenching. “That’s not a fair question. I can’t answer that.” She says it like an apology.

Yasha takes a breath and accepts it. She expects nothing less from her, the girl who painted flowers in her room, who stakes her whole self on what she would do for her friends.

She can taste iron and bitter wind like dread in her mouth. “That’s okay. Just— just don’t leave in the first place. We would be sad without you. I’m not even sure what we would do. Probably just mope around all day. Get nothing done.” There’s a ring of truth to the words that hit too close to home to be even remotely funny.

Then, there are arms around her, enveloping and warm. “I’m not going anywhere.” The words are muffled against her chest, likely to hide the quiet sound of rasping around more tears.

“Don’t leave,” Yasha says.

“Do you think,” Jester asks, “ having to ask all these questions is worth it because at least now I have more family to keep worrying about?”

There used to be a hollow in her heart, one that now purrs in some kind of satisfaction and she allows it it’s victory. “Yeah. In a weird way, I’m kind of glad to have someone to leave.” The arms grow tighter around her and Yasha squeezes back comfortingly. “I don’t want to, don’t get me wrong, but if I didn’t have anyone to leave,” She hesitates, “I’d just be running away. If I leave, I know someone will miss me. I would exist in my absence.”

“I would miss you. Beau would definitely.” Jester pulls back, the rim of her eyes a little darker than before.

Her lips curve into a smile without her prompting, though she can’t quite bring herself to care. ““I have no plans to go anywhere unless it’s where the rest of you are all headed.”

“Good.”

The cleric is stiller, and though she hadn’t seemed outright distraught in the dome earlier, now she seems steadier. A port in the storm rather than the raging waves themselves, standing firm instead crashing out and into herself over and over.

“Does asking these questions help you usually?”

Jester shows the nearly-empty velvet bag of candy to Yasha who notices she has to almost unclench her fingers from their stiff position around it. “Not nearly as much as the candies.”

“You think,” she echoes in a mimicry of their earlier conversation, “you’re ready to head back?”

“Yeah. Yasha?” Jester asks, tucking away the little bag.

“Thank you.”

“You’re important to me,” Yasha tells her and finds a little more joy in the soft smile that graces Jester’s mouth as she does. “Thank you for staying.”

She keeps her eyes on her friend’s back, her steps not quite the light skip they are usually, but lighter now. A part of her wishes she could take their group and bundle them away from the world, cruel and unfair to the best of them. Another part looks at the sea line, just barely visible over the tips of forest trees, and wonders how long into the night she would have to trek to make it there before the others wake. If Yasha squints, she can see a tiny light somewhere between the waves. A lighthouse on the shore, maybe, or a star touching down where the horizon meets the sea.

Ahead of her, Jester runs her fingers through the little velvet bag Yasha had given her over and over again like she can’t help but remind herself of the gift. A smile still rests on her lips.

#critical role #yasha nydoorin #jester lavorre #the mighty nein #fanfic #dialogue heavy #my fic #cr

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ohmygodtheywereparabatai · 3 years

Text

A piece for Azutara ~

—

She couldn’t help raising her brows when water transformed into solid ice in front of her naked eye. The edges of the lake crackled and fell silent as frost crept onto the banks. Even with her own warmth assured, she didn’t expect their surroundings to drop so quickly, as if the waterbender’s finesse had commanded every other element. Remarkable.

Her next exhale was visible, so small and withheld that it left in a wisp. It was how she knew Katara had stolen her breath - again.

“I promise, it’s firm enough to step on.” A boot measured the thickness with a tap, then she boarded the glassine surface with a satisfied hmph. It slipped Azula’s mind to peel her eyes away and pretend to scout the woodlands, fold her arms, sigh, anything that feigned emotional distance. She watched Katara’s hand move across her sole, sculpting from residue, setting down a knife-like edge with the clink of a cup on a saucer. She repeated with her other foot, straightening on thin slivers of ice like it was easy, hands on hips. “See? I told you we came prepared. Now it’s your turn.”

The princess unstuck her fists from her sides, taking the arm. Not a moment later her feet started to slide apart, grating on the only barrier between steadying hands and a splintering fall. “Oh. I didn’t expect - this is much more...”

“I’ll take care of that.” She gripped her waist, and Azula clutched back. “Just hold on tight.” With something of a kick that never landed, they were spurred into motion. The princess started with a hwah! sound, heart hammering even when coasting along her side, even pressed to the furs Katara was bundled in. Or her thoughts were flying, pulse singing, for another reason outside it all.

Black and dark brown hair fluttered behind them. The wind was hardly biting, jades and colored spots of flowers blurring into one line, pitting a sensation like summertime whisked out from under their feet. No chance. If there was any promise between them - and there were many - it was to snatch out sunlight when it broke the clouds, trap fleeting moments like lightning bugs in clear jars. Until hope spilled into her world, and Katara along with it, Azula learned to heal... and to her, love was an endless summer. One long overdue.

They drifted farther apart, round after round scaling the rink until they were only joined by their hands. Azula found her footing, prodigious learner that she was.

“Hey, you’re getting the hang of it!” Katara’s eyes glowed. She glowed.

With a surge of confidence, the princess dragged her heels, hooking an arm around the other girl and pulling with all her strength. They veered left with a giggling fit, arms locked as they circled to a halt. Dizzied heads were a small price to pay.

“That... was... fun!” Katara gasped out. Finally at rest, she brushed back the uneven cut of Azula’s hair, drinking her in. The sheared ends had regrown quickly, still somewhat mismatched; in just a few months, her reflection wasn’t in complete tatters.

“Next time, I’m taking you to walk over hot coals.” Azula smirked, skates moving in an intuitive waltz. “Or to set off fireworks. As many as we can manage before our hands are covered in ash. Isn’t this the theme we’re following - showing off?”

“Oh, I’d like to see you try and outdo me.” She leaned in, the warm press of lips to Azula’s forehead releasing butterflies in her stomach. Katara’s voice hovered above her ear, teasing, “Unless we’re talking about hot looks. Then I’ll have to step down, hm?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She scoffed, a little flushed, throwing back a flippant hand. Venom seeped into her tone out of instinct, but the words were anything but. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever set eyes on. It would be an insult to doubt my tastes.”

It flew out before she caught herself. Azula’s eyes snapped open, red-faced. “I... er- I meant it!”

Katara smiled. Before she could stutter her way back onto her dispassionate pedestal, a loud crack rang in the quiet. Their eyes shot straight down. Fissures spiderwebbed from under Azula, the ice tinged with heat. Oh...

Flustered, to the point of softening the ice underfoot. Azula could only fling her head up to Katara’s, pale with dread, lungs braced and teeth clicked shut for the cold shock. I’m sorry!

When the ice gave way and they tumbled, her eyes squeezed closed - don’t look, don’t look - no light or even afterimages allowed to pass through. Weightlessness stretched out for an impossible length of time... floating, hearing and seeing nothing, until her ears pricked. A voice.

“It’s okay. I got us. We’re safe.”

What? She loosened the death grip around her knees, squinting. It was dark.

“Azula? We’re okay. I promise.”

Katara, hand in hers - the first one she’d held after days imprisoned in the ward, blood pooling at her elbows. Her grip had been an iron clamp; they never doubted each other’s strength.

Azula looked up, head whipping around until what she was seeing made sense, logic falling into place. Air.

“You didn’t think you would drown with a waterbender at your side, did you?” A chuckle. Her palms were flat and spread, weaving in delicate circles. The pocket around them was held in place, walled on all sides by a swirling current.

Azula made no effort to contain her awe. The underside of the lake was striped azure blue, its bottom glinting in weak rays of sunlight. Shadows of darting fish crossed her periphery. She looked down at their clothes. Dry as bone.

“You know what?” Katara appraised their situation, hands dropping into her lap. Of course she could hold the bubble like it was an afterthought. Of course. “I think we found a great place to cuddle. Play Pai Sho, have a picnic...”

