#and it interprets these frowns as 'oh i guess this human just HATES ME. i guess we're ENEMIES. but WHATEVER I'M FINE WITH IT' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gentlemancrow · 3 years

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idk if you’re still taking requests so no pressure but maybe jmart 18 about jon’s scars? or,,, honestly however you wanna interpret that lol

Hehe bet you thought you weren't getting one. But of COURSE you're getting one! <3 HERE YOU GO!! Sorry it is late I am not a fast writer haha! This was a VERY interesting one to interpret and I got a little wonky and metaphysical there for a bit WHICH I LOVE and THE IDEA MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BIT LONG FOR A DRABBLE BUT! It's soft and I'm soft and I enjoyed this one SO SO MUCH ; w ; I hope you do too!!

Jon had Seen enough. Martin had decided that long ago. He had witnessed enough, been forced to witness enough, been the vessel into which literally everything had funneled into in an unrelenting typhoon of unspeakable, unfathomable horrific knowledge comprehensible only to him long enough that he damn well deserved the luxury of imperception. He had earned the right to not notice when Martin accidentally bought the wrong brand of chai, the one he insisted tasted like someone rubbed a stick of cinnamon on plasterboard and jammed it in a cardamom pod, but honestly tasted just like the one he preferred. The universe, whichever one they happened to be in now, owed him not realizing the buttons on his cardigan were one off until they were about to head out and Martin had to fix them, fingers humming with the warmth of him lingering in the cashmere every time. He deserved to forget his keys and then also have to go back to check that their flat door was locked twice, just to be sure. He deserved tossing cabbage in the trolley at the market, only to get home and realize it was a head of iceberg lettuce instead, and also he had completely forgotten the onion anyway so back he would have to go. Tiny and insignificant, patently human foibles that any normal person might tally up to a really rotten day overall and gripe about over a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape he had won as gleaming, pyrrhic badges on the ruins of his humanity yanked back from the claws of the yawning, devouring dark matter of the cosmos and stitched painstakingly back together with love.

But mostly Jon deserved to not notice the way people looked at him.

He need not see the painted-on expressions of strangers that ran the gamut from quiet pity, to voyeuristic curiosity, to outright revulsion that Martin could not help but see everywhere they went. They had no idea. Not even the slightest inkling of what, exactly, had composed that magnum opus of horror and pain scarred resplendently on his flesh, his bones, his sinews and synapses. To even try know was to go mad, the mind looping through and around and between consciousness and logic and love and fear and philosophy and metacognition until it squeezed into an ouroboros black hole singularity of dense unknowing that collapsed in on itself and perished in cataclysm. They had merely gotten lucky that being extruded through the plumbings of creation seemed to straighten out their fibers enough to be woven back into the fabric of reality, but they were too kinked and snagged and gnarled to ever lay fully flat again. And that was why they stared.

The invasive beings of Jon and Martin had come to mutual terms with it long ago, but they also knew they would be forever incongruous with an innocent world, with a world where they did not belong and that collectively looked at them both like an ontological cancer, benign but festering and ugly. They would never know the thing that crouched behind the stars with pointed knees and elbows that even then, groped to find their new world in the lightless vast, and Jon deserved to not perceive any hints of that either. He deserved their quiet, their peace, their wordless human acceptance.

Jon deserved to be innocently chewing a periwinkle-painted thumbnail in front of the ice cream counter, just as he was that gossamer spring afternoon, turning woeful and forever mismatched brown and green eyes at his husband and asking if he should get mint chip or rum raisin before deciding, actually, could he have a sample of the salted caramel ribbon first? He pointed eagerly at the various frozen tubs behind the glass with his gnarled right hand, where the fingers never did quite open or close properly again, and missed in his wonderment at the veritable cornucopia of sweet delights available to him the mingled look of pity and horror on the cashier’s face as she doled out samples at his request. Martin lurked protectively behind, silent, sentinel, seeing it all, a hot brand of fury boring its way through his chest as he glared icy blue daggers at the clueless young woman, who only compounded her crimes by complimenting the permanent white forelock in his ginger curls as she took his order.

Martin snatched his double scoop of rocky road and pralines and cream out of her hand with a withering scowl and said nothing. Jon, frowning in the dread shadow of Martin’s hushed wrath and finally deciding on just the mint chip, took it upon himself to pay while the poor young woman skirted around both their gazes. They took their ice cream to enjoy in the balmy sun on the metal patio tables outside the shop under a cloud of unspoken insults and slander which Jon was more than happy to pop open the conversational umbrella beneath before the downpour.

“Something wrong?” he asked solicitously.

“Nope. I’m fine,” came the curt answer, suspiciously also lacking in eye contact as Martin stabbed his pink spoon into the rocky road.

Jon’s mismatched eyes narrowed shrewdly. There was one thing that never escaped his notice, even now, and that was the painfully obvious way Martin always broadcast his inner hurts and the physical language of his turmoil he had become fluent in over the years.

“Okay, yes you are probably fine. And I’m guessing it has nothing to do with you actually, because you’re angry and you rarely get angry on your own behalf, which means it’s probably something to do with me or some perceived slight. What happened in there? Did someone make a snide remark about my eccentric ice cream selection? The long skirt on a warm spring day? Oh, no, I’ve got it. It was probably the earrings, yes? I knew I should have gone with the feathers instead of hoops, matches the outfit much better.”

The corner of Martin’s mouth quirked up in a hapless, crooked smile as Jon coaxed a laugh out of him, and he looked up into his gaze adoringly to grant him unspoken conciliation.

“No, no not at all. Nothing like that. It’s nothing, love. It’s not a big deal. Just low blood sugar or something. Just eat your nasty mint chip or rum raisin or whatever that unholy concoction is,” Martin snorted, gesturing at his cup.

“Liar,” Jon crooned with loving reproachment, reaching out to thumb a little bit of rum raisin on the tip of Martin’s nose as punishment.

Even breathed with such unfettered, undying affection, Martin hated that word. He hated how transparent he still was to the man he loved, how much he still truly saw him, saw through him. At least all it took to compel him now was a little melted ice cream rubbed clean off his nose and a winsome smile with love-puddled green and brown eyes.

“Okay, okay… fine,” he admitted with a resigned smirk and a sigh, “I don’t like the way they look at you. Okay? That’s all.”

Jon’s brow knitted together curiously.

“Hmm? Who? What do you mean?” he asked.

“Everyone!” Martin finally effused in frustration, “Everywhere! They look at you like you’re… like you’re damaged goods! Like you’re some pitiful beaten animal on the street, or worse, like you’re some sort of- some sort of um…”

“…Monster?” supplied Jon, lips pursed and lids drooping.

“…I wasn’t going to say that,” Martin stammered.

“What other word is there?”

“Fine, they look at you like you’re a monster. They take one look at your face or your throat or your… your hand. And I can just see it on their faces. They look at you like you’re a monster, and I hate it. You don’t deserve that. You never did! They don’t even know you! They don’t know what happened to you…! And sorry, Jon, but I get angry about it because it’s not fair, and I can’t exactly go about lobbing right hooks into the faces of everyone who even looks at you cross-eyed, now can I? Much as I’d like to…"

Jon went quiet as he listened, dabbling first in the rum raisin, then indulging in a little mint chip chaser, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully as he nibbled on the plastic spoon.

“Is that what you see?”

The color rolled out from Martin’s freckled cheeks along with the very spirit from his eyes in a fog, his entire mien awash in pallor.

“What? How could you say that to me? I would NEVER think that about you, Jon! How could you ever think I would think that? I-I know I said some awful things in the past about your scars, but I-“

“No no! Martin, no! Of course not! I know you would never!” Jon cut in, reaching across the table to snatch his hand and squeeze it reassuringly, rubbing his knuckles and over his wedding ring, “You misunderstand! I was asking if that’s what you see in their eyes?”

Martin clung to Jon’s hand, heart palpitating and breath easing.

“Oh…” he blurted dumbly, flushing with lively hues of reds and golds once more, “I-? Of course I do, what else could it be?”

“I don’t see that. I don’t see that at all,” Jon answered simply, “It’s… hard to describe but, damaged goods, disgust, morbid curiosity, those are all… Hard things. They have sharp edges. And when people here look at me, I don’t feel anything hard or sharp, it feels… soft? It feels gentle.”

Shaking his head, Martin frowned.

“Gentle? How is openly gawking at someone’s scars in any way gentle?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. I suppose,” Jon mused, thumbing at his beard with his free hand as he constructed an analogy that would make sense in his mind, “Mmm… Think of it like this. Humans, life, we’re all very visually oriented creatures, right? We respond to visual cues in our environments that are universally understood. We wear these rings so that everyone knows we belong together, just the same as bright colors usually mean poison, or how specialized feathers, or horns, or dewlaps and the like let others know they’d be a good mate, or how some things look like eyes or like entirely different creatures to scare off predators, and so on.”

The creases in Martin’s forehead only deepened in confusion.

“Okay sure, but scars aren’t a natural adaptation? We don’t look at scars the same way we look at pretty eyes on a moth wing or something.”

“I know that, that’s not what I’m saying,” Jon reiterated tenderly, “What I’m saying is I’ve always felt like my scars are a visual cue, but one that says to others ‘treat me gently’, because clearly I haven’t been. And it’s… well it’s been quite nice. You were about to tear that poor girl’s head off, but didn’t you see how she not only gave me about six samples when the sign clearly said two per customer, but then she also gave me the rum raisin ‘by mistake’ and then conveniently forgot to charge for it?”

“Wh-did she?” Martin gasped in shock, rewinding the transaction to remember that indeed, Jon had only asked for mint chip, but there was clearly also a generous scoop of rum raisin in his cup, ”She did… No I… I guess I didn’t notice…”

Jon let Martin’s hand go to cup his cheek pointedly in his scarred palm, running his thumb over the soft curve of his cheek and the spray of his ruddy freckles comfortingly.

“You want to know what I think? I think what you perceive as disgust or aversion or even pity is just fear, like you had. Fear of pain, fear of disfigurement, of fallibility. People are always afraid of seeing what can become of their mortal bodies, but that has nothing to do with me, or being disgusted by me. People are, at their cores, good and gentle, Martin. I know they are, we both do. They see me, my cane, my limp, my hand, my gray hair, my face, and they don’t even ask, they just know, on some primal level, that life was not kind to me. And so in some tiny way, like free rum raisin, they almost always try to give something back to me.”

Jon had known. He had noticed. It had never escaped his perception as Martin had assumed. Jon had known all along, but it was only Martin who still saw daggers in the smiles of strangers while he had taken the last vestiges of his powers irrevocably branded on his body and soul and sowed something delicate and beautiful and blossoming in his new earth. Martin had made a weapon. Perhaps no less delicate and beautiful, but still cold and sharp and deadly. The razor white edge of the sun through frigid fog.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” Martin choked, his throat pinching shut with the threat of tears, “I-I had no idea…. I-I only thought…”

“It’s alright, please don’t cry, darling, you have nothing to be sorry for. I understand. You only thought you were protecting me. I protected you for so long, when you were desperate to do the same for me, to save me, but had no power to do either. Now you’ve got your turn to do the protecting in earnest, and honestly, it’s a… can I- can I say hot? Can I say it’s a hot look on you? Or is that weird?” Jon asked, tips of his ears blushing coyly.

Martin managed a laugh as he sniffed back the tears and thumbed both sets of lashes dry under his spectacles.

“It’s a little weird for you, in particular, to say it, just because it’s you. But I’ll take it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Perhaps then, Martin thought as Jon leaned over their whimsical little metal table outside an ice cream parlor by a park with a striped canopy above them and birds singing and kissed his tears away and then kissed his lips into a smile, that sharp things needn’t always be weapons. Perhaps his sword was, in reality, a spade, or a hoe, something to tend and nurture the new and fragile happiness Jon had tilled. Gentle things deserved gentle protection, and he was still going to devote every iota of his being to protecting Jon until the end of their days. After all, as they finally got to enjoy their slightly melted ice cream, Jon still dribbled a bit of rum raisin down his beard and carried on none the wiser. Martin let him go on like that, blissfully unaware, talking about Polyphemus moths and the myth of the cyclops and something about someone going about as Nobody, until he finally reached out with a napkin to attentively wipe it away.

Other than a gracefully paced ‘oh, thank you dear,’ Jon never missed a beat.

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #JonMartin #Jmart #Fan fic #Crow Writes #Ask Drabble #Fricklefracklefloof

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redorich · 3 years

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-slips into your inbox-

Hullo red, 'tis me, Fidget. Here to haunt your inbox because you have gravely wounded me with so many things today.

First of all, sad Phil. God, he guts me. 'Impulse has a family, he does not need Philza.' has ripped out my heart. Please, this man has been trough so much. Willbur died by his own hands, Tommy he almost killed because he believed dream, and apparently not even Techno trusts him. After all, he did keep Tommy's location a secret from even him for a long time. (That Techno is loyal to a fault does not matter in this horrible interpretation of things.)

And then.

And THEN you hit me with the replaced family bit? Bdkandjakyba. My heart is weak and fragile, please Red.. Please I just... Want this family to heal a little. Someone please teach Phil that he can not shoulder the burden of the world by himself, that he was just one man in a war torn world who did the best he could. And his best wasn't good enough, but that doesn't mean he wasn't trying, that he is a bad person for it.

Like, Tommy had a whole, peaceful Server of well adjusted adults looking out for him and Phil had his bootstraps and the voices of the blood god first in his own and then in Techno's head.

It must've been hard to keep sane (I don't think he quite managed either.)

And maybe Phil doesn't go to see impulse to help him. Because he can see that the hermits are doing a much better job than he ever could, can see that Impulse is getting better not worse like Phil did all that time ago.

But Impulse now helped to save two of his sons. Perhaps Phil ought to make the journey and thank him, shoulders heavy with broken wings and broken hopes. He couldn't give his family what they needed, but impulse could. The hermits could.

It would be rude to leave this deed unacknowledged. (Perhaps Impulse or another hermit who's around sees the Trauma that seems to cling to this family like tar and thinks: Oh, it's free real estate(for adoption). You did mention Xisuma likes to adopt sad people.)

Cleo keeps nudging Philza to talk to Impulse. Philza's friendship with Cleo is new, so he can't yet tell whether it's an "as an immortal I'm telling you not to make a mistake" thing or an "I'm a nosy little weasel" thing. Not that Philza would ever call Cleo a nosy little weasel to her face, even if she'd probably take it as a compliment.

So, he goes and says hello to Impulse in his giant quartz base, even though he doesn't want to. Impulse, for his part, looks a bit taken aback, but takes the visit in stride.

“Y’know, call me crazy, but I got the impression that you don’t like me much,” Impulse laughs awkwardly.

Philza tilts his head, recalling his interactions with Impulse-- or rather, lack thereof. “Oh, ‘cause I was avoiding you?”

Impulse starts, caught off guard by the blatant admission. “Uh, yeah, I guess. Did I do something? I’m sorry if I did.”

Waving off the concern, Philza speaks freely. “Nah mate, you’re fine. I’ve got no quarrel with you. Anyway, I was just stopping by to say thank you. For-- for taking care of Tommy, and Techno too.” Philza smiles wryly. “’S more than I ever did for them, I guess.”

“You did plenty,” Impulse protests with a furrowed brow. “Techno talks about you all the time.”

The immortal blond blinks, as if he didn’t expect to hear that. “Eh,” he says in lieu of addressing it. Instead, he changes the topic completely.

“I’m trying out this whole ‘Hermit Therapy’ thing,” he says with a shrug, “so I guess that means I’m supposed to talk about my feelings or something? And I’m a grown-ass man, so that feels more than a bit condescending, but I suppose I’ll tell you my opinion so I can at least say I tried.”

Impulse winces at the harsh, uncaring way Philza addresses the situation. Should Impulse be offering Philza a place to sit? For all the redstone farms in the base, there isn’t a chair to be found. Philza doesn’t seem to care.

“I tried raising my kids. Failed.” Philza runs a hand through the long feathers on one of his wings. “You came in and taught Tommy more about being a person than I ever did. That’s fine, he deserves it. I can’t hold it against you.”

“I--” Impulse tries to interject, but Philza talks over him.

“You helped Techno-- I never did figure out how to do that. Again, he needed that, and I’d be a petty fool to get upset just because the person who gave him what he needed wasn’t me.” Philza’s mouth flattens into a grim line.

“But then,” he says, “you went above and beyond. You saw Kharneth hurting Techno-- my boy. And you gave him hope that Kharneth could be killed. Do you know how long I spent, trying to help him come to terms with the fact that Kharneth isn’t someone-- something that can or should be killed?”

Impulse leans back, shoving his hands in his pockets. He knows that Philza tried killing Kharneth, the Blood God, and paid a price, but...

Philza runs a jittery hand through his hair. “And then you did it! You killed the Blood God. And I thought, oh, this poor man doesn’t know what he’s done. Surely the Blood God’s powers will break this man’s mind-- after all, if I couldn’t handle it, how could this soft human hope to?”

Wincing again, Impulse stays quiet. Obviously Philza needs to say his piece.

“Then you did,” the immortal says. “Why is it that everything I’ve ever done, everything I’ve ever tried to do, you’re better at it than me? You’ve got my sons wrapped around your finger, you’ve got better control of those powers than I ever did, you’re goddamn happy,” the man spits.

“...I’m sorry you feel that way,” Impulse says in mild shock, groping for the right words.

“And the worst part!” Philza steamrolls over Impulse’s apology, “Is that I don’t even hate you!”

Impulse blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re just...” Philza sighs, holding a wing in front of him like a shield. “You’re everything I wish I was, and I’m jealous and I’m mature enough to recognize that, but... is it weird of me to want to be friends with you too?”

Licking his lips, Impulse chooses his words carefully. “I’d love to be friends with you. For what it’s worth... You’ve got your own strengths, it’s just... harder for you to see them? Because you’re looking at everyone else’s strengths, comparing yourself to them, and evidently, uh. Finding yourself falling short.” He chuckles awkwardly. “I’d never last a month in a hardcore world.”

Philza looks away. “Hardcore, the one thing I’m known for. Easy enough for you to say.” He frowns, not because he’s upset with Impulse, but because he realizes he’s being a cantankerous bastard.

“I’m afraid I don’t know you too well,” Impulse says diplomatically. “Maybe... Yeah, let’s be friends.” He claps his hands together with the air of a man making a plan. “I’ll get to know you better, and then I can tell you what you’re good at, until you can learn to see it for yourself.”

The immortal swipes at Impulse’s head with a wing, but pulls the swing so that he only barely brushes the man with feather-tips. “Good lad,” he says gruffly, but he can’t quite hide his smile.

#mcyt #hc x dsmp #hermit!tommy au #impulsesv #philza #ph1lza #sleepy bois inc #zombiecleo #technoblade #me.cpp

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13uswntimagines · 4 years

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Our Troublemaker (USWNT x Baby!reader)

Request: uswnt x reader where reader gets into some trouble at a pride event they all go to, when they get back to hotel reader is punished and then fluff and cuddles to end

Author’s Note: Special thanks to @literaryhedgehog for her addition of fluff and mediation of my crazy thoughts. So this universe can be taken several different ways, as i didn’t explicitly define it. Feel free to interpret it in your favorite context. Also, I would totally be down for continuing this universe... Hit me up with Questions, comments or if you just wanna say hi!

You hadn’t meant to start a fight. Well, that was a half-truth. You had totally meant to tell that ignorant ass that he was being a homophobic dishrag. What you hadn’t meant was for him to punch you in the face, and the team to get involved in defending you from his drunk ass. So here you were, being carried over Lindsey’s shoulder back towards your hotel.

You wiggled again in a vain attempt to get her to put you down. “Come on Linds, I can walk,”

“Yeah, you couldn’t be trusted to stand with Mal for 5 seconds on your own, and you might have a concussion,” Alex answered for the blond, and sent you a glare that oozed “try me,”

“I don’t have a concussion, and I couldn’t let him talk to Mal like that,” You pouted up at her raised eyebrow. It was tough considering you were over someone’s shoulder, but you managed.

