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wiypt-writes · 3 years

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Murder, He Wrote

Part 1

Co-written with @southerngracela

Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween… When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela for @jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.

There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide.

The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.

It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.

And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.

Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.

It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.

Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone.

It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.

As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.

Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.

You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up. You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.

To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news, In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud, So make sure that you read your answers out loud. As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise. Which may or may not be a scary surprise…

Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but, not enough to prevent cold

You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.

A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

“Oh come on…” you muttered, “That’ ones obvious. Knife, the answer is knife…” You picked up your phone and shone it around the various surfaces of the kitchen and your eyes honed in on a wooden knife block containing a solitary knife. You crossed the room towards it and as you closed in on it, you noticed that the handle of the knife was an ornate silver filigree. It was no ordinary kitchen knife and as you pulled it form the block you realised it was in fact a dagger, antique by the looks of things. The blade was curved slightly, reaching a sharp point, the silver tarnished. But the more you looked at it, the more you suddenly became horribly aware that it wasn’t merely a dullness of colour at all. It was blood.

“Dramatic…” you mumbled, and with a sigh you then realised there was no clue attached to it. Was this a distraction? A decoy? You were just about to stat ransacking drawers to find the actual knife you needed, when you glanced back at the block the dagger had been held in and noticed a flash of white peeking from underneath. Picking it up and moving it aside you smiled as you saw the same cursive writing, spelling out the word three. Seeing as you might as well play along, you used the dagger to slit the envelope open, tossing it back down on the counter as you read the next clue.

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

You fell silent, your mind racing to how the hell you were going to find a piano in this decrepit and yet enormous house. Then, your ears heard it. The subtle note from deep inside the house. It was a single key. But now that wasn't your concern, no, it wasn't the mice or the bugs or even the brown water. Your heart raced at the notion that someone was in fact in the house with you.

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room.

The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

“Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat.

“Window. It’s a window.”

Usually, at that point, something happened to point your attention to the place you should be looking but this time, there was nothing. Instinctively you looked out of the one on the wall by the piano, but as you stared at nothing but the darkness outside you realised that was too obvious. Just then your ears picked up a sound you couldn’t quite figure out, but it was familiar all the same. And then it came to you, it was the familiar click and clack of a skateboard, the wheels gliding over the brittle old floor and you span round in the direction it was coming from to see a window you hadn’t noticed before, this one was an ornate, stained glass window which bore some kind of flower design that faced directly out into the hall.

He passed by slower than a flash but just enough to allow you to catch only a glimpse. You audibly gasped, your breath coming in a sharp intake of fright, because until then you had been alone on this chase. But it appeared you dramatic host had finally come out to play. He was merely a shadow, bulky in frame, tall and dressed all in black as he moved past but it was enough to puzzle you. You didn’t remember Lucas being that broad, or tall. With a frown you ran into the hall to catch him but saw nothing, and heard nothing, the only thing to indicate he had been there was a faint smell of the cedar and amber of what you assumed to be cologne.

You paced quickly down the hall in the direction the figure had gone but as you passed the stairwell the light flickered on, instantly attracting your attention. You’d only briefly noticed the ornate staircase before, but with the lack of light you certainly hadn’t noticed the writing on the wall, dripping in fresh paint. Swallowing, as you mouth suddenly felt dry with fear you stepped onto the first stair, and as soon as you did you were plunged into almost complete black. Letting out a shriek as, once again, he’d managed to get the drop on you, you shook your head and reached for your phone, taking another few steps up so you were level with the next clue which you read aloud.

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize.” You bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination.

Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Alongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby.

You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

This room was a little lighter thanks to a lamp which stood on a nightstand. It wasn’t bright, by any means, but it was enough so that you could clearly see the bed in the middle of the room. And there, placed by the pillows was a thin box. On unsteady legs, you shuffled slowly towards the bed, the box before you making you quiver, your insides churning. A shaky hand tilted the lid open slowly, afraid something would pounce in a sneak attack. You shut your eyes ready to protect them in case a bat or bugs flew at you and when nothing happened, you opened them slowly and inspected the boxes contents. There was no envelope this time, just copy of a newspaper. Your newspaper. And you felt your blood run cold as you recognise the bold headline across the top. Murder, He Wrote: A twisted tale of Inheritance, Crime and Exoneration "Drysdale," you whispered in realization. But now, while you were well aware of what the article meant and who it was referring to, your brain shut down processing how on earth Lucas Lee and Ransom could possibly be connected. Your breathing deepened and you moved to pick up the article, but then the lid to the box caught your eye and you froze, for on the inside of the lid was another clue, only this one was a straight forward question which was spelled out using cut-out letters from the newspaper in question.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath. And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

When Y/N went limp in his arms, Ransom laid her across the bed only leaving the room to hurriedly cover his tracks, blowing out candles and removing any trace of her that had been in the house. His time as his grandfather's research assistant gave him far more experience than it should have. When he returned to the bedroom she was still out cold but light as a feather as he carried her downstairs and out the back door to the awaiting SUV, smug that his plan had gone so well.

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

He drove away from the scene of his new crime towards the city, driving through the dead of night, on the beltway, and continued twenty minutes outside downtown Boston before pulling into the garage of a large red cedar and quartzite home. He killed the engine and closed the garage door, pulling Y/N from the seat she was slumped in when it was clear to do so.

He couldn't be seen, he wouldn't be seen. He carried her inside the spacious home, his boots tapping heavily against the dark marble floor of the kitchen and finally the lush carpeted staircase that wound down into the basement.

This is where he laid her, in the basement, on a bed, but not just any bed, the one that would now become hers. He adjusted the lighting in the space, low enough not to disturb her, but bright enough to give the room a glow so he could finish what he'd set out to do. In the shock of the struggle in the bedroom, she’d dropped her phone and he’d made sure to smash it long before he left the haunted house, making sure there'd be no device to track her. He'd already disposed of her car while she was playing his little game, every loose end as far as he could see was tied up.

And now she was all his.

He brushed the hair away from Y/N’s face where it had fallen over her eyes. With gloved hands he manoeuvred her undone, black woollen coat off her body, leaving her in the bottle green turtle neck sweater dress and thick tights she was wearing before he tossed it over the chair in the corner of the room and then undid the zips on her brown suede knee high boots. He dropped them to the floor, kicking them towards the same corner with the equal carelessness he’d shown her coat. With a final meticulous movement he rearranged her on the bed, so he’d appear more comfortable and just before he left the room, he wrapped the cool, metallic cuff around the ankle. It locked in place with a clink and with a final glance at her still unconscious form, he turned and exited the room, the door latching shut and with the snap of the deadbolt he locked her in.

*****

Your head pounded, your nose burned and your mouth felt dry with the faintest taste of something foul lingering as you swallowed. The light was low but still your eyes ached. You tried to decipher exactly what the hell had happened to you while you got your bearings. You tried to sit up but your body felt heavy, the soft bed you now realized you were lying on was not your own. Your breathing rapidly increased as you started to move in fear but a clink caused a screech to escape your throat. You felt the weight of the cuff around your ankle and a full panic set it.

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

You remembered getting the email from the Haunted Mansion supposedly hosted by Lucas Lee. You had arrived and were sent on what you thought was a fun and exhilarating maze littered with clues and riddles and then you remembered the last piece of the puzzle. You gasped as you remembered how his breath felt hot on your skin and how his voice registered in your mind.

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

The door to your room, now coming into focus around you, flew open and there he stood, smug smirk, raging ocean blue eyes, hair neatly in place, dismantling frame clothed in a black sweater and dark denim, heavy footfalls sounding against the thick carpet under his feet.

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"I...I'm not, don't call me that," you spat defiantly as he moved closer, taking you in, his predatory eyes moving over your body. This was it, you were going to die all because some trust fund prick was a hurt baby about an article (that you forcibly apologized for) revealing the sick and sadistic truth about him, his family, money and the justice system.

"Are you gonna kill me?” You watched him carefully as he crossed the room towards you, trying to keep your voice calm so as not to betray the utter fear that was coursing through your veins at the fact you were trapped, fuck knows where, shackled to a bed with a murderer being your captor. “That's what this is about, right? My apology wasn't enough?"

"Your apology was forced bullshit.” He responded, his voice carried a hint of amusement, because of course, this was all a game to him. “You smeared my name, dragged my reputation though the mud and you expected an apology like that, half assed and full of more crap than your original hatchet piece, to be enough?" He was standing damn near over you now, a hand moving up your leg that was held by the cuff, your body frozen in a confused silent argument of fight or flight.

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

"No. I. Didn't." He lied and you had to hand it to him, a lesser person might have bought the garbage he was talking, because he was good at it. Lying must have been enough of a second nature for him that he actually believed everything he said himself. But then again, it wasn't actually a lie was it? Sure, he'd planned on indirectly killing Harlan and that plan had backfired and Harlan had actually slit his own throat. So at most he was indirectly responsible for his death, but none of that had stuck with the prosecution and so now here he was, a free man.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

"Try me, you son of a...." You didn't expect his lips to cover yours but they did. Unexpectedly warm and soft, despite the painfully harsh kiss. You managed to pull away but his hand still gripped at your throat and you felt the fear constricting your chest. But you were damned if you were going to show him a shred of weakness.

“You’re an asshole, Hugh…” It was all you had, the only thing you could use in your arsenal given your situation. You still had your voice. And you’d noticed that for whatever reason he appeared to hate that name.

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

“Or what? You'll kill me?” your voice rose in both volume and pitch as your desperation began to show. “We both know you're gonna do that once you've fulfilled whatever sick, twisted little fantasy this is. What are you waiting for, Hugh? Huh?”

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

You stayed stock still as large and surprisingly gentle hands trailed your curves up the outside of your thighs to your hips. As he reached the hem of your sweater dress he paused as you wrapped your hands around his wrists.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“This will be much easier if you just play-along, sweetheart” he muttered as he pressed his lips to your neck. You let go of his wrists and raised your hands, laying them over the wool of his cable knit, palms flat against the plain of muscle as you attempted to push him off.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand. His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” He ground out, his lips inches from your ear as he nipped at your skin. He was impressively strong and balanced, his weight even through his body as he kept his knees between your legs, a hand against your breast and the other stroking your sides and up your thigh. All the while, his lips sucked at your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point as you turned your head away, tears filling your eyes

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

“I told you not to call me that.” He growled against your skin and pulled back, his eyes blazing as they locked on to yours. In sheer desperation, you managed to wrench a free hand from between you and gave him a slap, nails biting at his skin. Instantly you knew you’d pissed him off. His nostrils flared, his jaw set and as his eyes filled with fire and rage.

And you knew then, you were in for it.

“Bitch…” he snarled as he raised his left hand to his face where you had struck him, and then both his hands grabbed yours, yanking your arms up, pinning them above your head. You bucked upwards, violently in an attempt to shake him off, but it was futile. He was far too strong. His grip on your wrists grew tighter and despite yourself you let out a small whimper of fear.

In one hand he had the ability to cuff both of your wrists and he did so while his other grabbed at your dress, shoving it further up your body, fingers curling over the waist of your tights and panties, a handful of the material fisted in his palm. They wouldn't slide down quick enough and you felt your body lift away from the mattress slightly as he ripped away the material, the snap burning your skin. You fought, boy did you fight. You had no control of your hands or arms as he had them easily pinned, but your legs and the rest of your body gave as good as they could. You thrashed from side to side all the time screaming your objections. You drew your knees up to your chest in an attempt to buck him off. You screamed protests, threw every insult you had at him, but it was no use. He was simply too strong.

He didn't even bother with his belt or button, he just unzipped the flies on his jeans, pulled his solid cock free and slid in. You were wetter than you expected to be, but it still burned with friction and ached from the thick stretch against your tight walls. It hurt, definitely hurt.

"You know you want this. I know you want this." He rasped as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his face twisted in a look that was halfway between being smug and satisfied. Just looking at him made you feel sick but for some reason you were unable to look away as he continued his slow assault, before he picked up the pace slightly, his groans of satisfaction filling the room as he bottomed out, balls deep and it was at that point you closed your eyes and tried to block out what he was doing to you. But try as you might to remain mentally detached from the situation, your body was anything but. And the more he moved in and out of you, the more you could feel your physical reactions. You were powerless to stop them and the heat between your legs and in between your belly was spiking with each thrust into you.

It felt good. And you knew it shouldn’t. So you fought it, but eventually, you couldn't fight it anymore, not with the way his thick cock filled you, velvety smooth skin sliding in and out of your defiant core. You didn't want to cum, but your body told your brain it was going to and Ransom nearly puffed his chest as he fucked you into your body's submission.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you, Sweetheart? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck, yeah…see…” Ransom’s hips began to move faster, and then with a sudden movement he pulled out of you, making you wince involuntarily at the sting. He shot his load all over your thighs, a growl bubbling from his throat, the warmth of his release trickling down your leg made you feel even more dirty than you already did.

“Not so fucking smart are we now, huh, miss Investigative Reporter…” his snap was snide, and childish, but you knew he couldn’t help himself. Your head remained defiantly in its position on the pillow, turned to the right, eyes focussed on a spot on the wall. “Look at me, bitch.”

When you didn’t do as he asked, he grabbed your chin bruisingly, making you wince as he pulled your face round so he could see you. You knew he would be able to see the tears on your face, and you hated that. Hated that he would see how much he’d hurt you, scared you even,

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

"That's all you got? You're a fucking child, Drysdale. It's why you’re doing this." You said, your voice trembling and croaking from the fear and exertion of what he had just put you through and you shook your head. “You’re a fucking man child with mommy and daddy issues. A spoilt, little whiney brat who can’t bear to be told no.”

That struck a nerve, you could tell, as his jaw clenched tight and his fists clenched around the sheets by your side to the point they were shaking. He grabbed your chin once more with his right hand and pinned your face still, forcing your eyes to look back at his

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

As you looked at him, you felt your anger starting to simmer. This fucking ass hole had just raped you, and he had the gall to be saying you were going to tell him that you were sorry. No chance in hell. You knew you were screwed, literally and figuratively. Whilst he had you captive behind a bolted door, shackled to a bed you had nowhere to go, he knew that you knew that too and you could see it in his face as a smug smirk flickered on his lips. Well fuck this, if you were going down it was with a fight. With a sudden movement, that caught him off guard you moved your head slightly as much as you could in his painful grip, and spat right in his face.

Ransom blinked, his anger morphing to shock, then back to fury once more as he released your face and with a flash of his hand he back handed you straight across the face. The blow to your right cheek snapped your head to the left, sucking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a little dazed.

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

***** Ransom stormed up the steps to the kitchen of the house, slamming the top door behind him and bolting that one shut too. He was furious that little bitch had scratched him and no doubt marked his face. He strode over the marble tiles of the room and walked into the large hallway and across into the den. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a healthy measure of good scotch, slopping a little on the dark wooden counter, before he glanced up at the large mirrored surface of the bar behind the shelves.

He could make out three vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end.

The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** Part 2

#murder he wrote #j's haunted house 2020 #dark ransom #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #reader insert #chris evans #chris evans characters

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sirthisisa-wendys · 3 years

Text

The Regular: Part 2 Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: You go out of your comfort zone for one night. But one night can’t ruin you if you’re already corrupt, right?

word count: 3.4k (longest one yet!)

tw: light exhibitionism, nsfw, nudity

previous parts: part 1 part 1.5 *~*Happy Easter!*~*

You love the attention.

You love the way those onyx eyes follow your every move and the twist of your hips. You love the tilt of his head as he watches you dance for him, as if he’s a king, and you’re the maiden he purchased for pure entertainment.

Tonight was no different from the past several nights, that much is clear. Geto keeps his hands to himself, either splaying his wingspan across the back of the couch or clasping them in front of him with his elbows on his knees. There was never a hungry air about him. He always seemed to be even-keeled and calm, which made you wonder why he had even come to the club in the first place.

He had said Gojo brought him out of a need to unwind… So, what did he look like when he was angry? Stressed? Upset? Uncomfortable?

“You’ve got that look on your face,” Geto mentions, leaning back into the couch. “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, nothing,” you lie, walking back over to him sultrily. “Just concerned about my roommate eating my leftovers.”

“Is that something they do often?” he wonders, raising an eyebrow.

“More than you’d think.” You bend over and place your hands on his knees, letting him get a clear view of your breasts beneath the silk, periwinkle camisole. And he eats that view up. His mouth drops open just a little, and you can hear the soft inhale of breath that makes his chest rise. “You know you can touch me, right?” His eyes dart from your exposed chest to your eyes, partially asking permission, and the other part of him trying to call on every amount of reserve he had.

You could see the internal war waging itself behind his pupils, and for some reason, that also aroused you. Never mind the fact that the man in front of you was as handsome as he was intellectual; the fact that he was fighting himself over whether he should touch your skin like he wanted to makes you feel incredibly powerful.

“Not yet.”

You take it one step further, straddling his hips with ease. “How about now?” you ask, placing both hands on his chest. Geto shudders underneath your touch, leaning his head back and clenching his jaw, but shakes his head anyways. Uncomfortable? Check.

“I can’t,” he groans, his fingers twitching on the edge of the couch. You lean in to press your lips to his ear and whisper,

“Why not?” A strangled moan wrenches itself from his throat, and your mouth twitches up at the corners.

“Because if I do…” he pauses, searching for the will to speak again. “I won’t be able to stop.”

“You can’t hurt me,” you reply, snaking your hands around his neck and tilting your head to the side. “I just want to make sure you’re satisfied.” You lean in to brush your lips against his, hoping for a moment that he would try to resist even more. But you’re both disappointed and quite pleased when his lips touch yours, pressing against them gently. Almost instantly, his fingers go to your hair, wrapping themselves through the meticulously curled strands and tugging. You moan against his mouth eagerly, pulling his dark blue dress shirt to bring him even closer to you so you can feel his arousal clearly. When Geto pulls away, he has to catch his breath, but not before he nips at your bottom lip and whispers your name.

“Yes?” You try to search his face, but his eyes are closed and hiding his true feelings. When they snap open, however, you finally see it.

The hunger.

“Don’t say yes out of obligation,” he warns, and you shift your hips nervously. “But I want to take you out of here tonight.”

“I’m not saying yes out of obligation.” It’s not a lie.

“I pay to watch you dance. Not to…”

“You don’t. You wouldn’t.”

“Do you really want to do this?” Finally, you think, and some part of you wishes that he wouldn’t ask any more questions.

“Yes.”

“Then get your things and meet me in the parking lot.”

______________________________________________________________________

This could potentially be dangerous.

You slide on your sweatpants and hoodie, knowing that Geto taking you off-property is something that’s highly unadvised, even by the loosest rules of a stripper. So why aren’t you staying put? It isn’t until you’re lacing up your sneakers that you realize why you don’t care: even if Geto had ill-intent for you, Mrs. Lampton would immediately notice if you didn’t show up for your Friday shift, would immediately know who you had been with, and wouldn’t hesitate to talk to the proper people so you could be found. She could be a ruthless club manager, but that didn’t mean any of her girls went missing under her nose.

Hannah looks at you from across the room, her blonde hair piled up in a messy bun as she applied eyeliner.

“It’s a little early for you to be going somewhere, isn’t it?” You approach the woman slowly, taking a receipt and shoving it onto the makeup table in front of her, blank side up.

“His name is Geto. Six-foot-three. Black eyes, long black hair.” Hannah’s brown eyes flick to yours, then she scribbles down the details with her eyeliner pencil.

“You’re going to fuck him,” the girl murmurs and you nod carefully. “Make sure you do the right thing. Keep your identification on you. Do you need condoms?” You shake your head, and she places her hand on your wrist. “Please be careful and share your location. I want to see you back here tomorrow night, provided you can walk properly.” She adds a laugh to her comment, but you can feel the worry rolling off of her in waves.

“I’ll be here tomorrow one way or another,” you assure her, and slide out of the back door as quickly as possible.

_______________________________________________________________________

The elevator pinged twice, announcing: “Floor forty-five.”

“Come on,” Geto murmurs, stuffing his hands in his pockets and searching for the room key. You stare in awe at the chromatic scheme of the hotel, first floored by the lobby, and then astounded by the architectural design. “Shouldn’t be too far.”

The ultra-clean wooden floors and sleek hallways seemed like a fantasy straight from the pages of a futuristic novel, but when you arrive at the room - numbered 4594 - you hold your breath. When Geto opens the door, it takes a minute for you to adjust to the sheer elegance of the furnishings. Nothing in the VIP could compare to the already-lit fireplace, beautiful red couch that wrapped around in a semicircle, fully stocked bar, and floor to ceiling windows that displayed the entire uptown scenery.

“Oh my...” The bag you brought with you drops from your shoulders as you shuffle toward the windows, pressing your hands against the glass and looking down at the busy nightlife below.

“It’s one of the best views of the city,” he begins, appearing next to you and loosing his long hair from it’s bun. “I love staying here when I need a break from the hustle.” You both lapse into a comfortable silence, watching the city move and breathe from above. When he moves away from the window, your eyes follow him over to the couch, where he sighs and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes before yawning.

You slide in next to him, tucking an arm around his broad shoulder - which didn’t really reach past his neck. “You should probably get some rest.” Geto laughs, looking over at you with a soft gaze.

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

“I’ll go shower… and you get comfortable.”

_______________________________________________________________________

The towel around your body feels softer than fur. The lavender soap is just as exquisite, not leaving a sticky residue like most hotel soaps, but as you rummage around the bag you brought, you find nothing that will clothe you properly.

“Shit…” As you glance around the ornate bathroom, your eyes land on one of the robes tucked away in a nook beneath the sink. The black fabric would have to do, you think, and as the towel slides off, you reach for the massive robe that slides over your frame easily. You tie the fluffy string around your waist and take one last look at yourself - without makeup, without a wig, and without lingerie - then pad to the other side of the massive room to open the door.

You stop in your tracks when you see the man who brought you here sprawled out on the egyptian cotton sheets, fast asleep. His arm is tucked underneath his head, and his black hair lays across the rest of the bed like an inky curtain. His shirt is open slightly, but not off, and appears that Geto had almost literally fallen into the bed and instantly closed his eyes. Inhaling, you consider your options.

A. You could wake him and ask if he still wanted to… you know. B. you could let him sleep and deal with the consequences in the morning, or C. you could leave.

A gentle snore from Geto’s mouth points you in the B direction, and you smile at the thought of him sleeping the night away, as a man of his caliber should. You curl up on the equally elaborate chaise lounge at the foot of the bed and settle into a deep sleep.

_______________________________________________________________________

Kisses. Tender, feather-light kisses are raining down on your face and neck. A hand smoothes over your forehead, and there’s a tender rumble that sounds like your name.

“You should have gotten in the bed.”

You slowly open your eyes, blinking as they adjust in the pale light of very early morning. Blues and pinks and oranges greet you from the floor to ceiling windows, and you turn your head slightly to see Geto sitting on the floor next to the makeshift bed you made for yourself on the chaise. His lips turn up into a slight smile, and you groan as you raise up from your position.

“No, no, no,” he urges you, the hand on your exposed leg rubbing back and forth with care. “You can sleep some more if you want.”

“What time is it?” Your voice is laced with sleep, but Geto doesn’t react other than pushing his hair back and looking at the digital clock over your shoulder.

“It’s about five-thirty.”

“Ugh…” you slide back down to the lounge chair and sigh heavily, hoping that - just for today - you could take a break. “I’ll need to leave to go to work soon.”

“They open the club early in the morning?” That’s when you realize that you haven’t told Geto anything about your day life. You crack an eye open and look at him, opening your mouth to reply.

“I --” Your phone begins to ring from the living room, where you deposited it the night before. Instinctively, you rush to retrieve it, pressing the ‘answer’ button before you can fully register who it is. “Hello?”

“Y/n… I forgot to tell you that the shop will be closed today,” your aunt mumbles over the phone, and you heave a sigh of relief. “Take the day and I’ll see you on Monday morning.”

“Thank you,” you whisper back and she grumbles a goodbye before hanging up. You slide the phone from your ear just as you feel slender fingers caressing your jawline and neck. Geto presses a kiss to the space between your earlobe and jaw, and you let the phone drop from your fingers onto the couch as you close your eyes.

“Work calling?” he asks, hands drifting to your shoulders.

“Yes,” you breathe, and he hums, tilting your head to the side and nudging the exposed skin with his nose. “I… don’t have to go in.”