Azula couldn’t help but smile, scooting forwards as the world wobbled. She wasn’t afraid. Not with her. “Okay, fine. You’ve done your showing off. You win.” She pressed against Katara’s side, nuzzling into her neck. “My turn.”

#part two of i try to kick writing block’s ass #i’ve gone maximum w|w for the day and am i coming back down? no ❤️#azutara #KAZOOLA #azula #katara #your local clown writes!

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scribbuluswrites · 4 years

Text

The Secret

It’s finally Friday, and I’m running late today! *scampers off*

Enjoy this next little bit of fic, and as always, thanks for reading. :) We’re getting so close to the end now!

From inside her car, Katarina heard Coco’s shouts, a little surprised that he hadn’t been one of the first to take off. With what she assumed about his club standing, Kat knew Coco would be most likely to exact revenge for a stunt like this. He wouldn’t have stayed behind unless…

She tried to open her door, realizing it was jammed shut. She threw her shoulder into it, gritting her teeth at the quick stab of pain as her arm collided with the unbudging trim. Dust was slowly filtering in from the hairline cracks in the window. Kat coughed as it swirled around, leaving a sandy film on everything.

Coco rushed over to her car, grabbing for the door handle. It took several attempts to wrench it open, and the metal panels wheezed in protest as he dislodged the door. There was a panic in his eyes, and Katarina was momentarily stunned by the complete terror on his face.

“I’m ok,” she gasped, a whoosh of air leaving her lungs as Coco briefly pulled her against his chest as she climbed out of the car. After a second, he pushed her back, his hands moving frantically as he searched for injuries. “I’m fine. Coco, I’m alright,” she repeated, grabbing his hands as they finally came to rest on her cheeks.

It took a few long moments before it seemed to finally register, his wild eyes slowly melting into a relieved expression as he heard her. He pulled Kat into another hug, holding her tightly against his chest.

“Shit, so that’s what it’s like to be scared,” he breathed, kissing her hair. Katarina turned her head, grinning as Coco pressed his lips against her forehead, lingering as he took a deep breath.

He slowly dropped his arms, his eyes landing on her car as he stepped back. “The glass,” he commented, looking at the window.

His worry faded into confusion as he realized the rounds hadn’t pierced the panels. His hand moved to trace over the deep scratch in the door. The bullets also hadn’t broken through the glass, leaving a mess of spiderweb cracks in their wake.

“Look similar to the panel on your car?” she asked, carefully watching his expression. Coco turned back to face her, but his expression was difficult to pinpoint. There was definitely some suspicion beneath the relief, and Kat wondered what this might mean for them.

Coco sighed. “Yeah, I guess we got more to talk about. Right now, though, I ain’t even care,” he confessed, pulling his packet of cigarettes out with slightly shaky fingers. Kat had never seen him this keyed up, and she gently covered his hands, helping him light his cigarette. He gave her a soft grin, letting her know it was appreciated. “We’re probably going to Temple now, but you should head home. If it ain’t too late, I’ll come by when we’re done.”

“Come by,” she urged. Coco raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care how late it is,” she confirmed, knowing what he wanted to ask. “You sure you don’t want me to stay, though?” Kat checked, knowing he might want her to hang around the clubhouse until things were settled.

“Nah, querida, I know you can handle your shit. You’ll be more comfortable at your own place, and I got no idea how quick we’ll figure this out,” he answered, shaking his head.

Kat grabbed his kutte with both hands, tugging him close enough to kiss him. The taste of smoke no longer bothered her, and she practically relished it now as her tongue ran over his bottom lip. Coco’s trust in her made her feel powerful in a way she’d never experienced before.

“I can handle my shit,” she repeated, grinning as she broke the kiss. “That’s really hot,” she admitted, unbothered by the warmth in her cheeks at the surprise on his face.

Coco chuckled softly. “I’ve seen all the pistols you’ve got hidden around, dulce. I just ain’t asked yet. Plus,” he paused, pointing back at her car for emphasis. “Let me know when you get home, yeah?” Coco urged, closing her hand around the keys to his car. Kat’s would have to sit here until she could replace the glass and tires..

Katarina agreed, biting her lip as she nodded.There were many more things she wanted to tell him, but she knew this wasn’t the right time.

Ignoring her thoughts, Kat walked over to the classic Chevy, climbing into the driver’s seat. Coco closed the door behind her, resting his hand against the window for a second as he looked at her. He backed up once she started it, his eyes still trained on her.

Kat glanced in the mirror as she pulled out of the lot, unsurprised to see him barely begin to turn around, watching until she left. Whatever thing they’d settled into, it was likely about to change yet again.

As she poured herself another glass of bourbon, Katarina struggled not to think about the conversation that was probably coming. In person or over the phone, she expected the ‘not your world’ speech and a definite end to things. Coco had said she could handle herself, but she still knew that probably didn’t translate to keeping up with a biker.

It was just before 2am when Coco finally showed up. Kat heard his bike rumbling down the street in front of her building, and she wandered to the window, peeking out the blinds to watch him park.

He pulled into the lot and kicked out the stand, sitting on his bike for several minutes after he killed the engine. With the headlight off, Kat could barely see him, his face briefly illuminated by his lighter. Katarina tried not to watch the time, knowing he would come in when he was ready.

Katarina sagged against the wall, unwilling to move until she saw Coco step off his motorcycle. It took a few more minutes, but he finally dismounted, rolling his shoulders back after he’d hung his helmet. Even in the dark, Kat could see how tired he looked. She drifted to the front door, knowing he wouldn’t be long now.

As she heard his footsteps approaching, she pulled the door open. “Hey, I wasn't sure…” she broke off, seeing the look on Coco’s face. He didn’t look in the mood for small talk. “Do you want to talk or go straight to bed?” she asked directly, moving to let him in.

Coco grinned just a little, some of the weight lifting from his shoulders as he realised Kat understood what he needed. “Can I use your shower?” he questioned, glancing down at his muddy shoes.

“Of course,” Kat nodded, leading him down the hallway once he’d shucked his boots. She pulled out a fresh towel, sucking in a breath when she turned back to face him. Coco had already shed his kutte and she could easily see the blood stains on his plaid shirt. They didn’t startle her, but his openness did. “Yours?” she asked, reaching for the shirt as he tugged it off.

Coco shook his head, handing it over apprehensively. He wasn’t sure if Katarina could really accept this version of him. Bloody clothes seemed like a big step from a heavily veiled conversation about being in a relationship.

“Give me the rest of your clothes, and I’ll toss them in the wash. I have a trick for this,” Kat explained, sensing his hesitancy.

Coco complied silently, passing the rest of his clothes to her. His fingers were spattered with blood, too, indicative of a close contact kill. He wanted to hide them, but there was too much red to think Kat wouldn’t notice.

“Will you come back? I feel better having you close,” he admitted, ducking his head. Vulnerability was uncomfortable, but after tonight, he was ready to start letting his guard down.

“Sure, I’ll be back in just a minute,” she agreed, keeping her voice light as she reached up to push the curly hair out of his face. Coco reached for her hand slowly, feeling bolder when she didn’t flinch away from the red stains. He pressed a kiss to her palm before letting her go.

When Katarina came back, he was standing under the spray. His forehead was resting against the tile wall, and he looked like the water was washing away more than just the grime.

Kat slipped off her shorts, leaving her underwear and tank top on. She wanted to be sure all the focus was on him and set a clear boundary. This was about a very different type of intimacy.

She stepped into the shower behind him, brushing her hand against his back to let him know she was in here. He didn’t move, but he didn’t tell her to get out, so Kat reached past him for the bottle of shampoo. Coco tensed up at the contact, but he slowly relaxed as her fingers massaged the shampoo into his scalp.

Kat pressed on his shoulder, encouraging him to turn around. She ran her fingers through his hair under the spray, helping him rinse the suds away.