“Next time you wanna show off for your girlfriend, try not to pick a fight with a guy four times your size,” Kelley laughed, patting your lower back. You frowned. Mal wasn’t your girlfriend. Yet.

“I didn’t think he would hit me,” You grumbled, flopping down, Lindsey gripped your legs harder so she didn’t drop you on your head. That was all you guys needed right now.

“Well he did, so let’s get you back to the hotel trouble,” Alex said, pointing towards the building down the street. Lindsey nodded, swinging you around as she turned and began to walk that way again.

“I’m not trouble,” you complained

“No it just follows you everywhere, and has earned you no ice cream tonight,” Kelley rolled her eyes.

“I’m not Sonnett, ice cream isn’t the love of my life,” you said, trying to act like you weren't pouting. So maybe the team treated some of the youngins like they were a little younger than their age. You all loved it, and you craved the structure it brought to your life.

“Wanna make it for the rest of the week?” Alex asked, with her signature eyebrow arch. You grumbled back a no, along with several inaudible complaints. You knew how creative the woman could be with her punishments and you really didn’t want to test her. Your face hurt and you really just wanted to bury your head under a pillow and scream. You had protected Mal, you shouldn’t be in trouble.

Your pout was strong all the way to the hotel and up the elevator, not wavering at all until Lindsey set you down in the corner of Alex’s room. You tilted your head at the woman in confusion.

“This isn’t my room.”

“No, it’s not. You get 10 minutes in the corner for putting yourself in danger,” Alex said, her arms crossed across her chest.

“I didn’t put myself in danger. I just told that dude to lay off. We were in an outdoor bar, there were plenty of people around. I thought societal convention would trap that dude into not making a scene.”

“No, you got punched in the face and almost had a beer bottle smashed over your head to impress a girl who already has a massive crush on you,” Alex exclaimed.

“She does?” You asked, eyes wide.

“Not the point Y/n,” Kelley shook her head.

“The fact is, you engaged with a drunk homophobe on your own. There are times to engage, and that was not one of them. Now sit!” Alex said, dragging a chair to the corner and pointing at it, “your time out starts now.”

You sat down wordlessly, staring down at your hands. You knew that there was no getting out of this one. One of them had a scrape on the palm from where you had landed on the gravel.

The minutes seemed to drag by, and you fidgeted more and more with every passing second, picking at the cuts on your hands.

There was a knock on the door. “Stay,” Alex commanded, looking at her watch, “you still have two minutes left.” Behind you, you heard someone go to the door and open it.

“I got your text,” Becky’s voice came from the doorway. You slouched in your chair, partially from embarrassment, partially from relief. They hadn’t called the medics. And at least they hadn’t called Carli, she duct-taped an ice pack to you the last time you got a bruise. But still, you hated that more people would know that you had gotten yourself into trouble again. “I brought a first aid kit and an ice pack. Also some duct tape, in case she tries to escape.”

You shook your head, not finding the comment funny. You weren’t going to try and escape, your face was throbbing by this point, and you would rather they took care of you then leave you to fend off Jill and Dawn by yourself.

Alex’s watch beeped three times, signaling the end to your time out. You sighed in relief. Sitting still was never your strongest suit.

“Come sit on the bed, Y/N,” Becky said, pulling Lindsey’s comforter straight and opening up the first aid kit on one side of it. You blinked twice, staring at the spot. You never liked getting fixed by the medics, and Lindsey’s bed looked lonely.

“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.” You looked at Lindsey in confusion, as she started counting. “Three. Two One. That’s it.” Lindsey picked you up and sat down with you on the bed, situating you in her lap.

You started to move and realized she had grabbed your hands and pulled them across your chest, essentially putting you in a human straightjacket.

“Sit still and let Broon make sure you are alright you absolute badger of a human being. You are a great defender, on and off the field Y/n. But it won’t kill you to let someone else take care of you for once.”

You huffed and sunk down in Lindsey’s lap, finally stopping your struggle to get free. It was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not.

Becky shined a flashlight in your eyes and wiped down a cut on your lip with an antiseptic wipe. You winced slightly.

“Hand.”

Lindsey let go of one of your arms so you could put your scraped palm into Becky’s outstretched hand. She wiped it down with gentle strokes, checking to make sure there wasn’t any gravel pieces still in it.

She nodded at Lindsey who released you and pushed you lightly next to her on the bed. Becky stood up from her crouch, slapping her hands on her jeans as she did. She went over to the dresser where she had set a small bag of ice and brought it over to you as Kelley sat down on the other side of you.

Alex picked up the chair you had spent your time out in and placed it in front of you, straddling the back of the chair and leaning on it’s back as she looked at you. “Do you understand why we’re upset with you Y/n?” While she spoke, Becky perched on the bed and folded her hands in her lap.

“Yes, but I wasn’t going to let him hurt Mal,” You mumbled, playing with your fingers. Yes you had been reckless, and probably could have ended up in way worse shape, but you weren’t going to let him disrespect the two of you like that. Her like that.

“Love, we are so proud of you for standing up like that. You shouldn’t have to deal with hatred from strangers for being who you are,” Becky started softly.

“But you are going to have to deal with a lot of it in your life. And we need you to promise you won’t confront someone like that alone.” Alex finished seriously. They would never be able to get the image of little you standing toe to toe with a 6-foot tall man out of their heads.

“There’s a reason we’re called a team. We work together, back each other up. And strength in numbers is usually more convincing to the average asshole bully than a lone ranger. Let us defend you sometimes.” Kelley chimed in, nudging you with her elbow.

“And if you’re alone, walk away. It sucks, but it’s better to live another day than die on your sword. You can't win every battle, and the world is a much better place with you in it,” Lindsey said, squeezing you in a sideways hug.

“Fine, I won’t provoke any more dishrags,” you said, in mock exasperation.

Kelley snorted, and you saw Alex’s lips twitch slightly as she nodded, “Good.” You would always be their troublemaker, but at least they knew you would try. Even if it was only for a little while.

You snuggled deeper into Lindsey and Kelley, smiling as Alex joined Kelley’s side. The room was quiet for a few minutes before you blurt out a sleepy “Do you think Mal will think I’m more badass now that I have a scar?”

Becky laughed, standing to pack away her first aid things. “Oh yes, the most badass. Now if you’ll excuse me cuddle bug, I should get back to my room. I have my own troublemaker to attend to.” She walked to the doorway and paused turning back to you. “One more thing. Y/n? You have to spend the night in here for observation. Doctor’s orders.”

“Those are agreeable terms I guess,” You shrugged. That had been your plan anyway.

“My cuddles are better than just agreeable,” Kelley huffed, bumping your cheek with her nose.

“Of course they are squirrel,” Alex laughed, kissing her temple.

Yes, you were a troublemaker, but you were their troublemaker.

#uswnt imagine #uswnt imagines #uswnt x reader #literalhedgehog

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heywejustheretohavefum · 3 years

Text

Attachment - Chapter Two

- yes I know that my writings shit but that has never stopped me before so why would it now -

word count : 1.8k

warnings : swearing, canon-like violence

You had been meditating since before sunrise, finding peace in the faint buzz of the city. After spending most of your life on a nowhere planet, you found the unfamiliarity of your surroundings strangely comforting. The sun finally begins to peek through the skyscrapers and bastes your delicate (s/t) skin in it’s warm rays. Pleasantly, the Force hums around you as you let your mind drift into its throngs. Lost to the world, you bask in the Force for Maker knows how long until you’re brought out of your meditative state by a metal hand on your shoulder. Assuming it was a Sepratist droid, you twist around, grabbing the attacker’s arm and swiftly bringing it behind their back with a harsh tug. Only when a very human grunt of pain comes out of your assailant do you realize that it was just your master.

“I’m so sorry!” You exclaim, releasing Master Skywalker’s arm out of your strong grasp. “I-I thought-I mean I didn’t know it was y-”

You were cut off by a hearty laugh from Anakin, his gorgeous blue eyes sparkling in amusement. “You’re good, (n/n). Just be sure to fight like that against Grievous today and we’ll be sure to win!”

“Thanks, master…” you pause, realizing what your teacher just said. “Wait, what?! General Grievous! Today?”

Anakin laughs at your shock before settling down and beginning to explain. “Our most recent intelligence suggests General Grievous and his fleet is within three parcecs of Coruscant. The Counsel and the Senate are worried about what they could be doing so deep in Republic territory, and as the closest General, it’s my job to chase him away. With any luck, we will hopefully be able to capture the bastard before he can escape our grasp again.”

“So why do you need me, master?” You ask him as you walk into the hanger to board a ship headed towards the oversized clanker’s fleet. From a nearby supply room, you grab a small blaster to tuck into the hidden pocket in your pants leg.

“Well, while our fleet will be distracting Grievous, we will secretly fly in and dock in his ship in order to capture him. The Counsel thinks you’re ready for such a daring mission.”

You notice how he says the Counsel thinks you’re ready and you wonder if he disagrees with them. Judging by his annoyed and upset tone, you’d guess he does. Obi-Wan walks by, diverting your attention from the angsty Jedi Knight. “Master Kenobi! I take it you’re coming too?” You ask. Clone troopers march behind him in their white battle armor, loading the ships with blasters and explosives.

“Yes, I’ll be in charge of the diversion, desperately trying to keep Anakin out of trouble - as always,” he responds. You laugh at his joke, which makes your master scowl as he finishes helping load some cargo onto a ship. Anakin catches himself doing so, and quickly stops, wondering why he’s being so hostile toward your happiness. Your happiness is caused by Obi-Wan, yes, but still is your happiness.

“Let’s go (y/n), my ship should be fueled up,” Anakin rushes to pull you away from his former master, grabbing you by the arm as you wave a quick goodbye to the bearded Jedi. He continues to pull you until you reach his yellow starfighter on the other side of the hanger - and you choose not to comment on how he abruptly and rudely ended your conversation with Master Kenobi.

“Wait a second master, this ship only seats one,” you tell him.

“Then I guess you’ll have to sit on my lap, won’t you?”

一

Flying through hyperspace, Anakin can step back and truly appreciate his situation. You, sitting on his lap, begrudgingly cuddled into his chest in order to give him room to reach around you and fly the ship. Despite the dangerous mission you are both hurtling towards at literal light speed, Anakin feels completely relaxed by your warmth and scent. Oh yes, your scent. Though he knows you must use the standard issue soap every Jedi uses, you smell different than that. Like warmth - like the sunlight he found you meditating in this morning.

Neither of you had talked for a while. You’re still mentally trying to prepare for what is sure to be an exhilarating first mission, and your master is basking in the wonder of the moment. He still has yet to understand why being around you gives him such a rush (different than how he had felt with Padmé, greater than it had ever been), but for now he won’t contemplate it. For now, Anakin will just enjoy the feeling of your breath against his skin, of your heartbeat in time with his own and his face pressed into your sweet smelling hair. And you won’t know of the rush you give him.

So enraptured by your presence, Anakin doesn’t feel the ship jump out of hyperspace jerkily. You do, however, and you also notice the large wing of the Sepratist ship growing ever closer as he does nothing to slow the ship down. “Look out!” You shout, snapping your master out of his daydream just in time for him to pull back on the controls and stop the small starship from smashing into bits. “Kriff, Anakin, what the hell was that!?” Your elbow comes around to jab him for almost killing the both of you.

After a quick, half-assed apology, Anakin docks the ship, connecting it to the ‘Good’ General’s ship in order to gain access. He frowns as he feels your comforting weight leave his lap; you slip out of the cockpit and into the halls of the ship, giving a hand to your master as he does the same. Together, you make your way through the ship towards the bridge, carefully avoiding droid patrols as you go.

Now at the bridge, you find the doors to it sealed. You share a look with your master, and you both pierce through it with your lightsabers, each cutting a half circle until your lightsabers again meet at the bottom. Master Skywalker moves the cut circle out of the door with the Force, and you slip through the hole, blocking the barrage of blaster fire with your verdant saber.

Your master runs in after you, and goes straight to Grievous who spun two lightsabers. Deciding you focus on the droids to keep them occupied and away from your master, you start cutting swaths of the smaller ones down. The Force warns you of something coming from behind, and you swing around just in time to block a black pole sparking purple energy from both ends. Jumping onto a control panel behind you, you launch yourself over the black droid’s head, swinging around mid-air to slice the droid in two.

With three more of the strange black droids in the room, all of which were far too close to Anakin for comfort, you slide under Grievous’ legs to get to another one which was about to strike your master before you cut it clean in half. Back on your feet, you twirl to narrowly avoid their sparking sticks and you use the opportunity to kick one of them back into the control paneling before chopping the other one in two.

With them dealt with, you swing at the general, who’s second pair of arms come out in time to meet your saber with two of his own; the force of the swing knocking it out of your hand. Anakin, distracted by your situation momentarily, loses his own lightsaber as General Grievous prepares to kill both of you.

“And now, I will rid the galaxy of two more pathetic Jedi,” he laughs, before he sputters off into a coughing fit.

“Wait!” You say, trying to think on your feet. “Before you kill my master...could I get my revenge on him?”

“What?” Grievous turns to you, his monstrous eyes staring questioningly at your own.

“You heard me,” you double down, “the Jedi have been nothing but cruel to me my entire life, and Skywalker’s been the worst of all.” You spat, glaring at Anakin. “I-I’m not asking you to let me kill him, no. You deserve that honor. J-just let me kick him around a bit. Let me hurt him like he hurt me.”

Grievous narrows his eyes at you in suspicion. You pray that this would work, and wouldn’t just make Master Skywalker think you hate him on his last moment in this galaxy. The droid-man moves the lightsaber away from your head, giving you the go ahead to go over to your master. As gently as you could get away with, you kick his chest, sending him to the floor. Again, you kick him, this time squarely in his side. Slowly blocking the view of the metal man in a way that would be interpreted as accidental, you kick your master again, waiting and hoping he’d understand.

And he did. At first Anakin was destroyed by your confession to hating him. He looked up at you, eyes watering, but your eyes - the gorgeous (e/c) hued eyes that he had come to adore staring into - were trained on General Grievous ganguly figure. But then, when you looked at him, he found there was no resentment in your eyes. Just desperation. And with your first kick, he understood. The unfamiliar feeling of metal against his ribs made him remember how you tucked a small blaster into your pants.

Grabbing it, he shoots at Grievous from the floor, forcing him to block the shot which gives you an opening to summon your emerald saber and ferociously slash at him; his bottom left arm falls to the ground with a useless thud. As cowardly as ever, Grievous turns to scuttle away on all five of his remaining limbs, and you give chase, leaving Anakin to pull both his lightsaber and the one from Grievous’ discarded arm.

By the time he catches up to you, you’re locked, saber to saber with Grievous. His hidden pair of arms unfurl and Anakin knows you won’t see them coming until too late. He charges towards Grievous, and manages to block one of his sabers from slashing down into you, but not the other.

Anakin’s heart stops as you fall back, your tunic ripped open and your chest spilling blood. He doesn’t notice Grievous slip away, or the way the ship shakes dangerously. He can only see you, the way your chest heaves as your shirt grows damp with blood, the way you cringe in pain as you frantically try to control your breathing. “Ani,” your voice is rough and jagged with pain. “I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s sh-shallow enough. Just go after Grievous, I’ll be fine.”

Your master refuses, seeming to think your injury is much more serious than it is, and he frantically lifts you up and begins running back to his ship, abandoning the mission for Grievous.

#yandere star wars x reader #yandere star wars #star wars x reader #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere

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selfawarejester · 3 years

Text

triskele (j.t x c.h)

prologue (burn, baby, burn!) - cora

— Warnings: character death, vague descriptions of a corpse.

— Pairing: Jason Todd (DC Comics) x Cora Hale (Teen Wolf) [not in this part, can be read as standalone]

— Notes: Starting off the series with angst! This is promising. *evil smirk* Ah, yes, the Cora backstory and my interpretation of the Hale fire (because TW didn’t feel the need to elaborate on one of the most important, if not the most, events in the show.) Everyone who showed interest before is getting tagged below — hope you enjoy! I’m always open to feedback, so hit me up!

She remembers burning flesh most vividly.

Cora only left for an hour, going on a jog to cool off. Her mother had been furious about a fight she’d gotten in at school, but that guy was a jerk!

“He was picking on that asthmatic kid: McCall something! Did you really want me to just let that happen?” She yelled, stomping into the living room. The dark haired man on the couch eyed the two over the top of his newspaper before going back to it. Guess Uncle Peter’s not going to be of much help.

Talia sighed, doing that two-fingers-to-her-temple thing she hated. “Stopping a bully and tossing him into a locker are not the same thing.”

Cora frowns, crossing her arms as she drops her glare to the floor. “I only meant to shove him aside.” She bites out.

The front door slams, and a sullen teenage boy bearing an annoying resemblance to the woman in front of her walks in, freezing when his eyes fall on them.

“Is this about Cora beating up that 7th grader?” She squeezes her eyes shut as Talia groans, covering her eyes with both hands (and she swears she can hear Peter chortle) — there’s no way she’s getting out of this now.

“You heard about that too, cacchoro?” Talia asks, an equally exasperated and incredulous edge to her tone. Derek just chuckles, throwing his hands up in surrender.

“Oh no… I’m not getting caught in this. Besides, I have to meet up with the guys anyways.” He tosses his schoolbag on the couch, dangerously close to Peter – who hisses under his breath – and ignores the pointed looks his mother and sister send him. “See ya, mom! Good luck, Cor!”

“…stop snarling at me, Peter.” And walks out, slamming the door again.

She rolls her eyes — he’s absolutely useless, as usual.

“Mom-“ Talia interrupts her, holding up a hand.

“You’re grounded, mi corazón. End of discussion.”

“But I have soccer this weekend-!” Cora waves her arms, face burning but Talia just shushes her again.

“No arguments. Go to your room.” She growls, fuming as she stormed upstairs. And after waiting for all of three minutes, leaps out the window and running for the main road.

Run, run, keep running!

It feels good to stretch her legs, without having slow down for the human kids. It’s just her, the forest and the wind whipping her hair around. She keeps at it until her calves pleasantly sting and she’s panting.

Maybe I should get home — it’s getting pretty late, and mom is only going to get angrier then. It’ll be worse if dad gets there before me.

The route back to Hale House isn’t an actual path, per say, but every wolf in Beacon Hills knows it by heart. Of course they did: Talia Hale was the Alpha, after all. Any time one of the packs from out of town, they had to come and pay their respects to the leader. In its own way, it’s pretty beaten down — the kind of minor differences that only a wolf could discern.

“Burn, baby, burn!” She hears someone yell, laughing, and the sheer malice that accompany the words stop her in her tracks. Someone else nervously skitters about, and someone else has already started running away.

“M-miss, we need to leave.” She hears him speak softly – is someone… groaning in the background? — while the woman who was laughing slowly calms down to a few chuckles. Cora stumbles forward, carefully and quietly, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. “T-the police are probably on their way already.”

“Right, right, heh heh.” Finally, Cora can place that voice, the voice that would haunt her nightmares for years to come. Kate, that girl that used to hang out with Derek. Her blood runs cold in her veins as that smell fills her nostrils, and she has to clench her jaw to keep from her lips quivering, the sob from escaping as her imagination turns on her.

She almost trips and falls directly into the light when she makes it to the clearing she called home, feeling like someone punched a hole into her chest and squeezed as she watches the flames rage.

The other guy has fled, and now it’s just Kate and some hunters behind her, lounging against their cars, talking and laughing like they’re at a picnic, watching fireworks instead of her family burning.

She slaps her hand to her mouth, tears flooding from her eyes. Her legs shake, and all she wants to do is scream, to fall and cry for her mother, whose blackened body is in their main doorway, reaching outwards.