“Lucky me.” A throbbing sensation begins anew between your legs, and you feel the large hands sliding from your shoulders to your waist. “Maybe I can convince Mrs. Lampton to give you the night off, too.”

“You’d keep me here that long?” Geto chuckles at your question, sliding the robe off of your right shoulder slowly.

“Only if you wanted to,” he whispers against your skin, pressing another kiss to your warm body before reaching for the robe tie. “I wouldn’t mind having you all to myself for another day.” Before he can undo the tie at your waist, you turn to find his lips, biting at his lower one eagerly. He returns the nip, but only briefly before kissing you fully, one of his hands cupping your face.

“Geto, please,” you whisper as he pulls away, and he hums low in his throat, bordering on a growl-like sound.

“Don’t say that…” he answers against your lips. “You might get in trouble; I might not be able to control myself if you say that again.” You lace your fingers through his tousled hair and reply with certainty,

“Maybe that’s what I want.”

Geto’s lips crash against your own again, and you find yourself holding onto him for dear life as he pushes the hem of the robe up around your waist, fingers finding your slit faster than you could’ve imagined. You hike your leg up, letting him litter rough pecks down your exposed chest as he strokes your clit with precision. A gasp escapes your mouth, and you angle your head back, catching his gaze while he toys with you. “Geto, I --”

“Suguru,” he corrects you without any hint of anger. “Call me Suguru.”

“Suguru…” You let his name fall from your lips with ease, and he grins down at you, raising a brow.

“That’s it, princess,” he coos, watching your face twitch with pleasure. “That’s all I need to hear. God, you’re so fucking wet.” You hadn’t been touched like this in so long. The feeling of his fingers dancing across your clit was incredible, and for once, your legs were reduced to what felt like jelly. Suguru notices immediately, but instead of shifting you to the couch like you thought he would, he props you up neatly against a window and slides a finger into you.

“Oh, shit.” The feeling of the long digit nestled inside and stroking your core distracts you from the fact that the window is see-through and if one looked hard enough, they’d see a robe-clad figure pressed against it.

“You like that, don’t you?” When you look up to Suguru's eyes, you see the hunger again; the need to know that he was pleasing you, even if that meant he got nothing out of it. The thought makes you shudder with content, and he takes it as assent before sliding another finger inside of you. You clench around him instantly, and his jet black eyebrows shoot up, noticing your heightened arousal. “Do you want to cum?” The question makes you moan out loud, and Suguru’s lips quirk up a little. “Gotta give me a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, princess.”

“Yes,” you gasp, his fingers curling up and worming against your walls. “Oh, Suguru, yes, please.”

“So polite…” he murmurs, pressing a hand next to your head while his other hand makes quick work of you. The sounds of your arousal are obscene to say the least, but you don’t care as you feel the tension in your core tighten to the point of almost snapping. Your hips buck against his hand, needing that release - needing that feeling of tumbling over into nothingness - when suddenly, he pulls his fingers out.

“No!” Your hands fly to his biceps and his slick-covered fingers grip the back of your left knee. You pant desperately, feeling the sensation of the almost-orgasm abating as soon as his digits left your core. “Su…” you whine, and his brows knit together as he holds you there, hand above you and leaning into your body with your back pressed against the window. He continues to hold your frame against the window, your legs shaking from the denied orgasm. Once the moment passes, he snatches your robe tie off and you slide it down your shoulders, hoping that he will resume his previous ministrations soon.

But your hopes are dashed when he lets go of your hiked up leg and unbuttons his dress shirt, letting it fall to the floor, followed by his belt and dress pants. The last article of clothing to go is his underwear, but the disappearance of it is overshadowed by the raging hard-on he has. The tip of his thick cock is already red and leaking pre-cum, and Suguru laces his fingers around it to pump it a few times before angling your chin up to look him in the eyes.

“Do I have your consent, y/n?”

“Fuck me,” you answer, gripping his forearm.

“With pleasure.” He hikes your left leg up again, nudging at your entrance with his cock. When he presses into you, you both hiss, his cock not quite fitting. “Damn… Gotta stretch you out, huh?” He hoists your other leg onto his forearm, and you admire his muscles for a second before he attempts again, the feeling of being spread past your limit almost agonizing. “You can take it…” he whispers, leaning his forehead on yours as he sinks into you slowly. When he works a little more of himself into you - about half of his length - he presses a kiss to your opened lips, feeling your warm breath against his nose.

“Su,” you exhale, and he nods a little. “It’s been a while…”

“I can fucking tell.” His laughter is cut short by another inch of him sinking into your core, which makes both of you moan. “But it’s okay. Tell me if you need to take a break.” You nod, nipping at his bottom lip again, and he grunts, kissing down your sweaty neck before his lips latch onto your nipple.

“Oh, fuck.” Your hips meet in a flash and Suguru’s head shoots up to look at you carefully.

“Didn’t expect that,” he notes, searching your face for any sign of immediate pain. “Careful there.” He waits a minute before pulling back and then easing himself into you again, taking his sweet time as you unravel beneath him.

“Please, Su, please…” you whisper shakily. You dig your nails into his skin and he exhales, quickening his pace a fraction as he dips low to find your nipple again. He rolls the bud around with his tongue, teeth grazing over it tenderly before he sucks hard, making you groan loudly.

“You know how many people could look up and see me fucking you right now?” he breathes into your ear after his lips have left your chest. “But no one can touch you… no one but me.” He thrusts into you to make his point, pistoning his hips at a faster pace than before. You want to cry out, but his lips against yours muffles your exclamation. Before long, you can feel his balls slapping against your drenched core. The squelching noises and the slapping of skin soon fills the room and drives you even deeper into your tunnel vision of just you and Su, enhancing your impending orgasm. No one else matters. Nothing else matters.

Suddenly, Suguru pulls out and lets you down, pushing your hip to turn you around so you’re facing the whole world while he fucks you from behind. When he slides into you, you stiffen a little, watching the world below you move at a leisurely pace this early in the morning. But your hands slide against the glass as he begins his work, grunting in response to your mewls of pleasure. You couldn’t focus on the cars or the businesspeople below… All you could feel was the massive cock between your legs, and the sensation of fingers on your clit paired with balls slapping against it occasionally.

“I don’t want anyone else having you like this,” he hisses, and you whine a little, feeling his cock bruising your cervix. “Only me.”

And with those words, you break. A massive shudder rolls down your spine and you feel the insane build up of two delayed orgasms crest over you. You shake violently against the cool glass; your sweaty body feeling only a fraction of relief at the sensation. As you clench around Suguru’s cock rhythmically, stars dance in the edges of your vision, and he picks up his speed, fucking you with purpose.

“Oh, god, I’m gonna --” Spurts of cum shoot into your core before he can finish, painting your walls white and mixing with your cum liberally. Panting, Suguru drags you back to the couch, cock still inside of you while he catches his breath and you attempt to bring yourself back to reality. Before you can rest your head and close your eyes, you hear him murmur, “Please; no one else but me, y/n.”

#geto x reader #jjk geto #jujutsu kaisen geto #geto suguru #jujutsu kaisen getou #getou x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk smut #geto smut

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what-is-your-plan-today · 4 years

Text

Murder, He Wrote

Co-written with @southerngracela

Part 1

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Series Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but not enough to prevent cold

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

Turning back round, you then spotted that the door at the end of the hall was open, and you could clearly make out a Jack-o-Lantern looking at you, the candle inside flickering. Its face was creepy, really creepy. The nose and eyes were harsh triangles and the grotesque, twisted smile it sported was constructed of sharp, jagged teeth. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You may have had no service, but the flashlight was working. Keeping the light held in front of you so you could watch your step on the cracked tiles of the hall, you made your way towards the lantern and found yourself in a large, run down kitchen. The lantern and your flash-light provided the only light in the room as the windows were all overshadowed by gnarly trees, their branches every so often scratching the glass as they swayed slightly in the wind outside. The only other sound to be heard was the drip, drip of the faucet in the porcelain Belfast sink. A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Step by step you followed the note that chimed every few steps and you found yourself beginning to wonder if it was a recording or if someone were really playing it, timing their play with the sound of your boots over the rotting floor. You wound your way through the narrow hall, ancient wall paper peeling from its tack, mastick and plaster falling away to reveal studs in places. Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room. The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

“Get a grip Y/N” you mumbled to yourself. You were surprised to find just how much this place was starting to set your nerves on edge. You took a deep breath, the pounding of blood in your ears began to quiet and you took a look around the room. There was no one in there with you, you were alone. With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

Not for the first time, you had to admire the effort Lucas was going to here. It was clear he had a flare for the dramatic, anyone could see that from his films and interviews but this was pretty damned good. It was making you wonder how he was doing it. Was he somewhere watching, pressing buttons to enact the various parts of his show? Instinctively you glanced up, looking for a camera or something you were being monitored by but you found no evidence of anything. “Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat “Window. It’s a window.”

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize” you bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination. Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Aalongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby. You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath.

And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

And now she was all his.

*****

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand.

His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

And you knew then, you were in for it.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you Princess? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

He could make out 3 vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end. The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** WIYPT Tag List:

Everything

@momobaby227 @marvelfansworld @cobalt-gear @djeniiscorner @ayamenimthiriel @coldmuffinbanditshoe @nerdofthefandoms @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @southerngracela @goldenfightergir @kellymat @what-just-happened-bro @jennmurawski13 @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @jtargaryen18 @redhairedfeistynerd @charmed-asylum @saiyanprincessswanie @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @jhayes6984 @anika-ann @icanfeelastormbrewing @gigglegirl77 @princess-evans-addict @mes-2016 @theladybiers @void-hoechlin

Ransom Drysdale

@patzammit @icandothisallday @capsiclewinter @this-is-serenaa @alexakeyloveloki @perplexed3001 @twittytelly @kelbabyblue @maan24

If your name appears above but the tag isn’t live please let me know.

#halloween challenge #j's haunted house 2020 #jshauntedhouse2020 #dark ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #murder he wrote #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale smut #ransom drysdale fanfiction #knives out #knives out fanfic

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captainpains · 3 years

Text

Sunshine (Commander Fox x reader)

Have fun with this cute trash for our favorite Fox!! Happy New Year!

Warnings: gn reader, food mentioned (does that count as a warning?), pining, Fox is horny, Fox to the rescue, mentions of a bombing, poor writing, much longer than normal (I think it’s like 1.8 k)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Annoying.

Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard was no stranger to annoying senators and their aids. From accusing others of stealing frivolous things to stupid complaints, the Republic senators truly loved to annoy Fox and take up the guard’s time. There was also no end to the gossiping of the aids. If Fox had a credit for every time he heard a rumor that a senator was having an affair, he would have enough to buy the GAR.

He had one saving grace in the chaos. You.

You were a representative from a planet he had forgotten the name of. You looked like a ray of sunshine, shining brighter than any star. You were also pretty. The poor commander couldn’t focus whenever you were in close proximity. Despite his infatuation, Fox never actually talked to you. He merely enjoyed your presence, looking -- pining -- from afar.

Thorn noticed his fellow commander’s incessant staring at the representative. He had attempted to convince his brother that it wasn’t healthy to live his life in love with someone and never tell them. He never listened. Fox was a man that followed the rules and regulations religiously. The only time he ever broke a rule was when he was a cadet. He ran the smuggling ring for sweets and holovids on Kamino. Somehow the Kaminoans were none the wiser.

However, this was not as simple a smuggling sweets to cadets.

So when you were threatened directly by an assassin, Thorn jumped at the opportunity to facilitate some sort of interaction between you two. Against Fox’s will, he would stand guard at your Coruscant apartment, all night every night until you were deemed out of danger. Fox wanted to strangle him when he told him.

So that’s how he ended up standing in the corner of your kitchen while you made dinner. You had questioned why the guard had sent a commander to protect you, a representative from a practically unknown planet. But you decided not to voice your concerns. You were sure they had their reasons. And it’s not like you minded the constant presence of the imposing commander. You found him quite attractive, despite never seeing his face. The way he carried himself and the way he walked was so sexy to you...

You let out a yelp when some grease splashed onto your hand, bringing you out of your thoughts. You yanked your hand away from the pan. You massaged the hand in hopes of soothing the small burn. You let out a frustrated groan and glared at the meal you were preparing. You managed to finish cooking without incident. You sat down at the kitchen table and silently ate.

Commander Fox, meanwhile, was making a mental list of things he had to do. He also kept your file open on his HUD, just out of curiosity. Through your file he learned that you had seven siblings, at least twenty other living relatives, and had a net worth that made Senator Amidala look poor. Despite this, he found your apartment rather modest for someone of your statis. It was only two bedrooms with three refreshers -- which was tiny for most representatives. Fox also noticed the large amount of pictures and cultural artifacts that adorned the walls and shelves. Most of the holopics were of people who he assumed to be family and friends.

He turned his head and appreciated the several pictures hanging on the wall next to him. His eyes locked onto a picture of you with two girls (who he assumed to be your sisters) standing in front of a large building. You were wearing some... revealing attire with a massive grin spread across your face. He couldn’t help the tiny groan that escaped him as he imagined you wearing it for him.

“Commander Fox? Are you alright?” You asked, turning in your chair to face him.

“Sorry, representative. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” It wasn’t a total lie. He stayed up late worrying -- a little too much -- about his assignment as your guard.

“You should try to get more sleep. You’ll be staying up with me for the next few days,” you offered a shy smile before standing and moving to clean your dishes.

“With you?” He questioned, moving to look at you once again.

“I don’t sleep very well off my home planet,” you nodded towards the wall of photos Fox was just admiring. “It’s a small thing I inherited from my mother.”

“That’s something strange to inherit.” He commented, making a mental note to look into that.

“Humans are strange when it comes to genetics. My best friend got an intense love for spotchka from their father.” You explained, turning to lean against the kitchen counter.

“That’s likely a coincidence.” Fox replied, taking your position as an invitation to look your body up and down. While your clothes weren’t as skimpy as the ones from the photo, they weren’t exactly modest either.

“It would seem so. But every one of their siblings has the same affinity for spotchka,” you chuckled.

“Human genetics can be quite odd. I wouldn’t be surprised it that was the case.” He replied.

“I suppose so,” You bite back a smile.

After that, something changed in the air between you two. It was never awkward before, but it was more relaxed. You enjoyed the company. Fox was still strictly professional. Although, he did mess up once. He was attempting to get your attention, alert you that the speeder had arrived, and he accidentally called you by the nickname Thire had given you. Sunshine. He died of embarrassment. However, you found his slip up to be endiring. He was only human after all.

About a week into the arrangement. You were resting in the living room of your apartment. You were practicing drawing, a hobby you picked up for relaxation. With multiple threats towards you, it had been a tense week. Everyone was on edge. So you decided to kick back and relax with some sketching. Problem was, you had no idea what to draw. You started by sketching a body -- a human male body. Then it just devolved into page after page of Commander Fox. He was in various poses, some heroic some oddly domestic. There were even a couple of drawings of what you assumed his face looked like. It was when you had reached true inner peace. Only for it to be interrupted by Fox.

“Is that me?” He asked, pointing to your most recent sketch. He hadn’t meant to snoop, but he was your guard. It was his job to observe everything in order to ensure your safety. That included you.

“Sorry. I just draw what I see...” You cleared your throat.

“No, it’s fine. I’m just not used to being...” He couldn’t think of a word for it.

“The subject of art?” You finished for him, sounding unsure of yourself. You stood up from the couch, walking to the kitchen to retrieve a cup of caf.

“I guess that’s one way to put it.” Fox followed you diligently into the kitchen.

Before you could respond there were a loud bang and a bright flash of light. You couldn’t do anything as the transparisteel of the kitchen shattered. You felt a sharp pain in your legs before everything went dark. ---------- You woke up with a start. Sitting straight up breathing heavily. You were in a bright white room. Once your eyes adjusted to the light, you realized you were in the senate medbay. You looked around and found your friend, Mira, sitting in a chair next to your bed.

“Thank the maker, you’re awake,” she let out a sigh of relief. “I’ll go tell the doctor that you’re finally awake.”

Mira left and retrieved the doctor. After a long discussion, you found out that your apartment building was bombed and that you had been passed out for a couple of days. You had sustained injuries to your lower back and legs, as well as a few cuts from the glass.

Mira stayed with you for the majority of the day. She showed you news reports on her datapad and gifted you with some of your favorite candy. She even managed to recover your sketchbook and gave it to you. Near the end of the day, as visiting hours came to an end, there was a commotion by the nurse's desk. It sounded like a man trying to visit somebody, and he was being very insistent.

“Sir! I’m sorry to say, but I can not allow you in! Visiting hours are nearly over! You will have to come back tomorrow.” The nurse sounded frantic to get the man away.

“I’ll only be a few minutes.” The man argued. The voice sounded vaguely familiar.

“Sir!” The nurse, again, sounded frantic.

It was then that Commander Fox came into view. He wasn’t wearing his armor, strutting around in only his blacks. His eyes lit up when he spotted you. Ignoring the nurse that was tailing him, he made his way over to you. Mira gave you a questioning look. You only replied with a sheepish smile. When he got closer, you could see the dark circles under his eyes and the five-o’clock shadow on his face.

“I guess I’ll leave you two alone to talk.” Mira awkwardly said, giving a nod to the nurse as an apology as she left. The nurse gave a wary look before she left. Fox moved and stood next to your bed. His eyes were looking you up and down, surveying your injures, before sitting down in “Is there a reason you decided to come to visit me, commander?” You asked after a long moment of silence.

“I was just checking in on you... Ya know Thire was worried.” He lied. He was a horrible liar. He also sounded exhausted, like he hadn’t slept for a coruscant week.

“Commander, if I didn’t know any better, I would say it sounds like you were worried about me,” you grinned.

“Again, just doing my job...” There was a long, heavy pause before he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper, “I thought I lost you...”

“Thanks to you, commander, I’m still here,” You replied in a low voice, taking his hand in yours.

“Almost lost you. Almost lost my sunshine...” he muttered sleepily, his eyes starting to drift close. But you smiled at the nickname nonetheless.

“It’s alright now...” you spoke in a hushed tone, reaching for his hand.

He gave your hand a squeeze, a smile appearing on his face. He continued to drift off into sleep, muttering nonsense as he did so. You could only make out one thing as he finally fell asleep.

“’night, sunshine.”

#commander fox #commander fox x reader #cc-1010 #tcw fanfiction #star wars #coruscant guard

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depressedacadamia · 3 years

Text

So you want to Play?

Prompt + Pairing: Historical AU, ‘Play’ + Hades and Persephone

A/N: I'm so so happy with the way Day 4's fic turned out- Super happy! I never thought writing for the greek gods would be this fun but I defintely want to do more of it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! <3 from me!!

Read on A03 WritersMonth 2021

“Your Majesty, there is a visitor for your daughter,” the guard informed the Queen.

Demeter seemed unimpressed. “Who? And where are they from?”

The guards went silent with only the sound of mumbling and hushed whisperings.

“Well?” Demeter raised an eyebrow.

“It is King Hades of Erebus,” The guard said dutifully. Queen Demeter nodded and dismissed the guards.

The princess who had been eavesdropping immediately came skipping in with her dress bunched under her hands as she made her way towards her Mother with excitement drawn all over her face.

“Is it true mother? Is The King Hades of Erebus himself here to visit us?”

Demeter, who did not see much taste in Hades herself, simply gave a curt nod that did not match the enthusiasm portrayed on her daughter's face.

“Is he coming in? When will I see him? Mother, don't you agree that he is most handsome? I do envy any woman whom he may court- Do you think he would ever ask to court me, Mother? No, that would be ridiculous, do you think not?” Persphone rambled, her facial expressions varying with her words.

“Absolutely not.” Demeter’s voice was stern with her daughter. “ Do not entertain such fantastical ideas, Kore. Hades, I believe, is here on official business. Nothing more. And please, do wear something of a higher caliber- Make no mistakes, I do not intend for him to fall for your beauty, but I do not wish for us to embarrass ourselves in front of such an important personality, is that not correct Kore?”

Persephone sighed and nodded. Her body slumped as she dragged herself to her room where her dressing maids had found her a more ‘appropriate’ outfit for the visit. Persephone could not say she wasn't disappointed- Oh just how romantic would it be if Hades was here to beg for her hand in marriage or even the chance to have a simple outing with her!

And yet, her outfit was… unlike her. Normally, she wore yellow and pink- similar to her springtime colours and the domain and land which her mother ruled over. However today it seemed that her mother wanted nothing of Perepjhone’s innocence today. Her dress was gold, glimmering like the sun and with it was a green cloak, emerald green, like the blades of grass around her beautiful palace. There was no doubt that it made her look beautiful, the gold contrasting with her dark skin but she felt off.

The dress felt foreign around her body as she made her way to the throne where she was to take her place beside her Mother. Her hand was on the banister as she called out.

“Mother! Are you sure this is mine? I do feel that it seems much too grandiose for my tastes!” Persephone made her way into the throne room only to be met with the sight of a dozen guards all standing around a man who wore an elegant black suit, and was adjusting his golden cuffs.

Persephone noticed that the guards were not their own. Were they under attack? She did not have a weapon on her- what was she to do!

“Kore,” Her mother said in what seemed to be an affectionate attempt, “ King Hades is present. Do make yourself scarce and take your place.” Her hand batted towards her daughter’s throne and immediately, Persephone bowed, her head kept low as she hurried towards her throne and quickly took her place.

Before she sat, she made a small curtsy toward the King who in turn nodded back at her.His hair was long and messy but it suited his face. His eyes were so dark brown, Persphone swore that they were black. They had to be. She was drunk on him, his face, body- everything about him. He dressed like a man who knew what he wanted and Perphone could only wish that she was it.

“If you do not mind,” Persephone suddenly interrupted, earning a glare from her Mother, “What business is it that requires your presence here and not one of your messengers?”

Hades let out a small laugh and when he spoke, Persephone thought she might just melt. “ Do you not wish to see me? Is my presence here too unnerving for a spring princess?”

Persephone’s eyes largened and she shook her head frantically. “ Oh no! That is not it, your Majesty. It is simply that someone with as much power and business as you should not have to waste so much time travelling to simply put in a small request or discuss a little business when it could wait until one of the solstices.”

“Humour me Persephone,” Hades' eyes somehow darkened.” Do you often get suitors?”

Persephone was lucky that her blush was not visible. “What is such a question?”

“Yes, indeed, Hades- What is such a question?” Demeter’s eyes narrowed at the King whom she had known, realising she could trust his intentions no longer.

“My dearest Demeter, it is only a question. Why must you get so protective over her as if she is only a babe?”

“She is my only child, so please hurry up and take your leave Hades.”

“Mother!” Persephone gasped in horror, “We don't speak to our guests in such a dismissive manner. I am sorry, your majesty, my Mother must be getting old. Normally, she would never behave in such a manner! It must be the weather- when it gets colder, the crops begin to die and it does have the most disastrous effects on one’s behaviour. I apologise profusely. Please, let it be seen that you are taken to a guest room.”

“Kore!”

“My name is Persephone or Your Highness- I’d appreciate it if you were to call me either of those, Mother!”

“See it that King Hades here is put in the best guest suite available. Perhaps one furthest away from the chambers of Persephone. Thank you,” Demeter, ignoring her daughter's outburst, told the maid who immediately guided Hades towards the staircase. Hades paused and turned around.

“What about my legion? They have travelled far, Demeter and I would be deemed an unfair ruler if I were to force them to deal with the nearing winter and station them outside your doors.”

Demeter sighed. “Please also see that the Legion are suitably equipped.”

Persephone was almost singing melodies from her excitement. She couldn't wait to tell all her friends about this day! Artemis and Apollo wouldn't believe her when she got to tell them. In fact, to make sure they would hear of the incident when it was as clear as day in her memory, she rushed to her chambers and immediately set out to write them a letter.

Her quill dipped in the ink as she wrote out the exciting events of the day. She had finished her intimate description of him that lasted at least a page and the events that had acted out in the Throne room. She was about to end the letter but she had been called for dinner which she had been informed would be with Hades.

Almost skipping to dinner, she smiled- She would be supping with Hades tonight! How exciting! She had to make sure to include this in her letter to the twins!

She took her seat with glee and despite the fact that her favourite dessert was not being served, she did not seem to portray any sadness.

“Kore? I would have thought you were to say something about there being a lack of your favourite dessert,” The servant cleaning up after her murmured into her ear as she picked up her plate. Persephone shrugged, still smiling brightly.