Coco slowly opened his eyes to look at her as she started washing the rest of him, her hands kneading the muscles in his shoulders before moving on. He chuckled as he noticed she was still wearing her clothes. He didn’t say anything, though, letting her finish what she was doing.

Once he was cleaned up, Kat turned off the water, stepping out first. She held open the fluffy towel for Coco, waiting until he pulled it around himself. She grabbed her own next, drying herself quickly to stop dripping on the tile floor.

Kat disappeared back to her room, reappearing a few minutes later in dry clothes. She was carrying some extra shorts for Coco, glad she had something suitable for him to sleep in.

“Should I ask whose these are?” he joked, reaching for the boxers she held out. Kat made a tsking sound, grinning back at him.

“I bought them for me. They’re better to sleep in than anything they make for girls,” she explained, putting a hand on her hip. They did look new, and she was wearing an identical pair.

“Sure, sure,” he nodded, having no idea what she meant. It always felt safer to agree with her. Katarina squinted a little, unconvinced that he actually accepted her story. “I believe you, querida,” he laughed, holding his hands up.

“C’mon, you want some food?” she questioned, changing the subject. Kat reached for his hand, starting to direct him down the hall towards the kitchen.

“Nah, I’m alright,” he replied, pointing her to the living room instead. “I just wanna get this talk over with,” he confessed, noticing the tension in her posture.

Coco settled against the arm of the couch, letting go of her hand. He nervously rubbed his thighs, obviously uncomfortable.

His nervousness made Kat even more anxious. She waited a few more minutes, hoping he would start talking. It didn’t seem like it was going to happen, though.

“Are you gonna…” she began, making sure she was close enough to feel the heat from his skin but not touching. She wanted to feel grounded.

“I’m bad at this,” he interjected, finally sitting still. Coco turned his torso to face her. “I don’t know how to have an old lady. I don’t know what to say, what to not tell you. Shit’s confusing.”

Kat grinned, her shoulders relaxing as she realised he wasn’t ramping up to a breakup. “I want to hear anything you want to tell me. You might think you’re bad at talking, but I know I’m really bad at being kept on the outside,” Kat told him.

Coco took her words in, not asking any questions as he thought. He took a deep breath, weighing what to say next. It was now or never.

“We wiped out a house full of people tonight. Blood for blood,” he said, watching her closely. Kat’s expression didn’t waver so he dared to continue. “I don’t normally get up close, but what I felt, that fear, had to get it out.” He hesitated, not knowing how many details she could handle. Most people, even in his life, recoiled at how much death he had brought.

“I know,” she nodded, encouraging him to go on. Kat reached for him, holding his hands palm up. There were a few cuts on them. “Ones like this,” she explained, running her finger over the deepest slice on the outside of his pinky finger, “are usually from a serrated blade. This,” she continued, tracing a much shallower cut, “is from a smooth edge. You carry a knife with a smooth edge on the bottom, serrated on top near the handle.” Kat wrapped her hand in a fist, showing how the cuts would happen.

“Why do you know that?” Coco asked, knowing he was missing a part of her background. This wasn’t just normal knowledge for someone to have. It was something acquired from experience.

“A few reasons,” she shrugged, chewing on her lip. Now, it was her turn to own up. “The main one being, I used to be involved with someone in an MC. He kept me completely separate from club things, but he also taught me everything he knew about weapons.”

“Shit,” he breathed, pulling his hands away. “What club?” he asked, the distance between them feeling sharp and sudden.

Kat shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” She tried to reach for Coco, but he leaned away. This was the reaction she’d been fearing.

“Yeah, it does. We don’t trade old ladies,” Coco said, his voice bordering on harsh. “With Angel and the timing, it’s gotta be a Son,” he figured, moving to stand up. “Fuck, that could go real bad,” he swore, pacing.

“I was never his old lady,” Kat said firmly, getting to her feet. “Coco, I wouldn’t have let it get this far if I had any doubts about how it would go if he found out. He’s not going to be trouble, and the club never knew about it.”

Coco was still standing a pace away from her, clearly not convinced. He knew he hadn’t stolen her away from someone, but it still didn’t feel great.

“I don’t know, dulce,” he hesitated, shaking his head. “Even if it ain’t cause problems, you already tried the biker thing. What makes this different?” he asked, the question slipping out. Coco hadn’t intended to let Kat know he was afraid of her leaving.

“I might not be able to pinpoint it, but trust me, this is so different,” she murmured, stepping closer to him. His back was still straight, but his hands moved to her waist, holding on to her. “Just keep me close, cocopuff. Please,” she urged, resting her forehead against his.

“I hate that nickname,” he groaned, not moving away. Despite his words, his hands gripped tighter.

“Tough, I love it,” she retorted, gasping when he took a step forward to press her back against the wall.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice low. His eyes had darkened, and he was looking at her hungrily. Kat nodded, making sure to keep her eyes on his. She knew Coco wasn’t asking about the name. “So we do this with no secrets. That’s keeping you close?” he confirmed.

“All in,” she agreed, grinning when he hitched her leg up, wrapping it around his hip. “Didn’t you want to know about my car?”

“Is it gonna get me killed tonight?” Coco questioned, pressing his hips into hers as Kat shook her head. “Then I got more important things to do right now,” he mumbled against her skin, trailing his lips along her neck.

Tags: @agirllovespasta, @gemini0410 @scuzmunkie @woahitslucyylu @chibsytelford @ifoundmyhappythought @multiyfandomgirl40 @withmyteeth

#Coco Cruz #coco cruz x OC #coco cruz imagine #johnny coco cruz #mayans mc #mayans fx #mayans mc imagine #mayans imagine #faking it

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babe-of-swoles · 3 years

Text

This post is a dream I had (last night) that I've organized into making sense. So here is the dream as a short story.

The Dream:

There's a hole in my yard. It's not big, maybe the size of a largish pumpkin, or a very ambitious watermelon. But, it's deep.

How deep does it go?

Most of the time, I hardly notice it there. I've planted some trees around it, alder, and birch. Aspen too. I don't want anyone wandering into it.

But I always know it's there. Like a whisper.

Like a game of hide and seek, when you're hidden, and your friend is searching nearby. They walk out of sight, but you feel them.

It's so hot today. It's cooler near the hole...

There's a mist around it. Sometimes. Sometimes not, just dappled.sunshine. so inviting. So benign.

How deep is it?

I piled up the compost around the hole, like an anthill. The shit gets scattered again each night, so it's clear. The grass grows a little taller, a little greener, so you think maybe there's a spring.

Can you hear the water?

It's been years since I found it. I hardly remember how I got the house, not from someone, an auction maybe, or an easement.

But I found the hole on a summer day when the grass was dry and yellow like hay, with a sweet smell in the air of all the nectar the bees were too full to drink, with the saltiness of grasshopper tobacco overlaid.

The first time I looked in,

Look at it

it was cool inside, no mist, lined with dark rocks like the basalt that formed the cliffs against the sea near home. There were spiderwebs in the corner, and lush moss, and something dawn where the sun hardly reached that might have been a key.

I've always loved keys.

I almost climbed down. I thought about it, scurrying down the rocks like I'd done as a kid back home, but I was a hey from gardening, and wearing the wrong shoes, and it probably wasn't a key always, and what would it even unlock.

And when I looked again, it wasn't at all like that. It was dark, and swirling, and sod-sided.

You should have climbed in.

I tried covering it over, like you do with an old well. The corrugated tin must have blown away in a storm. I piled stones like a cairn, and they scattered by night.

So the trees, and the compost.

I began planting flowers around it. Not pretty enough to be plucked, just, enough so people would feel guilty trampling them. Pansies. Low growing phlox and clover. Roses.

They grew so well near the hole.

Imagine how well they would grow inside.

I was afraid to eat the strawberries I'd planted. Afraid to taste the honey from the bees that nested in a tree I couldn't remember planting, too old to be mine, but it was there, old like the house, though there was a time it hadn't been.