The pain and fear still hang in the air, even though her family is dead, mingling with her own. She thinks she can hear someone’s wretched heaving, but that might be just her. She can’t feel anyone, all of her pack bonds are shattered, what should she do, what should she do-?

“Hey!” Her heart stops and she scrambled away, feeling like her head was going to explode. “Did you see something there?”

Run, run, keep running!

Her lungs are about to tear apart as she sprints away at full speed, checking over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t chasing.

Coward. You’re leaving them behind, you left them alone, you should’ve been there-

You should’ve been with them.

She shakes her head, sobbing but never stopping. No, just keep running, get away, survive.

It’s an odd feeling, she’d notice later through the numbness of grief — in the guest room of her mother’s friend Satomi, who found her feral and out of her mind in the next town over and whisked her to safety, wherever — the feeling of letting go, of letting your humanity slip and your primal, base instincts take over. Satomi said it was natural for a wolf her age, especially after the trauma she’d faced.

Cora wasn’t particularly complaining. Those instincts were what allowed her to survive for a week in the wild, scavenging, hunting, escaping. Still, she couldn’t get rid of that little voice in her head, relatively quiet compared to the screaming loss inside but consistently agonizing, that insisted that she was only a coward who cared about her own skin, a coward that left her family when they needed her most.

A coward who had a fight with her mom. Who didn’t even bother to say goodbye to her father that morning. Who was fighting with Laura over a board game instead of telling her she’d miss her when she went back to college. Who, in her last time at home, wrote a note to Derek to inform him she was going for a run that addressed him as “Jerkwad.”

She presses the pillow to her face and wails.

taglist (tell me if you want to be removed or added): @catxsnow @i-lovehufflepuff3000 @theconfusedpansexualbitch @lesbian-arsonists-united @brooklynnboys @nannna003 @capttain-emo @klutzydelusionprincess @victoriagraeca @fuzzycookietacopeach @emma-for-now @disnerd262 @sheimagineddragons

#cora hale #teen wolf #hale fire #peter hale #derek hale #talia hale #laura hale #papa hale #gabiwrites #jason todd x cora hale #jayra #don’t worry our boy Jason’s getting his own bout of angst next #would a Jason Todd fic be a Jason Todd fic without getting into his traumatizing death at the hands of a psycho clown? No #no it would not #i’ll make up for it later I promise

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deans-haunted-baby · 4 years

Text

The Last Rites

*So, many fans including myself were unhappy with Adam Milligan and Michael’s exits out of Supernatural. This is my fix-it or at least my interpretation of what happened after 15x19 and 15x20. Enjoy!*

Summery: Chuck now human is a bitter bin collector and part-time serial killer stalking his latest victim. Little does he know that the dynamic human vessel/archangel duo Michael and Adam have been stalking him.

"Damn that Sam and Dean and that little brat for making me human! But I'll get the last laugh," he says as he makes his rounds and choosing his latest victim. Plotting all the terrible things he plans on doing to the Winchesters. “I’ll get them all for this!”

As Chuck follows this person out to their car in the middle of the night, knife in hand. All off a sudden he hears wings flapping and turns around in horror. His eyes bug out when he sees a figure standing before him in the shadows.

"W-who's there?"

Michael/Adam step out of the darkness wearing a "surprise-bitch" look on their face: "Hello...father" by the darkness of his ton Chuck knows his son hadn't forgotten the last time they saw each other. By that lakeside where he'd killed him for helping the Winchesters.

"No i-its impossible... You're dead I killed you. You should be in the Empty."

Michael hesitantly shakes his head. "Not anymore."

"How?"

"Let's just say I made bail thanks to my nephew and Castiel as they needed my assistance in Heaven's rehabilitation. And I humbly obliged."

"Castiel? He's alive too?! And you're working for them?! Why? That little brat took my power!" Chuck screams in anguish. "NO you both should be suffering in the Empty for all eternity!"

Michael/Adam looks at his hands flexing them into fists. Recalling the last second he drew breath being smited by his father. Regretting his decision to ever forsake his duty for humanity for his father. And his anger burns like acid.

"After what you did to me the last time we spoke...all I've cherished was this moment," the archangel Prince darkly replies. Adam's soul quietly astral-projected is in the background roots on his buddy. "Jack and Castiel offered me a chance to atone myself for wrongly choosing you over that which I’ve swore an oath to protect. That I could leave the Empty and reclaim my throne in Heaven if I stayed on Earth and helped the Winchesters clean up your mess."

Chuck glares "So you're their bitchboy now? Ha, pathetic." He chortled in his throat. "I always knew you were weak, Michael. Being in that cage all those years with Sam and Dean's forgotten little bro has made you soft."

Michael's cheeks throb angrily. But he maintains his restraint. "Oh I'm not doing this for them," he reveals; stepping a little closer to his father. Shoulders squared. "Being stuck on Earth is also my punishment. But I've accepted it...I deserve my fate...just as you deserve yours right now."

Chuck then scrutinizes his son suspiciously. Looking from the archangel's fists to the face of his vessel Adam.

"What so you're like an archangel superhero now?" He can't contain a laugh. "Wow those Winchesters must be really desperate to resort to sending you here instead of facing me themselves."

Michael shook his head. "As I've already stated...I'm not here for them, he says. "The one called Dean, my original sword, has already fallen in battle and has inherited his place in my nephew's paradise. And his brother Sam sought out his other brother Adam, my chosen vessel. They've been working together ever since."

"And that's when Jack sent you."

“Yes."

"Dammit!,” Chuck swears this wasn't suppose to happen. If he killed a Winchester in his story the other brother left alive was suppose to take his own life in grief. No this couldn't be happening. They changed his ending AGAIN. "THIS WASN'T THE ENDING I PLANNED! I DIDN'T WRITE THIS!"

Michael cocks his head sideways; basking in his father's frustration. It was music to his ears. Then he's serious; raising his hand and forwarding his palm in a power-up.

"Your reign if tyranny is over father. You will not be scribing another's fate ever again. Not while I'm around."

At that Chuck's face is ghostly white. "Wait, what are you doing?" He puts up his hands submissively. "I'm human now, you can't just smite me. I'm part of the humanity that I created for you to protect!"

"Oh you don't have any rights here," growls the archangel sternly. "You gave up those privileges when you chose to use your newfound humanity to blindly murder others. Your arrogance and hatred for mankind was your own undoing. And now your death shall be your punishment, father."

Chuck trembling now resorts to begging for his son's mercy. "Michael, wait son we can talk about this." He showcases a nervous smile. "We can still make this right."

"No we can't." Michael scoffs. "The centuries of my allegiance to you have also perished. And I've wanted nothing more than to watch you beg forgiveness as you draw your last breath."

"Wait please show your father mercy, my son! Please!"

"Like the mercy you demonstrated to me that day by the lake shore?"

Chuck nodded still keeping his hands up. Okay so Michael was still pissed about that. "Fine you're right that was a mistake. I should've never hurt you like that. I was wrong and I see that now."

Michael's expression is smug, giving a mild throat chuckle. Then his cold expression shifts into anguish. "I hate myself for ever believing in you and turning my back on humanity. I will never be able to forgive myself for making that choice. For allowing you, Lucifer and my devotion to you to manipulate me from doing what was right."

"This doesn't have to get ugly Michael, we can still talk this out." Chuck begs. “Come on, what do ya say?”

"No we're done talking father." Michael's eyes glow like silvery blue light.

Chuck back peddles "Wait j-just give me another chance. I can prove to you I'll change I will."

Michael chuckles darkly, "Like the chance you were about to give that civilian you were following just now? Or the others you’ve murdered since?"

He eyes the knife in his father's hand. Suddenly Chuck realizes this and impulsively drops it onto the pavement.

"No, this isn’t what it looks like. I-I wasn't going to hurt anyone else. I swear!"

"You'll never learn will you father," Michael shrugs apathetically. "It's a shame. You were given a gift by your own flesh and blood and you've squandered it."

"WAIT MICHAEL, PLEASE LET'S JUST TALK ABOUT THIS!"

No, no the archangel Prince was done talking. He'd said all he needed to say and with that throws Chuck's own last words to him right back in the short man's face.

"SAVE IT!" smiting him instantly on the spot. Blasting his father in a blinding light, erasing him from existence. When the dust settles Michael eases his tense shoulders releasing a sharp intake of breath.

Adam's projected soul then takes it upon himself to console his friend. Who is clearly bitter about destroying his own father even if he was an evil bastard.

"You did the right thing you know," the pre-med student/hunter in training reassures him. "Your dad would've killed that person if you hadn't intervened."

But Michael doesn't want to hear it. "I didn't do this for that person. I did it out of my own volition. I wanted my father to pay for what he'd done to me and my broken vow."

"It still doesn't change the fact that you saved someone tonight, Michael,” Adam insists. “And you proved that you can be better than Chuck ever was."

Michael frowns lowering his gaze to the ground melancholically.

"Or maybe I've just demonstrated that I am no better than him. I betrayed my sworn oath," the archangel squeezes his fist tightly. Putting all his anger into that hand. "And for that transgression alone I shall never be redeemed."

Adam recognizing the sadness in Michael's expression, throws his celestial pal a genuine smile, kneading his shoulder. "There's always redemption for all of us," he says gently. "I believe my brothers were capable of that, even if they never cared about me. Knowing you and even getting to know Sam has taught me so much more about myself, my family and what I'm meant to do with my life."

"What like being a hero?"

"Yah and it's kinda cool I get to kick some ass with an archangel."

"So, you want to honor your family. Despite what fate they'd left you to."

Adam shook his head. "Sam and Dean were far from perfect. I don't think I'll ever fully forgive them for what happened," he reveals. "BUT I think it changed me for the better. I got to become friends with Heavens MVP and I care about their cause now. They wanted to protect the world from evil and that's what I want to do. It's not about honoring the Winchester's legacy I want to do some good in this world. And you know what...I think you do too."

The archangel smiled to himself. "Well I did get some amusement out of watching my father squirm," He says lightly then adds. "Alright kid, you win. We shall continue our eternal quest for justice."

"Good, but we can continue that quest another night," the pre-med checks his wristwatch. "I gotta get some rest I have classes in the morning."

Michael scrutinized Adam. "You do know that you no longer require rest now that I've possessed this vessel or has that notion escaped you?"

“Oh yah I forgot," Adam laughs. "I guess I won't be needing sleep anytime soon then. Let's go home anyway I want to check out the bunker some more. Find any hidden passages or something."

"As you wish. I imagine your canine companion is also getting famished without us around to feed it."

A light bulb went off in his head. Right Sam and Dean's dog Miracle was in his care now. He loved that scruffy mutt even if he did drool a lot. Time to get home.

"Miracle, okay we gotta get home stat!"

And with that Michael flew back to the bunker.

#adam milligan #supernatural #midam #michael the archangel #Archangel Michael #chuck shurley #SPN #adam x michael #michael x adam #spn one shot #spn fix-it #spn fanfic #chuck god #spn spoilers #supernatural season 15

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spinelwritings · 4 years

Note

Hi ! I wanted to say that you are amazing and I wanted to ask if you could do a yandere spinel x reader?

Well, this was fun! I’ve never written a yandere character before, so I hope I did a good job.

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

When you first met Spinel, you thought she was just the sweetest thing.

You had met her at a BBQ the small town of Beach City was throwing. You had only just moved there and, despite preferring to stay away from parties, ended up deciding that it was the best place to meet your new neighbors.

You could see the crowd gathered on the beach from a distance, your anxiety climbing the closer you got. Your shoulders tensed and you shoved your shaking hands into your jacket pockets. You stopped, taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly. You could do this. You just needed to jump in.

“Hey!”

You jumped out of your skin at the sudden voice behind you and whipped around. The girl jumped at your sudden movement, taking a step back and looking very nervous. You relaxed slightly when you saw it was just a girl, offering an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, you scared me a bit.”

The girl smiled at you and you had to admit, she was kinda cute with her big pink eyes and pigtails and upside-down heart gemstone in the middle of her chest. She must be one of those Gems you’ve heard about.

“Whatcha’ doin’ all the way over here? The party’s over there!”

She pointed at the crowded beach, arm stretching farther then what was probably necessary. It sounded like a rubber balloon and the thought made you giggle.

“Yeah, I’m just prepping myself a bit is all. I’ll go over there when I’m ready.”

She stared at you for a moment, head tilted slightly as she thought something over. Then she smiled again.

“Okay, can I stand with you then? I … don’t really want to jump into the crowd just yet.”

You shrugged, but that seemed to be enough for the pink gem. You passed a few minutes in comfortable silence before you let out a long sigh.

“I hate crowds.”

The gem next to you hummed.

“Me too.” She paused a moment, then smiled up at you again. “Why don’t we just help each other. We go in together and if anyone of us wants to get out, the other will help give an excuse or something.”

You snickered.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s jump in.”

She nodded, linking her arm with yours and almost dragging you to the beach.

As it turns out, the people of Beach City are really nice! Everyone greeted the two of you with smiles and kind words. You found yourself actually enjoying yourself quite a lot. And the whole time you wandered through the crowd, eating, playing games, and talking with those around you, the little pink gem followed close behind, her laughter and smile never far.

Towards the end of the night, an odd group decided to introduce themselves to you. They called themselves the Crystal Gems. They were all just as friendly as everyone else and they seemed to know the pink gem that was clinging to your arm. They called her Spinel and they all acted a bit … off around her like they were walking on eggshells or something. It irritated you, but you tried not to show it.

At one point, Steven asked you to help him get some drinks for everybody. Spinel tried to help, too, but Steven insisted that it was fine, two people was enough. She frowned.

“We’ll be right back!” She watched you as you left. You could feel her eyes on your back, even through the crowd of people.

“So, you and Spinel seemed to be getting along,” Steven said, a bit chipper than was natural.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I just, umm…” Steven paused, then continued in a hushed tone. “Just be careful with her, okay? She’s still trying to get better after a lot of trauma and I don’t know how stable she is, you know?”

You grabbed some drinks, not looking at the teenager.

“Thanks for the warning, I think I can handle it.”

Steven looked doubtful.

“I don’t know, she can be … a handful.”

You walked away, waving and giving an unconvincing thank you. Spinel smiled wide and bright when you showed back up with the drinks and handed them out, Steven following behind you. For just a moment, you saw an odd expression cross the gem’s face, but it flashed by far too fast for you to interpret what it meant.

As the night came to an end, you said your goodbyes and tried to walk away, but you found Spinel clinging to your arm once more, looking up at you with her big pink eyes.

“Will I get to see you again?”

You smiled at her and shrugged.

“Probably. It is a pretty small town.”

That seemed to be enough for her. She let you go with a hesitant smile and you went home.

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

You saw Spinel a lot after that. It seemed that, wherever you went in town, the gem was somewhere nearby. At first, you decided it was just a series of pleasant coincidences. She was just going for a walk on the beach like you, or she was just playing in the arcade. And you did enjoy her company. She made you laugh and she had the prettiest smile. You didn’t mind spending time with her when she did happen to show up, even if it was so often.

The first time she started making you nervous was when you were grocery shopping. She seemed to pop out of nowhere and made you jump. She just giggled, hanging off of your cart playfully. You forced a smile on your face and tried to have a decent conversation but something felt off about the whole situation. Hadn’t you heard that gems didn’t need to eat? Why would she be in a grocery store? But then, she could just be getting snacks for someone else or maybe just picking up some small things like batteries that the store also had.

But then she left the store with you, not a thing in her hands.

You tried avoiding her more after that. Your mind told you that there was no reason for it, that Spinel hadn’t done anything wrong. It’s not like she attempted to hurt you in any way. But your gut told you something was off and you didn’t want her around, at least not at much.

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

You decided that it would be safe to spend some time outside if it was the dead of the night. So, you snuck out well past midnight and went for a walk on the beach.

It was quiet, almost unnervingly so. You had spent nearly a week indoors by yourself, the silence wasn’t something you were lacking. Luckily, as you got closer to the beach you could hear the crash of the waves and that was enough, at least for now.

The only light came from the lighthouse, constantly spinning in the distance, but the moon was full and bright and that was enough to light your way. It was nice.

You decided to settle by one of the stray boulder’s, leaning against its rough surface and closing your eyes with a sigh. For one solitary moment, you were content and happy.

Unfortunately, that moment didn’t last long.

You heard the faint crunching of footsteps on the sand and your brows furrowed. The footsteps only got louder. It took a moment for your mind to process what it meant, but when it did your heart sank. A moment later you heard a familiar voice.

“Where’ve ya been, Doll?”

You tried not to flinch at the sweet tone, turning to her with a forced smile. Sure enough, there was Spinel, a sickly sweet smile on her face.

“Oh, hi, uh… I’ve just … been… sick! Yeah, I haven’t been feeling well, so I stayed home.”

Spinel was by your side in an instant, sitting in the sand with a soft thud.

“Are you feeling better now?” She asked, face far too close to yours. You leaned away, smile faltering slightly.

“Yeah, I’m a bit better.”

“Good.”

She wrapped her arms around you, over and over, smiling as she trapped you in her grip. It was suffocating.

“I really missed ya, Doll. Let’s not spend so much time apart again, okay?”

“Uhhh….”

But she didn’t wait for a response from you before jumping to her feet, all energy. It made you feel exhausted.

“Let’s go do something fun! We can go swimming, play a game, what’re ya in the mood for.”

“Actually, I need to sleep. You know, do human stuff.”

You forced a laugh, pretending you didn’t see how Spinel stiffened, smile forcing itself on her face, her eyes seeming to darken slightly.

“I guess that’s okay. I’ll just see ya in the morning then, right?”

You didn’t answer, just got up and all but fled the beach.

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

You were starting to get really scared of the small pink gem. Now she was showing up in your apartment, always greeting you with a smile and cheery “Heya!” She must have followed you that night you ran home from the beach. You tried constantly to shake her off, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer and the last thing you wanted was to get her mad. You knew how strong gems are, even the smallest ones, and if you got into a fight she could so easily kill you.

So you planned on leaving Beach City.

You had a friend from out of town, Charly, that was willing to help and your parents said you could stay at their place. All you had to do was find some way to leave Spinel without her getting suspicious of anything.

Unfortunately, your options were very limited. She didn’t sleep, get tired, or hungry. She had no reason to leave your side. The only time you really could get away was when you went to the bathroom or showered. It had a small window that could open and your apartment was on the first floor, you just had to force yourself to fit.

You tried not to eat. You told yourself it was only for a little while, just a week or two until you could fit through the tiny spot.

You told Charly everything and he waited in town, ready to come collect you when it was time. Now, you just had to wait.

Your moment came a little over a week later. You had managed to lose a lot of weight and, earlier in the day, you had managed to fit yourself through the small window. You told Charly to pick you up that night, making sure he knew to park on the end of the street so Spinel would not see him.

When you went to take your shower that night, you snuck in your backpack with you, already packed and ready to go. You had no plans to come back for anything else in that apartment. You could hear Spinel wandering around as you dropped your stuff by the window. You turned on the shower. It usually took you some time to shower, so you should half almost half an hour to leave and get as far away as possible.

You quietly put the backpack on your back and went to open the window, escape so close.

The window wouldn’t open.

Panic clawed up your throat and you wanted to throw up. You went to grab your phone, but it wasn’t in the pocket where you put it. You went back to the window, desperately trying to pry it open, tears starting to well up in your eyes. Your mind refused to work, panic frying whatever working circuits you had left.

You had no idea how much time had passed when you heard a knock on the bathroom door, that sickeningly sweet voice echoing in your head.

“You okay in there, Doll?”

You didn’t answer, sliding down the wall as the situation settled in your mind. The knocking was jarring, like nails being driven in your head.

“Come out, pudding!~ We’ve gotta talk!~”

You put your arms over your ears, trying to block out the voice and knocking.

The bathroom door opened with the sound of splintering wood, the lock clattering to the floor, and you froze. Spinel smiled at you, cold and menacing, bright magenta eyes glaring down at you, spirling with insanity.

Her hands were soaked in blood and in one of them, she clutched your phone.