“Now Hades, why are you here? You have yet to grace us with your reasoning for travelling all this way. What could be so urgent that you came this distance through this weather? Especially to a palace where you know you have no place.” Deemter added a snarl to the last line.

“Mother!” Persephine begged under her breath.

Hades chuckled. “Demeter, still as stiff as usual. Well, I came here to discuss the everlasting problem of Gaia. It seems she is infatuated with the idea that she could combine forces with some other armies and avenge her Son, Kronos,” Hades explained.

“And why take this to me? Why not to any of the other stronger, more armed lands? I’m sure Ares or Athena both have advanced plans on how to deal with this.”

“They are all well informed about current affairs- you, on the other hand, due to your insistence to avoid any foriegn affairs that do not concern you, are not informed. I come as a helper of sorts. Prepare your armies.”

“Is that all?” Demeter asked, her tone arrogant.

Hades smirked. “There may have been other reasons for my coming here. Benefits perhaps.”

Demeter inhaled sharply. “ Such as?”

Hades gave a small glance to Persephone who was oblivious to all of this before he waved her off. “I must say the wine you serve here is delicate. I must buy some for my home In Erebus.”

“I’m afraid, My lord, that this wine is only available here, in the Springlands,” Persephone informed him.

“Just like you,” he murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh nothing.” He batted his hand. “That is truly a shame. In that case, I do hope I can pinch some before I take my leave?”

“Of course,” Persephone answered.

“In that case then, I must be off to bed. I have a tremendously long and tiring journey to make tomorrow.” And with that announcement, Hades took his leave towards his chamber.

Persephone was ecstatic as she practically ran back to her chambers to finish writing her letter to the twins. She couldn't wait to continue telling them all about the dinner and just how beautiful Hades had been!

As she pushed open her door, she found that her letter was missing. She searched all over her desk but could not seem to find it anywhere.

“Oh my, where could I have left it?” She mumbled to herself.

“You would not believe how handsome he is- he has the most ethereal face and his eyes! Oh I get lost in them continuously and when he speaks, one cannot help but be drawn to his lips. How I wish they were stuck to mine for eternity! They are the softest lips, almost like the skin of a newborn babe, that one could ever see,” A familiar voice read out.

Persephone, remembering that those were the very words she had written in her letter, turned around and to her most dismal horror, found Hades leaning on the wall furthest away from her desk and closest to her bed, clutching the letter in his hand.

“Oh, do give that back, will you!” She cried as she ran forward, trying to save herself the embarrassment. Hades sidestepped, making Persephone fall straight into the wall as he read another section of the letter.

“His aura is undeniably superior to any other suitor I’ve ever met! But unlike any other suitor, he is not here for me! It does break my heart that such a man, so handsome in his appearance and -dare I even say- seductive in his personality, is not here for me and instead here to discuss important matters. Why, if I were to ever get a simple night with this man, I believe that my lifetime satisfaction would undeniably be reached.”

Persephone could feel the will to live quickly draining her body as Hades read out her utmost desires- worst of all, the desires which she had tried so hard to conceal from him!

“My dear Persephone, who knew that you held such desires? And to think you were simply an innocent face?”

“Give that back Hades!”

Persephone, this time realising he would try and sidestep, grabbed Hades and with all her strength which she had accumulated from her training lessons that her mother simply insisted on, pushed Hades onto the bed before scrambling on top of him and reaching over him to try and pry the letter out of his firm grasp.

She had nearly grabbed the letter when Hades switched it to his other hand and so to prevent him doing it again, she grabbed both of his wrists and immobilised them above his head before prying the letter out of his hands. She breathed happily as she held the letter in one hand and pushed down on both of Hades wrists in the other.

“Persephone,” Hades murmured, his voice deeper.

“I won!” She smiled on top of him, her head falling closer to his making her small afro bob slightly .

“So this was a game?”

Persephone shuffled around, unaware that she was straddling Hades. “Yep. And I beat you!”

Suddenly, Hades ripped his hands free, gripped Perephone’s hips and used his momentum to flip them so that he was lying on top of her, only being supported by his arms which lay beside her head. She looked up at him.

“If you want to play, Persephone, you’ll need to know a few rules. 1- I’m always on top.

#Writersmonth #hades #persephone #hades fanfic #persephone fanfic #demeter #hades x persephone #persephone x hades #hades x persephone fanfic #persephone x hades fanfic #greek gods #historical au #greek gods fanfic

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mor-beck-more-problems · 3 years

Text

Death Rings Twice || Morgan and Eilidh

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @braindeacl @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: While searching for answers, Morgan and Eilidh realize the situation is worse than they realized.

CONTAINS: conversations with dead people

They came and went in waves. The first time, only the first time, Eilidh believed them to be just a part of being a ghost. James had done so many times—go in and out of view like the watts on a bulb. But those changes had been consensual, come upon by his own will, and he never truly left. Not like she had, and did, and still do. Moments of nothingness. Blink and she was gone, truly and ultimately gone. Blink and she was back, not even left with a memory. Just a faint recollection, a faint feeling of a blank. Like trying to recall a blackout. You knew it was there, you felt it too—pages torn from a book. But you also didn’t, couldn’t, for nothingness was all that remained. Nothingness that seemed to be her destination. Those blinks got longer, longer, longer. With no sign of slowing.

Eilidh knew Morgan was facing her own bouts of strangeness. Maybe they were connected. Morgan believed them to be—magic set loose like a wildfire, with them in its path. Consumed in its flames, would it burn them all the way to the ground? Or would they come out the other side, for the better? This curiosity, and a gnawing worry, compelled her forward, right into Morgan’s residence. She ventured through those great and winding halls, as if she already haunted the place. She ought to haunt at least one. Before it became too late. Passing by an open door, that familiar face was finally seen. Eilidh stopped, stared. Felt that nothingness threatening to claim her again. Visage flickered—like a light on its dying breath. But the feeling passed, leaving her there, shining on. The motion, or her very presence, must’ve caused a stir. The two women met each other’s eyes.

“Boo.”

Morgan just needed to find the right book. Zombies had been around for ages and so even if whatever was happening to her was obviously very rare, it must have happened to someone else before. And that someone must have wanted to write it down. Because magic directly affecting a zombie body at all was worth writing about; doing so in this cruel, backwards way defied everything she understood about magic and living matter. So, Morgan sat on the floor in the library, swimming through a large haul from the scriberary, searching. When Macleod appeared behind the volume she was holding, calling boo, Morgan yelped with surprise.

“Oh! Stars! That was--” she laughed uneasily. “That was something alright.” She sat back and looked at the other woman. She had believed everything Macleod had told her but seeing her friend, so wild and earthbound, so connected to her flesh, floating and transparent was uncanny in a way her mind struggled to process. “I wish I had good news on the funky magic boogaloo front, but there’s just lots of dead ends so far. But that can wait. Are you...okay? At least, relative to our situation?

Good-hearted chuckle lept out of Eilidh—breaking the illusion of the spooky ghost in the corner. She closed the distance between the two, eyes curiously scanning the cover and pages of the book nestled in Morgan’s lap. More were strewn across the room, circling Morgan in a protective barrier, or perhaps a tomb—either for future study or determined unsuited. Where one group ended and the other began, she wasn’t sure. Mouth parted to offer assistance, her hands and mind well-versed to such a skill, but the words quickly died just as her flesh had. Wouldn’t be much use when turning a page was a difficult endeavor. She had learned that fact rather quickly.

When attentions were placed on her, Eilidh perked. “Aye. Convinced this guy his cereal was sentient. And some lady she could control plants.” Snort of delight shot out her nose as their faces returned to memory. But as the chuckles faded, so too did this delight. That lingering worry remained. A hand brushed her lips, seemingly in thought. “Also…” In absence of external stimuli, she bit on a knuckle. But where a prick of sensation, a prick of life, would usually awaken her hand, only a mere acknowledgement greeted her. Fucking hell, how has James not gone mad by now? A low growl rumbled, and at least it felt nice in her chest. Familiar. “Been going in and out. Kinda like blinking. If you did that with a soul. James says it isn’t normal. And they’re getting longer.” Another knuckle met her teeth; that same hollow impact replayed. “Guess it’s soon time.” Her eyes scanned Morgan, transferring the focus back to the other woman. Wandering gaze found the darkness under her friend’s eyes. “What ‘bout you?”

For what seemed like a long time, Morgan could only stare at her friend. Or rather, through her friend. She could see every title on the shelf behind her if she concentrated enough, because Macleod, despite speaking and smiling and grinning and mischief-ing as much as she had ever done, was incorporeal and transparent. Like a ghost. A baby undead ghost. Which wasn’t supposed to exist. “..Blinking? What? Uh, that sounds bad. And weird. I’ve never heard of ghosts doing that before. They cross over, and they have some kind of teleportation thing, but they don’t play peek-a-boo with a whole plane of existence. That’s…” Another very strange, logic defying twist of magic.

Morgan cleared her head and tried to answer Macleod’s questions. “I woke up at the beginning of the week able to feel again. All my physical senses that went dull were back. It took some adjusting, but I think it was more or less how they were when I was alive. But then my body started decaying even when I was full, or more than full, and healing was fading and now it’s basically gone! So I’m basically rotting away for no discernable reason, and I get to be super physically aware of all of it. Also, I smell, so maybe it’s a good thing you don’t have any senses right now. When did your stuff start? I mean, none of this should be happening at all, because the undead are immune to spellcasting magic that engages with our body’s energy, as far as I can tell, and we’re immune to most drugs and toxins, and I haven’t found anyone else in town being effected like this, so it’s not the big cosmic town bullshit--but if we can get a timeline, maybe that will tell us...something.” She sighed and closed the book in her lap, staring off into anywhere but Macleod’s face. The whole world was slipping through their fingers, just when she’d thought it really did want them after all.

Curt laugh escaped Eilidh. “Yeah. You’re telling me.” Just her luck to be subjected to the worst game of peek-a-boo in existence. Maybe her soul truly did want to pass over, but this supposed magic was keeping her here? Maybe the universe was trying to remedy the fact she shouldn’t have remained—at least not in this form—but the magic tried to go against the very will of the cosmos? Thoughts followed that tangent until it caused a dizziness. Bah, there’s too many maybes and what-ifs. She snapped a finger, sharp noise bringing her back to the present. Mind focused on Morgan’s words, her own story. As such a tale unfolded, her face fell, allowing that worry bubbling inside to find itself in her eyes, her parted mouth. Just as quickly, her eyes tightened, mouth closed, jaws tightened. Resolve overcame the worry, gave her goal new fire. “Aye. That is real bad.” Especially when it started so promising—the worst kind. “Best we hop to it prompto, then. Know anything I can look over? Double-check? Triple-check?” The ways of magic, the ways others shifted the energies of the world to their will, was not a strong subject of hers. But perhaps there were other pieces of the puzzle her ever inquisitive eyes could find. She needed that hunt, after all. Needed something to do—when all things physical brought boredom at best, her mind frequently rushed into restlessness.

Eilidh recalled the start of this plight. “I died beginning of this week.” The same as Morgan’s own unfortunes; a fact that did not escape her. “Or alchemied this way. Or some other magic.” At this point, she wasn’t sure which was true. Death was more reasonable to her. Familiarity always felt more reasonable, and she was very familiar with death. But Morgan seemed convinced its cause was magically induced and, well, she was the expert in that regard. Not Eilidh. “Blinked out the first time a few days later. Didn’t think too much of it. ‘Til a few more days later when it kept happening.” How much longer would this affliction let her speak with Morgan? Would it rip her away mid-sentence, as it had with Milo? Sharp snap of fingers returned. Temptation to bite the nagging thoughts away surfaced—to subject another knuckle to her teeth. But the snap sufficed. For now.

Morgan sat back, thinking. The town had already been shifted in the cosmos by the time she and Macleod were affected. And no one else she spoke to, dead or undead, was feeling anything strange in their body. So why them? And how? It didn’t seem right that the universe should literally change its rules just to be cruel to them. And if an alchemy break-through was responsible for Macleod, it didn’t explain her progressive deterioration. She would have to be confined to a circle in order for that to be the case, and the energy required to continually re-write her body would be outrageous.

She looked over at Macleod, aching to give her an answer. “I only have a few general compendiums on the stuff, but maybe there’s some kind of sickness, or some kind of critter that can affect people like us. Like, bookwyrms and brain biters mess with people’s brains, and there’s plenty of necrophages out there maybe…” Some magic, universe defying critter happened to chomp on both of them without their noticing on the exact same night? Morgan could hardly stand to hope for the idea, it sounded ridiculous enough in her head. But she had to try. If she stopped trying, this thing would take her. “Maybe there’s one that can explain this. Weird abilities that make people incorporeal or mess with their magic composition. Um, it’s those thick ones back there--” She pointed. “Or you could check out the area, see if anything unusual is sniffing around. Every critter’s gotta eat and sleep somewhere.” She smiled feebly. “We’ll figure this out before it’s too late. We’ve got too much to live for, right?”

“Critters!” The word shot out like a bullet. That was more Eilidh’s forte. A hand returned thoughtfully to her lips, though a bite did not come. Her mind was moving far too fast to focus on anything physical. Feet began to pace without her knowledge, beating against the air as if they contributed to her movements anymore. “Those bees cause hallucinations…” What were they called again? Those dick-hive bees. She had still yet to encounter them personally—such a treat will have to wait when she finally visits… that woman. Knowledge was acquired specifically for said venture, so she really should remember… “Eintykara.” But as research came tumbling back into her mind, so did an issue. “No. Cold.” Such weathers would cause them to grow sluggish—springing into action now would make no sense. “Hm. Caballi?” Her encounter with one had been very brief, but James’ was much more intimate. And she had certainly heard stories that mimicked their own. Of ghosts being attacked by them. Or more accurately, being fed upon by them. Could be the cause of their deterioration, those astral feedings. Perhaps they can affect zombies too? “But never saw…” They weren’t exactly invisible, to people like them. But much of them was left unknown, on this world at least. Could be a special sort?

More ideas flowed into Eilidh’s mind. And just easily flowed back out—conflictions and contradictions found in every sort. Though the universe was vast and wide and full of exceptions. Hardly anything could be said with certainty. And hardly everything was stored in her mind—that vastness refusing to be contained in just one thing. Or even in one world; creatures not found in any book had laid just beyond those cracks in the air. One, or two, or more could’ve slipped through. “You could be onto something.” Her feet stilled, and it was only then she realized she had been on the move at all. But they already missed that constant motion. Focus turned to the mentioned books, causing a chuckle to stir. “Would. But these guys do whatever the hell they want.” She wiggled her fingers and they blended and meddled together, like waves crashing into each other. “I’ll look ‘round. You focus on the books. We’ll see this through.” There was an attempt to turn and leave, but something held her there just a moment longer. Those hints of decay sprinkled on Morgan’s form—some grown worse over the course of their conversation. “Think you’ll manage?” The question spanning far beyond just Morgan’s research capability.

With the way Macleod lit up at the suggestion, Morgan could actually start to believe they were onto something. The world was full of strange things and there was so much they didn’t know. Of course if it wasn’t someone it had to be something. Maybe even a creature from another dimension. Some of the critters in those portals had probably gotten stuck on this side when Adam closed them, too, and maybe that was why they couldn’t understand the rules this infection worked on.

Morgan met Macleod’s eyes bravely. They were looking for a needle in a haystack. It might take weeks to comb through all of White Crest and identify the exact creatures they were looking for, especially if they turned out to be beyond sapient record on this world. But they would figure it out, wouldn’t they?

Somewhere beyond them, bewildered geese flapped their way to the sky and called to each other for safety, snow crunched under tired feet, a wind blew through the hollow tunnels of the world. Morgan took it all in, staring through the frosted windows. This was a world that buried its secrets better than its dead, but it was also one where life persisted in the most bitter cold. If anyone was proof of that, surely it was her and Macleod. And Morgan had a future to get to; Macleod probably did too, and if she didn’t, she deserved to stick around long enough to come up with one. So she had to be okay. There wasn’t room in this scenario for her not to be.

Morgan summoned her best smile and hoped with all she had that Macleod believed it and let some of the warmth rub off on her. “I’ve got this. And so do you. Death cut us a break once, right? Twice should be just as easy.”

That smile filled the air, found its way on Eilidh’s face, lifting her spirits in turn. Hell yeah. They had this. That implication hung in the air, threatened to bring it all back down. The one where she died. This soul she carried certainly had—will again. And technically death had touched her a few days prior. But the implication ran deeper than that, tied her to an assumption she kept getting chained to. But she did not let that weight touch her; only a twitch of a brow, a tighten of lips, betrayed these thoughts. Resolve kept her steady—kept them both just the same. Fate may try to give them a losing hand, but she’ll keep playing until a full house. And if not, well, seems she’s had her time then. Her soul will enjoy more, if these pesky blinks didn’t consume her in totality. For fate was hungry this week—eating away at her very soul, at Morgan’s very flesh. Was it feeding on others? How far did this hunger spread? She had no mind, no time to worry about passerbyers on the street. Those teeth readied to pierce again, steal more of them away. But she’ll try her hand at dentistry and rip them out before all was taken. “Good to hear! Let’s give this a–”

She vanished.

#wr eilidh #wr chatzy #wr eilidh chatzy #death rings twice

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readingwritingcrying · 5 years

Text

Just Like Falling - Part 2

part one HERE

When Crowley woke up the first time, his limbs felt like lead. He was oddly corporeal, and it was disorientating. He couldn’t gather the strength or the will to open his eyes, but he could feel himself on a bed, cool cotton sheets and a soft, fluffy comforter.

Aziraphale was speaking. Crowley listened and found he must have been reading something, confirmed by the sound of a page turning. The angel’s voice was raw, although Crowley couldn’t decipher if it was from overuse or emotion.

He tried to say something, let Aziraphale know that he was there, but all he could manage was a soft hum. The angel’s voice stuttered, and he paused in his story.

There was a gentle, warm pressure against Crowley’s forehead before sleep reclaimed him.

The second time Crowley woke was slightly more successful. His left eye opened slowly, finding the familiar vision of the ceiling of a certain bookshop.

This was a more encouraging sight that he was expecting, so Crowley opened his right eye as well, blinking to adjust to the light as his sunglasses had not yet been returned to him.

“Crowley” Aziraphale’s voice broke. Slowly, he turned his head to the angel, relieved to find him whole and well, other than the tears shining in his pale blue eyes. He stood in the doorway, holding a book, he must’ve been just coming back.

The book hit the ground with a soft thud, and the bed dipped with the weight of the angel beside him.

“I was so worried, I thought you might not wake up for ages yet to come, you’ve been asleep so long as it is-“

Crowley interrupted. “Aziraphale, slow down.” Aziraphale gulped, taking a steadying breath to calm himself. “How are we… on earth?” They were on earth, right? Heaven could not trick him, not like this.

Not that they wouldn’t, but Crowley knew they didn’t pay any attention to the details of earth, and certainly not the lines and patterns in the wood of the ceiling that he could recognize anywhere.

“They let you – us, go.” Aziraphale said softly.

That caused Crowley to pause.

“After Gabriel did – well, whatever that was, Metatron showed up,” Aziraphale explained, reading Crowley’s confusion. “Quite unexpected, really. It’s been a very long time since God has given word to heaven. She had said what we did was part of the Plan. Not the Great one, but the Ineffable one, and so Heaven was to leave us alone for the time being.” Aziraphale sounded like he could barely believe it happening himself.

It took Crowley a long time to think of anything to say to something like that. It didn’t help that he still was saddled with a tired that was bone-deep, and an odd itchiness that came with being back in his human form.

Just thinking about Her made something ache in his chest, a sensation that was becoming uncomfortably familiar as of late. He keenly missed his glasses, wanting to hide the way his eyes dampened. “Has She ever spoken for Herself?” Crowley finally dared to ask.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Not while I’ve been around, at least.”

Crowley blinked. “She used to, you know. Before.” There was something soft and wistful in his voice.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that. The whole conversation had taken a turn Aziraphale hadn’t been expecting. As a rule, Crowley didn’t talk about Before. He didn’t speak about who he was, or the details of his fall, just that it was a vague saunter downwards, the way he always described it.

Crowley had never said who he used to be, and Aziraphale never asked. He must have been created much earlier if he remembered a time like that. “It must have been very different,” he finally decided on.

Crowley nodded. “It was. You’d have liked it, I think. Not as much as earth, but it wasn’t so bad. Angels were… softer then. Less afraid, at least.” Much more like how Aziraphale was, he doesn’t add. Because even at the very start, no angel could have compared to Aziraphale, the best mixture of good with just that one bastard-streak that made him so perfect to Crowley.

“But you wouldn’t?” Aziraphale’s eyebrow rose in question.

“No,” Crowley agreed. “I still would have too many questions, I think.” It was odd being so honest with Aziraphale. Crowley didn’t like being vulnerable; he wasn’t often trusting. But what had happened, it just took too much out of him to care.

And after what the angel saw, it only seemed right.

They settled into a comfortable silence, and Crowley thought vaguely about falling back asleep. That is, until Aziraphale moved closer to touch him.

Crowley flinched, violently. Suddenly, his breathing was picking up speed and Aziraphale backed off.

“Oh, dear, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” he said, distraught. “I won’t hurt you, Crowley. I’m not going to touch you, either,” He reassured.

Crowley was crying, he realized, and shaking, and why was he acting like this? He knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t do that to him. He just hadn’t expected the angel to move so suddenly.

He hated the guilty look on Aziraphale’s face, the way he looked so lost as how to help him. Crowley wiped furiously at his eyes (the traitors), and slowly but surely calmed his breathing. Finally, when all that was left from his sudden emotional outburst (a panic attack, Crowley knew, but he wouldn’t admit it to himself) was a bit of shaking, Crowley addressed Aziraphale again. “Sorry. Just. Didn’t expect it, angel,” he murmured.

“Would you like anything, dear?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley thought if he said no, he didn’t, Aziraphale might just manage to look even more like a kicked puppy.

Besides, he could think of a few things. “You like cocoa, don’t you?” As Crowley suggests this, Aziraphale goes to make them both a cup. Crowley’s chest flutters when Aziraphale sets his favorite cup down on the bedside table for him to have. Not only was he letting him use the angel wing mug (which was huge for the angel itself, seeing how attached he got to objects, his coat being another example) but he made sure not to startle him again.

Crowley picked up the mug, relishing the warmth in his hand. His split tongue flicked out as he inhaled the sweet smell of the drink. He sipped at it slowly. He didn’t often indulge in foods or sweet drinks – he just didn’t see the appeal as much as Aziraphale did, and much like Aziraphale didn’t get his love for sleeping – but even he could admit it was a soothing drink.

Relaxing considerably, Crowley found himself annoyed only by one thing. “Angel. Stop that,” he demanded.

Aziraphale looked at him with concern from the other side of the room. “What do you mean, dear?” His face scrunched.

“Stop being over there,” Crowley elaborated, mouth turning down in what was a frown, not a pout. Aziraphale still looked rather confused but came closer cautiously just the same. Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to break,” he said. “Sit with me.”

Aziraphale looked at the spot beside him on the bed, to his eyes, back to the bed, and to his eyes again. “Crowley, I’m just not sure it’s a good idea, I frightened you last time. I’m still not even sure what Gabriel did, but I don’t- I don’t wish to cause you any more pain,” he said gently.

“Aziraphale, I know you won’t hurt me. Don’t make me ask nicely,” said Crowley with conviction that must sway the angel, as he did move to sit down. “Ngh. Just. Slowly,” Crowley added quickly, nerves rising although he knew there was not reason for it.

Aziraphale sat down next to him, legs splayed out comfortably against the soft beige comforter, back resting on plush tartan throw pillows. It’s alright. It’s good, even, and they drink their hot cocoa in peace.

Putting his cup aside, Crowley gathered himself for a moment of courage.

He laid his head down on Aziraphale’s lap. The angel started, making a flustered noise in surprise, but a fond smile replaced his shocked expression with ease. Crowley wouldn’t normally be so bold, but he also wouldn’t usually be so vulnerable, and Aziraphale unusually wouldn’t act with so little hesitation and worry, but really it was all a bit different now, released from either side.

Aziraphale’s lap was soft and warm, and Crowley quickly decided that no pillow could compare. “Crowley, dear. I’d like to. Well, that is. May I play with your hair?” he managed to stutter out.