I used to have neighbors. Not close, but sometimes I'd see them, walking the dogs, or the children riding bikes down the old road. The pavement was pale gray, and cracked all over.

I used to warn them. "Watch out for the hole" I'd say, "it's real deep you could break something."

But the kids would come at night and dare each other to throw rocks in, or bottles, and then they'd kneel around the edges, listening for the sound of it hitting the bottom.

Can you see the bottom?

And then they'd shine a light down, and lean in and in and in and in, until up became down.

Sometimes no one came out. Sometimes, what came out looked like them, but wasn't. They moved wrong. Their skin wasn't quite the same color. Their hair was longer, much longer, and their teeth were sharp and spaced apart, like a shark, or a mole.

When things came out, they hungered for blood. They rooted through the compost for bugs and worms and shoved them by the fistful into their mouths, or climbed the stone face of the house to eat the eggs and baby pigeons from their nests.

They called to the neighborhood dogs, with voices like frightened rabbits, and bit through their ribs while they howled in silence.

I used to warn people. But that made them curious.

I built hives for the bees, and planted more flowers. Their hum kept people away, mostly.

One day, I dropped a plank across the hole. It unbalanced, tipped in, and when I pulled it out, the end has grown roots, pale, shining white.

I planted it, and it grew, so quickly.

There are other miracles here.

I began bringing things, dead branches, plants and leaves, and settling them around the edges, so they'd have roots in the mornings. Turning my garden into a grove, into a forest.

They couldn't wander in if they couldn't walk.

But sometimes the trees moved. Some days they were thinner, sparser. A stand of saplings spaced wide apart. Others they were old and gnarled, with brush grown high between them, vines snaking up their trunks, and deer tracks, narrow and winding, paths so thin you could only walk them placing one foot directly in front of the other, arms up and bracing you against the trees so you wouldn't lose your balance and fall into the brambles, the blackberries, the roses so old their vines were like wood.

But you could walk them.

One year there were so many butterflies. Not monarchs, but orange. Smaller ones, I've forgotten their name. They flew like a flock, like a swarm, landed along the branches of the maples, and weighed so heavy on the flowers that the stems broke.

I think it moved sometimes, the hole. It was always in my garden, always where you could see the stone face of the house, always just past where the shadow of the peak of the roof could reach at it's longest, but... Not always in the same place.

I'd forget where it was, exactly, but just know the feeling of being close, and then suddenly it was there but a little to the side of where I expected.

"Your garden is really pretty." The girl was young, a teen. Or maybe twenty? Not more than thirty. "I'm sorry it's so overgrown. Do you need help with it?"

My voice sounded so much older when I said hello, as if I'd lived here years and years, but it couldn't have been more than a few days.

She started by pulling weeds. The dandelions. The Goatheads. The vines that choked out my old trees so long ago. Or was it yesterday?

She brought lemonade some days, or watermelon slices. Sometimes we didn't even work in the garden, just sat on the largest of the old cairnstones, and talked about the birds that flitted through, her classes at the community college, the shapes of the clouds, and the men she could almost fall for, but not quite.

But all good things come to an end. And one day she found the hole.

"please," I whispered.

Her green eyes stared into the depths, and light flickered and rippled over her face, as if reflected on waves. "It's beautiful." She breathed.

"I know it is." My bones ached, "but you can't go in."

"only for a moment," she stepped down, and her foot stopped as if on a stair. Down again, and again.

You could come too.

I went into the house, where all my things were dusty and faded. I hadn't opened that closet in years, where I kept it, but the axe inside was sharp, and shining.

My trees looked so young through the windows, and I felt young and strong. I waited through the witching hours, and just before dawn she came, crawling in all fours like a wild thing, scurrying sideways and catching squirrels in her teeth to eat.

I sighed with a heaviness in my heart beyond measure. It was time.

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alirhi · 3 years

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writing sample, I guess?

So, there’s this series of books I’ve been trying (and mostly failing lol) to get done for...gods, going on 20 years, now. fuck, I’m old. Anyway, I still haven’t finished a single book, ever, in my life, but I’ve got a lot of random snippets of widely varying quality lol and I’m bored so I figured... fuck it. I’ll share some stuff and see if anyone likes it. I’m starting with a scene that was scrapped from the second book in the series. sorry if it’s a little confusing, and I’d be happy to provide context if anyone asks. I just don’t have a lot of good stuff that’s not getting kept if I ever actually finish and publish any of this crap lol and I don’t want to start off with something that’s actually being kept, if that makes sense? Anyway, here:

oh first... TRIGGER WARNING! death, blood, violence, mentions some other traumatic things like torture and rape.

and despite other characters calling her a child, main girl is NOT. she’s in her 20s. just to clarify XD

"Dad!" Choking back sobs, Rachel stumbled just inside the door and skidded the rest of the way on her knees, coming to rest beside the man she'd truly come to think of as her father. "Dad... dad... Daddy!" Tears blurred her vision as she pulled the bleeding and barely-conscious warrior's head into her lap; she tried to blink them away, but only made them roll in steady rivers down her cheeks.

Voice wavering, she stroked his unnaturally pale face and whimpered, "Daddy, please wake up!"

He stirred, ever so slightly, and the one eye that remained in his skull fluttered halfway open. It seemed at first that he couldn't see anything around him, but then that cold blue orb came to rest on the most welcome features he could possibly hope to see in his final moments, beautiful even twisted in grief as they now were.

"Rachel..." Amadeus rasped. With a wince, he swallowed past the dry lump in his throat and tried again: "Little Lady... You cannot be here..." Feebly, he tried to bring one hand up to cup her cheek, but couldn't muster the strength. His arm sort of twitched uselessly by his side and then dropped, limp and weak in the steadily growing pool of blood beneath him. The shattered stumps where his wings had once sat twitched as she pulled him closer, but they, too, would never be of use to him again.

For one desperate, foolish moment, the young queen felt relief wash through her. He was alive! Resolved to keep it that way, she squared her shoulders and gently shushed him. "Let me concentrate. I'll get you healed up and then-"

"No."

Startled, she nearly dropped him. "What?"

Throat still dry and choked, Amadeus had to fight to push every word out. "I'll not... see another dawn. You must... lead our people... home."

"You're my people!" she protested, fresh tears stinging her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, daddy, I'll get you heal-"

"Rachel." Her mouth snapped shut as he turned his head to press his pasty face into her hand. Blind hope aside, they both knew he could never be healed; severed wings were the one injury no angel could recover from, no matter how much energy she wasted trying. He closed his eye for a moment, and when it opened again, he put all the strength and dignity he could into his gaze; it pierced through his sobbing Queen, and she shivered. With the last of his waning strength, he insisted in a soft growl, "Be my daughter."

The blonde hated that she knew exactly what he meant. Cringing, but unable to look away or deny him the one thing she could actually do for him, she lifted her stolen dagger and took a deep breath.

"I love you, Daddy." Hardening her heart, she closed her eyes and plunged the shining golden blade through his.

As his lungs deflated for the last time, Rachel filled hers and let out the longest, loudest scream she could manage. A surge of power shot out of her at the same time, slamming into the walls hard enough to cause spiderweb cracks in all four sheer rock faces, and causing the glass to explode out of the tiny window near the ceiling. Vibrant sky blue eyes turned a faintly glowing silver as she set Amadeus' body on the floor and stood. Her lap and hands were soaked in his blood, but she paid no attention. Her tears dried and her grief retreated behind blind, ice-cold fury.

The cracks followed her through the halls, and only grew when the stones around her began to shake as she conjured music through their atoms. This was no low-volume hum to entertain herself; this was her war cry, and it reverberated through the dimly lit halls, announcing her approach to every living thing left in the castle. She was hardly even aware of what song she'd conjured until she heard Jonathan Davis' voice tear through the building screaming "ARE YOU READY?!"