#spinel x reader #yandere!spinel #yandere!au #yandere!spinel x reader #spinel x male!reader #spinel x fem!reader #spinel x gender neutral reader #TW blood #TW stalking #TW stalking behavior #angst #dark #spinelwritings

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meetevieinthehallway · 5 years

Text

stop thinking so much.

in which harry teaches english and some poetry is hard to pick apart.

quotes in quotations and italics: William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

he’s studied for this.

god knows this is what he is destined to know— how to take the meek twenty-six letters of the english alphabet and craft them into phrases and words that will convey and pull out human emotion.

although difficult, he spent years of education learning how to decipher literature, how to create reactions from it, how to respond to it.

and now he’s gobsmacked.

they never taught him this—

how to react to this type of poetry—

one with a beating heart and piercing eyes and the most beautiful fucking smile he has ever seen.

harry has never been good with girls.

he was always an awkward, shyer guy: one with a few close friends and a happy family; but who would much rather sit under his backyard oak tree and write than go to a party he wouldn’t even remember the next day. he preferred quiet and isolation and by no means was he a sad, lonely kid with no friends— just wasn’t very social and liked a few people here and there but never took initiative.

he still doesn’t truly know how to talk to people that he likes.

he gets very nervous and tentative— there’s a crippling anxiety in the back of his head that they already don’t like him when he’s barely said hello. he lacks arrogance, but he believes he’s... decent looking? right? (and he knows he would treat any person he loves like a royal.)

that’s why he chose books and that’s why he chose poems.

for the personal interpretations— because he can read a love story and place himself in the roles and live out a dream that can be tucked away later and be kept secretive.

but he finally decided to show himself and he went to school for this—to teach kids how to let words move them—but somehow between the sonnets and voltas and haikus his professors never taught him what to do when he couldn’t decipher a piece— what to do if pieces left you speechless.

because there’s the word pink painted on her lips and there’s songs written in the webbing of her irises and he wants to drown in the melodies that consume her features.

but he fears saying something wrong.

those meek twenty-six letters seem intimidating now; he can’t even conjure up an idea for a simple conversation when he sees her smile and hears her laugh and hears her talk and he thinks his mind has regressed back to when he was an awkward, stuttering mess of a teenager.

the pair has had good conversations in the months she’s been in the faculty and in the room across from harry’s, but after they happen he is left with a doubtful mind and a stomach of chaos that drags him down the rest of the day. it’s swirls and spirals of insecurities and messy script as he scrawls in his journal just to put his thoughts somewhere— a place where they’re safe in a book and where he can reread the conversation and try to correct any flaws for the next time he speaks to her.

it’s more studying and more deciphering and more interpreting like how he’s learned but this time it’s his own mind and they never taught him this.

the first time he met her— oh god no. he still cringes thinking about it, and that was months ago but it’s stuck with him as if the moment is glued to his forehead for all to see and humiliate him with.

he was so terribly stunned by her beauty and by her radiance when she popped her head in his doorway as he was hanging up trim around his bulletin board.

hi!

he turned his head and he seemed to be reacting to a glowing sun as he drank her in.

i’m the new math teacher...

his lips parted and he only stared at her as her voice carried on and started to muffle itself in his ears. he’s staring at her like a fucking lunatic— not listening and only looking and he realizes later that he probably seemed so disrespectful.

she had finished her introduction with a cute smile but a blush rose to her cheeks when he stayed standing there in complete shock.

sorry did i.. startle you? i’m sorry—

no! no no i just—

somehow the shake in her voice threw him off and he stumbled to get down the ladder, tripping and hitting his forehead on the third step.

ow, shit.

oh no! are you okay?

he can’t think about it, and he doesn’t want to.

basically, to sum it up, it was a mess of his flailing limbs and a stuttering voice and a shaky, sweaty hand in a too-long handshake and long story short he made a fucking fool of himself.

harry is embarrassed.

yeah he can’t talk to people he likes or finds attractive but at the end of the day he’s so in touch with his emotions that they embody him— and then he believes someone will outwardly observe them.

he can’t conjure up another word to express how difficult this all is.

maybe the word is “hopeless”.

“thinking of your crush?”

he jumps.

his hand slams to his desk because it feels like he’s leaning forward— the thump of his palm aiding in his jump out of his own mind.

he’s snapped out of his daydream—more like a nightmare as he relives their first ever encounter—and his head shoots up at the sound of a voice in the doorway of his classroom.

he frowns when he sees blue eyes and a playful smirk and registers the tone of voice.

harry looks down and shakes his head, eyes searching for his pen and moving to grasp it between his fingers.

“what do you need, niall?” he grumbles it as he blushes and continues to grade endless pages of essays and words that all begin to blur together.

“wow, not even denying it this time, mate?”

harry frowns and closes his eyes before his fingers come up to scrub at his eyelids. “stop it. i don’t have time for this.”

niall smirks and pads into his classroom, pulling up a chair nearby and dragging it in front of harry’s desk.

“c’mon, mate.” he turns his chair backwards and straddles it, his elbows falling to the back of the chair. he’s staring at his colleauge with narrowed eyes as his chin falls atop of his elbows and harry looks up at him with unimpressed eyes, half rolling them before they settle on him. “haven’t seen you get laid in a while. and i know you fancy the pretty bird across the hallway—”

“don’t call her bird.”

niall smirks.

harry blushes.

“i know you fancy someone,” he corrects himself in a sing-songy way and harry rolls his eyes in full, placing his pen down. “and she is a proper cutie— you should ask her out! hasn’t it been like— months?”

“something like that.” he sighs.

“so ask her!”

he only shakes his head, and niall frowns.

“no?”

“no.”

he huffs. “why not?”

“dunno just—” he shrugs and looks away, his pen in his hand forgotten, “isn’t that like… weird?”

niall furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head shortly, “why would that be weird?”

“dunno. feels like…— juvenile.”

juvenile.

adjective.

of, for, or relating to young people.

and that’s the thing.

if he’s going to ask her out he needs to do it like an adult— a functioning one. but how can he function when she smiles at him like that when he holds the door open for her every morning because they walk in at the same time and— what— it’s not like he intentionally arrives ten minutes early and pretends he just arrived right when she pulls in just so he could see that fucking smile—

juvenile.

it’s exactly how he acts when it comes to her— like a prepubescent teen who gets blushy and flustered at the simplest thing she does.

“...asking somebody out is juvenile?” niall raises his eyebrows.

harry shakes himself from his daze, “not..—” he looks up and shakes his head, “i don’t know, i guess i just... don’t want to be rejected.”

“so you mean you’re juvenile?”

harry’s face turns red and he looks up at his friend with a glaring gaze, “hey.”

“c’mon mate,” niall laughs at his flustered appearance, “you two talk all the time! she definitely fancies you—”

“dunno just—...” he shrugs and looks away. “don’t think she likes me like that.” he rubs his eye again. “said it yourself: she’s cute and pretty and funny and i’m all—...not..that.”

niall huffs. “she likes you, h.”

“dunno.”

“c’mon! she’s always trying t’talk to you! you’re just... shy and... nervous—”

“hi!”

niall halts and harry’s eyes widen and niall twists and harry looks up and across the room.

“i’m going on a coffee run, do you... do either of you want anything?”

harry freezes.

because the beautiful woman that’s been plaguing his thought process is peaking her cute little face between the trim of his doorway with a soft smile and gently asking if he wants coffee, and it seems—and he prays—that she only originally planned on asking him and that—

“i’m set, love. had a cup about an hour ago.”

niall speaks.

harry forgets how.

and then niall—niall this fucking bastard of a friend—turns his body back to harry and gives him a suggestive smirk.

harry’s eyes meet his and he silently sends him a don’t you fucking dare with his pupils.

but no, niall is a little shit who truly only wants good for his two colleagues, so he says clearly—

“you want anything, harry? know you mentioned wanting a tea or summat.”

and he smirks.

harry’s soul dies a bit.

“oh!” she says it from the doorway and harry’s eyes flicker towards her, “i can grab you a tea—”

“actually,” niall interjects, “harry— thought you said you were running out to get it in a few minutes or so...”

another smirk.

another sinking feeling.

“oh! are you still going to go? i was going to get it for whoever wants it but if you planned to then—...”

another taste at that melodious voice from the doorway.

harry swallows, “it’s up to you.” he murmurs, “i can run out for everyone if you’re busy or—”

“or you guys should go together!”

harry really fucking hates niall.

all harry sees when he looks up is her own blinking eyes, staring and wide and he can’t tell if they look more terrified or more of a fuck-to-the-no kind of gaze.

he hates both options.

“o-oh.” she murmurs, and a blush spreads across her nose and a smile plants itself on her lips, “um, we can do that!... if that’s... if you wanna, harry.”

every time she says his name he forgets it for a moment.

she’s grinning at him but despite her bubbliness she looks a bit hesitant, and harry can see niall’s head turn out of the corner of his eye and green eyes meet blue ones that are twinkling—

niall is staring at him now with a questioning, stern gaze and a go for it, dammit, kind of look and harry’s blood is thrumming and his head is spinning and—

“we can... yeah, go together.”

—

harry’s mom used to tell him he was wasting away a part of himself and his life.

she didn’t say it in a mean way—more of an attemped constructive one—because she would run her fingers through the top of his curls as she said it, with a delicate smile on her cheeks.

my love, your nose is always buried in a book.

and he would smile gently, as a young teen, and shake his head. is that so bad?

and she’d only sigh sadly with that same smile and shake her head, murmuring i suppose not.

that’s the first time harry felt that he was different.

and as a twelve year old, you don’t think that you want to be different.

because anne was right— he’d much rather spend his days in between lines of writing than strain his eyes watching idiotic cartoons like his classmates were. (he used to say that he’d rather picture and process characters his own way instead of seeing visuals already established for him and his sister would make fun of him for it and that’s when he felt that he was different). he realized that he couldn’t always connect with kids his age—he was always a level of maturity ahead than the rest, it seemed—and that he’d much rather wrap himself in some sort of fantasy with dragons and fairies and wizards and even just ordinary people than play video games or go drinking.

somehow, sometimes, the people in books were better than real ones.

he learned that along the way as well.

because the girlfriends he had didn’t understand him in the way he hoped; some were judgmental who just couldn’t fathom wanting to sit in and read by the windowsill instead of going partying at frat houses.

he wasn’t antisocial! he just wanted at least a couple hours a week to absorb himself into his books and he didn’t always want to just go partying like his girlfriends did.

harry was distraught when his third girlfriend broke up with him for the same reason they all had.

when she explained that her friends were mocking her for dating a ‘straight up nerd’ who was boring and ‘couldn’t hang’ and she said it all while looking away from him because she was embarrassed in explaining why he was embarrassing.

irony.

that night he read romeo and juliet for the seventeenth time in his life, crying onto his pages that he had fingered through so many times— his teardrops bleeding the inked words into each other as he flipped through quickly because her words had somehow carved so deep into his chest that he couldn’t focus or breathe and all of the words and plot had blended together—

“Here's to my love! O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.”

somehow harry was searching for answers in a crafted tragedy where he knew there’d be no solution.

because he didn’t reside in a fantasy world that he had made himself believe he was a part of— this was real life, reality, and for so long it’s almost like he forgot that.

“Oh, happy dagger, this is thy sheath. There rust, and let me die.”

he genuinely didn't admire his love for reading anymore.

but it was all he knew.

from that point in his life, at the age of nineteen, he decided to focus on school and books and poems instead of girls.

“Don't waste your love on somebody, who doesn't value it.”

it was easier this way.

someone out there is right for you, harry, i promise.

but his mother had said those words with the same sad smile she wore on that day that she told him he couldn’t lift his head from a book’s spine, and he only wiped at his cheek and nodded with his eyes casted down and his hands folded in his lap.

and as much as he felt that his mom was right—that books were wasting his life and his time—he let himself get lost in them.

it’s all he knew.

there was a period of time where harry wouldn’t really sleep or rest—he would study and annotate and enjoy and laugh and cry at words all night—and he had permanent indentations in his fingers where he would hold a book up to his view as he was doing anything, really.

harry let himself get twisted in romance and life and loss and he meandered through shakespeare and poe and bishop and auden and plath for long stretches of time before he’d fall asleep with words painted under his lips as he dreamed.

he finished romeo and juliet for the twenty-fifth time the night before the beautiful math teacher popped her head in the door, and when he slammed his head on the rung of the ladder it felt all too nostalgic to the feeling of his forehead hitting the pages as he crashed on the top of his desk.

and suddenly it felt like every line of poetry and every beat of iambic pentameter and every voltra in all the italian sonnets was irrelevant, unnecessary, and now he believes his mother was right after all these years—

that he’s wasted his time away.

he doesn't have to read and write and draft and interpret her, this type of poetry— how the webbings of her eyes are soft and how the upturn of her lips creates a stampede of his blood through his veins. because it’s already there for him to admire: this beautiful face and soul and aura and he doesn’t need to delve deep into knowing her to comprehend how utterly beautiful she is.

he’s wasted his time away seeking the words of others and not looking for it right in front of him. this— she is the first time in his life he is unable to say something calculated, something purely crafted, because he doesn't think that he has ever encountered anybody like her.

harry hopes he isn’t wasting his own time anymore— or hers. he doesn’t want to drag out something already dead—or something not even alive to begin with—and he doesn’t want his feelings to overdevelop themselves.

the last thing he wants is to scare her, trouble her.

because yes— she’s been so impossibly sweet to him, but that doesn’t mean that she admires him in the same way.

and now they’re walking side-by-side and harry can smell her perfume as it floats his way to his nose and he feels like an absolute creep for falling in love with it immediately but—

she’s looking around at all the autumn leaves and murmuring how pretty they are and she’s smiling at all the dogs they pass on the sidewalk.

oh, god.

he thinks his heart is going to explode— it’s pulsing and throbbing and he has to look away before he blurts out about how unbelievably cute she is.

the air is brisk— it’s cool and the breeze is slapping his cheeks and it’s helping him take his focus off of her and the way she’s grinning at the sunshine. this is the first time that they’ve ever spent any time together outside school grounds; he feels like an idiot that it’s making his heart giddy because it’s only to the coffee place down the block.

just say something, anything, h, c’mon.

“so... math, huh?”

... yikes.

idiot. idiot. idiot.

one of the first real chances he gets with the girl he fancies and he acts like a complete idiot.

who the fuck says that to start a conversation?!

that’s what he decides to say to her after he chokes on the gentle breeze that is blowing her hair back and away from her face, the sun hitting her skin and illuminating her smile.

he’s had training in words and syntax and poems and novels and somehow he can’t even fucking talk to her like a normal guy— and the minute the words leave his lips he’s already cringing at the awkwardness they hold.

but she doesn’t hear him fully— and it makes the pause after his question that much worse because she looks at him with a puzzled expression.

“sorry?”

and he swallows and somehow with this sudden second chance for rephrasing or asking a different question he asks the same fucking one.

“you chose math to teach.”

no shit she did, harry. she teaches algebra to sophomores.

“yeah!”

but she grins that amazing smile and his heart stutters and he has to clear his throat when she...—

when she adorably is stepping on the leaves that have fallen and giggling when they crunch under her feet and harry has a hard time swallowing because his brain can’t decide if she’s real as he gazes down on her.

she is like how authors describe their novels’ love interest.

a hop in her step and a smile on her face and the cutest, sweetest disposition; but there’s still that unattainable element that harry can’t decipher.

but it’s there.

maybe it’s the mentality of a novel’s insecure protagonist— that she’s too pretty or well-liked or too different in relation to him and he seriously can’t decipher it but he can feel the strain on his heart because he knows that it’s still drawing him in.

“why math?”

and that’s all his years of studying and degrees have brought him to.

and she blushes and giggles again and he’s shocked, and he can’t comprehend how she is so easily sweet and smiley to him: harry, this fucking disaster ever since she stepped through the door of the high school.

“i think it’s fun!” she’s giggling when she says it and his heart throbs a bit in his chest.

“hm,” he nods and looks at his shoes as they continue walking.

“ah,” she grins, “that’s the face of a man who loathes math.”

he actually lets out a small chuckle, a sheepish smile forming on his face. “sorry,” he winces, looking back to her, “not my strongest suit.”

“it’s okay,” she looks at him with a smirk, “i hated english growing up so,” she leans over and nudges him with her shoulder, “guess we’re even.”

a part of him breathes.

because she’s making jokes and making it casual and it’s lessening the intensity of the situation.

a part of him tenses and he feels the pressure of his blood rise.

because her loathing english is her loathing harry’s passion— the one thing that makes the lonely days not so lonely.

but she’s already so different than the others.

maybe she wouldn’t be like the others and wonder why the specific part of him is there, why it is relevant, why it is important to him. maybe if she hates english he can hope and pray she tolerates it, appreciates it, to some degree.

she seems different. please—please—let her be different.

“but do you know what’s interesting about them two?”

his eyebrows bunch in the middle and his eyes meet hers once again. “what?” he quirks a small smile in amusement.

“they both involve lots of calculation.”

he pauses, tilting his head and she meets his eyes and her heart stutters at how they glitter in this light.

“calculation?”

“calculation.”

“how so?”

“well—” their walks slow as they reach the cafe’s door and harry takes the handle, “thank you,” her cheeks bloom roses and harry grins sheepishly as he watches her step inside.

she turns and waits for him to step in himself, their eyes meeting and harry smiles gently when he notices the grin she’s giving him.

“you were saying?”

her eyes round in realization and they unfocus from the daze she acquired as she was looking at him. she shakes her head, “sorry,” she swallows. “well— if you think about it, it’s obvious that math has deciphering and solving, but so does literature!” she says it excitedly.

harry pauses to think about it.

he doesn’t remember the last time that someone who didn’t teach english spoke so excitedly about it.

“hm.” they step forward in line, “i’ve always kind of thought that— that math was more... ‘black and white’, right and wrong, and english and reading was more... colorful and... broad.”

“well english is a bit more interpretive than math, but not everything in reading and writing can—or should—be interpreted.”

he frowns, “i don’t know if i agree with you there.”

she grins at him, “no?”

he shakes his head. “reading is all about interpretation— that’s how other things are written: someone gets inspired from an understanding of one piece and—”

“so you believe it’s essential?”

she cuts him off. he’s taken aback.

there’s a unknown fire in her eyes and stretched out in her cheeks as her lips pull up; he doesn’t know if he should be trying to extinguish it or keep it live and powerful in front of him.

“i believe so.”

his posture straightens as he matches her smirk because fighting fire with fire only creates more intensity.

he’s not extinguishing her—this. not a chance.

“so you think i’m wrong?” she’s grinning impishly.

he falters. harry’s smirk weakens and he looks away for a split second to gather a response, “i—... no i just... don’t think i agree, that doesn’t mean—”

“you know why you don’t agree with me?”

he splutters, again, worse this time, his shoulders now being the ones to hesitate, “um...—”

“it’s because you—people who love reading and writing and poems and stories—are too busy interpreting to realize that not everything needs to be calculated. that’s kind of the funny thing about it.”