Crowley laughed - a quiet, breathy thing, but nodded. His hair had grown a bit in the time that had passed, and while it was nowhere near where it once was, it skimmed down the back of his neck to reach for the top of his shoulders. He hummed in contentment when Aziraphale carded his fingers gently through it. “How long has it been, since,” Crowley stuttered, but picked back up “Since Gabriel took me,” he managed.

Aziraphale’s hand stilled but did not leave his head. When he spoke, it started up again. “Two years, Crowley. Only a bit less then that they had you, you’ve been asleep for about a month.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asked, his tone clearly implying he did not think there was anything for him to apologize for.

Crowley let his cheek rest against Aziraphale’s stomach. “They only had me to hurt you,” He explained.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Because I care about you, and I hope you wouldn’t be sorry for that,” he insisted. “And if I could get my hands on Gabriel…” he trailed off, his voice teetering on the edge of wrath.

“Don’t,” Crowley said. “He was afraid. He wasn’t always. ‘sides, it’s no use risking yourself when it’s settled.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, it doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

Letting out a wet chuckle, Crowley agreed. Seeing that particular angel any time for the next thousand or so years would be a bad idea.

They lapsed into another comfortable silence until finally, Crowley drifted off, safely tucked into Aziraphale’s lap.

…

Crowley woke with a gasp. His body was sweating, even though he didn’t need to, and he certainly didn’t want to.

He had been falling in his dream. It was more than just a memory of the Fall, it was some odd combination between that memory and the more recent ones, with absurd and horrifying twists (Aziraphale pushed him down, an apologetic look in his eyes, ‘You know you deserve this, Crawly,’ he said. He opened his mouth but he couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t even scream as he fell).

He wasn’t crying this time – thank Someone – but he was shaking. His dream played before his eyes as he tried to ground himself, feeling that blessed ache. Yearning for something that would tear him apart.

“Shh, Crowley, it was just a dream, my dear. That’s it, that’s right, breathe, just focus on my voice,” He eventually registered the sound of Aziraphale speaking to him, hand running soothing circles on his back, but leaving him free to easily move away the moment he felt trapped.

Aziraphale asked him to match his breathing, and Crowley did his best to. Aziraphale asked him to list the things in the room – sights, feelings, smells, colors.

Crowley had a sneaking suspicion Aziraphale had been reading up on this while Crowley had slept.

It took some time, but it worked. Aziraphale didn’t ask for any explanation, just offered his comfort.

Crowley still wanted to give him one. “Gabriel had me borrow his Grace,” he said, voice just above a whisper. He knew Aziraphale heard him, but the angel simply waited for Crowley to speak what he wanted to.

“Or, projected it. Something like that. It was like being back in the Host. I could. Ngk. I could feel it, angel, everything,” his voice wobbled. “And it burned. But it was better than being cold, and I’m cold. Like I fell,” he admits.

Aziraphale makes a noise of sympathy somewhere in the back of his throat. He wouldn’t know how it could feel to fall, but he understood how bad it was, the way even the Archangels feared the idea was enough. And that was if one hadn’t also befriended a demon in the last 6,000 years.

“I don’t want to be an Angel again,” Crowley states.

“No,” Aziraphale agreed.

“But I want to feel that again. Even if it burns. Even from you,” said Crowley, disgust at the realization creeping through his voice. Aziraphale’s arms twitch in a certain way, and Crowley leaned against him, giving permission for the angel to hold him. He needed Aziraphale to hold him.

Aziraphale seemed to need to hold him.

“I won’t hurt you,” Aziraphale clarified, “but it’s not shameful.” It’s the best he can say, and Crowley thinks, with time, he might even be able to believe it.

When he actually Fell, it wasn’t so different. Worse, certainly, but the awful bit with longing for something you didn’t even want was overwhelming then like it felt now. With time, then, it might fade.

“Crowley, dear… Could you look at me?” Asked Aziraphale, and Crowley did. The angel’s eyes were soft. “I know it’s not the same, not even close, but you have my love,” he said. Crowley knew at that moment, he meant the personal kind, the kind that wasn’t really meant for angels, and definitely not demons. They both were an exception to that idea, it seemed.

Crowley sniffed. “It’s even better, angel,” he said, and he meant it. Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead (a sensation which felt oddly familiar) and Crowley laid them down together.

With Aziraphale pressed into Crowley’s chest, the empty feeling was kept at bay, and he was flooded with warmth. They would stay that way for as long as he could possibly desire.

#good omens #good omens fic #gomens #good omens fanfiction #good omens whump #Ineffable Husbands #Crowley whump #Aziraphale #crowley #hurt comfort #good omens fluff #fanfiction

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howterrifying · 4 years

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+sherlolly: seeing eye to eye

A sort of AU? As I continue to reacquaint myself with this ship due to my very, very long writing absence, I seem drawn to their origin stories and found myself wanting to explore them. For some reason, I was feeling very uni!Lock and decided, yes, let’s do this. And not only is it uni!Lock but Mycroftcentric-uni!Lock. If there’s one thing I’ve not lost touch with, it is my love for Mycroft Holmes. I hope you’ll enjoy this terribly long but rather fun piece. I certainly had fun writing it :) x

Contemporaries (also on FF.net and AO3) The brothers barely looked alike, the only physical similarity being their relatively similar heights. Apart from the fact that they shared the same residential address, the same family name and, well, fairly similar heights, one would never have assumed they were brothers. There was their genius, of course. Those who did have the fortune (or sometimes misfortune) of running into either of the Holmes brothers would immediately realise they were of the same make. The depth of their observations and the speed of their deductions almost always left a mark. An encounter with a Holmes brother would not be an easy one to forget.

Mycroft, slightly past his mid-twenties and already with several doctorates to his name, was now working at the university. Sherlock was in his second year but had already zoomed ahead and could have graduated that very year if he had wanted to. However, his extra-curricular activity, of which he was the only member, slowed him down to remain ‘on track’ with his fellow university mates. Solving crimes was very time-consuming and Sherlock was a most dedicated ‘club’ member. The brothers rarely interacted. It was better this way for all parties included. Thankfully, their spheres rarely collided. In fact, Mycroft was often away from the university altogether, finding himself naturally propelled into various government boards and committees. It was a rare afternoon that Mycroft found himself back on campus. As he sat in his office reviewing the minutes of a recent meeting, there came a quiet knock at his open office door, causing him to look up from his documents. “Ah, you must be Ms Hooper,” he remarked with a polite smile. One of the most promising pathology students of her year, Molly Hooper, walked into his office and reached for his extended hand and shook it. “It’s very good to meet you, Mr Holmes,” she began before taking her seat. “Very good to meet you too,” he replied, “I have heard a lot about you.” “I trust you’ve read the proposal I’ve sent you?” asked Molly, nervously gripping the edge of her seat. “Yes, some new lab equipment for the…” he began flipping through her proposal file that he had retrieved, “The…Forensics Society.” “We decided to keep the name simple,” said Molly. “Simplicity is always best, Ms Hooper. So I appreciate that,” Mycroft remarked with a nod. Mycroft closed the proposal file and cleared his throat. He adjusted his seat a little forward and looked right at Molly. “Your proposal caught my eye, Ms Hooper, which is why I have called you in.” Molly’s eyes widened in surprise. She had not been expecting to hear that. Did not everybody have to come in to meet Mr Holmes at some point to argue the case for their proposals to be approved? “Oh, I see,” was all Molly could muster for the moment. Mycroft smiled, slightly amused at her reaction. He then reached for another file on his desk and presented it to her. “I have now a proposal for you , Ms Hooper. One that I sincerely hope you would accept,” Mycroft continued. Molly took the file from him and began flipping through its documents. Her eyes widened like they had moments earlier except it was no longer in surprise but in disbelief. “Are you…offering me a job, Mr Holmes?” asked Molly, her eyes still large from incredulity. “I most certainly am, Ms Hooper. I discovered, from your proposal, that it would be a real waste of your talents if you merely utilised them within The Forensics Society. Besides, the equipment you had asked for… I think we could put them to some really good use. Do you not think so?” Molly struggled to form a response to this resoundingly unexpected turn of events. She flipped back to the first page of Mycroft’s proposal and looked though it again, as though to check if she had misinterpreted any part of it. “There is no mistake, Ms Hooper,” said Mycroft, as though reading her mind, “I am offering you a job in, well, I suppose you could call it a ‘club’ of my own.” Molly processed his spoken words and the typed ones before her, frowning but only to contain the surge of excitement in her veins. Her head felt like it was quite about to burst. Eventually, her frown disappeared and a small smile grew. “I presume that’s a yes ?” asked Mycroft. “Yes, Mr Holmes,” said Molly at last, “I accept.” ++ It had been a busy few months for Molly Hooper, what with setting up the new laboratory equipment and running the club with her fellow forensics enthusiasts. However, the real source of her busyness had been the work she was now doing with Mycroft’s team. Although much of this team and its work was shrouded in mystery, she had been plunged right into Mycroft’s team of consultants and forensic pathologists on some very interesting cases. Molly had lost count of the number of non-disclosure agreements she had had to sign each time before beginning work on a new case. It was a Saturday afternoon that Molly found herself at one of Mycroft’s laboratories in an obscure government building, the type that required an inordinate amount of security screening before she could even step foot into the main lobby. She was used to it by now, however, and breezed through it all to resume the case she was currently working on. She and the team were busy reviewing an anomaly in the dyed hair of a recently murdered politician when the doors to their lab opened with an uncharacteristically loud bang. “Is the new hematology analyser here yet?” came a brusque male voice. The team looked up at the interruption only to resume their discussion as though nothing had happened. Molly was puzzled by their response and felt slightly awkward that a question had been unanswered. “Um, yes. It arrived at noon yesterday,” she answered. Before she knew it, the figure that had stormed into the lab came storming towards her, eyeing her curiously as he approached. “You’re new,” came that same voice. “And you’re Sherlock Holmes,” said Molly, “Pleased to meet you.” “How do you know who I am?” he asked, frowning. “We go to the same university. A friend of mine fancied you for a while. You both took that elective Photomolecular science module last semester,” Molly replied matter-of-factly. “Also, your brother did tell me to expect you.” Sherlock made a noise that sounded like a mix of a scoff and a laugh as he strode around the lab looking for the machine that had been the reason for his visit. “Would you like to see it?” Molly asked, smiling politely at her university contemporary. The team looked up from their discussion, a little aghast that she was entertaining the whims of their big boss’ infamous younger brother. Yet, neither of them said a word, deciding that silence was the safest response around the rather volatile younger Holmes brother. “I should like to use it,” Sherlock retorted. “Ah, I cannot allow that at the moment, I’m afraid. Sorry about that,” said Molly, her polite smile still perfectly in place. The tall and impatient figure of Sherlock Holmes looked down at the surprisingly unfazed pathologist-in-training who stood before him. “Who are you?” he asked “She’s in charge ,” came the voice of Mycroft Holmes who, unlike his brother, had entered the laboratory virtually unnoticed. “Why are you down here?” Sherlock asked, changing the subject. “Security has been told to inform me the moment you step into my buildings, in particular my laboratories, or have you forgotten?” Sherlock made that same scoffing noise again as he walked away from his brother, still trying to look for the new machine amongst the hundreds of state-of-the-art equipment in the enormous laboratory. “Even if you found it,” Mycroft continued, “You couldn’t operate it. Only Ms Hooper has the authorisation codes to power it up.” “So that’s your name. Ms Hooper,” Sherlock repeated, ignoring his brother and walking back towards Molly. “Just Molly is fine,” she answered back coolly. Sherlock towered over Molly but did not overshadow her in the least. She remained where she was, with that steadiness in her eyes that was starting to unnerve him. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be interrupted like this, Ms Hooper. I do apologise,” said Mycroft. “It’s no matter, Mr Holmes. Besides, you did warn me,” she replied with a laugh. That laugh of hers bothered Sherlock. It bothered him because it was clear she was not bothered at all by his presence or his intrusion into her workspace. Sherlock was not used to a reaction like hers. “Do you need him removed?” asked Mycroft. “No, it’s all right, Mr Holmes. I think I can handle him,” Molly replied, looking right back at Sherlock who had not once removed his gaze from her. “If you say so,” said Mycroft with a parting nod before exiting the laboratory. The younger Holmes brother seemed rooted where he was, staring hard at Molly who very calmly adjusted her crisp white lab coat. “So, Sherlock Holmes…” Molly began. He paused, uncertain of how to respond because of how directly she had addressed him. “Y-yes?” he answered at last. “I’ll show you the machine,” she said, her bright eyes shining at him, “And if you keep to the rules of my lab, maybe I will let you use it.” Her words amused Sherlock in a way he had never experienced. There was a boldness in the calm of her voice. Her gaze never once wavered and Sherlock found himself beginning to admire it somewhat. “Do we have an agreement, Sherlock Holmes?” asked Molly. Sherlock saw that she had stretched her hand out, awaiting his response. With a grin, he took it, shaking it firmly. “I believe we do, Ms Hooper,” said Sherlock. “I told you,” Molly said with a small smile, “Molly will do just fine.” ++ To everyone’s surprise, the day had gone by and Sherlock Holmes had not broken a single one of Molly’s ‘lab-keeping’ rules. He seemed to have put aside the initial case he had come in with and earned his way into participating in the international murder case they were investigating. “Your brother might not be too pleased about this,” said Molly with a glint in her eyes, “But I think you’ve earned this.” She headed to one of her open laptops and pulled up a recent toxicology report and gestured for Sherlock to join her. The aspiring detective rushed to where she was seated and pored over the report greedily. “Your analysis is…incredible ,” Sherlock murmured, not realising he had just praised someone out loud. Someone who was not himself. “Thank you,” Molly replied in amusement. Her response made him realise he had spoken out loud and it caused his mind to stumble a little. “Since you’ve been so helpful with our blood samples, perhaps you’d like a go at the hematology analyser now?” asked Molly, helping him change the subject. “Oh, right, yes… the evidence I’d brought from the robbery,” he said, heading to where his coat was hanging. Sherlock found his coat and rummaged through one of its deep pockets, pulling out a small ziplocked bag with the evidence he had found at his crime scene. As he looked at it, the magnitude of Molly’s work and her achievement here in this lab alone really struck him. Who was she? He frowned as he thought to himself. How was it that their paths had crossed only now? “Molly…” he said, returning the evidence back into his coat pocket. “Hmm?” she answered, her eyes still glued to her laptop screen. “Have we taken any modules together?” asked Sherlock, walking back towards her. “I don’t think so,” she replied, still typing away at her laptop. “But we have so much in common, how is that possible?” His words stopped her in her tracks, her hands suspended above her keyboard as her typing came to a halt. “There are many others who share our interests, Sherlock,” said Molly, smiling. “But I’m sure we would have taken a class together at some point…” “No, you don’t understand, Molly,” Sherlock interrupted. “What don’t I understand?” she asked back, puzzled. “We are…” He had to pause to take a breath. “We are…the same .” Molly turned from her laptop to look at him, wide eyed. She was equal parts taken aback and amused. It surprised her to hear him actually say those words. “Quite the sweeping statement, Sherlock Holmes,” Molly replied with a small laugh. “I may not have all the facts,” he continued, “But I can’t seem to argue otherwise.” “No one is arguing with you…” “I think I’m arguing with myself…” He seemed frustrated, but Molly watched on quietly in mild fascination. “Molly,” he said, looking up sharply at her. “Yes, Sherlock?” “Work on my cases with me,” he said. “Your cases?” “I cannot pay you like Mycroft does, but we would make a good team. Your skill set and mine.” There was a moment of silence that passed between them. Sherlock, awaiting her response, uncharacteristically tense and Molly, wondering what to do with this abrupt new proposal. What was it with the Holmes brothers and their penchant for throwing curveballs? “Do I have to answer you now?” said Molly at last. “Um…no, I suppose you don’t…” said Sherlock in atypical clumsiness. The look on his face caused Molly to chuckle softly. She shut her laptop and got off the lab stool she was sitting on. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Sherlock, but it’s way past evening and the rest of the team have actually gone home,” Molly continued. “Oh, I…” “My eyes do need a bit of a break, but I promise I’ll take a look at what you have,” she said, answering him at last. “You will?” he asked, shocked that she had agreed. “We’ll see how it goes,” she remarked, smiling. “Let’s discuss this over some food. Are you hungry?” Had Molly not asked, Sherlock would not have realised how famished he was and that he quite frankly had no idea when his last meal had been. For a genius, his short-term memory for certain things was surprisingly terrible. “You’re pale as a ghost, Sherlock,” Molly said, interrupting his thoughts. “Food is a good idea,” he replied at last. “Food it is,” Molly remarked with a chuckle. ++ It was about eight o’clock in the morning and Sherlock had woken up and wandered into the kitchen in the home he shared with his brother. To his surprise, he found his brother seated at the breakfast table, serenely perusing the day’s newspaper. “You’re up early,” said Mycroft, his eyes not leaving the newspaper. “I…have things to prepare,” Sherlock answered rather tentatively. “Things like…breakfast?” asked Mycroft, putting the paper down and gesturing to the opposite end of the table. There lay a perfect setup of hot breakfast, coffee, tea and immaculately arranged silverware for two. Sherlock walked over to the end of the table and scanned the faultlessly prepared food and beverage. He then looked up at his brother, his eyes wide and slightly aghast at his brother’s implication. “Did you make this?” asked Sherlock. “Are you being rhetorical?” asked Mycroft in return. “How did you—” “Know you had a guest?” Mycroft continued for his brother. Mycroft tidied the edges of the newspaper that he had folded earlier and set it aside. He then looked up at his brother and offered a wry smile. “Ms Hooper is technically under my employ, Sherlock. And I take good care of my employees. Especially the ones that can handle you .” It almost felt like a pantomime, for the moment her name had been spoken, Molly had appeared and stood at the entrance to the kitchen. “Good morning, Mr Holmes,” Molly said with a smile. “Good morning, Ms Hooper. I hope you slept well.” Mycroft answered with a smile in return. “I most certainly did,” she replied, “Your brother is a very charming host.” “I am glad to hear of it. Please, make yourself at home,” Mycroft replied, gesturing to the food he had prepared on his brother’s behalf. The sheer normalcy of their interaction left Sherlock flabbergasted. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some meetings to chair…” said Mycroft as he got up from his seat and exited the kitchen. Once he had left, Sherlock seemed to regain part of his executive functions and proceeded to sit by Molly. “Would you like a coffee?” Molly asked, reaching for the coffee pot. “Please,” Sherlock replied, passing her his cup. They sat in silence, with Sherlock sipping his coffee and Molly helping herself to some scrambled eggs on toast. “Did you…tell my brother you were here?” asked Sherlock, still perplexed from the moment before. “No, I didn’t. But he warned me it would happen,” Molly replied, now pouring herself a coffee. “Warned you?” “Yes…” Molly continued, casually sipping her coffee, “That last night would happen. And he was right.” “I have to concede, my brother is never wrong,” said Sherlock with a small smirk. “He even used your exact words,” Molly remarked, an amused glint in her eyes. “And what words were those?” “That you and I were the same.” Sherlock paused to take in her words, or more accurately, his brother’s words and he could not help but grin. It genuinely impressed Sherlock how spot on his brother always seemed to be, even though it irritated the living daylight out of him. “I have learnt that there is one thing different about us,” said Sherlock, reaching for a slice of toast. “Oh? And what’s that?” asked Molly, intrigued. “My brother doesn’t seem to annoy you,” said Sherlock with a wry half-smile. “Are you worried I’d fancy him instead?” Molly teased, looking right at Sherlock. Sherlock quite nearly dropped his toast and looked back at her in horror. It amused Molly that his normally blank visage could register such a degree of dread. To assuage him, Molly reached for Sherlock and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’m joking, Sherlock,” she said. “Don’t make jokes, Molly,” he replied but not without returning the kiss. They continued their breakfast in silence but Sherlock’s mind continued to spin. He had not quite ascertained where Molly stood in the scheme of things, but he was quite satisfied that for now, they stood with each other. “I’ve got a bit of time after breakfast,” said Molly, finishing the last of her coffee. “Would you like me to go through the rest of your case data?” Sherlock turned to her and processed her question. That unwavering way in which she held her gaze when they spoke was something he continued to admire. “We both have a bit of time after breakfast,” said Sherlock, getting up and clearing the breakfast things. “And I’d rather spend it on something else. Wouldn’t you agree?” It was Molly’s turn to process his response. She studied the look in his eyes and when she finally understood what he meant, broke into a smile. “We really are the same,” she said, grinning, as she took his hand and led them both back to bed. END

#sherlolly #i had intended this to take on a more dark and emotional tone #but it developed in a way i had not expected #and that's one of the most enjoyable parts about writing:)#sherlolly shots #one shot by terrified

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turnupswritessometimes · 5 years

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10 Minutes - Richie + Eddie - It

MINOR SPOILERS FOR IT CHAPTER TWO

Title: 10 Minutes

Word Count: 2948

Summary: Eddie watched a trail of ants run across the floor, carrying crumbs of chips that they'd been snacking on for the last month and a half down here. They glinted in the afternoon light like walking jewels. It was stuffy down here - the heat got trapped and it stank of wood - wood that was probably rot-ting. But it was ten times better to be in a hammock underground that could collapse at any time than on the beach. Richie was the difference. * Set between the first battle at Neibolt house and the second. Eddie sneaks away from the pharmacy to the clubhouse, Richie is hogging the hammock. They attempt to share their fears and, of course, get to the bottom of the ten minute in the hammock rule.

ALSO AVAILABLE ON A03 UNDER THE SAME NAME (AUTHOR: TURNUPS)

TUMBLR DOESN’T INCLUDE LINKS IN SEARCH RESULTS.

His mom thought he was at the pharmacy. It was the only place he was allowed to go by himself now, and the emphasis was ‘by himself.’ No Losers Club. They were the reason Eddie had broken his arm.

They were the reason. His mom had said.

He kicked through a decade’s worth of fallen leaves and tried to make himself believe that it was their fault. It had to be their fault, because his mother had said so. She was right – she had to be right, because if the adults weren’t right, then who was?

But Eddie knew a different right. He knew that he had chosen to follow Bill. He had chosen to step into the house – he hadn’t wanted to, but he had chosen to do it, because the adults hadn’t chosen to do anything. The adults didn’t know the reason children were disappearing, and if they didn’t know the reason, then what else didn’t they know?

Even worse – he thought, pulling open the hatch with his good arm – did they know the reason and choose not to do anything anyway?

It was an effort to get down the ladder with one arm in a cast and even trickier to keep the cast away from the dirt and wood and, to be honest, even the ladder was starting to get rusty. The dirt and the splinters and the rust were bad enough on his own, but if his mom saw any of it on his cast, she’d know that he was sneaking off.

But he managed it, half-stumbling down the square of golden sunlight that the hatch had created. He took a breath, trying to silence his mom’s voice in his mind. Germs – viruses – illnesses – everywhere down here. It was easy to push those thoughts aside when he was with the others. As soon as he was alone –

But he wasn’t alone. He realised that when he turned around and saw the hammock swaying slightly, as if there was a breeze all the way down here. His stomach dropped and he felt sick in the back of his throat.

Then his eyes adjusted to the shadows and he saw Richie’s huge glasses over a battered comic book. He wasn’t surprised as he looked over at Eddie, cradling his cast against his body and waiting for his heart to stop racing in his mouth.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Richie asked, in so very a Richie way that it settled Eddie’s stomach immediately. It was Richie. Richie and not – not it.

“You know what the fuck happened to me,” Eddie said. He scuffed the dirt with the bottom of his sneaker. “A fucking clown broke my arm is what happened to me.”

“I set it back, didn’t I?” Richie flicked a page of his comic. He wasn’t looking Eddie in the eye.

“Yeah, thanks. Thanks for breaking my arm even more with your bare hands that were covered in mud and – and greywater and clown blood – I mean, who knows what kind of diseases that thing was carrying.”

“That things a –“ Richie hesitated for a moment. They both did. They still had no idea what it even was. “A – monster – if it did have any diseases, it wouldn’t effect humans.”

“Have you ever seen The Thing? Lost Boys? American Werewolf in London?” Eddie was at the post of the hammock now, pointing at the poster on the wall and waiting for Richie to make room for him. If anything, Richie spread himself out even further when he saw Eddie approach.

“I didn’t realise lycanthropy was real.” Richie rolled dark eyes and flicked another page over.

“Shapeshifting clown monsters aren’t supposed to be real either,” Eddie said. “So if I’ve picked up some kind of – of rabid clown disease, just know that you’ll be the first one I come for.”