Experience during their invasion of her home world had taught her one thing: The Fallen hated her taste in music, and the driving beat that spurred her on well past the point of exhaustion and kept her focused disoriented the enemy. It was perfect.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that this is a very stupid idea." The blonde didn't even so much as twitch when Lazereth appeared out of the gloom and fell into step beside her. "You're letting everyone know exactly where you are."

"Do I look like I'm hiding?" she snarled, swirling silver irises flashing.

"Why aren't you on that transport, you foolish girl?"

In any other situation, her normally cool and collected friend's venom would have made Rachel pause, possibly reconsider her actions, but she was too far gone. Nothing penetrated the static that clouded her mind. No thought was given even the tiniest voice except one: Kill them all. Vengeance drove her forward, and as her rage built, the music grew louder and the cracks in the walls wider and deeper.

Lazereth blinked, taking note of the damage for the first time. "You're expending an awful lot of power, little one."

"I don't even feel it."

That was almost more concerning than the fiery hatred that radiated off of her tiny body. "Killian, child-"

"They killed my father." Rachel stopped dead in her tracks, finally turning to face her friend as she drew her borrowed sword with one hand; the other still kept a white-knuckle grip on the knife she'd driven into Amadeus' heart. The final strike had been hers, true, but that was mercy. He'd have died either way.

Lazereth growled, gripping both of the little blonde's shoulders and giving her a violent shake. "And your children need you! Your people need you!" At the young Queen's startled expression, she rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't look at me like that! Of course I know who you are. And now Matthias will, as well!"

"I don't CARE!" She shook the older woman off, not wanting to find out the hard way if her strange nullifying power worked on her. "Imprison me, enslave me, torture me, rape me... Whatever. I'll live. But no one fucks with my family!"

Tears stung the noblewoman's eyes, blurring her vision with an icy gray haze as she whispered, "You still have family, my dear."

"And Emil's taking care of the last members of it still trapped on this rock," Rachel snapped, breaking into a run as the song switched from Korn's Blind to Led Zeppelin's Immigrant Song.

She didn't notice, and was too wrapped up in her bloodlust to care, when Lazereth stood where she was, one hand hovering by her throat and tiny pink lips forming one nearly-silent word. "'Emil'?"

It was surprisingly easy to make her way through the palace to the throne room. Rachel met with some resistance, but it was minimal; by the time she reached the closed and barred doors, it finally dawned on her that most of the King's forces were out looking for her in the city. Good. She wanted her next fight to be one-on-one.

"MATTHIAS!" The heavy doors slammed open, the broken timber that had been bracing them shut launched to two separate corners of the room from the force of her rage. Finding her prey there, huge eyes narrowed in feigned anger to cover the very real fear behind them, she smirked. "Let's dance, you ugly fucker."

The room trembled and her ears ached from the volume as the song she conjured changed again and grew louder. Pantera's 5 Minutes Alone brought Matthias's two remaining guards to their knees, clutching their heads in pain. Matthias himself had too much pride to be seen flinching, much less cowering, and that was fine with her. If he shrank and cowered, she could simply lop his head off and walk away. She didn't want that; she wanted him to suffer.

"You wanted the Pallandre Queen," she bellowed over the music as she slowly closed the distance between them. He took an involuntary step back before he caught himself, and her smirk spread into an insidious, almost manic grin. "Well, here I am, Matty. Come and get me."

Never breaking eye contact with her, the newly crowned King called out to his guards. He tried to sound commanding, even a trifle impatient; Rachel only heard the tremor of unease that made his voice waver and crack. She smiled again. "They're busy. Anyway, this fight is all yours, Matt. You invaded my home, you enslaved my people, you killed my father... and now? Now is your moment of fucking reckoning. You're gonna learn today, boy; don't start a fight you don't have the balls to finish!"

Finally she was mere inches from him. It was too close for her sword to be of any use to her, but that was fine; she still had the knife coated in Amadeus's drying blood in her other hand. Staring up at the lanky monstrosity before her, she cut the music at last and grinned as she pulled her glamour back in around her. She delighted in watching those comically large eyes get even bigger with shock as her golden locks and bright sky blue eyes both faded to a deep brown and her pale pink skin turned a beautiful light caramel color. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."

"You!"

The illusion dropped in an instant and she backed up a step, nodding. "Been here all along, baby." Quick as a striking snake, she pressed the flat of the knife blade against his bare arm and then danced back, cackling as he shrank away from her and howled in pain. "Not my fault you were too stupid to see it."

#my writing #fiction #fantasy #battle #snippet #original fiction #critiques welcome #i know i'm bad at death scenes #rough draft #scrapped

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daybreak-delusion · 4 years

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Chapter 9

Introduction: Whitney Goodwinson was planning on inheriting one of her deceased grandmother's properties, but not a little house off the coast of North Carolina. As she struggles to meet new people, fix up her new property, deal with troublemaker JJ Maybank, and perfect her grandmother's infamous lemonade, she might just find that the Outer Banks has more to offer than it seems.

Series Masterlist

Previous chapter

I want to say that on Sunday I was totally independent and was totally not missing the presence of a certain golden boy at all, but I’d be lying to myself. It wasn't a complete waste of the day though. I did manage to drive the Bee (my new nickname for the Volkswagen) to the hardware store that I saw yesterday and picked up some essentials for fixing up the house. Blue tape, a bunch of paintbrushes and rollers, a couple of gallons of primer and white paint, drop cloths, this anti-rust spray for the garage, about a million trash bags, and some other items that I had to pre-order. The store had limited options for paint so I had to order some from a manual and it would be coming later this week. I figured I would stick to the yellow/lemon theme that she had going on and picked a shade of light yellow. Since the paint should be arriving in a week I had time to get everything situated. Somehow I managed to shove everything into the Bee and make it home. I mean back to the Lemon House. Back at the house, I placed all of my new equipment on the back porch and then headed to the garage. My task for today was going to be cleaning out the garage. I parked the Bee closer to the house so I could have more space and started to realize the trouble I was in. There was just so much junk and the last thing I wanted to do was find the pests that had made a mess of the place. I decided to change into a more suitable outfit for the deep cleaning I was about to do. After switching my sandals for some sneakers and putting on some leggings I made my way back to the garage with a trash can, recycling bin, and a box of trash bags. It was gonna be a long day.

The boxes were filled with all kinds of things. There were old suitcases filled with clothes, rusty pans with ancient stains on them, old fashioned jewelry, and a bunch of old photographs that were in good shape. I was really conflicted about what to get rid of and what to keep. I decided to ditch the pans and pots seeing that they were out of shape. I kept the clothes in case there was a thrift store I could donate them too. Most of the stuff could also be given to thrift stores or antique shops, but there was one box underneath this ancient-looking blanket that seemed different from the others. First of all, it was an actual wooden box, not like the cardboard boxes that had held all of the other items. Unfortunately, there was a lock on the box and it wouldn't open. I didn’t want to break it in case I broke something in the box. Then I remembered the bulletin board where I found the car keys. Walking over to it there were a bunch of different labels for different keys, but one of them didn’t have a label. I figured it was my best bet. Thankfully it was a pretty good bet. When I opened it, a disgusting spider the size of one of Grandmother's lemons crawled out and I bolted out of the garage screaming, knocking over a few boxes in the process. It took me a couple of minutes to calm down and I reluctantly walked back into the garage with a baseball bat I found in my hands. I was shaking as I started to open the box again until I was sure the spider had disappeared. In the box were a bunch of misshapen things covered in old linen cloth and unfortunately spiderwebs. Not wanting to be in the pest infested room anymore I decided to take a break and bring the chest on to the porch. It was a lot lighter than I expected and stained my gray shirt with dust. I placed it on the porch and went inside to grab a damp cloth to clean off the dust. Sitting on the porch I cleaned the box and opened it again. The first misshapen item was a gold locket in good condition, I was excited to see what was in the compartment only to find it empty. The next item was a silver ring with a crop of wheat engraved on it. It was a bit bulky for my taste and definitely had belonged to a man at one point. I slipped it onto my thumb and thought it looked nice with the rest of the rings that I had on. Then at the bottom of the box was an old cracked leather journal with yellow pages. On the bottom right-hand corner the name Elenora Stanton was engraved in gold letters. I instantly knew this stuff belonged in a museum or something the date on the first page was from April 1843.