“i— what?...” he doesn’t know what he’s asking, “h-how do you mean?”

her eyes have left him but the smirk has remained; her body has turned more forward as she’s reading over the cafe’s menu list, feigning a lack of interest as she responds. “it’s not so... “to be or not to be”. it’s not if something can or cannot be interpreted,” she looks back to him with a knowing gaze. “it’s the question of if a piece must be deciphered and processed and thought out to understand it; is it necessary to do so for the piece to move you?”

he’s gobsmacked.

she’s radiating such intelligence and wisdom and he doesn’t know what to make of it— he doesn’t know how to respond and he’s staring at her in a wondrous way because she’s so different and interesting and to anyone else this conversation would seem so bizarre and confusing but—

“you can pick apart sonnets and equations in an equal fashion—to define them further and try to pick and prod at why this happens and what causes that— but... is there ever appreciation for just.. what it is?”

harry bites his lip and shrugs, “i mean— yeah, of course. but when you interpret something you’re making it your own and—”

“—i believe that some things are just the way they are and—...” she cuts him off with an impatient tone to her voice and a blush to her cheeks and she meets his eyes, “sometimes i think you should feel and stop thinking so much.”

it’s more than what she’s disguising it as.

he can tell— she falls quiet, then he falls quiet, eyes widened slightly and she bites her lip nervously. and harry feels her fingers brush his and he looks down on both of their hands sharply, like she has sent flames to lick at his skin.

their hands hang next to one another, cold and lonely like orbiting planets that will never attain in touching one another but there’s stardust between their fingers and—

his fingers twitch involuntarily—but was it really?—and his hand takes hers and then they are holding each other in such a simple way and his heart is trembling in his chest.

he hears her sigh but it’s not one of relief and his mind is going going going it’s whirring too fast and chasing after comprehension and it’s too overwhelming to process in real time real minute real moment— he’s thinking in metaphors and paradoxes and dualities and—

harry meets her eyes slowly.

“what did you say?”

she smiles shyly, tilting her head. “stop thinking so much.” she whispers it. there’s an unsure look to her eyes: questioning if this—all of this—is okay. “take chances.”

he smiles small.

then she cracks a larger smile but it’s still sheepish as both her hands move to grasp his one, “you may be surprised at how something so juvenile—”

she squeezes his hand and giggles and his eyes widen.

“—could be so great.”

he sighs in relief and his brain slows its spinning and he squeezes her fingers once in return, nodding as his smile grows.

she grins fully, a million stars in her eyes.

“you’re right.”

“Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.”

392 notes · View notes

justaghostingon · 4 years

Text

To Blindly Trust

Note: this is a dark interpretation of some of the lore drops Toon has given on the discord about Gyrus’s time period. I read about that utopia and thought, “That’s great, but let’s 1984 this shit.”

For as long as Gyrus could remember, all he’d ever wanted was to know the reason behind everything. He’d pester his Nannybot with questions over and over again. Why was the sky blue? Why did he have to eat this food? If his family’s citizenship was a yellow rank, why wasn’t their house yellow? Where did his shoes come from? Who made them? Why? Why? Why?

His Nannybot tried to answer as best she could, but she wasn’t programed for those kinds of questions. His parents would indulge him for a bit, but eventually they’d send him off with the words, “Because the Cerebrum says so.”

The only one who really seemed to have answers was the family’s ai. It would list off the answers to Gyrus’s many questions for hours on end in a flat voice as he sat before it on shaky toddler legs. But even it eventually gave the answer, “Because the Cerebrum chose so.”

“What is the Cerebrum?” He asked, to which the computer explained, “It is an ai beyond the capabilities of all other ai. It functions as the impartial judge and leader of the planetary collaboration. It alone can make the most important decisions because it alone holds no human bias.”

“Is bias bad?” Gyrus asked, trying to guess what bias meant from how the ai used it.

“Bad and Good are irrelevant terms for the Cerebrum. It knows only calculations and error. Bias causes error. It affects the human mind by making it weaker and unable to calculate correctly.”

“What kinds of errors?” Gyrus asked, feeling lost.

“Bias is placing emotions, loyalties, or prejudices before the facts.” The computer seemed to realize Gyrus was confused and attempted to reassure him by elaborating. “People cling to them, and they cannot see the truth. The Cerebrum has no such weakness.”

“Ok,” Gyrus wiggled his toes. He looked up again at the computer. “But what if the Cerebrum is wrong?”

An hour later and an important looking man showed up at his house. His parent’s voices were high pitched and nervous as they welcomed them in, chattering about how auspicious it was for a White rank to visit. But even as the man stepped inside, his parents made sure to stand with their bodies between him and Gyrus. The man in the suit waved them away, saying they had a very special boy, whom they would like to put in a very special school.

He smiled down at Gyrus as he peaked from behind his parent’s legs, His face was stretched too thin to seem real. “The Cerebrum wants you Gyrus,” he said. “Come with us, and you can know the answers to all your questions.”

No one asked how they knew. But Gyrus saw his mother glower at the family ai with an anger he had never seen on her face. He wondered if this was what bias looked like.

———————

The class he was put in had bright colors splashed on the walls like a technicolor rainbow. Pictures hung around with encouraging sayings like, “Better yourself to better the world!” And “The Cerebrum wants you!” And “Reach to the stars!” The desks were clean and smooth, a shiny keyboard built into the top of each, which was lined with a different primary color. Five other kids sat at the desks, scattered across the room. They looked up at Gyrus as he was ushered to the front, curiosity in their eyes.

Gyrus froze, feeling suddenly nervous. But the adult behind him placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Class, this is Gyrus. He’ll be joining us today. Gyrus, why don’t you tell us about yourself and then we’ll all introduce ourselves too.”

“I’m Gyrus!” Gyrus chirped, putting on his best smile. I’m almost four, and I like space!”

The class stared at him, silent. Gyrus looked down and began to fiddle with his fingers. The teacher’s voice echoed over him, “Psyche, why don’t you go next?”

A little girl in the front row drew herself up to her full height, back straight as a rail. “I’m Psyche,” she said. “I’m four and a quarter!” She plopped herself back down on her red seat at this, looking very pleased with herself.

“Could you say a little more?” the teacher asked with a tight smile.

“Oh!” Psyche hopped back up again. “I like machines!” she exclaimed at the top of her lungs, and sat back down again.

One by one, the other three students stood up and introduced themselves. Agnes was five and liked plants. Virgil was four and a half and liked books. Lestra was almost five and wanted to know everything the Cerebrum did.

There was only one left, a grumpy looking boy with his arms crossed over his body and a scowl on his lips. “Jeremiah.” The teacher’s voice was gentle. “It’s your turn.”

The boy called Jeremiah stuck out his chin and turned away. “Jeremiah!” The teacher’s voice fell like a anvil on the class. The boy’s brow furrowed, but he eventually turned back towards Gyrus.

“Jeremiah,” his voice was clipped. “From Cassandra.”

Gyrus’s ears pricked up as he heard that name. Cassandra was a planet that used to host a colony. He’d asked his family’s ai so many questions about it, but it had never been able to answer them to his satisfaction. Maybe this boy could!

The teacher sent Gyrus to take a seat. He slid into a yellow desk, which reminded him slightly of home. The teacher started to teach.

Gyrus kept sneaking glances over at Jeremiah throughout the lecture. He was pushing random buttons on his keyboard, clearly bored. Gyrus was hopeful though. Maybe they could be friends?

As soon as it was recess, Gyrus went straight to Jeremiah’s desk. “Hi!” he said, practically vibrating with excitement. “I’m Gyrus!”

Jeremiah rolled his eyes. “I know. You said.”

Gyrus was a little confused by the cold reception. But he shook it off. He had remembered his name! That was good! “Cassandra’s in the Helen quadrant. What’s it like?”

A dark cloud passed over Jeremiah’s face. “Cassandra’s gone,” he snarled.

Gyrus frowned. Because he’d only asked a question. He didn’t need to lie. “No its not. Cassandra’s classified. The ai said.”

“Shut up!” Jeremiah shoved Gyrus, sending him tumbling down. “What’s a baby know? Just repeating what the ai says, like a baby!”

Gyrus’s eyes welled up with tears. He’d never been pushed before and he didn’t like it at all. “Jeremiah!” The teacher’s voice came like a hurricane on them all. “Come with me!” The teacher dragged Jeremiah away as he struggled in their arms.

The other kids gathered around Gyrus. “It’s ok.” Psyche put a small hand on Gyrus’s arm. “He’s just mean. We can be your friends instead, ok?”

Gyrus rubbed his nose with his hand, but he nodded.

———————

Gyrus grinned to himself feeling on top of the world. Today would mark the start of the class’s greatest honor, for teams of two to design a project to be submitted for review by the Cerebrum itself! He caught Psyche’s eye from across the room and gave her a wink. She returned it with a sly grin. The two of them already knew what project they wanted to work on, a new engine faster than light speed with two engines.

The partners hadn’t been picked yet, but it was practically a done deal. With only six people in the class they divided pretty easily, and with ten years together, everyone had gotten pretty set in their ways. Gyrus with Psyche, Agnes with Virgil. Even Lestra didn’t mind being paired with Jeremiah, because it meant she got to do all the work.

The teacher clapped their hands. “All right class, it’s time to pick your partners!” Gyrus leaned back in his chair, already planning what materials he and Psyche could ask for. Working for the Cerebrum meant even K-42 was an option, but they’d best be absolutely certain their new design would work before they requested something so integral to space travel. “Jeremiah,” the teacher’s voice cut through Gyrus’s thoughts. “You pick first.”

Gyrus choked, losing his balance on his chair and nearly toppling backwards. He caught himself on an empty desk and righted himself quickly, humiliation tainting the worry growing in the pit of his stomach. Jeremiah had been stirring up trouble since the day Gyrus had met him, and age had done nothing to soften him up. Gyrus and the others tried to be inclusive and let him play with them or join in activities as the years passed, but he had always either refused or agreed simply to pick a fight. Not a physical fight, not since their first year, but his intelligence knew no bounds and he was determined to use it to verbally destroy anything that stood in his way. Nothing was sacred, not even the Cerebrum. He was only fifteen, and already it was rumored he was one bad deed away from black mark on his citizenship ranking.

So him going first was a sure fire guarantee for trouble. He seemed to know it too, smirking at his class as they watched him in silent horror. “I get to go first? That’s a first. And on such an important event too, a project for your precious Cerebitch.”

“Jeremiah!” snapped the teacher. “Pick now or go last.”

“Ok, ok,” Jeremiah held out his hands in mock surrender. “I pick Mr. Popular over there.” His thumb jerked to the side, pointing directly between Gyrus’s eyes. “Gyrus,” Jeremiah added as if to rub in what everyone already knew.

Gyrus felt his heart plummet. This was bad, no this was terrible. His first big break, and he would have to work with Jeremiah. Psyche peaked at him from her desk, face full of sympathy, but he couldn’t bear to look at her. Nausea rose in his stomach as he looked at the face of his new partner for the rest of the year, Jeremiah.

———————

“...he doesn’t even like me! Why would he choose to partner with me? Does he really hate me that much? Now what am I gonna do? He’s gonna ruin the biggest project of my life!” Gyrus ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends in frustration.

He looked over at the family’s ai. It didn’t speak for a long second. Finally it said, “There are many possible motivations for Jeremiah’s actions, but without further evidence results are inconclusive and not worth bothering over. Instead of complaining, work around this set back. If possible, persuade him to be productive for the good of the group.”

Gyrus crossed his arms. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

“Analyst of human behavior finds that most humans respond positively to signs of affection, and usually fall into line after repeated exposure,” the ai blinked its light at Gyrus.

Gyrus rolled his eyes and stormed off, slamming the door to his room shut and collapsing on his bed. The ai’s advice, usually so helpful, was completely useless in this case. He’d already tried being nice to Jeremiah, they all had! It was Jeremiah wasn’t nice, who sat in his corner and refused to leave it, unless it was to pick a fight.

The sound of laughter drifted through his window. Gyrus peaked out to see a group of kids kicking a ball around in the park down below his apartment. They looked to be about his age, and Gyrus leaned closer, watching them run and laugh and play. He wondered what their names were, and what school they went to. He couldn’t go down and find out, he had homework to do, and a very regimented exercise schedule he couldn’t break. But that didn’t stop him from watching the figures below play.

An image of Jeremiah crossed his mind then, sitting alone at his little table while the others laughed in the center of the room. He had been watching them, a scowl on his lips, but his eyes had followed Gyrus’s hands as he described how far a gear had flown off an invention. He’d looked away when Gyrus had smiled at him, but he didn’t leave.

“It must be lonely,” a voice whispered in his mind. “To always watch from the outside.” Gyrus shook his head, trying to get rid the thought.

“He’s still a jerk,” he pointed out to himself. The other voice was distinctly silent. Gyrus threw his hands up and slammed them into his pillow as his mind ran through his knowledge of defensive behavior and basic psychology. He groaned, but eventually slumped in defeat. “Fine,” he mumbled into his pillow. “I can be nice.”

The next day he took his lunch and purposely moved to sit beside Jeremiah at his small table.

Jeremiah stared at him like he was an alien, to shocked to put up an angry front. “What are you doing?” his voice was flat.

Gyrus gave him his best smile. “I’m sitting with you!”

“Who said you could sit here?” Jeremiah snapped back, traces of his old fire returning.

“You did,” Gyrus replied. “When you chose me to be your partner, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean I want a mindless Cerebitch drone like you hanging around me,” Jeremiah snarled, face invading Gyrus’s personal space.

“Too bad,” Gyrus took a bite of his sandwich and took care to keep his face completely neutral. “Pickles?”

——————

And thus began Operation Friendship. Every lunch Gyrus would sit next to Jeremiah. Every day after school he would run to catch the train home with him. Every morning he would wait until he arrived and enter with him. It wasn’t easy. Jeremiah wasn’t one to go down without a fight. But Gyrus was determined. No matter how much Jeremiah insulted or yelled at Gyrus, no matter how much he tried to hide from him or take shady routes through neighborhoods with S.M.I.L.E. druggies loitering in corners, no matter what he couldn't get rid of him.

“I know what you’re doing,” Jeremiah snapped one day at lunch. Gyrus looked up from his lunch, leftover Mandu, a real treat. “And it’s not going to work. I’m never going to help on your stupid fascist project.” He crossed his arms and smirked at Gyrus, as if this somehow made him win.

“Ok.” Gyrus took another bite of his sandwich and chewed it slowly.

“Did you hear me? I’m not going to help you so you might as well leave!” Jeremiah snapped.

“Oh I heard you.” Gyrus nodded, looking down at his sandwich. “But you weren’t doing anything anyway. So it’s not like anything really changes.” He smiled at Jeremiah. “Hey! Do you think that next class they’ll let us use the explosives in the lab? I think I’ve gotten better at controlling the explosions.”

Jeremiah let out a very frustrated scream.

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

“How about this?” Jeremiah interrupted Gyrus’s rendition of a funny incident involving lost Nano technology, a S.M.I.L.E press gang, and their government official on a train. “I’ll invite you over. Show you a few tricks your dumb drone mind can’t comprehend, and then you leave me alone?”

Gyrus frowned, because he’d thought he’d been rather funny, and because he had not been expecting an offer to be made. “And lose your company for the rest of the year?”

“Oh please we both know you don’t like me at all,” Jeremiah rolled his eyes.

That hurt a bit, and Gyrus tried not to outwardly wince. He had begun to grow fond of Jeremiah, once you looked past his rough exterior. But he supposed it wouldn’t look that way to him. Maybe he should take a different strategy.

“How about this instead. You come over to my place today, and we spend the afternoon together and forget about the project?” He peaked at Jeremiah through his bangs.

Jeremiah frowned, “And then you leave me alone?”

“And then we have fun together,” Gyrus replied. “Like normal kids.”

Jeremiah did not look convinced.

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

Gyrus was beginning to feel like the whole plan was spiraling out of control. He’d thought it was over, at first. That there was no way that Jeremiah would come over it his house. But after school he had walked right up to Gyrus, bag over his shoulder and a scowl on his lips. “Where to?” he’d asked.

For a second Gyrus had been to shocked to answer. Then a strange sensation of absolute joy began to fill his whole core. “Follow me!” He beamed at Jeremiah, who looked away.

He’d taken Jeremiah to his house and showed him his room, his makeshift lab, and his workout place, expecting them to spend the time there. But Jeremiah had taken one look out the window and said, “Let’s go and hang out at the park.”

Gyrus had tried to point out what a bad idea that was, they had homework to do, they had to keep a very regimented fitness standard, and that sport only really worked on leg strength and endurance, which was very impractical...

Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. “If you’re so against this, why have you taken the time to analyze how it fits into the exercise regiment?”

Gyrus had not had a response to that.

And that was how Gyrus had ended up in the park, facing a group of kids whose names he didn’t know but who he’d watched from his window for years. What was he even supposed to say? He gave an awkward wave. “Hi, I’m Gyrus!”

“Jeremiah,” Jeremiah added, hands stuffed in his pockets. He looked completely at ease, as if they were not breaking an unspoken rule that had been drilled into them since they were children.

The boys looked at each other. “I’m Will,” one said, stepping out from the lineup. “And this is Phillip, Miguel, Navieen, Taro, and Dahveed.” There was a pause where the eight of them all just looked at each other, uncertain of what to do next. Finally Will continued in a half-hearted attempt to fill the silence, “Do you play soccer?”

“Sure,” Jeremiah replied before Gyrus had a chance to explain that no, they really didn’t. Will smiled.

And that was how Gyrus found himself playing a sport he had only seen through a window. It was simple, too simple, and in its simplicity was honestly hard. The training regiment he’d used his whole life had trained him to run and lift, not to dodge or dribble. By the end he was so exhausted he collapsed on the ground, certain he had failed completely.

So he was surprised when Will said, “You guy’s are pretty good. Why haven’t I seen you around before?”

Jeremiah raised a hand from where he lay collapsed beside Gyrus. “Crazy.” He pointed at himself. “Future government drone,” He turned his finger to Gyrus. “They don’t let us out much.”

“Jeremiah!” Gyrus snapped, using the last of his strength to prop himself up on his elbows and glare at him. “We’re with the Young Genius Program,” he explained, giving Will and the others a smile.

Miguel whistled, “Damn that’s like an automatic red rank! You really are future government drones.” Taro hit him and the others’ faces creased in alarm.

“Don’t mind him,” Taro said as Miguel rubbed his cheek. “He’s just an idiot.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jeremiah drawled. “We’re not going to report you. Right Gyrus?” he turned his head to face him.

Gyrus shrugged, “I don’t really see what the big deal is, so sure. But one thing,” he looked severely at the boys. They watched him back with apprehension. “I’m not going into government, I’m going into space!”

Jeremiah let out a bark of laughter, and soon the others followed suit. “There you have it!” Jeremiah chuckled. “A space case if there ever was one.”

They laughed a little longer. Finally Will said, “We play here after school every day. You’re welcome to come and play again if you have the time.”

Gyrus’s pulse raced with excitement at the prospect to play again, but then felt a wave of worry wash it away. They didn’t mean him, they meant both of them. He glanced over at Jeremiah.

Jeremiah was silent for a second, then shrugged. “Sure,” he said, his eyes meeting Gyrus’s. “We’d love to.”

Gyrus stared back at Jeremiah, and knew something had changed.

-----------

From then on, Jeremiah’s behavior towards Gyrus changed drastically. He was still rude about the Cerebrum, still mocked Gyrus for his dream of space, still skipped out on homework. But he quit complaining about Gyrus eating lunch with him, and every day he would wait at the school gate for Gyrus to walk home. At first Gyrus thought this was because he wanted to play soccer, and had reluctantly reminded him that they really couldn’t play every day. But Jeremiah had just shrugged and kept walking beside Gyrus, as if he hadn’t heard. The next day he was waiting outside, looking very bored, and Gyrus smiled.

“I have an idea,” he proposed from where he sat at the low table in his makeshift lab. Jeremiah glanced at him from his position reclining on a bean bag pillow. “For our project.”

Jeremiah groaned and started to roll away, but Gyrus raised his hand. “Just hear me out! What if we made something for soccer?”

“Unless you’re trying to reinvent the ball, you’ve been beaten for a few millennia.” Jeremiah stretched and settled down again in the bean bag, his back to Gyrus.

“Then we’ll make something for space and soccer. Astronauts and early settlers, everyone always designs practical things for them to use. Why don’t we bring them a little fun?”

Jeremiah slowly turned to look back at Gyrus. “You really want to present a soccer invention to your precious Cerebitch?! Ha!” He threw back his head and let out a peal of laughter. “What happened to the straight-laced future drone I used to know?”

Gyrus frowned. “Improvement of quality of living is an important part of progress. People will work harder if they have something to look forward too.”