“You’ll have to come for your mom too.”

“What?”

“You know, seeing as we’ll be in bed together.”

“Fuck off.” Eddie kicked the leg Richie was dangling out of the hammock, toppling him off of his balance. It took Richie a few moments of wind milling his arms and tilting the hammock at a dangerous angle for him to recover. “Have you been in there more than ten minutes?”

Richie blinked at him. “There’s no one else here.”

“So?”

“So? You want me to sit in it ten minutes then get up and look around and realise there's no one else fucking here so I can have another turn?”

“Well at least move the dick over and let me in.” Eddie said, clambering into the hammock. He sat on top of Richie’s feet, trying to keep his cast out of the tangle of limbs. He accidentally kicked Richie in the stomach, and Richie’s foot went into his crotch – both movements causing the hammock to nearly capsize.

It swung dangerously back and forth as they settled themselves around each other – Eddie practically sat in Richie’s lap, his feet just under Richie’s shoulders and Richie’s legs cradling him. Comfortable – this was comfortable and Eddie had missed this. He had missed his friends. They were a break from being scared about his cast, being scared about Byers, being scared of it – just being scared.

“You sure?” Richie said.

“Yeah, why?” His cast was heavy in his lap. This was real, he had to remind himself. This had to be real, because if this dissolved into a nightmare he wasn’t sure he had the strength to run away this time.

Richie shrugged. He’d opened his comic so that it was spread across Eddie’s ankles and his chin was practically resting on his chest as he looked over at him.

“Because I’m – I’m a loser.”

It was obvious that sentence had taken a sharp U-turn midway through.

Eddie nudged Richie's shoulder with his foot. "What happened to you?"

There was a pause.

"Byers."

Eddie's foot nudged Richie's shoulder again. "Fucking Byers."

Richie shrugged Eddie's foot off of him.

"Fucking clown," he muttered, swinging one foot to get the hammock swaying again.

It was Eddie's turn to pause. Dirt trickled down from the ceiling. He could hear something on top of the base - a small animal like a squirrel chattering around. There were birds too - making calls that sounded fake. More like the sound effect in a movie than real life.

"You've seen it too?" Eddie whispered. He watched dust swirl in the shaft of sunlight.

"Yeah." Richie adjusted his glasses, looking serious. Eddie really should have seen it coming. "Looked like your mom."

"Fuck off." It was a reflex at this point. Eddie kicked Richie's shoulder. Richie's laughter stopped short as he kept talking. "It actually was, this time, okay? It - it was under the drug store and there was this leper and it was going to infect her, okay?"

"Okay." Richie's legs twitched under Eddie. As if he was thinking about moving, but decided against it. "Are you meant to be there now?"

"Meant to be home. Was hoping there'd be more of us down here." Eddie ran his thumb over the plain, white cast. Yeah, he didn’t want to get It dirty, but he also wanted to see certain names on there. He kept staring at the white space, wondering where the losers clubs names would go. How everyone's handwriting would look.

"Am I not enough for you?" Richie said, and Eddie thought that he leant against his outstretched leg.

"Shut up." He nudged him again, a little too hard so that he knocked Richie's thick glasses askew and Richie had to hold Eddie's ankle so that he didn't topple out of the hammock.

He kept his hand there as it kept swaying. And Eddie found he didn't mind. Richie's hand was warm and he had missed human contact. Human contact with someone other than his mom was good - it made him feel like he was real. He was real and a person and that was /good/.

"Do you wanna finally get some signatures on that bad boy?" Richie nodded at Eddie's cast, and his fingers fell away.

"I don't-"

"Want to get it dirty?"

"Don't think my mom would be happy if she knew I was hanging out with you."

It made Richie pause. He swallowed. "Right."

"I mean, she thinks that we were just messing around in the Neibolt house. Not losing a fight to a clown."

That brought a small smile back on Richie's face.

"Get the clown to sign it," Richie said.

"Fuck that." He let his foot drop slightly, chasing after Richie's hand without making it look like he was. "What'd you see? When – when It came this time?"

Richie shuffled slightly, but it made the whole hammock sway. "Why do want to know?"

"Because we're friends," Eddie said. "Because I told you about the leper - and - and I left her - I left her there."

For some reason crying in front of Richie Tozier felt like the last straw - after everything, that just seemed too much. Instead he sniffed and swallowed down the lump in his throat and kept the hammock swaying with the leg that wasn't after Richie's warm hand.

"It wasn't her, Eds." This was the Richie he wasn't so familiar with, the Richie that was serious and comforting and not desperately trying to annoy Eddie at any cost. "As soon as you helped, she would have turned into some batshit monster or something."

Eddie didn't answer. He watched a trail of ants run across the floor, carrying crumbs of chips that they'd been snacking on for the last month and a half down here. They glinted in the afternoon light like walking jewels. It was stuffy down here - the heat got trapped and it stank of wood - wood that was probably rotting. But it was ten times better to be in a hammock underground that could collapse at any time than on the beach. Richie was the difference.

Mainly because Richie was right. All of that would have turned into a nightmare eventually. It helped ease the shame and guilt that was running through him like a fever. He had left his mom.

But it wasn't really his mom. As soon as he would have gotten her out, she would have turned on him. Richie was right and he knew it. Would it have been worse to see his mom turn into a monster.

He hoped so.

"I'd rather that than - than the fucking Paul Bunyan statue chasing after me."

Eddie glanced up then. Richie was dog eating a page of his comic over and over.

"Wait, what?"

"That's what happened. The dumb fucking statue by the bandstand."

"Shit," Eddie said. "Wait, you're scared of that stupid thing?"

"Of course not, numb nuts," Richie snapped, and almost tore the corner off the comic. He smoothed it out. "The clown must have heard what Byers said - It was using what he said."

"Well what did he say?" Eddie said. Richie didn't respond. He was focused on the comic. Eddie nudged him with his foot. Then nudged him again. Then nudged him again.

"I don't want to talk about it, Eddie."

"Why not?" Eddie nudged him again. And again. And again.

Until Richie was pushing Eddie's leg away and sitting upright so fast that the hammock swayed like a small boat on the stormy sea.

"Because you'd never be able to hang out again!" He snapped. Eddie let the hammock swing, staring up at Richie. He was rarely angry - rarely genuinely, outwardly distressed. That was what scared him. If Richie was scared then something was very, very wrong. "You'd say that I have-"

"Richie, I already know you have syphilis." Eddie spoke in a small voice. He was trying to be funny and he didn't think it was working, because Richie was the funny one, not him - and what was Richie about to say and, fuck, what if he was right.

He wasn't right. He couldn't be right. Eddie wouldn't let him be right.

"More like AIDS."

That made Eddie sit up. The hammock had stopped rocking. He stared at Richie and Richie stared back, his chest hitching as he breathed. His knee twitched under Eddie and then he pulled it out of the hammock, letting it dangle out of the side. As if Eddie’s touch burnt him.

His heart was attempting to sprint a marathon and he didn’t quite know why. Or rather, he could guess why – he could guess a million reasons why, but they were much scarier than anything that had happened to them in the last two months. They were reasons he absolutely couldn’t think about.

And, yet here Richie was, saying what Eddie thought he was saying – and Richie genuinely believed that Eddie wouldn’t want to be around him because of it. That chased the reasons away like lemmings off of a cliff. Richie was diving off of that cliff because it was instinct, and he opened his mouth to explain –

Beep. Beep.

The timer on his watch was going off. Cutting across the lazy afternoon with an incessant, robotic voice.

He swore, and switched it off, suddenly finding it difficult to make the device listen to him. It felt as though it was going off forever and when it was finally silent, the quiet was too loud. It rang in Eddie’s ears.

“Well, you’ve definitely been in this thing more than ten fucking minutes,” he said.

“There’s literally no one else here.”

“I’m here, and I shared this stinking thing with you for ten minutes.”

Richie folded his arms and the comic fluttered to the ground. “It’s a bullshit rule.”

“It’s my turn.” Eddie pushed at Richie’s shoulders, the movement making the hammock swing. He tried to shove Richie out of the hammock as it tilted. But Richie was pushing back against him – he had a firm grip on Eddie’s wrists and for a moment, Eddie thought he was going to fall straight into the floor. They struggled, their legs tangled in each other as the hammock swung so strongly that the hooks it was set into started to creak.

They wrestled, until Eddie was very nearly falling out of the thing. He realised that he was still only upright because he was holding onto Richie for life. He cried out as he felt the fabric slip out from under him.

That was when Richie caught his arms and pulled him back in. Suddenly he was looking up at an out of breath Richie – his glasses askew and his hair messy from the fight. He smiled slightly.

Then he loosened his grip and went to sit back up. To quickly – as though he had seen something on Eddie’s face that he scared him. Maybe he had – his mind was wheeling now that the had stopped moving.

Eddie acted on impulse, grabbing Richie’s hands and squeezing them, even though he was still out of breath and hadn’t thought about what he was going to say.

“Rich-“ Eddie swallowed. He could feel his heart in every part of his body.

“Your mom will be getting worried,” Richie said. His fingers grazed Eddie’s wrists as he pulled his arms away.

Eddie shrugged. “Fuck it.” She was always worried. He pushed himself up and away from the canvas. Then, with hands that felt like they were shaking, he straightened Richie’s glasses, his fingers lingering. “She didn’t save me from a clown and she’s not – she’s not my best friend.”

“Your best friend?” Richie echoed.

It was hard to breathe. It was really hard to breathe, and it was probably his asthma, he wanted it to be his asthma, but it wasn’t the moment to reach for his pump.

“Yeah, my best friend.”

Richie was smiling at him – and then suddenly his arms were around Eddie’s neck and his whole weight hit him. He fell back, setting the hammock swinging gently. After a moment, he hugged Richie back. They were close – they had always been close, but hugging had never been their thing. They sat all over each other, but it was only now that Eddie was realising that they didn’t actually hug a lot.

“Even if you’ve given me rabid clown disease, you’ll be my best friend,” Eddie murmured. He stretched out the fingers half-hidden in his cast and imagined Richie’s handwriting on it. He felt warm, but it was hot down here, because it was Summer – it was still Summer. It was still hot and that was why he felt so warm.

“Well – your mom passed on the syph to me, so-“

“Fuck off, Richie!”

But he was giggling. And Richie was laughing too – his chest bumped against Richie’s and he could feel his breath against the shell of his ear. This was good. They should hug more, Eddie decided. They should hug more because he would be able to face those reasons he didn’t want to admit right now. He’d be able to explain to Richie one day.

“Thanks, Eds.” Richie muttered.

Eddie closed his eyes for a moment. The sun was warm and the hammock was swinging like there was a breeze all the way down here and he had been right earlier – the clubhouse was better than any beach. This was safe. The feeling of being safe – and that was something that none of this Summer had. It was because of that, that the clubhouse felt like heaven.

And the difference was Richie.

So he replied the only thing that he could – until he came to terms with all of the reasons why his heart was racing.

“Losers stick together.”

#it #eddie kasprak #richie tozier #reddie #it 2017 #it 2019 #stephen king #it fanfiction #fanfiction #horror #horror movies #fanfic #reddie fanfic #turnupswrites

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comicteaparty · 4 years

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April 4th-April 10th, 2020 Creator Babble Archive

The archive for the Creator Babble chat that occurred from April 4th, 2020 to April 10th, 2020. The chat focused on the following question:

What is something you’ve improved with in regards to writing or comic creation thanks to working on your story?

carcarchu

Oh this one i can answer definitively. it's 100% lineart. forcing myself to have to do lineart for hours everyday is definitely a way to force yourself to get better at it while i still don't like it it's something that i can do now without being scared about it

shadowhood (SunnyxRain)

Colouring. I had to get really creative in expressing emotion and hinting plot devices with colour. Also got much better with drawing gesture drawings due to looking at a lot of references!

Cronaj (Whispers of the Past)

Either writing dialogue or drawing/painting backgrounds... I used to be particularly awful at writing dialogue. It was too stiff and formal, and sounded a lot like old prose. Now, because of writing a comic and going through several scripts, the dialogue is a lot more natural, and the pacing is more realistic to actual conversations. And the other: backgrounds. I really used to not even draw them at all, and doing a comic forced me to have to think about environments in scenes. So I went from drawing floating characters to having to consider where they are and how it affects the story/mood.(edited)

Feather J. Fern

Paneling! That was my main focus to figure out how to do good paneling to have clearer pages

Deo101 [Millennium]

Honestly? Everything. It's all gotten better and I've learned so much. I would say my biggest improvement is probably in my time management, and art wise is probably composition and layouts. But it's hard to pick because I've grown so much in every aspect!

chalcara [Nyx+Nyssa]

Biggest thing I learned was to keep the story small and focused - and that the smaller, more human struggles are much better in creating tension than the whole default "the world's gonna end!" thing. Mind you, I still love a good "world's ending" story, but you gotta make people CARE about the people in that world first!

Holmeaa - working on WAYFINDERS

ohohohoooo I have done more drawing in photoshop in this short time I have worked on Wayfinders, than the rest of my life! That has given me some skills for sure! Coloring is another one, and generally just efficiency and flow in a comic

Nutty (Court of Roses)

For me it's been my use of color, and getting more confident in experimenting with it to really drive home a scene's mood!

LadyLazuli (Phantomarine)

The clearest improvement I always notice is my layouts - I’ve gotten more adventurous with panel shapes and placement as time has gone on, experimenting with more interesting designs for the whole page. Some of those experiments haven’t been totally successful but it always feels like a worthwhile try. I’ve gotten some really, REALLY cool layouts out of these experiments, and I love seeing how dynamic the panels have become compared to my first chapter. Also speed. I’m so much faster now. Thank gooooooodness (edited)

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

@LadyLazuli (Phantomarine) I've definitely noticed the experimental panel layouts! They're really cool.

AntiBunny

Planning. Book 2 is when I started using sketchbook thumbnails to plan ahead. The luxury of that first draft meant I could rethink panel layouts and how to best express the events happening if I first had an idea of what was happening laid out.

Also digital art by necessity since I switched to digital during the current arc. I was decent at lineart already, but other aspects have really challenged me to grow as an artist. I had to totally rethink the way I create backgrounds for instance. During this time the background quality actually declined a little while I got used to a new method, but experience has improved my skills greatly as I force myself into new methods.

DanitheCarutor

Hmmm maybe paneling, speechbubbles and backgrounds? My current project is my second real attempt at doing a comic, but I have learned a lot of stuff from the community and general art and story tutorials. Backgrounds and bubbles were the worst for me when first starting out, I only read manga before starting so the speechbubble shapes did not fit with how English is written. Plus I've only drawn wooded fantasy settings before making my comic, so using a ruler, figuring out perspective points and drawing buildings was very new to me. I still hate drawing cities and such, but I've gotten a lot better at it and it is easier to do now. Since I mostly stuck with B&W before my current project, coloring also kind of improved? Depending on who's looking at it. Lmao If I were to think about story/characters/dialogue, I have no idea if I've improved. Honestly, I don't pay much attention to the quality. Also my brain kinda says it's all bad regardless of what I make.(edited)

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

For my Improvements: I'm getting better at my comic panels, as I adjust to the vertical style. Before I've always drawn the standard format. It's more than just boxes, I try to keep a variety of sizes. I'm picking up roughly how much 'gutter space' I need per 2-3 panels.etc I'm also improving on choosing colors that fits my love of detailed linework.(edited)

OH! I'm also learning about Clip studio shortcuts, how to use the assets they provide which makes the process, abit easier on me. Things I need to change, is I want to get a good speedy coloring style, without referring to my usual coloring.(edited)

Tuyetnhi (Only In Your Dreams!)

the more I worked on the comic, the more I feel ambitious in making different angles and perspective. So it's really hitting me out of my comfort zone which is good! lol Though I'm trying to keep in mind of my speed, what I feel like I've improved a bit is trying to keep in mind of paneling and dialogue.

FeatherNotes(Krispy)

Process! Space and i have definitely figured out the most productive way to produce content at the rate and quality that also provides us with time for our own projects. Comics are a useful tool that helps you discover ways to better organize your creative workflow for sure!

sssfrs (JOE IS DEAD)

I think probably scenery. I used to dread drawing inanimate objects but now I feel more confident in filling in a scene & even look forward to it sometimes. Maybe also page composition and paneling but I still have a lot to learn there

eli [a winged tale]

One of the reasons I embarked on the webcomic journey is to push myself to improve not only storytelling but also utilizing art to create a reader experience that would be difficult to replicate with just words. I’d like to think that 9 months into making A Winged Tale, I’ve improved on deciding when is a good opportunity to invest more into backgrounds vs character dynamics and when should be focused more on sequences of panels and composition. While the comic is written in a four panel format, more and more I’m finding areas where the story could be told by breaking those rules (attached pic). It’s a balance and I hope going forward I will improve more in pushing the limits of panels and find ways to express the story in fun and interesting ways.(edited)

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

Wow that's a very good description @eli [a winged tale] I look forward to reading more of your story journey

eli [a winged tale]

Thanks so much Joichi! I’m eager to keep learning~

Capitania do Azar

I'm gonna go with planning and actually getting it done. I'm so much faster because now the process is much more streamlined to me

kayotics

My whole comic was started s an exercise to just get better at comics generally so I’d probably say every part I’ve improved at? The biggest things are probably colors and the upfront planning process

Phin (Heirs of the Veil)

Ooof hard question. I think my main improvement lies with page and speechballoon layouts and writing natural feeling dialouge. I'd say maybe also character acting?

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

I'm slowly learning how to create more engaging comic narrative. I read and research in the polished prem webcomics to see what makes them engaging? Like I'm going to challenge myself by creating a series of short stories with a reoccurring set of characters. Every new comic series I create is an experience, trial and error. Sometimes I skip the writeup and just go in blind, trust my own instincts. I'm glad to reach out and talk about it than in my own head. I hope by this year, I'll have at least 2 chapters of Hybrid Dolls out.(edited)

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I've definitely gotten better at planning/ outlining multiple chapters ahead of time. I did not even do this when I was doing the first 10 something chapters. (I did attempt an outline before I began the comic, but the story changed significantly from the outline by the time I started the comic, and I did not try to do it again for a long while.) I can't remember when I started, but I do recall having a lot of trouble the first time I tried to do it. It's gotten a little easier each time, though. In fact, I just spent the past few days outlining the next few very important chapters, de-tangling some big tangles. I'm really glad my outlining (and overall writing) skills had leveled up, because HOO boy, I don't think my 2014-2015 self could have done this!

I also became friends with enviros. I had already become somewhat comfortable drawing perspective when HoK started, but I had a sort of mechanical approach to it, like "oh I need some enviro for these establishing shots, guess I'll draw them." But now I LOVE drawing enviros! (some types anyway...) It's my comfort activity, something I treat myself to after a long day! In the thumbnails for my next few pages, there's a few enviro-heavy panels that I have to remove, because I drew too many of them (and the pacing got too slow as a result). I have to stop myself from drawing too many of these.

My biggest improvement is probably I've come to understand my characters and my themes much better, but that's more of a "I got better at making HoK" than a "I got better at making comics." There's definitely a difference between the two.

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

@keii’ii (Heart of Keol) ah I totally understand I tried the outline method before I start but my story changed alot after I drew it. So it start to feel like a waste of time for me, but I'll still write an outline to make sure to plan where my story heads(edited)

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Yeah! I needed to draw those first few chapters to understand the direction of my own story.

The drawing part is an essential part of self-reflection, to try to understand what it is that I want out of the story. The answer has always been there in my heart, but I'm not able to see it clearly from the get-go.

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

I end up breaking scenes and put them in for future episodes, since I want to get a certain flow in the story.

It could be tricky to see what it is you want out of the story until you are in at least 3 chapters in?

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I needed way more than 3 chapters -- though granted, my chapters are short, so that could be a part of it

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

I see the early first script as testing the water. like a test to figure out the characters personalities. Unless you are bringing in old characters which you knew before?(edited)

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Even if the characters have been with you for a while, unless I have made a comic with them, there is a big chance that the characters will completely change, too.

DanitheCarutor

You know, I was thinking about about this, mostly about how I wouldn't have been happy if I was able to finish my comic the day I started. Then I realized I'm happy that I didn't. The first chapter wasn't the best, I was just learning how to coloring a comic, still fleshing out my characters and was still brainstorming small kinks in the story. I also still didn't have as much of an understanding of perspective, or panel and bubble layout. Even though I still have a lot I need to work on, I've gotten a lot better in all those aspects. Even though my use of color is weird, I've definitely gotten much more confident in it, enough so that I experiment and take a lot more risks with style. Even though my panelling can be boring, I have a much better understanding of how I want a page to look. I've improved a lot with my planning as well, like even though my thumbnailing/storyboarding only takes maybe 30, I've learned to step away for a bit if I don't like a layout, or analyzing why I don't like it and brainstorming ways to make it better. If I had magically finished the comic all at once, it would look really bad and may have been less readable.

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

That is inspiring to hear about your improvement @DanitheCarutor

Natsu-no-Hikari

Chiming in! Just this week, Miko (my co-creator) and I were discussing how far we've come from when we started our first comic (https://liarsgotoparadise.com/) vs. where we are now. I think there have been a lot of learn experiences, such as art, dialogue, general editing - but especially with pacing and character interaction. We regret that we didn't stop to focus more on that interaction, as we wanted to move ahead in the story...and now we can't change that, except to start now and not allow ourselves to grow impatient. Take our time and enjoy the journey - that's our new motto. There's a time to rush ahead in perilous moments, but there's also definitely a time to catch our breaths and let the characters mingle and speak. It's an improvement that will become more noticeable going forward in Liars and our second comic as well.

#ctarchive #comic #webcomics #indie comics #comic chat #comic discussion #creator interview #comic creator interview #creator babble #comic tea party #ctp

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spootiliousrps · 5 years

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Its in the Stars (Ineffable Husbands)

Stranger: [3:30am:] Coming over. C I have a gift. C

You: Of course you are more than welcome, dear. However, considering the time, wouldn't it be better if you stopped by in the morning? A

Stranger: No. C Needs to be now. C You're not busy, are you? C

You: Not with anything of importance. A Is everything alright? A

Stranger: Do you have company? C

You: No. A

Stranger: OK. C I'm fine. C

Stranger: I'll be over soon. C

You: Very well. I'll put the kettle on. A

Stranger: No need. I have Starbucks. C

You: Oh. Lovely! A

Stranger: I got your regular. C

You: Thank you. That was very thoughtful. A

Stranger: No compliments. C On my way. C

You: I will see you shortly. a

You: A

Stranger: Good. C

You: [paras?]

Stranger: [Sure! I could start?]

You: [yes, please.]

Stranger: It didn't take Crowley long to pull up outside Aziraphale's bookshop, suggesting he was already on his way when he texted the angel. Not even bothering to knock, he took his 'gift' and the Starbucks from the passengers seat, heading into the building, going into the backroom. "Starbucks. And, uh, I found this... the other day. Thought you might like it," he said, holding out what was clearly a book of some kind wrapped in brown paper. "It's a first edition, so I thought that'd be something you'd enjoy. And it's an apology gift for showing up at 3:45 in the morning."

You: Aziraphale straightened from where he was setting down a small tray of tea cakes as Crowley entered, gaze turning towards the Demon. He hesitated as the book was held out, the words taking a moment to sink in before he brightened. The Angel was practically beaming as he rushed to take the book, the drink Crowley brought him all but forgotten. "A book, how lovely!" He commented already beginning to unwrap it in his excitement. He always did enjoy adding another one to his collection. Each one was near and dear to his heart, he could even list them in chronological and alphabetical order if asked, without missing a single title.

Stranger: Crowley was never good at presents, finding things by himself was a struggle, especially Aziraphale, who liked books. It was difficult to find books when you could barely read the titles and didn't know which ones were good. So, Crowley had enlisted the help of a bookshop owner in another part of London who had their own collection of first editions. They had gone through some suggestions after Crowley had gone in with the line 'I'm looking for a gift for my angel,' and the man had assumed that that meant partner. Eventually, they came across a first edition Moby Dick and the title struck a cord with the demon, it sounding vaguely familiar. So, he'd purchased it. "If you already have it, I can take it back. Or you could sell it... It's up to you, angel. Coffee?"