“Holy shit,” I whispered to myself stroking my hand across the faded ink. The writing was in a small cursive that I could barely make out. It would be easier to read with a magnifying glass. I carefully wrapped the leather-bound book in the white cloth and placed it back into the box. Walking inside I cleared a space for it on the table and set the box down. Thankfully from my knife search when I was making lemonade I got an idea of where everything was in the kitchen and I remembered seeing a magnifying glass in a drawer with a bunch of other random items. I brought it over to the table and opened the old book again. Thank god Mother made me practice writing in cursive or this would have been a nightmare.

23 April 1843

Dear friend as of today, I am eighteen years of age and now get to embark on the responsibilities of an adult. I had received many good wishes of health and good tidings for my birthday and my dearest younger sister Juliana gifted me my most favored gift, this diary. I was also gifted a new church dress from Mother and Father and Aunt Alice promised to take me into town to buy a new corset. She said that all adult women should own a suitable corset and if I am to live with her and Uncle Harry this summer it would be an absolute necessity for me to own one. Mother wishes I would stay home and help care for my younger siblings, but I find it absurd that she puts the task of looking after them on me. If Mother feels too overwhelmed with her offspring then she should simply just hire a nanny. I pray that whoever she hires will be able to keep her sanity after a week of working with my siblings or perhaps Juliana will have to bear my burdens. No matter I mustn’t worry about my family anymore. I am an adult as of today and now am able to focus on the wishes of my own heart. In all truthfulness, my wishes are few in number, but this summer I hope to make more. Aunt Alice says that Outer Banks is a marvelous island and I count the days until we depart. Nonetheless, I still have time to prepare for my departure, till next time dear friend!

30 April 1843

Dear friend this week has been excruciating. Father is beginning to go back on his promise to let me live with Aunt Alice this upcoming summer. He is skeptical of the owner of the island being a colored man and all, but Aunt Alice says that to be truly Christian we must see and treat all people as the children of God and that my father is little-minded. I would never speak to Father with such forwardness so to help my case I have been taking on extra tasks and duties around our home. Juliana has been accompanying me in my tasks as she will be taking over my responsibilities as I predicted. She is quite a quick learner and I’m sure she will be able to manage all of my duties when I leave for the summer. Today we-

The rest of this entry was just explaining all of the chores that Elenora and Juliana had to do on a daily basis. I was incredibly fascinated with the diary and was confused as to why it was in Grandmother's garage? I am interrupted from my thoughts by a buzz coming from my phone on the table. I placed a stray piece of paper where I left off and reached for my phone. Checking my phone I noticed a text from an unknown number.

U/N: Hey Whitney it’s Sarah! My friends and I are going to the beach tomorrow afternoon! I remember you said your board was coming in tomorrow, but if you don’t have it yet John B has an extra one you could borrow! BTW this is nonnegotiable you are coming! We’ll be by at 1. See ya then!

Oh thank god, I was so scared it was going to be Rose Cameron inviting me over for brunch or something.

Also, my mom wants to know if you can do brunch sometime.

Great. Oh well, I guess there could be worse things than free food.

Me: Tell your mother that brunch this Saturday will be fine and I would love to go to the beach with you guys! About the board, I’ll be sure to let you know if I need it or not.

Sarah: Sounds like a plan and be by your dock at 1

Me: Got it see you then!

I was excited to finally have plans that didn't involve me having to wear a dress. I just hope that my board would get in before the afternoon, I’d hate to have to be a bother. I eyed the journal and decided to continue reading. What else did I have to do?

The next few entries were about Elenora’s daily life. Taking care of her siblings, washing the laundry, having tea with her mother’s sewing group, and walking through town with her friends. It was starting to become boring until an entry from June 3rd.

3 June 1843

Dear friend today is the day! I am finally leaving this simple town and am leaving with Aunt Alice and Uncle Harry to The Outer Banks of North Carolina. My soul has reached happiness beyond my comprehension. All of those days of labor around the house finally served a purpose in my measly life. Now I will be embarking to a new place where hopefully anything can happen. Nonetheless, I will not be staying there without a purpose, I am to work in Uncle Harry’s tailor shop mending minor rips and sewing on buttons and such. Mother and father are still reluctant for me to leave our household, but Aunt Alice is most persuasive especially when her favorite niece is involved. We will leave today at noon and then will stay in a tavern closer to the ferry we will take tomorrow. I am just jittery with excitement, this will be a new area for me to explore and I cannot wait to see where it takes me! Till next time dear friend!

It was so strange that this lady, Elenora, was so excited to come to Outer Banks, and just two days ago this was the last place I wanted to be. Maybe I was being a bit ungrateful, maybe this place had more to offer than it seemed. I was absolutely fascinated with the diary, but for real why did Grandmother have it? Maybe she bought it in an auction or it was a gift or something. Looking at my phone for the time I realize it’s a quarter past 1 and I still need to clean out the rest of the garage. Sighing, I closed the diary with a makeshift bookmark and left the house. Bagging up the clothes took the longest, but with the music playing, I didn’t really mind it that much. I had also gotten used to the heat, kind of, so it wasn't completely unbearable. After cleaning everything out and dusting some of the hard to reach corners I decided to power wash the garage. It was disgusting, but it had to be done. The garage was still wet so I decided to bring the remaining boxes to the porch. I was definitely done cleaning for the night and needed some relaxation time. So I cooked up some pasta and steamed vegetables and sat down for dinner. As I was eating my lonely feelings were coming back to me. I was craving company and turned to the diary for something to do.

10 June 1843

Dear friend, I have been staying with Aunt Alice and Uncle Harry for a week now and it has been a thrilling experience. On the ferry ride to the island Uncle Harry let us sit on the top deck and it was exhilarating leaning over the edge to see the water. The shop that Uncle Harry owns is the only tailor shop on the island so they are always busy. We stay in the apartment space above the shop and one of the windows in the parlor gives the most breathtaking view of the ocean. It is so vast and wide that I feel as if I am a small button on a white collared shirt. The apartment is quaint, but I have my very own quarters! There is so much space that I felt quite foolish when I only had my small bag to fill up the drawers. However, Aunt Alice says that if customers are satisfied with their work they sometimes pay extra and that I can keep the excess money for myself! Me owning my own money! It will truly be thrilling I know it. I pray that my skills will be adequate for the shop and that I will exceed my skills. There is still more work to be done, so until next time dear friend!

19 June 1843

Dear friend, I thought that my experiences here on this island could not have been better, but I was proven wrong! This week has been most eventful. It all began on Monday the 13th in the tailor shop. Denmark Tanny, the owner of practically the whole island, came into the shop. He was accompanied by his eldest son Robert Tanny and as they were discussing business with Uncle they mentioned the expertise work on the stitching of a new suit and it was my own work! Thankfully Uncle gave me the credit and I had the pleasure to make their acquaintances. They were truly delightful people and invited us to tea that coming Wednesday at their residence at Tannyhill. Their home was the most gorgeous sight I have ever seen in my existence. It was a mansion. I felt so quaint in my three-year-old Easter dress compared to the lavish home. The Tanny family was most welcoming and tea went by too fast. The conversation was most interesting, although I did not speak much. They talked of the economy and politics and I was too mature on the subject. However what was most interesting was during the conversation I prayed my mind was not presuming it, but Robert kept looking in my direction. Looking back on the occasion I should not be assuming such things, but one cannot help themselves when the presence of an attractive male is in the room. When he smiles I feel nothing, but sunshine and complete bliss. The feeling magnifies when he smiles in my direction. I was anticipating our next meeting, however, Mr. Tanny did not come into Uncle’s shop for the rest of the week. Not all hope was lost however because today after our church services Robert Tanny asked to accompany me on my walk home. I almost fainted with excitement, however, I kept up my studious facade and accepted. On the pathway home, we talked of nature and the ocean. To my disappointment we arrived at the shop rather quickly however, Robert promised to take me to the beach to search for shells so that I may decorate my quarters. I am counting the second until this Thursday comes along. Until next time dear friend!