“And the old Gyrus is back.” Jeremiah rolled his eyes. Then he drew himself up into a sitting position on the bean bag. “Fine. Let’s present the Cerebitch with the weirdest waste of time its ever seen.”

Gyrus’s heart felt light as he pulled out at notebook. “I have a few ideas already!”

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

The next few weeks found Gyrus on top of the world. Jeremiah, for all his lazy ways, was very intelligent, and his skill in item design surpassed even Gyrus’s. He vetoed all most every invention Gyrus came up with, but not out of disinterest. Rather he took the time to explain why they wouldn’t work. The two engine design in the space ball was not built for such a small container and would likely explode. The high quality insulation materials for shin guards were to expensive and cumbersome for first wave colonists. His advice was always practical, with an insight even Gyrus missed.

He really has lived in space. Gyrus thought as he peaked over at where Jeremiah sat drawing designs for their latest idea: jump boots for lighter gravity soccer. He wondered if all the errors were problems Jeremiah remembered from his life on Cassandra. He wondered if he could ask.

Jeremiah caught him staring and gave him a sideways grin. “Lost in space again?”

Gyrus blushed and quickly changed the subject to the jet propulsions in the boots. He babbled on as Jeremiah listened with amusement and a snappy reply to anything he deemed foolish. Gyrus felt bad for even wanting to bring Cassandra up, seeing how happy Jeremiah looked now, but in his mind the question still burned beneath the surface.

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

It wasn’t until a week later when he finally got the courage to try and ask again. Jeremiah had brought some basic materials to start working on construction. Gyrus listened to him sing the praises of aluminum and all the things it could be used for, and cautiously asked, “It sounds like you have some experience.”

“Yeah I do,” Jeremiah smiled down at it. He glanced up to meet Gyrus’s cautious expression and sighed. “I’m from Cassandra, you can say it.”

Gyrus fiddled with his fingers. “I wasn’t sure. I thought it might be...” he looked down, “...a sensitive subject.”

Jeremiah turned to lean against the lab counter, arms crossed. “It’s not. Most adults want me to shut up about it. But I won’t. I can’t. I’m from Cassandra and they blew it up.” He scowled down at the floor.

Gyrus looked at him, uncertain of what he was supposed to say. Jeremiah glanced up and smiled at him, a wide stretch of lips that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Tell me Gyrus,” he said in a teacher-like voice that reeked of insincerity. “What do you know about Cassandra?”

“Only that there was some kind of accident, and its classified,” Gyrus replied hesitantly.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He turned back towards Gyrus, arms spread to support his weight as he leaned forward on the counter. “It’s not exactly something the Cerebitch wants out there. Might stop it’s precious expansion if they knew how some colonists were really treated.”

Gyrus leaned forward, feeling like something big was about to be revealed, like he stood on the brink of a secret that could change everything. Whatever Jeremiah was about it say, it should not be spoken too loudly.

Jeremiah noticed his attention, and his face became grave. He dropped the patronizing voice as he continued, “My parents were some of the first to get on board. Wanted to see the stars. I was born up there, the first child of Cassandra they said. And wasn’t I lucky?” He uttered the last word with all the viciousness that he had used so often against teachers and classmates throughout the years.

“It was a mining colony.” Jeremiah’s lips twitched up. “Mining ore for the precious collaboration. Such an honor. And the greatest of honors, the greatest of secrets, was one my father found himself.” He looked Gyrus straight in the eye. “My father found a vein of Kaz-42.”

Gyrus gasped. Kaz-42 was supposed to only come from the Hercules quadrant, and was guarded day in and day out for its essentiality for space travel. It had taken Psyche and Lestra ages to get permission to use it.

“Yeah it was pretty impressive.” Jeremiah smirked. “We certainly thought so. My parent’s told me they celebrated all night. Kaz-42 can only be extracted by people, on account of how it interferes with machines. Bet you didn’t know that, it’s a highly classified secret. Cerebitch doesn’t want humanity to realize can’t control something so important. But we knew. We lived it.”

“Here’s another thing you don’t know about Kaz-42.” Jeremiah’s smirk disappeared. “It’s incredibly toxic to humans. The whole town was suffering, people dying slowly, and no doctor or medicine was sent to help us.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Gyrus protested. “If they let the miners die then they won’t have any more Kaz-42. They have to keep them effective by providing treatment.”

“Oh there was one treatment.” Jeremiah’s voice was bitter. “S.M.I.L.E.”

“But S.M.I.L.E’s only supposed to be for prisoners who won’t reform!” Gyrus protested.

“Oh and you believe that?” Jeremiah rolls his eyes. “Ever taken the time to count the S.M.I.L.E druggies in this city? Seems a lot of people who are supposedly the worst of the worst.” He shook his head. “But that’s not the point. The point is that they used S.M.I.L.E on everyone. The miners, their families. They let them work to the bone with a smile on their face. And they..we..didn’t even realize it was killing us.”

“Jeremiah,” Gyrus’s voice was soft even to his own ears. He didn’t know what else to say, nothing was making sense.

Jeremiah glanced at him and his expression softened for a second. “I didn’t have some miraculous escape. I was just as drugged as the rest of them. But my grandma..” He hugged himself as he continued, “She saved me. Convinced my parents to let me visit her, so I was away when...” his arms tightened as he looked down. Gyrus reached out, wanting to comfort but not sure how. His hand hovered by Jeremiah’s side.

He didn’t notice. Instead he spoke again in that patronizing tone, the one he used when he mocked a teacher as he stared at his feet. “Did you know that K-42 isn’t corrosive? No of course you do, its what all you drone engineer’s go nuts over. Well that thing we mined out? It was. It wasn’t K-42. Not really.” Gyrus felt himself go cold. Corrosion at the heart of a space engine could only mean one thing.

“The first ship exploded at dawn.” Jeremiah’s voice was dull. “The Cerebitch ordered Cassandra destroyed by noon. There was no evacuation. It was deemed a waste of resources to even attempt it.”

Gyrus stood there, frozen with his hand an inch away from Jeremiah’s arm. Nausea churned in his gut and he felt like he would throw up. There had to be another explanation. This didn’t make sense. Hesitatingly he asked, “You’re sure that it was an order?”

“Of course I’m sure I hacked...” Jeremiah lifted his eyes to look at Gyrus and stopped. His eyes went wide. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“You were very young,” Gyrus pointed out as he watched Jeremiah’s shock turn to anger. “I’m only trying to understand...” Jeremiah grabbed him by the collar and got in his face.

“You don’t want to understand!” Jeremiah snarled. “I could show you the evidence, the traces I hacked at four years old, and you still wouldn’t understand!” His hand tightened on Gyrus’s collar and Gyrus winced. “You’re just like everyone else! You don’t want to risk falling down a citizen ranking, or leave your safe little drone life...”

“Stop,” Gyrus whispered. Jeremiah shoved him away, and Gyrus tumbled to the floor. Jeremiah stood above, glaring down, and it was only now Gyrus realized he was crying.

“You have assaulted User Gyrus,” the family’s ai broke through. “This has been your final strike. Your citizenship ranking has reached black. Please refrain from resisting as you are placed under arrest.”

Jeremiah’s head swung to look at it and back to Gyrus, lying beneath him on the floor. “I...I didn’t mean...I’m sorry.”

The door burst open and two men in suits entered. The first pulled out a gun and shot Jeremiah with a tranquilizer, the second grabbed him by the arms. Jeremiah resisted, screaming and pleading, “I’m sorry, Gyrus please! Don’t let them take me, Please!” he punched the second guy in the face and the first had to grab his other arm, dragging him out of the house.

All the while Gyrus sat there, dazed on the floor and watching them drag Jeremiah away. He wanted to move, but he couldn’t, frozen to the spot. Jeremiah locked eyes with him as the drug kicked in. Gyrus had never seen someone looks so afraid.

The door closed behind him with a bang. Gyrus didn’t work up the strength to move for a long time.

-----------

Jeremiah never returned to school. Gyrus completed the jump boots alone and submitted them to the Cerebrum. The others all had things to say about Jeremiah, and comfort to offer Gyrus, but he didn’t want to hear it. They hadn’t been there, they didn’t know what they were talking about. Only Psyche seemed to notice how upset it made him, and tried to get the others to stop.

When the men in suits came for him, Gyrus didn’t resist. He just followed quietly behind. They led him to the principal’s office, were the principal began to make a long speech about how good Gyrus’s jump boots had been.

“And Jeremiah’s,” Gyrus interrupted. “Most of what you’re praising was his idea.”

A frown passed over the principal’s face, for half a second, then it was gone. “You’re being to modest. Whatever assistance you may have received in the initial stages, you were still the one to build it, and all by yourself. Which is why you so deserve this opportunity the most out of everyone.” He held out a piece of paper.

Gyrus accepted it, glancing down on the words written on the sheet. “I don’t understand.”

“You’ve graduated my dear boy!” the principle replied. He gave Gyrus a patronizing smile. “Ordinarily there would be a ceremony, but an the most advanced lab in space technology is asking for you specifically, and they do not have the luxury of waiting a few days.”

Gyrus stared at him, disbelieving. Had it really been so great? “I’ve got to tell my parents...”

“Already taken care of,” the principal held up his hand. “All that remains is for you to seize your destiny. What do you say? Do you want to go to space?”

Gyrus looked down at the paper in his hands, then up at the Principal and the silent men beside him. “More than anything,” he said.

-----------

The next five years were a blur to Gyrus. He started working in the space technology lab, first as a student but soon as a fully-fledged worker in all but name. There were ten labs in total, and Gyrus found himself bouncing between them, never staying too long in one before he was moved to another. Because of his constant movement and his accelerated schedule, he never got to make friends with the students who were close to his own age. But the adult staff, and the janitors all seemed to like him, so he was doing ok.

He still felt like something was missing though, like there should be more to his life that he wasn’t getting. A purpose perhaps, something to do with all the knowledge trapped inside his head, besides show off to janitors and the students whose names would change in a month. So when Iro approached him and offered him the stars, Gyrus wholeheartedly accepted.

-----------

“User Gyrus, where are we going?” Scout asked as he flew beside Gyrus.

“We’re going to my house,” Gyrus explained. “I need to break this news to my family. Iro will come later and explain the details, but I want to be the first to tell them.”

“Then why are we in this broken park, and not in your house?” Scout hovered by his side. “If you are lost, I have a built in GPS and maps to help you.”

“Nostalgia,” Gyrus said as he looked around the old soccer field. It had changed, the grass had been replanted sometime in the five years, and had it always been so small? It was getting smaller too. He glanced over to the far side where a supervisor in green was directing a S.M.I.L.E. gang to put in a new jungle gym.

“Gyrus?” A voice cried. Gyrus saw one of the gang members break from the group, coming towards him rapidly. The supervisor moved to intercept him, but he easily dodged. “Gyrus is that you?”

Gyrus tensed, but there was something familiar about the figure that kept him rooted to the spot. It couldn’t be. Could it?

The man threw his arms around Gyrus. “It’s been forever! How are you?”

“This man is ranked black Gyrus.” Scout said warningly. “Do you want me to call for back up?”

Gyrus ignored Scout in favor of the man currently hugging him like his life depended on it. “Je-Jeremiah?” he asked in a shaking voice.

“So you do remember me!” Jeremiah’s laughter was a strange, disorienting sound like a robot on a loop. Nothing like Gyrus remembered. Over Jeremiah’s shoulder Gyrus could see the supervisor reaching for a weapon. He put his arms around Jeremiah and shook his head. The supervisor lowered the weapon.

“Its-its been a while I...” Gyrus leaned back to look up at Jeremiah’s face...He’d grown so tall, had it really been five years?...He looked awful, with hollow cheeks and eyes bloodshot and unfocused. “Jeremiah what happened to you?”

“Oh you know, you know,” Jeremiah waved a hand. “Learning the error in my ways, giving back to the community, all that.” His words seem to slur together, and he swayed back and forth so violently that Gyrus feared he would topple over if he didn’t keep a hand on his side to support him. “But what about you?” He raised his hand to run his fingers through Gyrus’s hair. “You’ve cut your hair.”

“I’m going to space,” Gyrus said. For the first time Jeremiah seemed to focus on him, his old intelligence sharp in his eyes. “With the exploration division.”

“What?” Jeremiah hissed, then doubled over, coughing into Gyrus’s shoulder. His hands curled like claws into Gyrus’s shirt as Gyrus’s arms tightened to support the shift in weight. “Stupid...drone.” His coughed out, every sound that emerged sounding like he was biting glass shards. “Don’t...don’t go.”

“Caution User Gyrus,” Scout chirped. “His heart has accelerated. He may need medical attention.”

“What?” Gyrus said, too confused by the utter fear in Jeremiah’s eyes to listen. “It’s not dangerous.” He tried to reassure Jeremiah as he felt him shaking in his arms. “Captain Iro has an amazing track record...”

“Blind,” Jeremiah snapped, then shook his head violently. “Stupid...Space Case. Look between,” he gasped, visibly struggling to continue. “Liars...”

“Gyrus,” Iro appeared suddenly at Gyrus’s side. “There you are. We need hurry if we are to meet your parents.” He gave Jeremiah’s shaking form a cursory glance. “I believe your supervisor wants you back.”

Jeremiah gave Gyrus’s arms one last warning squeeze, face still pleading. Then he stepped back, eyes becoming covered in a glassy film. “Oh yeah. Bye Gyrus.” His arm moved in a jerky wave, like a puppet on a string. “Have fun in space.”

“I hope that druggie wasn’t bothering you,” Iro’s voice was kind, as he dusted Gyrus’s shoulder. Scout fluttered around Iro, chirping greetings.

Gyrus shook his head, eyes following Jeremiah as he made his way zigzagging across the park. “He was an old friend, from the Young Genius Program.”

“Really?” Iro raised an eyebrow. “What a shame. To have such a mind and refuse to use it for the good of others.”

Gyrus didn’t respond. The supervisor in green gave a sharp bark of command to the S.M.I.L.E gang and they began to fall into a line. Gyrus watched as Jeremiah joined at the back, marching in perfect formation with the others until he was out of sight.

“User Gyrus is experiencing nostalgia,” Scout explained as Iro frowned.

---------

Space was beautiful. Gyrus has never known just how lovely stars were until he got to see one up close. Everyone on board was so kind and wonderful, and Iro was the kind of selfless and wise leader Gyrus would follow anywhere. Most days the mission was more than he’d ever wanted. Most days he was content. But sometimes when a planet exploration went too wrong, when they made a hard choice for the greater good, something would niggle in the back of Gyrus’s mind. He tried to voice it, quietly to Iro, about his concerns.

Iro’s voice was gentle when he told him that focusing on the past was pointless. Missions were completed by the book, which dictated the Cerebrum’s decision. They made the choices based off how best to follow the Cerebrum’s will, and sometimes, that meant making hard choices. He’d put a hand on Gyrus’s shoulder in comfort.

“But the Cerebrum isn’t here!” Gyrus had exclaimed. “It doesn’t know what we know! If it had the information we discover...”

“Gyrus,” Iro had interrupted gently. “Trying to out-think the Cerebrum, that’s the path to madness. You need to have faith.”

It was only on those nights, when nothing quite made sense and he was too sad and confused to know what to do, that he finally let himself remember. Let himself wonder what had happened to his friend in that S.M.I.L.E gang, and wonder if this was what he had felt like back in school, holding on close to a memory he wasn’t supposed to keep. Gyrus would toss and turn in his bed, and wish desperately for the faith Iro spoke of so freely.

----------

Everything was going wrong. Lights flashed as Gyrus ran. Over the communications line he could hear Iro yelling commands, but they filtered by him. Only one thing was running through his head. Sakura was stranded outside. And Iro had ordered them not to rescue her.

He threw on a suit and jumped in the hatch. Scout attaching to his side. “This is against protocol User Gyrus,” the robot warned him.

“She’s going to die!” Gyrus yelled. “I have to try.” Carefully he exited the aircraft. Sakura hung there, surrounded by explosive material, unable to activate her jetpack without setting it on fire. Gyrus pushed off the edge, using his momentum to go towards her.

“Gyrus...What?” Sakura’s voice echoed over the comms as he crashed into her.

“It’s ok!” Gyrus smiled, even if he knew it would be almost impossible for her to see from his position clinging to her side. “I’m going to get you out!”

“But the explosives, and the ship...” Sakura protested. “You weren’t supposed to rescue me! This is against protocol...”

“Protocol also prioritizes crew,” Gyrus replied as he adjusted his position against her, before shoving hard. “I’m prioritizing crew!”

She flew back towards the ship, out of the danger zone. Good, she could be rescued. Better, his own momentum pushed him so far in the other direction he cleared the danger zone entirely. He could get picked up from here. It would just be a little tricky.

“Gyrus what have you done?” Iro’s voice crackled over the comms.

“I saved Sakura,” Gyrus replied. “But its fine. I’m on the other side unharmed. I think I see a way you could get around it to rescue me.”

“Gyrus,” Iro’s voice sounded broken. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” Gyrus said as he eyed the ship from across the danger zone. You’d have to duck into the planet’s orbit, but you could still get here. Unless the ship’s paradox engine is damaged.” Gyrus’s stomach sank. “Is...is it damaged?”

For a long time Iro was silent. Gyrus felt his heart plummet. Finally Iro said, “Gyrus you don’t understand. I can’t. To rescue you would involve a too many risks that go way too far out of protocol. And I can’t...I can’t risk this many crew members on someone with a black mark on their citizenship.”

“W-what?” Gyrus asked, a numbness creeping into his body that made it difficult to speak. “I..I don’t have...”

“You were always high risk, always questioning far to much and doing what you thought was best instead of waiting for orders,” Iro sounded uncomfortable. “But what you did today...Gyrus, you directly disobeyed orders from the Cerebrum itself. That was your final strike.”

“You’re...you’re going to...Iro you can’t! You can’t just leave me here! Please!” Tears ran freely down Gyrus’s face, but he couldn’t brush them away through his helmet.

“I’m sorry Gyrus,” Iro did sound genuinely sorry. “But for the good off all...we can’t come to get you.” The comm switched off. Gyrus tried shouting, crying, calling, but nothing could get it to switch back on.

“Scout,” he said, when he finally ran out of tears. “They haven’t quite left yet. I could toss you across, you could attach to the side and go with them.” The thought of Scout leaving him was more than he could bear, but he didn’t want them to suffer for his sins.

“You are my User, Gyrus,” Scout hummed. “I will stay with you.” Gyrus relief swelled up in Gyrus as he hugged Scout tightly to his chest. He began to cry again, so pathetically grateful to not die alone.

They lay in space, floating suspended in the emptiness, watching the ship from across the explosives as it prepared to make the final jump. “Don’t go.” A memory flew unbidden into his mind of Jeremiah’s pleading face, so afraid for Gyrus. Even after he hadn’t believed him, even after he’d gotten him a black mark and thrown in a S.M.I.L.E. gang, he’d still tried to warn Gyrus. As the ship made the final jump and left Scout and Gyrus alone in their grave of stars, Gyrus wished more than anything that he had listened. Not just about the mission, about everything. He wished he’d had the courage to believe Jeremiah, to accept that the world he believed in was a carefully constructed lie.

The oxygen tank beeped. It was low. Gyrus closed his eyes and let himself relax. If he fell asleep, this would all be over soon.

He awoke on a strange planet under a black sun.

#room of swords #room of swords fanfic #room of swords gyrus #gyrus #ros gyrus #ros scout #captain iro #1984 inspired

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eyeslikefoxglove · 4 years

Text

Episode 20 - ChenQing Syndrome & Tangents everywhere

Hello cupcakes, and welcome to episode 20. How’s everyone doing? I hope y’all are as safe and can be. I’m pretty sure I need to sleep for at least 24h because I am exhausted so forgive me if I’m suuuuuper low energy.

On another news I am officially mosquito bait. Yay.

I don’t know if I said so in the previous commentary but I Do Not Vibe with eyeballs so yeah.