You: Aziraphale moved to sink down into his large reading chair. "Just set it on the table, if you would, dear." He replied giving a wave in the direction of the coffee table, gaze glued on the book. It so happened that Aziraphale did in fact have a copy of a first edition 'White Whale' in his collection. It had come in in fairly poor condition but the Angel may have preformed a few small miracles to ensure it would survive for years to come. This however... This was far more special than any 1st edition the Angel could have acquired himself. This was from /Crowley/. He wondered how long the Demon had thought about the gift or if he had simply passed by it and thought of the Angel. Either way, it was more precious than anything else in Aziraphale's collection. A smile split his features as he carefully opened the pages a hand caressing the pages. "It is beautiful, Crowley. Thank you so much. I adore it." He breathed softly, obviously still awestruck by the faded and torn paper. "Where did you find it?" He asked curiously.

Stranger: Placing the coffee onto the table, the demon sat down and cleared his throat, thinking back. Four hours spent sitting in a damp bookshop while a man called titles out to him, Crowley not feeling like any of them would be the one he was looking for. Not that he had a specific idea about what book he wanted to get Aziraphale, but he felt like he would know the right one when they got there. Instinct. Watching the angel caress the pages in such away that it looked like Aziraphale was holding the most important thing in the world made him nervously bite his lip as he waited for the verdict. And then finally, the words came. 'Beautiful'. The breathlessness in his voice was what caught Crowley's attention the most, his /physical/ reaction to the novel. "Oh, just wondering around. It caught my eye," he lied smoothly, taking a sip of his coffee, watching outside, the stars taunting him. He used to be so close to them, used to touch them and adjust them and now he was so far away, banished from the realm of stars and plants and moons and... Heaven. The feeling of loss hit him like a tidal wave. "So you like it then?"

You: Like it? Aziraphale's soft smile was evidence enough as he lifted his gaze to meet the Demon's. "I love it Crowley." He reassured, taking in the slender man's silhouette against the dim light outside. Crowley look... almost lonely. Still, his stark red hair and yellow gaze seemed just as beautiful as ever as Aziraphale set the book aside carefully. "It is perfect." He added before standing. "But hardly important enough to make a surprise visit so late. What is going on, dear?" He asked moving over to stand next to the Demon, peering out into the night.

Stranger: He seemed to come back to himself as the angel fell into place beside him, turning his head to look at him, just for a moment before turning his head back to the window, up towards the stars and everything he was missing. A forced cough as he cleared his throat and he shrugged, shaking his head. "nothing. Nothing's going on, everything's fine. Exactly as it was yesterday and the day before and the day before that... And every day before that for over six thousand years," he murmured, eyes flickering between the stars, following the glimpses of red in his vision. "Everything is... perfect," he forced out, finally. The empty feeling settled in Crowley's stomach like it did almost every day for the past couple millenniums. Emptiness and loneliness and guilt that he kept locked away tight in a box and shoved it to the back of his being. Demons didn't feel lonely. Demon's don't feel guilt. Except Crowley.

You: Aziraphale pursed his lips at the reply before following Crowley's gaze upwards and taking in the stars. He allowed silence to fall between them for a little while, simply basking in the beauty of the night sky, barely visible through the lights of the street. He gave his own small cough and suddenly everything wen dark for a few miles. Of course the power outage was localized and nothing bad would come of it, miraculously but it was enough to make the sky crystal clear. Every star was visible. He gave Crowley a sideways glance, gauging his reaction. He knew they were his work before the fall. It was one of the reasons the Angel chose to live in Soho. It was the perfect stage to admire his work. "Stunning." He mumbled softly, gaze returning to the sky. "A true piece of Art."

Stranger: The breath Crowley let out was shaky, blinking to stop a tear that threatened to fall down his face. Don't you fucking dare. He couldn't- Hell, he /wouldn't/ give them the satisfaction. It was the perfect punishment from Her. Fall. Spend thousands of years looking at your work in the sky and know you will never be able to touch it again. His jaw clenched and then twitched as he began to grind his teeth together. Fall and every night you will be reminded that you Fell. See the stars and know you will never be an angel again. Know that I will never forgive you. Aziraphale's side glance earned him a viewing of Crowley with a clenched jaw, his eyes glazed over, lingering on the specs of light in the dark sky. "Hardly," he finally muttered, turning away and walking over to the bottle of whiskey that he'd left here a long time ago, removing the lid of his Starbucks and pouring a generous amount of the amber liquid into the steaming coffee cup, his back now to the window.

You: Aziraphale's heart sank a bit at that but he didn't move to follow, knowing Crowley probably wouldn't appreciate it. Instead, he moved to step closer to the window peering out. "I think so." He admitted softly. "I think that it is the second most beautiful thing I've every laid eyes on." He admitted, his tone soft but pleasant. "It reminds me of Heaven and all of the Angels I use to know up there." He admitted. "It reminds me of when I got to see the great Raphael shape them individually. It reminds me of the Garden..." He paused; He knew who Crowley use to be but he wasn't sure if the Demon knew that he did. "Do you remember how clear the sky was back then? You could see every nebula." He hummed, a fond smile playing on his lips. "It reminds me of you." He admitted. "It reminds me that I'm not alone down here... That I have more now than I ever could have hoped for in Heaven. It, to me at least, is happiness because all I can think about when I look up at them... is you." He explained.

Stranger: It was the name that hit him like someone slammed a car into him. He rested a hand on the table and hung his head for a moment, trying not to give off too much of a reaction. He wasn't supposed to remember. He made it a personal rule of his own, that he would never tell Aziraphale who he used to be, what his old name was. Crowley remembered white wings and the sound of his name on the Almighty's tongue, remembered the fondness She'd held for him. Although that was all gone now. That had been what was weighing on his mind that night, the memory of his Fall, the flames that engulfed him, burning him up so he could be Reborn. Raphael. He hadn't heard that name in a long, long time. "Didn't realise you saw that. Besides," he murmured, rising to a stand once more and taking a large gulp of the whiskey doused coffee. "I remember exactly how clear it was. I remember everything. The first rainstorm, the feeling of your feathers as they brushed my skin. I remember the stars and the sky and every nebula. Every galaxy." The words made him gulp once more as he turned back to Aziraphale, bringing a hand to wipe his face, wiping the few tears that fell. "You think about me?"

You: Crowley's pain broke Aziraphale's heart but there was very little to do about it. He could only attempt to comfort the Demon, to help him. The Angel glanced back at him and offered another genuine and fond smile. "Of course I do, dear. You're the most important thing in my existence." He pointed out as if it were nothing more than a fact. "How could I not. To be honest, most things remind me of you." He gave a small shrug.

Stranger: He stared for a moment. Not in the 'you've got two heads' kind of way, but the kind of stare where he just... slowly melted at the words, unable to believe those words just came out of the angel's mouth. Finally, he brought the cup to his lips and took a sip while dragging his eyes away. "What about books? Or the bookshop? Or... your first edition Oscar Wilde?" He asked, running his thumb along a couple spines of the books that were closest to him. "The stars were... Well, Raphael's work. Obviously. Why does that remind you of... me?"

You: "My books /are/ quite dear to me." He acknowledged, glancing about them. "Especially my first edition hardcover Oscar Wilde. But in the end they are books, Crowley." He offered, though it obviously pained him to say. "They're memories, moments in time. You, however are my closest and dearest friend. I would burn it all to the ground if I had to to save you. Though I certainly hope it will never come to that." He sighed, shifting from foot to foot, obviously not enjoying that particular subject. "As for the stars." His smile returned, a mix of amusement and care. "There are a number of reasons. Though I suppose its mostly because of the Garden and the late night discussions we've had on the roofs of buses or in museums over the years." He explained, leaving out the fact that he was aware of who Crowley had been. It was probably best if he didn't mention it, in case Crowley wasn't aware, though he doubted that was the case.

#Ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale/crowley #crowley/aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #omegle #rp #roleplay #Good Omens

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tinsley-goldsworth · 5 years

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with great power comes great responsibility (chapter 4)

summary: they have one shot to take down the shadow once and for all and ryan never thought he would have to fight this hard for a happy ending

read on ao3!

After the initial shock of the Shadow’s attempted shock wore off, everybody began getting situation. Ryan was surprised to find that Ned Fulmer and his wife, Ariel, were the ones who had found the office and they helped assign two people to an office room. Of course, Ryan was assigned to a room with Marielle and he didn’t take long to unpack his belongings before he and Marielle helped others get situated. Andrew was still having a hard time adjusting and Adam and Annie were still trying to help him feel better. The healer who had been keeping the building safe was Keith Habersberger, which was surprising as Ryan never knew that Keith had powers.

Keith had informed Ryan that only half of the Try Guys were in the safe-house because the Shadow got to Eugene and Zach before they could get a chance to leave to the safe-house. He and Ned weren’t the only ones who lost people who were dear to them; many other people in the safe house had azure auras from feeling despondent about their losses.

The office wasn’t the worst spot to be trapped in but it wasn’t the most ideal location either. There were plenty of bathrooms but there weren’t any showers because there was really no need for an office to have showers until you were forced to stay inside it for two days. There weren’t any beds, which meant everybody had to sleep on the floor, but Ned and Ariel had enough sleeping bags and blankets that each pair of people could share one of the two. There was only one kitchen available and the food supply was sparse, to say the least. On the bright side, they only had to bear with these uncomfortable conditions for forty-six more hours. But then again, facing the Shadow wasn’t much more desirable than staying in the safe-house.

Settling in took about an hour and there was another hour of people wandering around the office building with either the intent on exploring the place or numbly trying to walk off their negative feelings. After those first two hours, Ned and Ariel assembled a meeting to discuss a plan for when the safe-house was no longer safe and to establish a few rules. The meeting was held in a large meeting room and everybody stared at the blank whiteboard from the office chairs around the long table they sat in.

As Ariel and Ned explained the rules and a couple things they needed to know about the safe-house, the tension was now not in the silence or hushed whispers, but rather in people’s expressions. Ryan didn’t need to read people’s auras to tell that they were worried. Sara had her arms wrapped around Obi in a tight embrace and Shane looked exhausted. Even Marielle’s aura was starting to dull a bit as she looked unbelievably stressed.

After the couple in charge finished setting down ground rules, Jen stood up from her seat and Ryan, along with many other Buzzfeed employees in the room, was shocked. Out of all the people in the building, Jen seemed like the least likely to have her life put-together enough to handle the responsibility of explaining a plan as she had the reputation of being a messy, spontaneous disaster gay.

“Okay folks, listen up if you don’t want to die. Technically, as a seer, I’m not usually allowed to tell you these sorts of things because of complications with the future and stuff but-” Jen paused when she saw Adam raising his hand with a confused expression on his face. “Oh, right, I forgot about that.”

Jen took a moment to take out her contacts and revealed her golden eyes. Ryan wasn’t the only person who audibly gasped at her reveal as Jen had the most intense gold eyes Ryan had ever seen, which meant that she was an extremely powerful seer. Jen must’ve had a reason for hiding her being a seer but now was not the time to ask questions about her decisions. She clasped her hands together, a small smile still on her face. Even in the darkest times, Jen somehow always was the one to stay positive. “Now, as I was saying, I’m telling you all this because it’s important for you all to know about what we need to do in order to stop the Shadow from hurting more people.”

Jen proceeded to pick up a blue expo marker, taking off the cap, and began drawing on the whiteboard. “The plan is pretty simple and it should work as long as we make sure we don’t mess up. Only a few people are really needed in order to destroy the Shadow and all the other people have to do is distract it, which is another thing I have to explain, but that’s for later.”

As Jen spoke, she drew some stick figures on the board and when she stopped talking, she stepped away from the whiteboard and gestured to it. She had drawn a couple stick figures arranged in a circle and there was another circle of people around it. In the center of the two rings of stick figures was a dark ball of squiggles that was presumably the Shadow. Pointing at the whiteboard with the back of her marker, Jen turned towards everybody and explained the obvious, “This is the Shadow.”

She dragged her marker over to the inner circle of people and continued, “These are the people with superpowers who we need in order to destroy the Shadow. They will combine their powers and then send that as a blast to kill the Shadow. But they have to all be holding hands in order to combine their powers.”

Then, Jen moved the marker over to the outer circle of people. “After the distraction has been created, the people who have been busy with distracting can move out of the circle so they don’t disrupt the people with superpowers.”

“Now, back to the Shadow just targeting people with superpowers point I made a couple seconds ago,” Jen pushed the cap back onto the marker and as she talked, she animatedly gestured with it. “We can confuse the shadow by having pairs share powers. Long story short, pairs are pairs of people, usually with one person who has a superpower and the other without, and who you’re paired with is usually who you’re closest with. It’s sort of like a soulmate system but the pairings can be platonic. If you’re paired with somebody, it means that you were chosen to share powers with them.

“Anyway, nobody on this planet has figured out how to share superpowers but after realizing that pairs were an important part of this plan, a bunch of seers came together and tested ways to share powers. Ned and Ariel actually helped a lot with this so everybody give a short round of applause for this lovely couple, who both, by the way, are so wonderful for arranging all this for us.”

There was a short break of scattered claps and Jen paused for a moment to wait for the applause to die down before resuming her explanation. “It’s hard to explain how to share your powers but basically, you kind of just have to let your energy flow through you, like how they tell you to do so in yoga, while holding their hand. Let me demonstrate. Annie, do you mind standing up?”

Annie looked confused but she nodded, standing up and walking up next to Jen. Jen gently grabbed Annie’s hand gently and closed her eyes. While Annie’s aura had been a deep purple and Jen’s aura had been a lighter lilac purple, Annie’s aura shifted to a lilac purple and when she blinked, her eyes suddenly turned golden. Jen stepped away from Annie as Annie blinked in confusion, wiggling her fingers. “See, Annie seems like a seer but she doesn’t have all of my powers. The effects will wear off in an hour. Also, surprise, Annie and I got paired. You should be able to find your pairs pretty easily.”

“You still haven’t told us who’s in the inner circle yet,” Ariel reminded and Jen grinned as she twirled around to face the board. She seemed to be in thought for a moment before she turned back towards everybody.

“I believe the order is Ryan, Marielle, Sara, Adam, Keith, Ned, and me. That’s about it. The plan is pretty simple,” Jen leaned against the board and she seemed to be radiating confidence, even though her aura was still a lilac purple. Everybody, despite still being a little shell-shocked from the Shadow’s attack, seemed a little more at ease knowing there was a way to defeat the Shadow. However, Andrew was the only person who didn’t seem too excited about this plan as he leaned back in his chair with a frown on his face.

“This sounds so cheesy. It sounds like it was taken directly out of a movie,” Andrew complained and everybody turned towards him, not really surprised that he was stepping in to provide a cynical viewpoint. After all, he just watched his best friend die and probably didn’t really want the responsibility of helping people save the world.

“Do you have any other plans? Weapons don’t work on the Shadow. Oh, by the way, I’m Marielle. I’m also a seer,” Marielle smiled as people shifted their attention towards her. Most of them didn’t seem to know her but they seemed to agree that Jen’s plan was the most reasonable as after her remark was made, there were a few nods. Andrew slumped in his chair in defeat and Jen clasped her hands together again, hoping to ease the awkward tension.

“Great! We’re all on the same page! Now, we have forty-five hours to chill out, test our ability to share powers with our pairs, and enjoy life before we face the Shadow!”

The last few hours of the day consisted of people figuring out what pairs they were in and figuring out how sharing powers worked. As Jen mentioned, most pairs consisted of one person who had superpowers and one person who didn’t but in Ryan and Marielle’s case, they both had powers so they didn’t need to share.

When Jen was talking about pairs, a thought occurred to Ryan: the reason why Marielle’s aura was silver could be because she was paired with him. He didn’t feel the need to share this theory and decided that he could wait until he had the chance to ask her on a proper date.

Slowly, people drifted back to their rooms to sleep and while Ryan was used to staying up extremely late and only getting four hours of sleep, the events during that day were a lot to handle and he found himself more exhausted than usual. He quickly fell asleep next to Marielle under the blanket they shared and when he woke up the next morning, he found that Marielle was curled up next to him, her head gently nestled next to his shoulder.

For that reason, Ryan didn’t want to get up but he was fully awake and antsy, meaning that he definitely couldn’t fall back asleep again. He decided to carefully get up and head into the kitchen to make some coffee. The coffee machine, fortunately, was working so Ryan made one cup of coffee for himself and another cup for Marielle. By the time he returned to his room, Marielle was up and she was sitting on a chair, glancing out the window.

“Good morning. I made you some coffee.” Ryan handed Marielle a cup and she accepted it gratefully, smiling widely. He pulled up a chair and sat next to as they both stared out the window into the cloudy sky. The wind had stopped blowing so rigorously but there was still some wind kicking up loose pieces of debris on the road. The silence between the two was nice but Ryan broke it when his insistent curiosity got the best of him.

“Are you sure this plan is going to work?” Ryan tentatively asked and Marielle turned towards him, a look of surprise crossing her face.

“Yeah, why?” Marielle’s voice had an edge to it, as if she were tending up and waiting for something to happen. Slightly regretting asking the question, Ryan shrugged his shoulders and tried to brush off his remark.

“No reason. It’s just that, you know, it’s good to be sure.” Even though Ryan thought his reply was rather passive, Marielle didn’t seem to take it that way. Her grip on her cup of coffee tightened and she turned her golden eyes away from the window.

“Do you just not trust me and Jen? Or seers in general?” Marielle’s voice was starting to get louder as her anxiety began creeping its way into her thoughts and words. Her aura was tinting a slightly redder purple and her worry was starting to morph into anger. Having dealt with quick emotion changes, Ryan knew that this was just a natural response to the situation. The best way to handle any abrupt change in emotion was to stay honest.

“Mari, it’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m just scared that if it doesn’t work, people are going to get hurt. I’ve already lost Steven, I can’t afford to lose you.” Ryan didn’t mean to let the last part slip out and Marielle set her coffee on the windowsill so she could properly hug Ryan. They both hadn’t really talked much about how they had been feeling and as the silence settled as they hugged, they knew that they had each other to rely on.

Their intimate moment was broken by Shane, who knocked on their door and cheerily announced, “Breakfast is ready!”

Breakfast was slightly less gloomy than the meeting and everybody seemed to have a little more hope than the day before. The next day mainly consisted of people trying to relax and distract themselves from the Shadow by listening to music, walking around, etc. The day after, from the moment morning broke, tension was starting to bubble again as it was the day they would face the Shadow.

Breakfast was finished quickly and everybody began preparing with two hours left to spare until the protection spell wore off. Once the protection spell wore off, the Shadow would be immediately drawn to the building as there were a large number of people with superpowers in it so everybody had to be prepared. Nervous energy was piling up in the building as people asked Jen questions about the plan to clarify certain aspects and tried to mentally prepare for the battle. They only had one chance at taking down the Shadow and they couldn’t afford to fail.

Half an hour before the spell wore off, everybody began fusing their powers with their pairs. Ryan found that he had trouble reading auras after the powers were fused so he couldn’t tell how everybody was feeling but he still felt the general dread in the air. However, since fusing powers required holding hands, some people seemed a little more hopeful as they held their partners hand, not only to fuse powers, but also for comfort. It was nice to know that even during the darkest times, love and care could still provide some light.

Finally, the protection spell wore off and the wind began howling ferociously outside. Everybody shuffled outside, staring up into the ominously dark sky as they awaited the arrival of the Shadow. Sure enough, the Shadow came barreling towards the group of people gathered in front of the office building. As much as Ryan wanted to run away screaming, he stood his ground, gritting his teeth as he reminded himself that he needed to do this for Steven and everybody else who was gone.

Marielle must have noticed Ryan’s anxiety as she delicately intertwined their fingers together, even though they had no need to hold hands, and shuffled closer to him reassuringly. As the Shadow drew closer, Jen shouted over the sound of the wind ripping through the air, “Don’t forget the plan! Scatter! On the count of three.”

“One.” The Shadow was leaving behind a trail of debris and rooftop shingles were flying everywhere. It looked more enraged than it had been before, somehow emoting pure rage in nits formless tornado-like body.

“Two.” Ryan’s heart was about to explode. He had never felt his heart beat so fast before, not even when he was locked in a musty, dark room for ten minutes straight talking to ghosts and demons. Marielle squeezed his hand reassuringly and that simple gesture provided some strength. He stood up a little straighter and took a deep breath as the Shadow continued to get closer.

“Three!” The Shadow was only a few buildings away and was roaring with the fury of thunder and the power of earthquakes. Everybody scattered and Marielle let go of Ryan’s hand, joining the fray. Ryan didn’t know who was who but he brushed past people as he focused on trying to confuse the Shadow.

The Shadow paused as it hovered over the mass of people scrambling around, too confused by all the fake superpowers and having trouble distinguishing which souls were the ones that actually contained powers. Ryan noted that the people who were in charge of distracting were starting to move towards the outskirts of the clump and he took it as a sign that the people in the inner circle were starting to form the circle. He grabbed onto Marielle’s hand and also managed to find his way to Jen. The people in the outer circle left the clump and by the time the Shadow realized what had just happened, the people with superpowers were already in a circle with their hands connected.

Ryan closed his eyes and tried to allow the energy to flow through him just as Jen had instructed. He found that he could feel the powers of others pulsing through his fingertips and when he opened his eyes, his feet were floating off the ground. There was a strange but intense blue aura around everybody in the circle and as people began opening their eyes, they all were shocked by the fact that they were floating.

“Woah, is this a Guardians of the Galaxy moment?” Even though they were in the middle of trying to defeat the Shadow, Ryan couldn’t help but make a movie reference. He couldn’t wait to tell his brother that he got to levitate in the air while holding hands with other people with superpowers. From across the circle, Keith laughed at his reference and Ryan broke into a smile.

The Shadow was trying to rip the souls of the people in the circle out but their souls were secured in their bodies. Jen seemed to be concentrating on controlling the flow of energy and Ryan could feel the energy starting to build up. Her golden eyes opened and with a determined expression, she snarled at the Shadow, “This one’s for killing Steven.”

With those final words, the energy finally built up to its maximum power and there was a loud blast of blue. The blast was so powerful it caused Ryan to lose his grip and he flew backwards, skidding against the pavement. Dust had kicked up and Ryan coughed as he stood up, brushing off the dirt on his hands. The sky was slowly brightening and the looming clouds began parting quickly, like a wave receding back into the ocean.

Fortunately, Shadow was nowhere to be seen and Ryan saw that Marielle was standing up as well and rushed over to check in on her. She was coughing and waving away the dust from her face as Ryan hurried over to her. “Are you okay?”

“Never been better. How are you?” Marielle asked as she stood up straighter, her golden eyes blazing with triumph and her lips starting to form a grin. Her curls were out of place but Ryan could not stress the fact that no matter how messy her hair was or how tired she looked, Marielle was always going to be the most beautiful girl on the entire planet.

“You still look so beautiful even though we just killed the Shadow,” Ryan remarked breathless as he lightly placed a hand on Marielle’s face and Marielle smiled even wider. She took a step closer to him and maintained the perfect amount of eye contact.

“We just killed the Shadow and that’s the first thing you say?” Marielle raised a joking judgmental eyebrow and Ryan tried to form a proper sentence as he kind of had trouble thinking with Marielle’s face being this close to his. Luckily, he didn’t have to say anything as before he could speak, Marielle closed the gap between their lips.

It had been ages since Ryan kissed anybody so the first few seconds of the kiss mostly consisted of his brain forming key-board smash thoughts. Then, he managed to reciprocate the kiss and gently placed another hand on the side of Marielle’s neck as they continued to kiss. They didn’t stop kissing until they heard Shane clapping and they both blushed as other people joined him.

Ryan was sure that he was going to die of embarrassment but before he could melt into a puddle of distress, Marielle pulled him into another kiss and the world seemed to fall away, leaving them two to celebrate their victory.

After the Shadow disappeared, everybody struggled to return life back to the way it was. Projects were created to help support families who lost their homes to the Shadow and Ryan and Marielle settled down together. It took them an embarrassingly long time to admit their feelings but it was worth it. News reporters and scientists were stunned alike at how quickly the Shadow disappeared and nobody seemed to have witnessed the blast other than the people who were in it so the Shadow just seemed to disappear without any rhyme or reason.

Most of the damage was fixed with money from governments who felt guilty about not stopping the riots but the deaths caused by the Shadow couldn’t ever be fixed. There were fewer people with superpowers now and Ryan missed being able to share a knowing smile with empaths he encountered on a daily basis.