I wanted to keep reading, but I noticed it was past midnight and I still had a lot to do tomorrow. JJ would be by and I had a list of things for him to get done. I also needed to get enough rest if I was going to go surfing and I didn’t want to be the one lagging behind. Elenora’s diary was just gonna have to wait. As I fell asleep I tried to imagine myself in Elenoras place, wonderstruck about Outer Banks, and starting a relationship with a true gentleman. Oh, how things have changed. Still, the name Tanny sounded really familiar to me, especially their house, Tannyhill. This all did take place on Outer Banks, so maybe some of the places Elenora was talking about still exist. I would have to save it for another day because for now, I needed as much beauty sleep as I could get.

a/n: Hey guys sorry I haven’t updated in a while I am on vacation and have been going through a bit of writers block. But I am revived and am so excited to finish this story. Also like PLOT TWIST can’t wait for you guys to read what’s next! I’m still on vacation so I’ll try to update when I can.

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a-vamp-and-a-half · 4 years

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She struggles to stay awake, trying to keep her eyes focused on this stranger, a stranger that looks so so familiar, almost as if she's seen her face a dozen times before. She fades in and out of darkness, limbs burning as feeling returns, pins and needles racing up and down. Before long her body starts violently shivering, muscles waking back up and digits moving again. She laughs weakly, sheer relief at being able to feel again, feel warmth. Outside a tear drips down her face

Outside, it’s been a few days.

A few days of Doc not resting once, just keeping constant vigil over Sia, tending to her injuries. He doesn’t do anything else, the boost from her healing tears the only thing keeping him going.

It’s not helping. Nothing he does is helping. Every day the spiderweb of blackened, burnt veins grows. Every day he checks her eyes, and they’re still white, still unseeing, still unresponsive. Every day he treats her burns, but they refuse to heal at all, even the slightest bit.

Dark comes in every day to check on her, and he watches Doc and Sia deteriorate at the same time.

“Doc,” he says softly one day, “Go get some rest.”

“No.”

“I’ll look after-”

“Are you a fucking doctor? No? Then just shut up and let me do my job,” Doc growls. One of the burns on her arm has cracked, and he’s wrapping it up to stop the bleeding.

“Doc, you need rest.”

“No, I don’t. Look at me, I’m fine. I got some kind of boost from her, okay? She saved my life, I’m going to save hers.”

“You died-”

“And I’m not letting her do the same! I-”

“Doc!” Dark grabs his arm, and Doc jerks away, staring at Dark with grief and anger.

“You. Died. You bled out. The blood on her hands when we brought her in wasn’t hers, it was yours. And you haven’t given yourself time to process that, or truly heal from it.” Dark takes the bandages from Doc’s hand, with some struggle. “I’m in charge. I’m telling you to go rest. Now.”

“I-”

“NOW!”

Doc flinches at Dark’s bark, and leaves the room.

He goes to his own, with it’s impersonal walls and it’s stolen decorations mocking him about his past. He lays down in his bed and tries to close his eyes.

Truth be told, the boost is... wearing off. And it never did get rid of his hunger. He’s been starving for days, but what else is new?

He lays on his back and stares up at the ceiling.

Nothing he’s doing is helping. Nothing he’s doing is working. Sia is laying in his office, dying, and he can’t do anything about it.

He wants her back.

He wants her okay.

He wants to be able to rest.

He’s tired.

...

He’s real fucking sick of being tired.

His stomach sends a sharp pang through him, and he can now confidentially say, it feel worse than a gunshot.

He’s real fucking sick of being starving all the time too.

...

He can’t sleep.

He gets up, and walks out of his room.

“Doc, where’re you goin’?” Bing asks, looking up from watching videos of him and Sia goofing around.

“Out,” Doc says flatly.

He slams the door behind him.

He just needs to relax. Work off some frustration.

He wanders into the city. He doesn’t have anywhere specific he wants to go. He just wants a distraction.

He’s on autopilot. Wandering around the streets, in and out of shops, browsing but not paying any real attention to any of it. It’s the dead of night, so his options are... limited, to say the least.

He finds himself in a conversation with someone working a late shift at a 24/7 convenience store. He’s not paying attention, but the conversation is apparently going well.

His stomach claws at him, begging. He can smell their blood, sense their heartbeat, almost taste it...

Instinct claws, same as the hunger. It always does. He always fights it off. He’s always exhausted afterwards.

...

He lets himself stop.

He lets himself stop fighting, just this once, so that he doesn’t have to think anymore. He doesn’t have to feel anymore. He can... let go, for once measly minute, and get some fucking rest for once.

So he lets his guard down.

He lets instinct guide him, lets his consciousness take a backseat.

The conversation goes great. The person walks with him once their shift is over. He’s laughing, sometimes, but he’s not really sure as to what he’s laughing at. The only thing really getting through is the smell.

He’s leading them into an isolated area.

He’s never liked doing this. Dark had to force him, threaten him.

How come? This is easy.

His hunger keeps screaming, and his instincts keep moving, and he just lets himself watch, because he doesn’t have the strength to hold either one back right now.

He’s.

So.

Tired.

He’s wrapping a hand around their head, covering their mouth, and sinking his fangs into their neck.

He’s always hated this. So, so much. It ate him up inside. The feeling of their warm blood sliding down his throat, of their heart beating faster as they realize what’s happening, of their heartbeat getting weaker and weaker as they go limp in his grip...

He’s never stopped to let himself realize how good it feels.

He drains them, and lets go, their body slumping to the ground.

That was...

Easy.

That was something he could fix.

That was something he could actually do without feeling like a fucking failure, once he just let go.

...

He feels a little better now.

He walks home, stepping over the body.

He feels a little numb. A little distant.

But it’s nice. It’s nice to not be so aware of everything. It’s nice to not be fighting against anything and everything, just for once. It’s nice to not be holding himself back from anything. Wasting energy. Wasting time. Wasting life.

He opens the door. Bing looks at him, and his eyes go wide. There’s some blood on Doc’s shirt, and on his chin, fresh and human.

“Did you-”

“Yeah.”

He goes back to his room and lays down.

...

He should paint the walls.

He rolls over and falls asleep. It’s dreamless, as opposed to the constant nightmares of nights past.

It’s better.

In his office, Dark gives Sia some more blood, and sees the tear roll down her face. His chest blooms with hope, and he smiles.

He’ll have his family back soon. Whole, and happy, just like before.

#Sia character RP

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inkchantress · 4 years

Text

I wrote another fic!!

Title: The Color Yellow

Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug (again... what can I say, I’m obsessed lol)

Word Count: 1,710

Summary: That moment in Collector when Adrien sees his broken childhood drawing on the ground. Flashbacks ensue.

AN: The moment that this fic is based off of is an important moment that’s kind of overlooked. It’s not particularly memorable, in and of itself, but I kept thinking that there was probably a story behind that, and well... here it is. Also I wrote most of this after midnight so it might not be super refined but ideas don’t stop till you write them all out lol.

Keep reading under the cut (or read it on AO3)

He couldn’t move.

He was six years old, gap-toothed and slightly cross-eyed, with more colors of crayon at his disposal than he could ever dream of.

Well. Maybe that wasn’t quite true. Maybe he could move. More like he wasn’t willing to try.

But he’d only needed four colors that day. The classics.

The house was empty. His father was gone, off to who knew where. To the basement, to his room. It didn’t matter where. Adrien could never tell the difference.

Red. Green. Blue. Yellow.

He tried to remind himself what he was doing here--they were trying to stop something horrible from happening. They were searching for Hawkmoth.