Speaking of eyeballs, here is what happened the last time my mum and me consumed a medical drama in public. We decided to go to the cinema to watch The Physician, and in the intro credits there is a tray with a pair of eyeballs by a scalpel and my mum, who’s a GP goes (without lowering her voice of course):

“Those are not human eyeballs, too big, they’re probably cow’s”

I swear the whole row just turned around to give us A Look and I haven’t felt more like a serial killer since I started giggling (again in the cinema) watching Death Proof. So there you have it, I lose my shit when tv doctors do bad medicine and she makes ominous comments that make me want to explain to everyone that no, we don’t dismember people for fun.

Listen, necromancy is whatever, but “Imperio-Ing” people into harming themselves and making them hallucinate by playing the flute is what would freak me the fuck out about WWX ngl. I mean, I know he’s a good egg, but he’s Havana Syndrome-ing this bitch and that gives me chills.

Oh I love this shot of one WWX’s eyes cast in light. Cinematography on point as always.

Ok ok ok I am going to go on a terrible tangent in here. I know that in the book shit was even worse, with the cannibalism and JiaoJiao shoving a whole chair leg down her throat but there’s something that’s always caught my attention. If I’m not mistaken she bit off WC’s dick. Now call it a coincidence that WWX took advantage of, but, because I’m The Worst ™️ it made me think. If I’ve learnt something about Criminal Minds is that you don’t go after someone’s bits unless:

a) you’re a sexual sadist and can’t get off any other way (which WWX is not nor is he killing for sexual gratification)

b) those bits have gone near you when you didn’t want them to and it is revenge.

I mean, same way I didn’t want to make you wonder what WWX ate trapped in a mass grave for three months I don’t want to make you think about this but I need to get if off my chest.

Oh hey, now that I think about it the cannibalism could also be personal because again, they yeeted him into a palace full of corpses where “nothing grows”. God I hate my own brain sometimes.

Did these two just walk up to the front door of the Supervisory Office? I mean, the guards are all dead so it is fine, but that’s one shit strategy.

... that’s one ineffective way of tying a hangman’s noose.

JC IS BEING SOFT WITH WQ OMG!

YOU ARE BREAKING MY HEART. STOP. (Watch me go read ChengQing fics after this is done)

JC: is there anyone more wicked that the Wen Clan?

Me: *takes a deep breath* how much time do you have?

Gotta give it to WWX, the boy knows how to set the mood.

Yup yup I’m cackling.

Go my creepy necromancer son!

(Once again, I cheer when someone gets shanked)

(Once again, assume I’m screaming about the cinematography)

Bless LWJ’s brain cell, I remember when I first watched this being super worried about these two also getting ChenQing Syndrome.

So is the Red Woman an actual entity or is she an anthropomorphization of what he’s doing to them? Am I assigning too much Poe to this scene?

JC and LWJ straight up jumped through the ceiling to save WWX I love them. (But think, if they’ve been slightly slower and WZL had realised there wasn’t a core to melt, oh the delicious delicious canon divergences we could have)

Now that’s an effective noose.

THAT HUG WAS TOO SHORT! AND WWX WAS GOING TO RECIPROCATE BUT JC STOPED NOOOOOO. (Again JC looks like he gives the best hugs)

Misdirecting WWX is misdirecting.

Aaaaaand you can see the PTSD start to rear its ugly heard the second they want to know where he was the last three months.

WWX: *starts spinning bullshit*

JC: *relaxes his frown and eyerolls*

Aw bb he was really worried. I mean, it is still misdirection but I can see how JC inexperienced as he is with trauma (and dealing with his own) could interpret that as his baby brother just being himself.

Aw they’re falling back into being their soft yet prickly selves I die.

Nope LWJ! I know that you’re worried and shit but the last thing you want to do to someone with WWX’s trauma is trigger their fight or flight response by asking questions and making them sound like accusations.

(Also, interlude to say, WWX seems super reluctant to admit he fucked with the talismans, which fair enough, I’m thinking his trauma conga line is probably making him think he’ll get in trouble if he admits it or they’ll start distrusting him. But really looks like simple curiosity to me)

I’m just gonna scream incoherently at my screen because they are doing it fucking wrong.

Me with other fandoms: KISS GODDAMNIT

Me with this one: COMMUNICATE

DRAG HIM (ok GusuLan) WWX. I know LWJ only wants to make sure WWX is safe and healthy and loved but listen, he doesn’t have the full picture, he is still somewhat naive about you know, the amount his idols can disappoint him. Yes, it is exacerbated by WWX raising his hackles and his overall paranoia but; GusuLan is where the Sect Leader and the second in command (I know Netflix calls LQR “grandmaster” but I also know the translation is incorrect) decided that lashing their own family was an appropriate corrective. I’m not even going to go into the genocide victims or the reasons for the punishment but yeah, lashing. It hasn’t happened yet, but the potential is there, and as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as WWX is he must have some survival instincts if he lived in the streets for years, I’m not saying they don’t get negated when someone he loves is in danger, but you know, they have to be there. I think his brain has been *Kill Bill sirens* about GusuLan for a long time and now the guy who lives and breathes by their rules wants him to go back? Yeah I absolutely think it is valid that he thought the “help” he was gonna get would be horrifying punishment to “put him in the right path”. Do I see a fuck ton of parallels btw GusuLan and abusive Bible-thumping religious fanatical groups? Ok yeah, my b probably, but I Can’t Unsee.

And again, I know LWJ just wants to keep him safe and I know he’s an awkward potato but this one is on him. WWX is in no emotional place to play “guess WangJi” and it might make his soul shrivel up and die inside but a Long Conversation should be had.

Ok, allow me to go on another fucking tangent, there aren’t enough already. I’ve seen posts saying that western people misinterpret LWJ’s short and blunt speech (is short speech something you say in English?) as him being awkward/clamming up/not liking to talk when it actually is considered a very elegant thing to be able to get your point across with as few words as possible, because our culture values eloquence. First of all, I’ve seen that point made with the English language, and I’m Spanish, I don’t know if it affects my point of view but we also have the same idea of getting to the point ASAP here, it isn’t like the height of elegance but it is very common. That’s not my reasoning to say LWJ is an introverted/awkward potato, although it influences it. Because I’ve seen the show a few times, and because YiBo is the patron saint of micro-expressions, I’ve caught several instances in which, after pleasantries are done, a stranger tries to talk to LWJ and he get the tiniest “oh shit people want to have a conversation someone save me” look on his face. The most notable one is when YunmengJiang is trying to get into Cloud Recesses.

Just because someone can be a good conversationalist doesn’t mean they actually like to talk to people or be around them.

Bless JC to the rescue.

Btw regardless of me going off about LWJ’s lack of communication it doesn’t mean I’m not side eyeing WWX for unleashing on people who are not at fault for his trauma.

LET MY YUNMENG SIBS BE HAPPY GODDAMNIT

So that’s all for this episode. I’m so sorry for my tangents, I can’t contain myself. Thanks for reading!

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #mdzs live action #foxglove watches cql #foxglove watches the untamed #lan wangji #wei wuxian #wangxian #jiang cheng #yunmeng shuangjie #yunmeng bros #commentary

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roommatesandwiches · 4 years

Text

Movie Night

For context: This WIP is set in The Consequences Of A Magic Sandwich, a series (with currently only one fic) based off that 'demon sandwiches' thread; Reader is a human that pals around with demons and serves them sandwiches when they come visit. It's supposed to be Vox-centric, but I somehow ended up writing about other demons more. (this one is set a bit after Reader's met Vox for the first time)

I wanted to write a one-shot of Reader hanging out with the VVV but realized I had zero idea how to write proper dialogue, especially with characters I'm not all that familiar with. I chickened, basically, because we have little to no information what all of their personalities are, but this came out decent enough so I thought I'd share.

Viv mentioned that all of the stuff in Hell are 'off-brand', and the following is kinda how I interpret the meaning of that as well as Velvet and Valentino's personalities while we still know little about them.

-----

The ice cubes clink as they touch the bottom of the glasses. Following after them is your fresh, homemade lemonade that you pour carefully from the jug. You then pop the straws into the glasses before carrying the tray over to the table where your demonic guests are sitting. Valentino is casually eating a sandwich, his eyes glued to his hot-pink phone, while Velvet is wolfing down your cookies one after the other like a homeless person who hadn't eaten in weeks. You place the tray down and the demoness immediately snatches a glass at the speed of light and knocks it back like a shot of vodka, ignoring the straw entirely. Her haste is rewarded with the ice spilling out and onto her face, some bouncing down her chest to her lap. "Slow down," you tell her as you hand her a napkin. "It's not going anywhere." "I know, but your food is just so good!" she draws out the words, and your worry that she'd get brain freeze disappears as she continues to be just as chipper as ever. Do demons not get brain freeze? Maybe she's just too hyped up to notice. Do demons get adrenaline rushes? You consider asking, but Velvet's stuffing her face with cookies again and Valentino is distracted. "Thank you," you say and you take a sip of your own glass of lemonade through the straw. You turn to the taller demon across from you, effectively catching his attention with your gaze. "You're not texting one of your workers, are you?" The pimp is quiet for a moment. "...'Course not." he says, but he puts his phone down. You sigh disappointedly, earning an annoyed look from him that you brush off easily.

"No working when you're here, remember?" you say. "This is a place for demons to relax. If you wanted to work over sandwiches you can do that in Hell." He frowns at your mothering, crossing his lower pair of arms poutily. "Fine, fine." He finishes his sandwich and finally takes his glass and brings the straw to his lips. He takes a sip and his eyes widen. "Dang, baby! This is f*cking delicious!" It tastes pretty average to you. "Don't you have lemons in Hell?" "Kinda?" Velvet made a face. "They taste gross. Everything tastes gross." "We have lemons, they're just... Off-brand," You raise an eyebrow. Off-brand lemons? "Just like everything else down there. We've got all the food and all the products you have up here but they're all sh*tty as f*ck." So that's why they like your food so much. It's not really great, it's just leaps and bounds better than the food in Hell. Velvet sighs and leans into her palm. You wonder if the brain freeze finally caught up to her. "Yeah... Even the Oreos are terrible." She suddenly perks up again and gasps sharply. She leans into you, filling your vision with her face. "Do you have—?!" "Oreos?" You push her back a bit by the shoulders as you try to remember. "I'll go check." You get up and make your way upstairs. Behind you, Velvet squeals and hits Valentino's arm excitedly. You hear the pimp say, "Calm down, Vel." but he sounds a bit excited, too. You go into your room and look into your snack drawer. After pushing aside a package of candies you spot a blue Oreo package hidden within and pull it out of the drawer. You grab some scissors before you bring it downstairs and show it to the demons triumphantly. They visibly brighten at the sight of it and won't stop looking at it in awe even as you cut it open. You hand them each a pack and they waste no time in tearing them open. They each toss a cookie into their mouths and simultaneously moan with delight as they bite into it. "So... So good," Valentino says with his mouth still full. Some drool drips down his chin and your fingers twitch with the urge to wipe it with a napkin. Velvet crams the other two Oreos into her mouth without even swallowing the first one and gets crumbs all over her dress and your tablecloth. Valentino at least takes his time to savour the sweet, sugary goodness. The demoness next to him reaches for another packet but you pull it out of her reach. She pouts like a puppy but you remain firm. "If you eat them all there won't be any left for other demons," is your reasoning, but really you don't want them to eat too much and get sick. You know how terrible that feeling is. Besides, you mother them enough as it is. "Just buy more." Velvet whines, making grabby motions with both her hands. "I'm not made of money," you say. Valentino opens his mouth so you add, "I can only get promoted so many times." "Actually, what I was going to say was that you could get a better job. We can easily make that happen, baby. You've just gotta ask." He winks and snaps his fingers with a flourish. "Thanks, but I like my current job," you say with a polite smile. "It's not the best pay, but it pays good and I like doing it." "Suit yourself, then." the pimp sighs and takes another Oreo. "I mean, with the extra money you could get some better clothes," Velvet comments, glancing at your outfit. You furrow your brows at her and she shrugs. "A change could be nice." "My clothes are perfectly fine as long as they fit me." you state with finality. "There's nothing wrong with looking good, sugar." You cast Valentino a look at that. "Not that you don't look good, I'm just saying that you could look better." "Well, I don't care about looking better. I like how I look right now." When clothes shopping, you usually just get whatever you think looks good, comfortable and is affordable. You've never really thought about how good anything looks on you and you don't really have any regard for style and brands. It was less of a hassle that way. "Are the clothes in Hell off-brand, too?" you wonder aloud. "Oh yeah, totally," Velvet says as she snaps a picture of the Oreo pack with her 'Hellphone'. She picks at the fabric of her dress. "A lot of the stuff for sale are tacky as Hell. If you want good clothes, you gotta make them yourself or pay really good money." "All my clothes are custom made and cost more than your house." Valentino adds. He gestures with all four of his arms and you easily understand why that could be. A lot of people in Hell probably didn't care to make clothes that accommodated demons that are shaped less like average humans. "That sucks." "It's Hell, babe," Valentino shrugs. "Everything sucks." "Even movies?" you question. "Yeah. Well," the pimp smirks. "Not our movies." Oh right. They make porn. You're not into that stuff, but you understand how some people are. All to their own. "Drugs don't pay for themselves!" Velvet laughs hysterically before adding, "We sell drugs too." Well, no wonder they were so stinking rich and high up Hell's hierarchy. Sure, power played a part, but down in Hell stuff like porn and drugs are likely really high in demand, you'd think. Velvet suddenly gasps again and turns to you with wide eyes. "O. M. G. Do you have—" Drugs? "—Movies?!" You look at her quizzically. "Of course I do—" "Ohmygoshohmygosh!" She's practically vibrating with excitement and her pupils dilate to the extreme. She's so excited that you're afraid that she might explode and get blood all over your dining room. Her claws snag on your shirt as she pulls you close. "Can we borrow them?!" You're about to say "Yes." when you second-guess it. You close your mouth and take a moment to think about it, prying Velvet's hands off of you as you did. "I... Don't know." you end up saying. Honestly, you don't doubt that she'd slit your throat and snatch up all your DVDs (or just steal them without going through the trouble of killing you) if you said "No." Velvet grins maniacally, giggling. "Don't trust us with your movies, huh? Haha! I wouldn't either!" "How about a movie night?" Valentino suggests. You look up at him and you swear his eyes are sparkling with excitement at his own idea. "Instead of borrowing them, let's watch them all here!" He grins expectantly at you and you suspect that he expects you to hate the idea, but surprisingly, you don't. Having a movie night with some demons isn't a bad idea. It'd be just like having a movie night with humans, but demons. It's been a long time since you've had a movie night with anyone, anyway, so it'll be nice. "That sounds fun," you say truthfully and Valentino frowns. "I can prepare the snacks, but oh—Don't you guys have work, though?" "We already have a night set aside for movies!" Velvet pipes up. "Ooh, Vox's gonna love it!" That makes you pause. "Vox?" "Um, yeah! We can't have a movie night without Vox!" she says as if it's the most obvious thing. "The point of movie night is so that we can hang out, duh."

(That's pretty much it. Thanks for reading y'all.)

#hazbin hotel #fanfic #fanfic wip #one-shot #unfinished fic #valentino #hazbin valentino #velvet #hazbin velvet #the consequences of a magic sandwich #demons #maj writes #sandwiches #lemonade #if it isn't obvious I have no idea what I'm doing #btw do y'all laugh at your own jokes #bc I legit cracked up at the Drugs? part #bc I'm lame lol

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mattzerella-sticks · 5 years

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Blindly Observant by mattzerella_sticks

Unable to do much of anything until Rowena finds them, the boys are forced to wait out the storm at the high school. Along with their new... 'friend'.

Belphegor gets bored easily, though. Will the boys be able to entertain him? Or is there more to this babysitting duty?

Belphegor frowns as wind slips between his sunglasses and the gaping holes burned into his vessel’s face. He tugs the glasses off and frowns into the side mirror, gazing into the ashy blackness marking the boy’s visage. Filling in the spaces with his imagination, Belphegor guesses as to what he would look like without the wounds. Different colors filter through all types of eyes as nothing seems to match up perfectly, to make his new body look as good as everyone else on the damn planet he’s seen so far.

The sunglasses help bridge the gap.

He puts them back on and surveys the parking lot, making sure no one saw him. Under a dark, starless sky like this, with words like ‘contamination’ and ‘quarantine’ buzzing through the air, means no worry for a regular passerby to spot what doesn’t belong. Too busy locking themselves away in 'safety'. However an outlier can easily find another outlier.

Castiel stands under a tree, staring at the high school. Belphegor strolls over to him, announcing his presence to the angel by stepping on fallen leaves. He delights in how stiff the angel looks, shoulders tensing with every crunch until Belphegor finally stops inches from him and Castiel’s neck disappeared. “Beautiful night for the end of the world, innit?”

Nothing.

Belphegor sighs, hands stuffed into his pockets. “Y’know, it’s not fair… you taking all this frustration out on me. I’ve been topside less than a day, managed to put a bandaid over your stab wound… I didn’t take a crap on your life I just wasn’t lookin’ where I was going.”

Angel gives him a look of contempt filled with so much anger Belphegor prepares for a grand smiting. When he realizes his essence won’t turn to ash he plasters on the easy grin he wore before.

“Yeah, I’ve seen this a million times already,” Belphegor shrugs, rounding Castiel. Angel’s gaze follows him, the blue tracking him like a predator stalking his prey, the glow otherworldly. “Everyone hurts you and the pain won’t let up, so you twist open the spout and pour it onto the easiest target -”

“Enough.”

“If that target weren’t me I’d actually be pretty impressed,” he says. Belphegor knows he’s dipping his fingers too close over the fence at the zoo, Castiel wound so tight he could snap his jaws at any moment. Still… “If you want to ditch the wings and halo, join me on the rack after this is all over…”

He chokes on the offer, Castiel slamming him into the tree. His fingers squeeze Belphegor’s neck as skin bubbles under the intense power. “Do notcompare yourself to me,” he growls.

“You… you need -”

“The ghosts are contained and we know the spell… we hardly need your services any longer.”

Belphegor scrabbles against Castiel’s iron grip. With each second that passes he feels his time running out. Quickly searching for an escape, Belphegor latches onto a memory and uses it like a knife. Flinging his head to the side with enough force he knocks the sunglasses off his head. Then with all he has left he meekly wheezes, “ Dad …”

The hand tears itself away and Belphegor gasps for breath. Recovering, he glances at Castiel. Belphegor attacker recoiled, power cutting off and leaving his eyes glassy and lifeless on his pale face. Stumbling on wobbly legs, he gives Belphegor a wide berth.

Huffing, Belphegor snatches his sunglasses. “That was a close one,” he grumbles, “next time tell me when I cross a line…”

“How did… Why did you call me that?”

Belphegor wishes he could roll his eyes. Instead he injects enough sass into shoving his sunglasses on as he says, “Because that’s who I’m squatting in, right? Your kid? Figured it’d shock you or something .”

“But how did you know ?”

“That he’s your son ?” Castiel flinches, drawing further interest from Belphegor. “Because Dean told me…” Casually he floats closer to the angel, like the earlier scene hadn’t happened. Studying how Castiel’s frown deepened at the mention of the elder Winchester’s name. “Dean,” he continues, “Y’know… the guy who’s doing to you what you’re tryna do to me .”

Castiel turns from him, a hand creeping up to his temple. “You don’t know what you’re talking about -”

“I know enough,” Belphegor says, circling him, “don’t think you aren’t included in the Winchester Weekly that gets around Hell… the Winchester’s personal angel who became too close to his charges… flirted with humanity more than the upstairs would’ve liked. Killed more angels than even the strongest demon…” He chuckles, wagging his finger at Castiel. “Although I’ll have to give the editor a piece of my mind when I see ‘em. How they missed yours and his kid I mean…” Belphegor mimics a bomb dropping, Castiel glowering at his impression. “Big news.”