Then, a few weeks after the Shadow disappeared, people who had their souls taken were suddenly coming back to life. They woke up confused and everybody began to search for lost people who came back to life. The moment Andrew heard this news, he immediately left work and drove to the office building, where Steven’s body had been placed in and surely enough, Steven had come back to life.

Now that everything had been restored, all that was left was for the world to learn its lesson about hate and how it literally tore the world apart. It would take the world a long time to fully accept this lesson but for now, Ryan didn’t want to worry about the future so he could some time with Marielle.

that’s the end of this fic! thank u for reading and supporting my work! check out my bfu fics on the page on my blog :D

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kirigaya-art · 5 years

Text

First Time

I deliberated a lot with myself before posting this. The death of an animal is a key event but is not described. Please be careful.

***

Simon

“Baz?” I asked.

He looked up, startled. It was rare to catch him off-guard, so I took a moment to appreciate his raised eyebrows (both of them for once) and the small “o” of his mouth.

He recovered quickly. “Were you going to ask me something, Snow?”

I grinned. Some part of me liked hearing him call me by my last name. Sure, it was strange for a boyfriend, but it made it feel like more than snogging. Like our old bickering with a pleasant twist.

“Whatcha reading?” I asked, pointing to the book in his hands.

He glanced down at it, and a bit of colour reached his face (which was as rare as surprising him. Maybe the two events were correlated). He turned the book so I could read its title.

Vampiric Tendencies.

“Is that the one Nico gave you?” I asked.

He pursed his lips and nodded.

I smiled. He was still so quiet about it, even though Penny and I knew. After years of hiding it, I wasn't really surprised. Still, I hoped getting a little more information on it all would make him less closed off. (I always found it helpful to have things explained logically to me in therapy, step-by-step. It helped me work through things more easily.)

“Mind if I read over your shoulder?”

He paused, looking down at the book. Back up to me. He shifted his body so his back was facing me, propping his legs up on the stretch of the futon, and rested his head on my shoulder. I giggled and put a hand on his hip, leaning forward to read.

Chapter 1: Turning

“Oh!” I said, surprised. “You just started?”

He nodded again.

“I thought you got this a week ago.”

He cleared his throat. “I guess I was scared to start.”

I squeezed his waist, and he laughed. It sounded a bit forced, but I didn't push him.

Chapter 1: Turning

Before a vampire is a vampire, they must be Turned. The process is painful and can be traumatizing for the victim, literally killing and reanimating them. The Turning can only be achieved through an existing vampire's bite with extended fangs. There must be enough venom to travel to the victim's heart. If the vampire attempts to drain the victim, thereby drinking their own venom-- which is harmless to already-Turned vampires-- the victim will be unaffected.

As we kept reading, I couldn't imagine Baz going through the painful processes described, especially at only four or five years old. It only gave me more reason to respect him.

Every few minutes, Baz glanced back at me to check if I was ready for him to turn the page. It took me about half a second more than him, but he waited patiently. If we had still been in school, he would have made me cry with his teasing already.

Eventually, he turned the page to reveal Chapter 2: Awakening.

“Do you want to take a break?” I asked.

“No, it's alright,” he murmured. “I'm not tired.”

I played with the belt loops on his trousers as I read.

Chapter 2: Awakening

Once a vampire is Turned, their new instincts and abilities will manifest. If the victim was Turned before puberty, they won't awaken until then. If the victim is older, they will awaken immediately on gaining consciousness from the Turning.

“Puberty?” I asked, breaking the silence.

Baz hummed in agreement. “I figured it was something like that. An age or maturity rule.”

I grinned teasingly. “Don't tell me. You noticed your first chest hair and a second later your fangs popped.”

I expected him to blush or argue with me. He ducked his head, looking a bit paler than usual. “Something like that.”

My smile fell. “I was just joking.”

He worried his lip between his teeth thoughtfully.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” I asked hesitantly.

He sighed and closed the book on his thumb so he wouldn’t lose his page.

Baz

I would never forget that day. In some ways, it messed me up more than being Turned-- at least I couldn't remember being bitten very clearly, since I was so young. But this…

I was fourteen. It was the summer after fourth year, and I was on top of the world. Snow was even more of a moron that year, somehow, and sometimes I even forgot how crushing it was to love him.

That morning-- June 8th, bright and golden and the epitome of summer-- I woke feeling refreshed. I sauntered to my wardrobe, in no hurry to pick something out. I had nothing to do, no chores or homework or Snow to annoy me. So I took my time. I eventually decided on a nice dress shirt, button-down and clean white. It breathed easily and went well with practically any pair of trousers, so I indulged myself.

I lounged about my room for a few minutes, reminding myself that it was, in fact, my room-- all mine, no whinging about “your side” and “my side.” I practiced a few spells I'd been studying that week, successfully changing the patterns of my bed curtains several times. I considered leaving them rainbow-striped, but I thought that was pushing it. I settled on plaid and waited for my father to throw a hissy fit when he saw how badly it clashed with the Victorian era decor in the rest of the room.

I could smell breakfast, so I stepped into the dining hall. My father was sitting at the head of the table. He was dressed as poshly as ever, even though I knew he didn't have anyone to see or anywhere to be. No one else was in the room. Daphne must not have been awake yet, and if Daphne wasn't awake then magic knows Mordelia wasn’t awake either.

I walked up to the table, standing directly across from my father. I adjusted the cuffs on my sleeves, just barely quirked my lip up in a faux smile, and said, “Hullo.”

My voice cracked.

Neither of us spoke, the awful sound of it hanging in our ears as we stared at each other, red in the face. Or rather, he was red in the face-- I suddenly couldn't muster a blush. Either way, my eyes were quite wide.

“Um.” Somehow, it was less awkward before I'd spoken. “I-- I'm sorry.” Crowley, it wasn't like me to stammer. “That is--”

My teeth exploded. Because the universe hates me.

He gaped, his expression a mix between horror and fear.

I wasn't sure what to do at first, one hand clapped clumsily over my lips to try and hide the new knives fighting their way free. I nearly opened my mouth to say something else, but considering how well it had gone for me the past two times, I just clamped my jaw shut, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. Finally, I turned and ran from the room.

The moment the door closed behind me, a weight I hadn't noticed lifted from my shoulders, and I realised I'd been holding my breath. For a millisecond, I was confused as to why, but something in my stomach rumbled to life, and I was nearly sick-- not that anything would have come up, since I hadn't eaten breakfast.

My stomach was happy to let me know that breakfast wasn't the only thing I could have sunk my teeth into.

I dropped my hand from my mouth, clutching the front of my shirt. The hunger was more than just hunger. It was like I was being destroyed from the inside out, like if I didn't give in and eat something, I'd be devoured instead. The heat of it licked at my insides, and for a moment I panicked that I'd be burned alive, crumbling to ashy remains from starvation alone.

“Basil leaf?”

I looked up and met Mordelia's questioning gaze. My stomach rumbled again. I turned the other way and ran.

I skidded down the halls of the mansion, searching desperately for an exit as far from the bedrooms as possible. Finally, I spotted a set of doors at the end of the East wing. I threw myself down the hall, practically flying through the air. Please make it. Please make it.

I flung the doors open, and the left one made a horrible crunching noise-- it was later replaced after becoming stuck several times. I nearly tripped coming down the steps, and caught myself on the guardrail before slamming the doors behind me. Now that I was outside, I couldn’t hold back my tears anymore, and they were hot on my freezing skin.

I ran out into the forest. I’d never done it before, but I didn’t have time to stop and think. I pushed past shrubbery and branches, stampeding through the immense space. Under the canopy, everything took on a green hue.

After a few minutes, I slowed to a jog, panting. I glanced around and found a few pairs of eyes looking back. The animals must have been scared off by my frantic stampeding about, but now that I was slower and quieter they started to poke out their heads from trees and tall grass. I was surprised at just how many creatures lived there-- deer, rabbits, squirrels, seemingly dozens of types of birds. They watched as I moved towards a small clearing ahead, but stayed at a significant distance.

I stepped out into the clearing and wiped a few tears from my chin before they fell. The sun was at just the right angle to blind me, and I squawked, throwing a hand up. I started crying harder, ducking my head.

It was then that I finally let myself think about what was really happening. Here I was, out in the woods around my house, with a mouth full of fangs. I wasn’t sure why they’d come out, or why now, or how they would go back to normal. My heart skipped a beat-- what if they never did go back to normal? Surely vampires-- because that was what I was, a vampire, a monster-- didn’t always go about with their fangs out. But really, that was the issue, wasn’t it? I didn’t know what the fuck I was meant to be doing.

I fell to my knees, squeezing my eyes shut. What if I couldn’t figure this out? What if I could never go home, because I’d be so overtaken by hunger that just seeing a human would make me lose it? What if I really did kill someone?

Something brushed against my knee, and I jumped, eyes flying open. A small white rabbit sat in front of me, its fluffy cheek pressed to my tear-soaked trousers. I cracked a smile, hiccuping as I leaned down to pet it. I hesitated before slipping my hands under it, gently lifting it. It didn’t struggle or hop away, just waited patiently as I raised it to chest level.

The rabbit seemed sent by Merlin himself-- a little companion to sit with me when I felt most alone. Its fur was soft on my rough palms, and it was so quiet and calm, and it fit perfectly in my hands, and it tasted so sweet--

I froze mid-swallow.

Part of me-- a large part of me-- wanted to scream and cry and throw the poor thing straight across the clearing, to get it as far away from me as possible. But I recognised that if I did that, I’d have killed in vain. As awful as it felt to continue, I wasn’t going to waste its sacrifice, not when it had come up to me so willingly. Not when I’d already committed the worst possible crime.

It took me nearly an hour to recover after I’d finished, sobbing to myself. I stood with shaking legs and turned myself around. I had no idea where I was, since I’d never been into the forest before, but I would be sick if I stayed there any longer, so I walked in the direction that seemed right. After another half an hour, I stumbled up to the East wing doors.

I was a lot more sluggish now, not throwing open the doors but gently pushing them and peeking through the gap first. I had to fight a bit with the left door.

I lurched down the halls, unsure where exactly I was expecting to go. I supposed I didn’t need to go back and eat breakfast, though I wasn’t sure if that was true or not. Either way, I’d lost my appetite. The best thing, for now, seemed to be heading back to my bedroom. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. And a shower wouldn’t hurt. I sighed, reaching for the doorknob.

“Basilton.”

I turned to face him on instinct and immediately regretted it when I saw my father’s expression contort.

“Your shirt.”

I looked down and had to stop myself from retching. My shirt wasn’t drenched per se, but I’d made a mess. The blood seemed even darker against the white fabric. It was generally splattered across, but there were also two clear lines down the front. I was confused at first, then reached up and swiped at one of the corners of my mouth with the back of a hand.

“Oh,” I whispered. I looked up again and met his eyes.

He stared me down for several seconds. Then he turned his head, unable to keep looking.

I waited for him to call me a murderer, or ask if it had been human, or kick me out of the house, or set me aflame.

“Wash up before dinner.”

Simon

I gaped, mouth hanging open. He wouldn’t look at me, still staring at the book’s cover. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to say something. Really, what was there to say? I’m sorry? But it wasn’t my fault. That’s awful? He knew that already.

“Thank you,” I decided.

He started a bit, looking back at me for the first time since he’d started recounting the story. “Thank you?”

“Thank you for… trusting me enough to talk about something so personal.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Thank you for listening.”

I smiled, despite everything I’d just heard. “I’m always here for you, love. You know that, don’t you?”

He sat up, turning to face me. He leaned close and pressed a chaste kiss to my lips. “You mean it?”

“Of course,” I whispered. “I love you. No matter what.”

His smile was pained. “Even if I’m a monster?”

“You’re not a monster.” I took his hands in my own. “You’re just a boy.”

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bytheangell · 5 years

Text

This is the Coda that Never Ends... Part 6

Read on AO3 Read from the start

Luke never stopped looking out for Clary. She’s practically his daughter in all but name and he remembers that feeling of whiplash going from listening to Maryse tell him that Clary supports the two of them being together (the idea that Clary would welcome Maryse into the little family they created for themselves after Jocelyn’s passing one of the reasons he’s positive taking a chance with Maryse was a good call) to the sudden news later on that Clary’s knowledge of the Shadow World is gone. It was the highest high to the lowest of lows, the heartbreak he felt (and still feels) over the realization that he couldn’t keep in contact with her, not the way he wanted to, without putting her in jeopardy so strong he debates leaving it all behind just to stay with her. He'd give it all up - the life as a Shadowhunter, as a human, he only just regained - for her sake if it came down to it, but even that was deemed too much of a risk.

Keeping watch at a distance this last year is probably the most difficult thing he’s ever had to do.

But he never stopped watching. And neither did Maryse, who’s the one who often goes to Clary’s shows and offers words of praise and encouragement in person. Clary and Maryse hadn’t been particularly close which makes her the perfect person to actually be there from time to time. Mundane. No strong personal history. She can be present without being noticed and is unlikely to stir up any strong memories or feelings in Clary, so it makes him feel better to know she can say a few of the things he wishes he could say himself; to be there when he can’t be.

So when Maryse goes to Clary’s exhibit and sees the artwork, quickly catching on to how much of it is reflective of moments and places Clary once knew from the Shadow World, she tells Luke immediately. He knows something's up when she arrives home and doesn't so much as say hello or stop to take her heels off, and entirely bypasses his lean-in for a kiss. When Maryse has something on her mind she develops a singular sort of focus that he's always loved and admired about her.

“I’d know that image anywhere, Lucian, abstract or not.” Maryse says with finality, showing him the photos she took on her phone. “That’s Alec and Magnus’ wedding. And this one-” she scrolls. “I’m positive that’s the stained glass at the Institute-” another swipe of her finger, “-and you can just make out the shape of runes in the patterns of those background swirls in this one.”

“This is how it happened just before she turned 18, too. Her memories came through her art and she had no idea they meant anything other than things she dreamed up to draw.” He frowns. “I didn’t talk to her before it was too late the last time. I can’t make that same mistake twice.”

Even as he says the words, he hesitates.

There was never any formal rule banning them from having contact with Clary. The Clave, however, made it very clear that it would be highly advisable not to go against the will of the Angels. The caution to keep their distance isn’t just for their own sakes, but for Clary’s who is more likely to have her memories resurface if they’re all around. The Angels could’ve simply de-runed her, but instead they took her sight - and her memories of this life - presumably for a reason. The Angels clearly do not want Clary to be part of this world in any capacity, even by association. They all talked about it at length... It wasn’t an easy agreement to come to; in fact, the discussion became so heated at points that Luke wasn’t sure they would all come out of in on speaking terms.

But in the end they had, even if it took some of them the better part of this last year to adjust to life without her. Even if some of them, like Luke, are still adjusting and likely always will be… unless what Maryse says is right, and Clary’s remembering on her own again.

“She’ come looking for me if she was…” Luke says, trying not to sound too hopeful. “If Clary started to remember I should be one of the first people she’d seek out.”

“Would she be able to find you?” Maryse points out, and his stomach drops. He isn’t with the police anymore and he moved in with Maryse a few months back. The Jade Wolf is closed down and there’s nothing tying him to his old life left to turn to.

“She’d go to the station,” he realizes. “I’ll have to check in there, see if she’s been by. I think I still have a contact or two there I can utilise.”

Luke wants to go see her but the exhibition is already over and it’s late. He can’t go sneaking around the art school’s campus in the dead of night without raising suspicion, and while he’s certainly tempted to give it a shot anyway he’s able to be rational enough about all of this to know that’s a bad idea.

They shelve the conversation for the remainder of the night, deciding to bring it up to Isabelle tomorrow. Maybe. If they decide to bring it up to anyone at all. He has a meeting with Isabelle at the Institute the next afternoon so it’d be easy enough, but he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of this if it ends up being nothing. He also isn’t sure he wants Isabelle to know if it isn’t nothing - she’s the Head of the Institute, and that comes with certain obligations… like reporting something like this to the Clave. He doesn’t think that’s the sort of person that Isabelle is, but one can never tell how these sorts of positions can change people and she hasn’t been there long enough for him to be certain this wouldn’t reach the wrong set of ears.

So the next morning Luke decides to check in on Clary himself before heading off to his meetings later in the day. He knows it’s a risk but he’s a professional. He’s trailed trained criminals before, surely he can stay out of sight of a teenage girl for an hour or two.

She’s sketching in the corner of Java Jones, which isn’t surprising, when he tracks her down. What is surprising is who else he finds there. Luke doesn’t see the warlock at first - his glamour is strong, even against other Downworlders with the sight - but Magnus drops the glamour while simultaneously grabbing Luke by the arm and pulling him out of the shop.

“What are you doing here?” They ask one another at the same time the moment they’re out on the sidewalk.

Luke doesn’t say a word, he only pulls up the photos that Maryse took the night before and watches the look on Magnus’ face turn from confused to a steadily deepening frown with each one he goes through.

“That’s my wedding-” Magnus says, almost in awe as much as in surprise. “This one is the Seelie Realm…” Magnus sucks in a sharp breath. “That’s Edom.”

“It’s all just beneath the surface. Maybe it’ll stay there, just enough to sense but not enough for her to actually remember?” Luke wonders out loud.

He almost hopes that’s the case because he doesn’t want Clary to come back into this life, this world, if it’s only to suffer for her past actions at the hands of the Angels. For all the good she did after coming into her powers, she suffered greatly for it. Luke loves her too much to selfishly wish that upon her again… it’s one of the reasons he agreed with the others to keep his distance in the end.

Which makes what Magnus tells him next extremely bittersweet.

“Well,” Magnus starts, deliberately slow. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone this, but since you’re pretty much on the exact same page we are…” Magnus stops again, considering his words carefully.

“What is it?” Luke asks, not entirely sure he wants to hear the answer. “What don’t I know?”

Magnus eyes luke one last time, almost as if he’s sizing him up. Luke tries not to take offense to the idea that Magnus doesn’t trust him implicitly, because he gets it. Politics and all that, secrets to keep, and not everyone can be ‘in the loop’... but this is different. This is Clary.

“Clary saw Jace through his glamour last night - she remembered his name. That’s why I’m here, just to check on her. I was supposed to see if it was just a one time thing, but if this isn’t the first part of her past that’s starting to push through…”

“Who else knows already?” Luke asks, immediately concerned that this is out of his control before he even gets the chance to help.

“More people than I’m comfortable with, honestly. But I was one of the last to know myself so I don’t really have room to talk. Jace told Simon, who told Isabelle, who told Alec, who told me. Oh, and Underhill knows, too.” Magnus pauses. “He better not go blabbing to Lorenzo or I swear I’ll--”

“Magnus, focus. Please.” Luke’s concern for Clary outweighs almost everything in his life, and this is potentially very serious.

“Sorry. That’s it. And now you… and Maryse, I suppose. I’m guessing there’s no way of convincing you to keep this from her, is there?”

Luke laughs. “I couldn’t if I tried. That woman reads me like she wrote the book these days. And if I don’t say something, you really think one of her kids won’t go to her soon enough?”

Magnus sighs, but smiles with a bit of fondness as he nods in agreement. “I get the feeling this isn’t the end of it, either. Especially if we all keep showing up around her like this. It’s too risky, we’re going to draw attention… myself included.”

“So what do you propose we do?” Luke demands. Magnus should know better than to think for a second that Luke will be willing to just walk away from this; he won’t walk away from Clary when there’s even the slightest chance she’ll need him.

“We back off again. Same as before. Watch from afar… that means no Jace sneaking around with his glamours, and no Maryse. Just until we get a better handle on where things stand,” Magnus suggests.

It makes sense, but that doesn’t mean Luke has to like it. “Alright,” he agrees with grudging reluctance. “But only if you promise to keep me updated if something happens this time.” “Of course,” Magnus starts, but falls silent after a look from Luke.

“Don’t ‘ of course ’ me, Magnus. If Maryse hadn't seen those painting you never would’ve told me about this, would you?”

Magnus at least has the decency to look guilty. “We would have, eventually. Apparently Alec and the others decided not to drag anyone else into this until they know exactly what this is. And I agreed.” It isn’t the answer Luke wants but he knows it’s the best he’s going to get.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Lucian, I believe I have some art to purchase. Give Maryse my best.” And with that Magnus turns and disappears around the corner.

Eager to get out of there before Clary can come out and see him Luke turns to leave as well, but in the opposite direction, heading towards Ouroboros.

#Luke Garroway #magnus bane #shadowhunters #maryse lightwood #clary fray #my little Monday Shadowhunters addition of the week because I misssss this showwwwwww #elle writes a few deadbeat lines

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toothpaste-dragon · 5 years

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After countless hours of writing and editing, I’m excited to finally share this!!

Far From Home is the title of a novel I'd like to write someday, but it's currently nothing more than a work in progress. “Nightmare,” the written piece under the cut, is an original post-story excerpt that explores the growing familial relationship between Baz and Toko, the story’s main characters.

I worked hard to create something memorable and poured my heart into these characters, so I hope you enjoy it! Expect some lighthearted moments, angst, and fluff.

Genre: Science Fiction

Words: 5,731

For space travelers, there was no such thing as night and day. Overhead lights gave the illusion of daytime and shadowy corridors the illusion of night, but the dark, vast expanse of space provided no indication of passing time. In accordance with intergalactic vehicle regulations, most spaceships had a built-in light fluctuation system designed to protect passengers from various sleep disorders. The software itself was very reliable, with a mere handful of glitches reported annually. The only downside was that this day-night cycle exclusively conformed to the circadian rhythm of a single individual. To take advantage of this system, it was common knowledge that the passenger with the longest natural cycle should set the standard for the rest of the ship.

Baz found it surprisingly easy to adjust to a 28-hour cycle despite needing only two hours of sleep each night. Truthfully, this artificial nighttime had become something Baz genuinely looked forward to. Free of his two overly-chatty passengers, he could enjoy some alone time and appreciate the unfamiliar stillness of the ship, save for the constant hum beneath his clawed feet. He would sit in silence for hours filling out delivery confirmation forms, a requirement of his job as an intergalactic merchant. Once finished, Baz would leave the papers scattered on the dining table (Gerdie would surely clean them up in the morning) and shuffle to his sleeping quarters without a sound. Propping himself up against his bedframe, he would lazily drape blankets over his lower half before retrieving a book from the nightstand and indulging in one of his favorite pastimes. Reading.

Tonight was no different. With all the paperwork done, Baz’s snout was burrowed deep in The Battle for Kelekekelelu, a historical recount of a devastating war between the citizens and power-hungry leaders of the Zeta Quadrant. Survivors’ personal accounts filled the pages with gruesome scenarios described in full detail, such that the entire work was deemed unsuitable for public sale by government-regulated distribution services. Baz liked the book. His whole existence had been an uphill battle, so he found solace in stories of heartache and devastation, and it was easy for him to sympathize with the discouraged and oppressed. To know he was not the only being in the universe that had suffered great losses throughout their lifetime – it was comforting, in a weird sort of way. But it was also a sobering reminder that reality wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. Life was hard, people were cruel, pain was real. And there were no happy endings.

Baz was about to turn the page when a distant thump caught his attention. A faint pattering of feet followed soon after, gradually getting louder as the spaceship’s smallest passenger approached the captain’s open doorway. Baz sighed. No more alone time.

The pattering slowed to a stop in the narrow hallway, and all was quiet. When nobody appeared, Baz wondered if his visitor had reconsidered. Three soft knocks told him otherwise.

“Baz?” The cracked voice of a young girl broke the silence.

“What is it, Toko?” Baz asked, sounding a bit more accusatory than intended.

Baz looked up just in time to see a purple alien emerge from her hiding place behind the doorframe. Eyes downcast, the girl’s tear-stained cheeks glistened in the dim light. She was quivering uncontrollably and kept fiddling with the hem of her nightgown, releasing her grip only to wipe away fresh tears. The girl’s thin tail was wrapped tightly around her left leg, a telltale sign that she was frightened. Baz’s eyebrows shot up.

“Whoa, uh…are you okay?” Baz lowered the book and scratched his right horn uncomfortably, unsure how to approach such a delicate situation. “What’s wrong, kid?”

“I had a nightmare,” Toko sniffled, finally making eye contact. Somewhat guiltily, Baz tried to remember if Toko had described ‘nightmares’ in the past, but with no success. Translation devices could only do so much to bridge the gap between their languages. His furrowed brow prompted the girl to elaborate.