He’d had plenty of practice coloring with the classic four. He knew them well, from evenings in restaurants where he always scribbled furiously on the kids’ menu. He never went inside the lines, always drew his own thing. And he’d show his parents his masterpiece every time, once the night was over.

Hawkmoth, who at the moment was still at large, who Ladybug thought she had finally pinned down.

Every time, Gabriel Agreste would dismiss whatever work it was, and every single time, Emilie would smile down at Adrien and compliment it. She’d ask him to describe it and suggest areas for improvement, like adding binoculars so the people in the picture could see better, or putting in another bird so the first one could have a friend.

Hawkmoth, who might be his father.

And then, later, to Gabriel, when she thought Adrien couldn’t hear: “Leave him alone. He’s got a creative spirit, Gabe. He’s got it inside him. You’re the only one who doesn’t see it.”

The whole room was trashed. Mannequins smashed, ceramic vases hurled off of shelves, panes of glass lying shattered on the floor. Photographs in frames that sported spiderweb cracks littered the edges of the room.

Adrien knew artists were hard on themselves. He knew they got in their own heads. He knew they drove themselves crazy from the inside out.

But he had done this.

This would be his biggest masterpiece, his museum debut. ‘Six years old and already making history,’ his mother would say theatrically, grinning and tickling him until his stomach hurt from laughing.

And his father would look at the drawing and smile, a real one, one of those lopsided, carefree grins that he only sported in old photographs. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he’d say.

Adrien had driven his father insane. From the outside in.

He worked quickly, a six-year-old man on a mission, tongue poking through the space where he had recently lost his front tooth. There was still a slightly bloody stump from where his gums hadn’t quite healed, and it made the tip of his tongue taste like salt every time he touched it.

It was all because of that stupid book.

He sketched it out with a pencil first. The mountain peaks in the back. The roundness of his father’s glasses, the twist of his mother’s hair. Adrien came out quite a bit taller than he really was, compared to them, but no matter. It didn’t have to be realistic, not really. It just had to be visible.

Adrien could almost see his father in the room, walking around and smashing things. Picking mannequins up over his head and throwing them down onto their sides so they cracked. Kicking vases. Perhaps ranting to Nathalie.

He had to ask Nathalie to show him his mother’s best dress so he could get the pattern right. It was strange, little swirls and clouds and dots all working together. Nathalie had obliged, holding up the gown for him as he sat with his legs crossed on the floor of his mother’s closet, his small hands weaving the spots and swirls on the page. On the way back to the long dining room table that was doubling as his great workspace, Nathalie had asked about the drawing.

“It’s for Mom and Dad,” Adrien had whispered, looking around as if his parents were going to pop out of a corner at any moment. “But it’s a secret. Don’t tell.”

Nathalie nodded dutifully, and the corner of her mouth twitched up. She’d winked at him.

He’d winked, clumsily, back.

Adrien could see his father. Unleashing a tornado on his office, his face red and his lips pressed tight with anger. Picking Adrien’s drawing up and flinging it across the room with such gusto that it shattered on impact.

Blue for his pants, red for his father’s pants, green for the grass beneath their feet, and little accents all over his mother’s dress...

Adrien’s heart was in his throat. He’d done this.

And layers and layers of yellow, waves of blond hair.

He, Adrien Agreste, had done this. He might as well have just broken all of the things himself.

He’d finished the masterpiece with a dripping yellow sun, a bright misshapen oval hanging above his mother’s head. It shone down on the three of them, all proudly wearing wide grins, holding each other’s hands.

It was because of him and Plagg and that stupid book…

When he finished, he’d first shown it to Nathalie. She rarely ever smiled, but she did that day. A full smile, teeth included, accompanied by a professional nod. “I’m sure they’ll love it.”

There was emotion clouded in her voice when she spoke. He didn’t understand it then.

It was all because of him.

They’d eaten dinner together that evening, the three of them and Nathalie. It was Adrien’s favorite, spaghetti and meatballs, the ones that his mother made just right. Emilie told everyone a story of when she and Gabriel were young, and it was the first time Adrien had ever heard Nathalie laugh out loud. Adrien and his mother both laughed so hard they had to stop eating. How Adrien loved his mother’s laugh--when Emilie was laughing, she became the color yellow, sunny and bright and wildly contagious.

And it was working on everybody. They had all caught a case of the Emilies. Adrien could’ve even sworn up and down that he saw his father smile.

God. He wanted to turn back time so badly. He wanted a second chance, a third chance, a million more chances.

After dinner, when all of the dishes were packed away, Nathalie had gathered his parents in the living room and set the stage, and Adrien had emerged brandishing his drawing. He handed it to his mother first, and she was silent for several seconds, taking it in.

“Well?” he’d asked. “Is it okay?”

She’d put a hand to her mouth, which Adrien thought was a bad sign, but then she spoke, so softly it was almost a whisper. “Wow. This is… wonderful.”

She put a finger to the page. “That’s me, right? And that’s your father?”

Adrien had nodded, almost like a bobblehead, wild green eyes wide in his face and gap-toothed mouth grinning.

“And there, that’s you… this is beautiful. Look, Gabe.”

She’d handed his father the drawing, and Adrien’s breath caught.

Gabriel Agreste had surveyed the doodle once, twice, taking in every line, every color.

And he must have still been carrying a case of the Emilies, because he nodded in approval, so subtly it could have been an accident.

It was just like that. No critiques, nothing. Quick and painless.

Adrien turned back to Nathalie, and she, too, must still have been afflicted with the Emilies, because she winked at him for the second time that day. He’d winked back, and it filled him with gold.

“This is beautiful,” Emilie had repeated, “but I think it’s missing something, don’t you?”

“What?” Adrien had asked.

She’d reached out an arm to draw him into her lap. “You’re an artist,” she’d said, tapping his nose. “It needs a signature.”

Gabriel produced a pen from his coat, and Emilie handed it to her son, her eyes filled to the brim with a kind of wild excitement. Adrien had taken the pen, but he’d hesitated, hand hovering over the page.

“Go on,” Emilie had encouraged, smiling so wide she was almost glowing. “Sign it.”

So he had, in blocky kindergarten handwriting, in the deep black ink of the pen. He’d marveled at his own name, at the six letters beaming up at him from the page. They claimed the drawing as his own, a declaration that Adrien Agreste made this masterpiece with his own two hands, determination, inspiration, and four different colors of crayon, all sitting loud and proud on the paper.

It told the world that he was here.

Emilie had picked her son up and swung him around until he started to laugh, and then she had brought him into her arms. He had clung to the fabric of her shirt, the satin and cotton and his mother’s skin, a smell that he swore he’d never forget.

“It’s perfect,” she had whispered.

Adrien wanted to pick the drawing up, piece together the shards of glass into one pane again like time had never touched them. He longed to fix it, reverse it, go back. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted. He felt like his skin might shatter with the pain of wanting. Something had seized him around the heart, and it was collapsing him.

He was driving himself insane. From the inside out.

Like father, like son.

When Ladybug next spoke, it nearly scared him out of his wits--he could have been standing there seconds or hours or days. She looked at him sideways, coated with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He closed his eyes so his mother and his father and six-year-old self disappeared, and he could see the splash of colors and blocky signature and shattered glass no more. He forced himself away, and the memories all left him alone, one by one--his father’s hidden smile, Nathalie’s laugh, that feeling of wonder that filled him when he signed his name.

The color yellow was the last to go, lingering in his eyelids for a few final seconds. A shock of blond hair and a feeling of warmth and a golden sun, dripping light onto him and his parents like a promise.

He opened his eyes and turned away. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s keep going.”

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #miraculous fanfic #miraculous ladybug fanfic #miraculous fanfiction #chat noir #adrien agreste #ladybug #gabriel agreste #emilie agreste #nathalie sancoeur #ladybug and chat noir #sorry for the spacing #ik it's weird #fanfic

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