“On my home planet, nightmares are the darkest of dreams. They’re not very nice.” Her grip tightened on the nightgown. “This one wasn’t very nice…”

She lowered her gaze and stared blankly at her feet. A teardrop fell from her cheek, hitting the metal floor with a meager plop.

Baz hummed a reply and nodded thoughtfully. A few seconds passed. He glanced around his sleeping quarters and fidgeted with the book that looked incredibly tiny in his enormous hands. Well, this was awkward. He felt bad for the kid, but he didn’t know what to do. What he should do. Luckily, Toko spoke before he could say anything stupid.

“I was just wondering if, um…” Toko started, but she hesitated. Glancing up hopefully, she practically whispered, “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

It was this question that filled Baz with dread.

Toko knew the rules. She wasn’t allowed to sleep next to Baz for a number of reasons, the most prominent being their cultural differences. Members of Toko’s race, as Baz had learned, found comfort in proximity and platonic physical touch. It was normal for friends, relatives, and strangers of all kinds to give handshakes, hugs, and strange displays of affection called ‘kisses.’ To them, physical touch represented togetherness and familiarity. This closeness strengthened their fondness for one another.

Members of Baz’s race, on the other hand, valued their personal space and viewed physical touch as a deliberate act of aggression. Individuals kept to themselves, avoiding strangers and sometimes even relatives, though this practice was more frequent among males than females. A violation of personal space was never an accident; in such cases, males would battle for dominance and bloodshed was sure to follow. Any sign of vulnerability was a death sentence.

While Baz had essentially outgrown his own race’s hostile tendencies over the years, remnants remained. Togetherness still felt wrong. Closeness still made him uncomfortable. So when he looked into Toko’s swollen eyes and desperately wanted to make the bad memories fade away, he didn’t immediately open the invitation. But she was just a kid. And he was all she had. So maybe, for once…he could try.

Baz sighed and lifted the covers from the vacant side of the king-size mattress, turning to Toko with a look that wasn’t quite as menacing as usual. Even with tear-dampened cheeks, the girl’s face lit up immediately.

Bare feet padded across the floor to the large bed that easily dwarfed the alien child. Determined, she sprang up and clung to the fitted sheet in an attempt to scale the mattress, searching for a foothold in the process, but instead lost her grip and fell to the ground. She tried again, this time grasping for the bedsheet, and realized too late that the bedsheet had decided to come tumbling down with her.

Watching all of this occur, Baz rolled his eyes and dog-eared a page in his book, placing it on the nightstand to his right. He shifted his position on the bed and leaned over the edge of the mattress, offering a hand to the inexperienced mountaineer. She gladly took his hand and murmured a quiet “Thank you.”

Baz effortlessly hoisted Toko onto the bed, his massive hand engulfing her tiny paw, and gingerly set her down beside him. Once she was settled, he recovered the fallen bedsheet and spread it out across the mattress, using a large portion to cover his little guest. She promptly wrapped herself in the blanket until only her head was visible.

Baz was quick to distance himself from the girl, returning to his pillow and retrieving his book from the nightstand. To his relief, Toko stayed on the opposite side of the bed and snuggled deeper into her own pillow, silently welcoming sleep. He wondered if she understood the significance of her actions across their cultures. Either way, Baz was grateful she hadn’t moved any closer.

Ten soundless minutes passed. It was strange, sharing a peaceful moment with Toko. This will probably be the last, he mused. It wasn’t often she sat still for more than a short while.

Baz endured the girl’s endless bouts of energy and annoyingly unrealistic optimism every day. To tell the truth, it was extremely tiring. He might even compare it to a second job. But when she asked him to play pretend or read one of her favorite books or draw silly pictures, he complied (to a certain degree, of course). She still had that childlike wonder, oohing and ahhing at every new discovery. Something so pure – it was valuable in such a dark world. Baz grinned, remembering her week-long fascination with the garbage disposal.

The ship’s atmosphere had changed significantly since her arrival six months ago. Yes, he tolerated her, but lately Baz found himself smiling more often. Laughing, even. As frequently as he denied it, he cared deeply for the child. She was like family now.

He stole a glance at his visitor. Toko lay motionless, her back to him. She was miniscule amidst the colossal mattress. Baz exhaled a contented sigh.

She was a good kid.

Before he could return to his book, however, something caught his attention. Years of working as a smuggler had trained his eyes and ears to perceive the slightest of details, but even the most oblivious of onlookers would find it hard to ignore the sudden, sharp breaths coming from the tiny lump beneath his bedsheets.

Toko began to twitch, and the twitching quickly turned to trembling. The nightmare was still nipping at her heels.

Baz’s first instinct was to wake her, but he hesitated. Part of him really didn’t want to deal with a crying child twice in one night. Besides, comforting others wasn’t his area of expertise. With his harsh words and suck-it-up attitude, he’d probably do more harm than good.

In his mind, he was just there to listen and offer questionable advice. Thankfully, Toko was very open about her feelings, so he rarely had to initiate a conversation. It saved him a lot of unnecessary stress. Only this time, she was asleep. If something was to be done, he’d have to do it himself.

Baz returned his book to the nightstand and called Toko’s name softly. To his dismay, she didn’t respond and the trembling worsened. Steeling himself, he reached over and lightly tapped her on the shoulder, repeating her name. Toko woke with a gasp and whirled around reflexively, further entangling herself in blankets. She struggled desperately against the fabric.

“No!” she yelped. The nightmare had yet to release its hold, and she looked up at Baz with wet eyes. Her chest was heaving.

“It’s okay,” Baz assured, “it’s okay. It’s just me.” He extended a meaty hand, causing her to flinch, and freed the girl from her constricting cocoon of blankets.

She blinked. Toko seemed to realize she was back in Baz’s sleeping quarters. Breathing heavily, she choked back a sob and wiped her eyes, salty tears sticking to her fur.

“Baz, they…they locked me away again,” she sniveled. “I was all alone and I was so scared and they hurt me. And I kept calling your name, but–”

“It was just a dream,” Baz quickly interjected. He didn’t like where this was going. “It wasn’t real. You’re safe.”

They both knew the dream wasn’t real. But the memory wedged within the dream was very real.

Despite his attempt to console her, Toko started crying uncontrollably. She hiccupped after every few breaths, sniffling like a sick bloodhound. As much as he hated seeing her like this, Baz knew it was best to let her finish. Calming her would be easier if she could form coherent sentences.

Feeling quite foolish, Baz tentatively enveloped one of her long, rabbit-like ears in a giant hand, gently rubbing his fingers across the surface. To him, the gesture was unusual, but it always made her feel better. ‘Like mom used to do,’ she’d told him. Compared to his tough, leathery skin, her fur was soft and delicate.

After a few minutes, her breathing slowed to a steady pace. She rubbed her eyes, getting rid of any remaining tears, and leaned into Baz’s touch.

“I didn’t like that dream.”

Baz frowned. “I don’t blame you.”

Toko hugged herself tightly, little fingers tugging at the patterned fabric of her nightgown. She looked completely exhausted, but it seemed she was too scared to close her eyes. Her gaze was fixed on the open doorway, unblinking, as if something were to walk through at any moment. The bedsheet on her lap was covered in dried stains from tears and mucus.

Lovely. Baz made a mental note to wash the snot out of his blankets in the morning.

Studying Toko carefully, his face scrunched up in displeasure. He wanted to help her, but he didn’t know how. Big surprise, he grumbled. This feeling of helplessness was really getting to him. He was strong, cunning, independent – he was the captain of a spaceship for crying out loud. Clearly, Baz was capable of doing things that required a lot of skill. It was the girl that should be clueless, not him. And yet, whenever he tried to console her, he never got it right.

What was he doing wrong? Was there a secret technique or mathematical equation for this kind of thing? His train of thought derailed, and suddenly Baz had a revelation. If he didn’t know how to help Toko, maybe he could just ask. Was it really that easy?

He had a feeling he was going to regret this.

“Look kid,” he ventured, releasing her ear from his grip. “You’ve had a pretty rough night, and you need rest. Is there…anything I can do to help you sleep?”

Toko wore something that resembled a puzzled expression. Having never been asked such a question by her parental guardian, she sat in silent thought, relaxing a little. Baz started to get anxious when she didn’t respond immediately, nervous about the complexity of her request. Finally, she spoke.

“Can you tell me a story?”

Baz internally groaned.

Ever since Toko had joined the crew, it was all sugar-coated fairytales and happy endings. That’s exactly what any normal person would expect from a seven-year-old, for the record, but Baz seriously considered ejecting her storybooks into space on more than one occasion. Fairytales were the least realistic depictions of life, and with each ‘happily ever after’ he was descending further into madness. But it’s what she wanted to hear, and the stories made her smile. So he read them again and again.

“Alright,” Baz rumbled wearily. “Go pick one out from your bookshelf. There’s a flashlight in the bottom drawer of my nightstand.”

Toko shook her head. “No, no. I want you to tell me a new story. One that belongs to you.”

This caught the captain off-guard. A story that belonged to him? Like what, a memory? Some of Baz’s favorite memories came from his time in prison, but those stories weren’t appropriate for children. In fact, most of his memories weren’t appropriate for children, even the good ones. So maybe that’s not what she meant. Maybe she was just tired of reading the same five stories and wanted to shake things up.

The only problem was that Baz had never created his own story. Although, after reading Toko’s storybooks, he’d noticed patterns in the plot and subject matter. Little girls liked princesses and magic and true love, right? Creating a story couldn’t be that hard. Something short and sweet was guaranteed to satisfy her. If not, he’d have to devise a backup plan. His imagination wasn’t big enough for two stories, let alone one.

“Sure, kid. Though…I can’t promise it’ll be any good.” Baz sighed. The things he did for this girl.

“Once upon a time, there was a–”

“What does that mean?”

Expecting nothing less from Toko, Baz turned to the alien who had so rudely interrupted him. “What does what mean? ‘Once upon a time’?”

Toko nodded her head. “Is that another one of your complicated space thingys? I just don’t understand…how does someone get on top of time? And why only once?”

Momentary confusion turned to realization, and Baz let out a light chuckle. Sometimes it was hard to remember that Toko’s vocabulary was very different from his own. Well-known sayings from his planet were often completely foreign to her. The girl had probably never heard the phrase in her entire life.

Adjusting his slouched position against the bedframe, Baz explained, “It’s just a fancy way of saying ‘a long time ago.’ Where I’m from, we use it to describe something that happened in the past.”

“Oh.” Toko knit her brow. She seemed to be processing the correlation between his explanation and the phrase. Like most phrases, it didn’t translate well in her language. Eventually, she lost interest and decided to move on.

“Can you please start over? The story, I mean,” she smiled sheepishly.

Baz hummed in reply and cleared his throat. Here goes nothing. “Once upon a time, there was a princess. This princess lived in a big castle and, uh…ruled over a peaceful kingdom with her mother and father. They all loved each other very much, and nothing bad ever happened to them. And the, um, princess was happy.”

Toko’s eyes brightened in anticipation. Not a bad start.

“Behind the castle was a garden filled with flowers. The princess loved to walk through the garden and listen to the songs of the morning birds. The birds – no, the princess…uh…”

Okay. Maybe creating a story was harder than he thought. Where was he going with this?

Flowers. Singing birds. Magic. All recurring themes in Toko’s storybooks.

“One day, while sitting in the garden, the princess was greeted by…a raven. Yeah, a raven. The bird carried a pink flower in its beak and offered it to the princess, saying it was a…” What was it called? “…an ‘enchanted’ flower. According to the raven, each of the flower’s petals granted a wish when plucked. Warning the princess to keep close watch over the flower, the raven flew away.”

Yes, he stole the idea for wish-granting petals from an old folktale, but he wasn’t about to tell Toko. Baz made up in borrowed material what he lacked in creativity.

He crossed ‘princess’ and ‘magic’ off his imaginary checklist. All that was left was true love.

“A few days later, a handsome prince arrived at the castle. The king and queen welcomed the prince to their home and introduced their daughter. It was,” Baz drawled, “love at first sight. Or something like that.

“The prince immediately got down on one knee and asked the princess to marry him. She agreed, and they got married. And they both lived happily ever after. The end.”

Toko’s facial expression was a combination of bewilderment and disappointment.

“That story wasn’t very good.”

“Gee, thanks for your brutal honesty,” Baz retorted.

“I mean, you mentioned the magic flower once and never brought it up again.”

Crap. It was stupid to think she wouldn’t have noticed.

“Alright, fine. You got me there. But I already told you I’m not the best storyteller–”

“And how could the prince fall in love with the princess just by looking at her–”

“IT WAS BAD, I GET IT.”

Baz regretted snapping at Toko the moment the words left his mouth. She didn’t deserve such treatment, especially over something so trivial. But he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t made to be gentle, or even-tempered, or any of the things she needed him to be.

Yet there she was, giggling like it was all just a big joke.

When people met Baz for the first time, it was common for them to turn tail and run. Those who ignored this initial impulse left the conversation very, very sweaty. Strangers, colleagues, and even friends described him as frightening. Of all the people he’d met over the course of his lifetime, Toko was one of the few to think he was funny.

Baz collected himself and let out an exasperated sigh. “Sorry, kid. I’m just not cut out for this storytelling stuff.”

The statement, while accurate, served as a poor substitute for the apology he could never properly communicate. I’m just not cut out for this ‘father’ stuff.

The snickering stopped and a small hand pat his arm encouragingly. He glanced up at Toko. “It’s okay,” she smiled. “You don’t have to be.”

Something welled up in Baz’s chest. It was an odd feeling, one that was buried beneath the rubble of years and years of unrealistic expectations. Whether her response had been directed at his hidden insecurity or not, reality hit like a brick to the head. He didn’t need to be a ‘typical parent’ to be a good parent. He’d proven this dozens of times when she laughed at his aggravated outbursts during board games or happily chewed his shameful attempts at traditional Thruxscan dishes. Toko accepted his quirky, rough-around-the-edges love without hesitation and reciprocated these familial feelings in her own way.

He needed to start believing his love for Toko was valuable, albeit unconventional, and that she expected nothing more than what he could give.

“Maybe,” the girl proposed, unaware of Baz’s self-reflection, “we could create a story together.”

Baz blinked in surprise. “Whaddya mean?”

“We take turns telling different parts of a story until we reach the end. It’s sort of like a game! I used to do it with my siblings all the time.”

It wasn’t a bad suggestion. At least Toko might guide the plot in a logical direction, and it could help shift her focus away from the nightmare. Besides, it seemed his participation would be limited, which was preferable.

Without waiting for his approval, she scooted closer to Baz and eagerly bounced up and down. “I’ll start!”

The captain’s brow rose in amusement. Let’s see where this goes.

“Once upon a time,” Toko began, emphasizing her use of the newly-learned phrase, “there was a princess. She lived in a big castle at the center of a beautiful kingdom. The castle was big because she had a big family! She had a mom, a dad, and lots n’ lots of brothers and sisters. The princess never wanted jewels or shiny things because she loved her family more than anything in the world.

“One night, while the princess was asleep, an evil hogthropple snuck into the castle and took her family away. When the princess woke up and realized what happened, she was sad. She felt very alone in the big castle. So she left the kingdom to track down the hogthropple and rescue her family.”

Toko sat there, looking up at Baz expectantly. “Now it’s your turn,” she prompted.

He didn’t even know where to begin.

“Mind telling me who this ‘hogthropple’ is, first?”

“It’s a scary monster,” Toko explained, raising her hands above her head to describe its large size and frightening appearance. “It has six legs and pointy teeth and a long, spikey tail. And if you touch the spikes, you turn to stone. That’s why hogthropples horde stone figures in their caves.”

If Baz had to guess, the hogthropple was a make-believe monster created to discourage children from disobeying their parents. Even across galaxies, parental figures always used some form of fictional fear tactic to control their kids. Though, the more he thought about it, Toko’s race wasn’t one to establish good behavior by eliciting negative emotions. For all he knew, the creature was real. There was some wacky stuff out in space.

“I see.” He scratched his chin, considering how to extend her tale. In Toko’s storybooks, princesses rarely accomplished anything without the help of a knight in shining armor. Maybe this story required a knight, too.

“The princess had never travelled beyond the kingdom’s borders, so she needed help if she was going to find the hogthropple and save her family. At the advice of an old friend, she followed a winding path through a dark forest in search of the brave Sir Lancelot, a valiant knight. She walked, and walked, and walked for what felt like ages until she stumbled upon…she stumbled upon a…um…”

Toko noticed Baz was having trouble and swiftly interjected. “She stumbled upon a big, fearsome hunter and his trusty sidekick!”

Baz smirked. “That’s right. She ran into a hunter and his pal. And what did the princess say to these intriguing fellows?”

“The princess asked the hunter if he would help rescue the king and queen from the evil hogthropple. She felt powerless…she didn’t know where to find the beast and was too weak to fight it on her own. But the hunter refused,” said Toko, “because he didn’t want to risk his life to save people he’d never met. So he ignored her request.”

Well, this was taking a depressing turn. Granted, Baz also would’ve ignored the princess’ request, but this wasn’t the kind of uplifting story he had originally expected. He grabbed hold of the reins, hoping to change the story for the better.

“The princess was disheartened by the hunter’s response, but she veered off the winding path to follow him and his comrade. Surely, they couldn’t refuse her request if they knew she was the kingdom’s beloved princess.”

He nudged Toko, forfeiting ownership of the narrative.

“Instead of helping her, like his sidekick wanted, the hunter sold the princess to a group of shady bandits for a big bag of money.”

Baz wasn’t dumb. The lack of a formal education caused him to stumble at times, but he was far from stupid. There was something very familiar about this story. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

Then it hit him. She was telling her story, their story, as if it were some sort of fantasy adventure. She was the princess, Gerdie was the sidekick, and he was the fearsome hunter. The hunter that had refused to help a little girl.

Baz knew this story all too well, and he wasn’t in the mood to reopen old wounds. Why was she doing this?

He supposed Toko had a reason, but in the end, he didn’t feel the need to ask. As much as he hated reliving past mistakes in the form of a fairytale, maybe she needed this. To process things. To let go.

“The bandits locked the princess in a cage,” Toko continued, “and she was scared. How could she save her family now? Luckily, the hunter and his friend helped her escape when the criminals fell asleep. It had all been a scam to bake some dough.”

Unable to help himself, Baz snorted. She had obviously meant to say ‘make some dough,’ a slang phrase used among his own people. Close enough.

Receiving a confused glance from the girl, he picked up where she left off. “The princess was furious with the hunter, but the hunter didn’t care. With the gold pieces in tow, he turned around and walked away without a second glance. Suddenly, the princess grabbed his hand and tugged on it fiercely, pointing up toward the sky. Had it not been for her warning, he would’ve been crushed beneath falling tree branches from the canopy above.”

He looked down at Toko, who had burrowed underneath the covers at some point during the story. She smiled and nodded, but said nothing. She wanted him to keep going.

“Uh…in return for saving his life, the hunter reluctantly agreed to help the princess find Sir Lancelot. At daybreak, the three heroes began their trek through the deep, dark forest.”

The little purple alien at his side didn’t seem to grasp the concept of personal space. For the record, Baz’s personal bubble was larger than most, and the girl was much closer than normal. Though, for what felt like the first time in years, this closeness didn’t make him feel uncomfortable.

Again, she grinned up at him. She wanted to hear more.

“Along the way, they met a handful of interesting characters. The first was a nasty group of poachers, but they were no match for the hunter’s incredible strength. The second was a lonely gnome with a love for riddles, and the hunter’s sidekick quickly lifted his spirits with a few irresistible conundrums. The third was a swarm of irritated fairies, but they were instantly calmed when the princess offered to share her lunch.”

Toko giggled softly, thoroughly enjoying Baz’s rendition of their crazy journey through outer space.

“It was in that moment,” Baz resumed, “that the hunter realized he appreciated the princess’ company. It was going to be very hard to say goodbye to his new friend.”

Baz didn’t need to be coaxed this time. He wanted to finish the story.

“Finally, the three heroes reached the home of Sir Lancelot. When nobody answered the door, they walked inside to make sure he was alright. They were disappointed to find the knight cowering in the corner, refusing to go anywhere near the hogthropple. The princess begged and pleaded, tears pricking her eyes, but the knight declined her request.

“After leaving the knight’s house, the princess sat on a stump and cried. She didn’t know what to do. It seemed no one was willing to help rescue her family. The hunter, on the other hand, felt bad for the princess and weighed his options. Was he really considering risking his life to save the king and queen? He had a decision to make.

“As if on cue, the hogthropple appeared, his large body blocking all exits. With a silky voice and a sly grin, the hogthropple addressed the hunter as if he were an old friend. Indeed, the hunter knew this creature, as it had turned his lover to stone many, many years ago. The beast proposed a trade: hand over the princess, and he would spare the hunter’s life.”

Before he knew it, Toko was resting her head on his lap, peering up at him from under heavy eyelids. Baz tensed up, very much aware of her presence.

He’d spoken too soon. Maybe this closeness made him feel a little uncomfortable. He tried to mask his unease, eye contact with Toko wavering.

“U-um…though he claimed to fear nothing, the hunter was very afraid of the monster that had turned his lover to stone. So, to the princess’ horror, the hunter agreed. The hogthropple snatched the girl up in a clawed fist and slithered away.

“Once at his cave, the hogthropple showed the princess his horde of stone figures. Some were standing in neat rows, while others were piled on top of one another. The princess instantly recognized the closest statues as her family. She couldn’t save them. She was too late.

“The hogthropple fixed his eyes on the girl, telling her that a princess would make a nice addition to his collection. Before he could turn her to stone, however, the hunter and his sidekick appeared at the mouth of the cave. With the help of his comrade, the hunter conquered the beast, saving the princess in the process.”

Toko hummed. She was struggling to keep her eyes open.

“The princess was grateful for the hunter’s help,” Baz said, “but saddened by her family’s condition. What could she do? She was all alone, and there was nobody to take care of her.

“In a moment of weakness, the hunter offered to look after the girl. He was nothing like her real parents, and he couldn’t provide the luxury that came with royalty, but he promised to protect the princess and keep her safe. The hunter’s sidekick joined in, too, increasing their number to three. Though they could never replace her true family, they would be there for her when she needed them.”

The girl in his lap shifted, raising her head slightly. “And did they live happily ever after?”

Baz’s features softened. “Yeah, kid. They did.”

The smile remained on the child’s face even as her eyelids began to droop, moisture forming in the corners of her eyes. “See? You’re a great storyteller,” Toko yawned.

Baz was anything but troubled when tears trailed down her face. Her real family was a touchy subject, and despite her happy-go-lucky personality, there were moments when she could do nothing but sob in his arms. He was relieved to know she was taking small steps to release the pent-up sorrow.

At first, he’d considered changing the end of the story for her sake, but having experienced the consequences of living in a false reality, he decided against it. He didn’t want Toko to end up like him. She needed to face the truth.

Her shoulders rose and fell, her breathing slow. While still very displeased by her perch atop his knees, he tried to focus on the fact that this little girl trusted him. Even after all the mistakes and betrayals, she was here. And she was happy.

From the edges of sleep, Toko’s eyes flickered open and she gasped, making Baz flinch. She sputtered a hasty apology and moved away from the captain, resting her head on the adjacent pillow.

Baz was surprised. He didn’t expect her to remember his strict rules about proximity, as she clearly hadn’t reached an age where she could differentiate between their cultural standards. But this gesture meant the world to him. They had both made sacrifices to find comfort in this ramshackle ship they called ‘home,’ and this small act proved that someone cared, really cared, about his wellbeing. About his preferences. About him.

Baz chuckled, gently grabbing an unsuspecting Toko by the neck of her nightgown and setting her down beside him.

“It’s okay, kid. Just…don’t tell Gerdie I’m turning soft, alright?”

The girl’s tired eyes shined in the dim light, and she smiled. Baz received smiles like this all the time, and this one was no less special.

Toko snuggled close to Baz, who draped the bedsheet over her petite form. With a huge hand, he rubbed at the base of her tiny horns as she drifted off to sleep, something her birth father used to do.

At the sound of peaceful snoring, Baz carefully plucked his book from the nightstand and opened to the dog-eared page. He sighed, the corners of his mouth curving up against his will.

Baz didn’t believe in happy endings. But just this once, they didn’t seem so farfetched.

#my art #short story #science fiction #sci fi #alien #aliens #original #original character #original characters #original story #fluff #Baz #Toko #Baz and Toko #Far From Home #I live for familial fluff and reluctant makeshift dads #my writing

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