“He wasn’t ours ,” Castiel tells him, “not in… not in that sense.”

Belphegor skews his head to the side, “Now that’s funny… from what the big guy said I could’ve sworn he meant…” Crossing his arms, he paces over towards the tree. “When you left in a huff… and he said Jack was ‘ our kid’ it’s… let’s say there’s not much room for interpretation other than, well…”

Castiel’s jaw clenches during his explanation, fists shaking at his sides. “I’m sorry to shatter the illusion but… Jack wasn’t ‘ ours ’ in the capacity you’re thinking. Yes while we shared him it was… it was a three-person job, being a father to Jack. Me, Dean and… and Sam .”

“Now that you mention it, it makes sense,” Belphegor says, “Sam’s a little shaken up having me up and about… and you - you’re acting exactly how I’d expect any grieving parent would act if they watched the kid who died right in front of ‘em get driven around by some amazing demon. Dean though… he’s been a rock .”

“Of course…” Castiel shuffles in place, awkwardly avoiding Belphegor’s gaze once more. “Dean is good at… ‘ stowing ’ his ‘ crap ’ to get the job done.”

“Is he though?”

Startled, he glances up at him. Belphegor smiles with innocent dimples, amused. “What do you mean?”

“Things could’ve been a whole lot smoother between you two today,” Belphegor says, “Looked like there wasn’t any love loss between you guys. Or… some love was loss?”

“Stop speaking about things you clearly don’t have any idea about.”

“Oh buddy, I have - like - all the ideas,” he smirks, “two men as handsome as you are… gives a demon like me so many things to think about.” Castiel advances, one foot too close for Belphegor’s liking. Especially with the light show returning. He holds his hands up, backing into the rough bark of the tree. “But I can also read people… spend a thousand years in Hell and you learn a thing or two. Over a millennia you can understand when a single action has more words than a novel. From what I can tell there’s an epic tragedy being written whenever one of you so much as glances at the other. And those never end well...”

Castiel sighs, halting in his advance. “I hate that I find myself wishing Jack’s mouth was burned out his skull instead of his eyes…”

“And I wish I didn’t waste my time alive worshiping a useless dick but we don’t always get what we want,” Belphegor says, “We all have regrets… it’s what makes my job so easy down there in Hell. Pick the right one and even the brightest soul can tumble into darkness like a Jenga tower. Although why am I telling you this… you saw Dean in his prime .”

Angel doesn’t like this, and resumes his war march towards Belphegor. He braces for the grace about to slam into him, sure that no underhanded trick would work.

Luckily salvation comes in an unlikely, tall, shadowy figure.

Sam clears his throat. Castiel’s fingers freeze inches from his face. Belphegor sags against the tree as he sees Sam’s silhouette stalking over. “Sam! Am I glad to see you!”

Ignoring him, Sam addresses the angel. “Why don’t you go inside and mingle, calm some nerves,” he says, “I need some alone time now.”

Castiel nods, hand falling limp at his sides. “Very well.” He glowers briefly at Belphegor and then switches over to a more neutral expression. Clearly returning to the status quo of ignoring his existence. Which Belphegor will allow until the act bores him again.

For now he has something even shinier to play with.

“Sam Winchester, Sammy… My liege ,” he bows with enough force the sunglasses dangle at the tip of his nose until he unbends. As he straightens his spine Belphegor sees the corners of Sam’s mouth tick downwards. “Not a fan of that last one?”

“Could you please stop antagonizing Cas,” Sam huffs, “he’s had a rough day already…”

“Haven’t we all.” Belphegor scoffs, “Listen, it’s in my nature to sniff out when someone’s wounded and toss a little salt in it.”

“Then fight against it,” Sam tells him, “Or I won’t have any problem letting Castiel give into his nature.”

“Duly noted.”

Sam dawdles, not running after lecturing Belphegor on angel handling like he expects. Belphegor pounces on the mistake, sidling up to Sam’s side.

“He seems a bit more dour, though, than either you or your brother ,” Belphegor continues, “Like there’s something about me - more than the fact that I’m a demon - that he can’t stand… guess I wanted to find out what it was. See if I could do some damage control, a little PR - especially since we’ll be working together.”

Deflecting works, Sam relaxing enough to continue their conversation. “It’s not you he’s angry with, it’s the body you’re… using .”

“I kinda got that back in the raveyard we dropped hours ago.”

Sam frowns, Belphegor watching the wheels turn in his lusciously blanketed head. Debating whether or not he should tell him what he already knows. Belphegor waits for Sam to decide, hoping he looks bored enough not to draw suspicion. It must work since Sam checks behind him to see if Castiel had truly fled. “You’re walking around in a boy named Jack and he… he was our son … Castiel’s, Dean’s and… and mine .”

Belphegor nods, crowing with faux understanding so condescending he’s surprised Sam doesn’t catch on to his act. Grief is a wonderful blinder. “That explains a lot… well, not a lot but some…”

“What -”

“You, you’re acting weird around me,” Belphegor waves flippantly, “tiptoeing or whatever… and Castiel - as we saw - is really teetering on the edge. Dean, though… you sure Jack wasn’t just yours and the angel’s?”

“Dean, he -” Sam stumbles over his words, “Dean cared about Jack.”

“Funny way of showing it,” Belphegor shrugs, “I should be glad, though. To have one of you be able to look me in the - well… can’t say that, can I?”

“Dean’s bothered!” Sam says, bottom row of teeth on full display as he snarls, “He’s not letting it show, is all. It’s this thing he does… by the time this whole mess is cleaned up, though, you won’t be around to see him… fall apart.” He quiets, drawing into himself as he thinks about what he said. Imagines the pieces of his brother showering down around them and being forced to pick up the pieces on his own. What he doesn’t know is Belphegor joined him in this mental journey.

And the sight is too sad, even for him.

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Belphegor says, “from what I’ve seen your brother has no problem showing when something’s bothering him.”

Sam rolls his eyes, “His natural state is gruff .”

“Even to his friends?” he asks, “Because I gotta say Castiel didn’t deserve the brush off your brother gave him.”

Tensing, Sam shuffles around to hide part of his face from Belphegor. When he glances at the demon, Belphegor can see the wariness hiding there. Of course the kindness wouldn’t be taken so easily from him . “Surprised you’re sticking up for Cas.”

“Hey the angel might hate my guts but even I know how to treat someone decently.”

Sam breathes a humorless laugh through his nose. “Things aren’t the greatest right now -”

“Understatement of the century… ”

“Between them . Before the end of the world they were… things were said, people got hurt and… Dean’s really mad at him,” Sam admits, “Madder than he’s ever been at him.”

Belphegor nods. “No foolin’?”

Sam pauses, shaking his head. As if he remembered where he was and who he spoke to. His lips seal tight, and he drags a hand across them to make sure it won’t open. Belphegor sighs, not happy with the development.

He’ll have to work for his fun now, which - ugh .

“It does suck though,” Belphegor says, “going through the end of the world, the death of a child, and a divorce at the same time… speaks more to the two of them that they can save a town with all this trauma piling up in their wake.”

The younger Winchester’s eyebrows jump from his head. “Divorce?” he squawks. Belphegor hides his smile, the word bringing about the expected response. “It’s a… it’s a rough patch, sure, but -”

“Hey I might not look like your kid but you don’t have to go easy on me,” Belphegor says, “I’m a big boy . Wouldn’t mind if Dean split from that angel… means he’ll need a nice shoulder to cry on now that Castiel isn’t perched on his anymore.”

Sam splutters. “Dean… you want… Dean ?”

“Of course,” he scoffs, “you might’ve been the meat suit Lucifer wanted but any demon in their right mind knew Dean was the Winchester brother you wanted to… stick it in .” The disgust painting every crease in Sam’s face brings him joy. “Ruthless, cunning, could cut a body down so easily… actually, I saw a spark of the old Dean today, really…”

“You’re seeing things… so many things… wrong things,” Sam tells him, “Dean would never go for you -”

“I can find another guy.”

“You’d still be a demon .”

“So you’re the only one into demons?” Sam mimics Castiel’s fierce glare, except Belphegor knows there won’t be any lightshow. Still he doesn’t care for how his fingers twitch to where he holstered his firearm. Belphegor continues, shrugging. “Sad, but I'm glad to know that’s the only thing keeping us apart. I’m pretty partial to men’s bodies… last time I took over a girl she was on the rag and that was not pleasant . I thought I knew torture…”

“Dean,” Sam coughs, “Dean isn’t into guys either.”

“ No! ” Belphegor gasps, “Not into demons, not into angels, not into men…”

“I never said he wasn’t into angels.”

“So he and Cas did have a thing?”

“Dean and Cas were never a thing!” Sam says, barely any heat in his defense. Belphegor spots how the argument strains to hold any water, leaks abounding with the pressure he applies against it. A few more strikes and the doubt will douse any steadfast assurance Sam has that he knows his brother.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Belphegor says, lounging against the tree with his arms above his head. “Those two don’t look at each other like friend’s do. When Castiel left with you on your little adventure, Dean watched him go with this sad look in his eye… tried to make him feel better by helping him cruise, get on the rebound. All he seemed interested in was window shopping… And Castiel? I’ve never seen a heart shatter in someone’s eyes, it was fascinating. But you said they were never a thing so maybe I’m reading too much into their problems… Maybe it all stems from the fact that they never banged when they should’ve! Although it might be too late, now…”

“Whatever you’re trying to do,” Sam growls, squinting at him, “it’s not going to work.”

“Oh?”

“Dean and Cas will get through this,” he continues, “no matter how many times we have to go through this, we pick ourselves up and keep going. They’re stubborn, but when our backs are against the wall they figure how to get their heads out of their asses and make up. Those two… they have something special that nothing can break apart. Not even each other.”

Belphegor hums. “So you think there’s still a chance for them to bone?”

Sam punches the tree close enough to Belphegor’s head the wind whacks him in the face. “Y’know,” he says, tone pointed and lethal like a sharp blade, “I meant it when I said I wanted to be alone right now.”

Nodding, Belphegor dips away from the tree and strategically retreats towards the high school, not bothering to check behind him. The younger Winchester doesn’t matter anymore since he shook all he needed from his branches.

Castiel… check . Sam… check . Dean…

It’s not hard finding the elder Winchester.

Angel sits, surrounded by a group of children as he reads from some janky children’s book that needs serious repair. The kids don’t mind, listening with rapt interest as Castiel lulls them into comfort with his soothing voice. It brings peace to even the most ferocious of creatures, hiding, watching storytime from a safe distance.

Belphegor sneaks upon Dean easily, leaning close to his ear and whispers. “He puts on a good show right?”

Dean whirls, pressing him against the gym wall without a sound. Unlike all the other times Belphegor’s lips curl into a grin as he soaks up the closeness. “If you wanted to get frisky I’m sure there’s a janitor’s closet around here somewhere…”

Disgust flits across Dean’s features only for his face to shut down into smooth marble. He drops his hand, tucking both of them under his arms. “What’re you doing here?”

“Things got a little too boring outside,” Belphegor shrugs, “Figured I’d spend some time with my favorite Winchester.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t got no time for fanboys.”

“Oh?” Belphegor says, “Spying on angels takes up that much of your day?” Pushing onto his toes, he looks beyond Dean so he can see Castiel again. “I can understand though. It’s real cute… all’s’it’s missing are some fluffy clouds and - ggk !”

He drags Belphegor from the gym and over to the nearby exit, throwing him into the empty hallway with enough force he trips over his feet. If not for his quick reflexes he would’ve sprawled across the floor at Dean’s mercy. And it’s too early in their game for that.

“What do you want?”

Belphegor brushes himself off, the cocky tilt of his brow undamaged by the toss. “I want many things, Dean… the better question is are you willing to give them to a poor ol’ demon like myself?”

“I’m willing to do a lot to you,” Dean says, “Like sending you back to where you came of you freaky son of a -”

“Now is that any way to speak to your kid?” Belphegor jokes, regretting it as a shadow darkens the other man’s face. “Hey,” he says, hands blocking him from getting any closer, “c’mon, I was kidding… kidding !”

Dean sags, tension smoking away from his body. “Making me regret ever telling you that piece of info…”

“Information is power,” he shrugs, “works better than any blade, hook, or claw… you know that, though. From working down there .” The elder Winchester squirms at the reminder, Belphegor’s essence crackling at the display of weakness . “Learning secrets about the souls we’d put on the rack and using them the next day - incorporating them into our torture to squeeze out the most terror from their pathetic, whiny -”

“Why’re you still here?” Dean asks. “You could’ve smoked away after we set up the salt circle… why stay?”

“Because I like to see things through?” The cellophane answer tears easily in Dean’s grip, forcing Belphegor to show more of his hand than he likes. “Honestly? It’s not everyday a demon spends more than a few minutes in the company of a Winchester without being sent to the only place worse than Hell. Wanted to see how long I could ride this out… learn more about you guys that the newspapers get wrong.”

“Figures,” Dean mutters, “no matter where we go we’re nothing but characters in some twisted story…”

“Hey, hey, hey… that’s not a bad thing.”

“Really? Cause all it’s brought me was a lifetime of misery, pain, and death ,” he growls, “don’t see how there’s a bright side to that.”

Belphegor steps away, thinking. “True… those are some hard things to spin positively.”

Dean snorts.

“But it’s not like you were alone in all of it, right?” he continues, “You had your brother… a son - briefly … friends… an angel -” Seizing, Dean turns to face the gym door. His knotted back on full show for Belphegor. “Sore spot, huh?” Belphegor winces, “Yeah… probably is. What’s with how y’all’re acting earlier…”

“Could you can it with the routine?” Dean asks, voice heavy like his shoulders with the exhaustion he can no longer ignore. “Don’t know why you’re even trying this with me. Figured you’d head down to all your little buddies and tell them how you twisted my nipples or whatever? Take your sympathy and can it .”

Belphegor freezes, tail caught dangling from his mouth. Luckily Dean keeps his face focused on the door, allowing Belphegor the time to slurp the tail up with the elder Winchester none the wiser.

“I should have known better,” he starts, slowly circling Dean, “of course you’d see me a mile away… can’t fool a master.”

“ Zip it. ”

“I guess I can’t go back and brag about being the nail in the coffin of yours and the angel’s bond,” he chuckles wryly, “it’s too strong to break apart… even if you two are fighting.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Dean tells him, “I don’t think there’s enough glue to put back the billions of pieces of shrapnel that we exploded into.”

“You will,” Belphegor encourages, “I mean, you two are Dean and Castiel . Everyone knows about you two. The triumphs, the fallouts… the ‘I raised you from perdition’ and the ‘I need you’... we don’t have much for entertainment in Hell, so we get it where we can. You two’re like Romeo and Juliet… Achilles and Patroclus… Harry and Sally…” Belphegor pokes Dean’s ribs, “C’mon, I know you can fake an orgasm with the best of them. These halls echo .”

Dean barely responded, which Belphegor took as a sign he followed the perfect path. His gaze fogged up, as if he saw beyond the door and into both the past and future. Connecting strings Belphegor helpfully supplied.

“We might not be your biggest fans but we root for you from time to time,” he says, walking away, “how can we not . You’re both so compelling …”

Belphegor rounds the corner, leaving Dean to wallow in the mess he created.

He dawdles in the hallway, flicking locker handles to see which ones are open. Swapping books when they are, stealing hidden money and drawing obscene hieroglyphs on whiteboards or mutilating personal collages. Belphegor breathes deeply after adding a girthy cock to a football player’s victory photo, relishing in the paranoia and depression clouding the air. Sifts through the layers of nobodies until he finds the pearls he created with the right amounts of pressure.

Castiel, Sam, and Dean Winchester cut Hell at the knees. Toppled his proud kingdom and turned it into a ruinous cavern. Without a king, the screams of pain felt more hollow than they ever were.

So Belphegor will do the same. When he’s done with them, ripped the pearls of their souls out, they’ll be nothing but shells of their former selves, too.

“While I’ll be sitting on the throne,” Belphegor says, using a red Expo marker to draw x’s over the football player’s teammates’ eyes. “Wearing the crown... “

The night lasts long, Belphegor cherishing each miserable second.

#Supernatural #Spn #Spn15 #15x01 #Back and to the Future #Supernatural fanfic #Supernatural fanfiction #Spn fanfic #Dean Winchester #Castiel #Sam Winchester #Belphegor #Destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic

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river1983 · 5 years

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Withering

Hello guys! This is coming out a lot earlier than I thought because I ended up doing a lot of writing last night woooo

My first GO fic! Yayyyy new fandom!

You can kind of read this as an asexual relationship because that's kind of how I wrote it lol, but it’s up for interpretation kind of.

withering - intended to make someone feel mortified or humiliated.

It was a late Sunday night, a year after Armegedidnt’t, and Aziraphale and Crowley were walking back to the book shop after dinner at the Ritz. They haven’t been touched by Heaven or Hell (yet) and spent their days simply being together, enjoying the world that wasn’t destroyed.

Crowley was listening Aziraphale talk excitedly about old books and things from over the years he had found in the back room the other day, holding a lolly they had gotten on the way.

“--it’s fine literature, you know, Conan Doyle, his rough drafts were quite exquisite--”

Crowley smirked slightly at the angel as he continued to talk, looking at him through his tinted glasses.

“How do you come across all of these books anyway? What, did he just give them to you?”

“No,” Aziraphale responded, “He had passed on when I acquired it. Oh, it was quite sad when he died. His tales were beloved by many.”

They reached the book shop. “After you,” Aziraphale offered. Crowley walked in, heading towards the back room and settling on the old couch.

Aziraphale walked in behind him, heading to the cabinet. “Fancy some wine?”

Crowley smirked. “Sure, angel.”

When Crowley and Aziraphale finally concluded the six thousand plus some years of pining and got together, nothing really changed. They still bickered like an old married couple, Crowley still called Aziraphale his pet name, angel, and they still went to lunch and sat at benches in parks and just talked. There was just the added plus of small, loving touches and kisses, cuddling at the end of the day at the bookshop, and sleeping in the same bed (or rather, Aziraphale reading a book while Crowley slept sprawled onto Aziraphale). There was no need, for them, for drastic changes, for sweeping romantic gestures or being particularly sexually active. They already sort of existed as two halves of a whole, and their relationship didn’t need a change in dynamic. They just simply were. It’s...ineffable.

Now, they sat in the back room of the bookshop with a glass of wine in their hands, Crowley on the couch and Aziraphale in a chair.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes, angel?”

“Excuse me for asking so bluntly, but you’ve never told me how you Fell.”

Crowley eyed the angel suspiciously. “Aziraphale, you’re not Falling, if that’s what you’re trying to ask.”

“No, dear. I know I’m not. I was just...curious as to how you did. You are not obligated to tell me, but I do have to admit I am interested.”

Crowley was uncharacteristically quiet for a while, which made Aziraphale feel guilty for asking as he sipped from his glass.

“I didn’t mean to fall, that much is true,” Crowley finally said, peeling off his glasses and staring at his glass of wine with his yellow eyes. “We never met in heaven, you and I. I wasn’t in heaven much...I was busy creating nebulas and stars, you know, filling the void.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley as he talked, setting his glass down on the table.

“I asked too many questions. Heaven is so...dry, as you must know. It was always ‘follow orders, no questions asked’.”

Aziraphale wanted to snort, but he contained himself.

“I always asked questions,” Crowley frowned as he twirled the win in his glass. “I questioned Her plan, Her plan for the humans.”

“We all knew about Armageddon, the purpose of the Earth, the Great Plan, but I didn’t understand it. Why create Creation just to destroy it?”

Crowley’s hand tightened on the glass. “Then one day, it just hurt.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale exhaled. He reached over to grab Crowley’s hand, kissing it gently.

“Falling isn’t quick, it seems like days of searing pain and you know nothing but the darkness that surrounds you as you fall towards the pit. Everything about you changes, from the inside out. My eyes used to be green, you know. Then they...changed.”

Aziraphale moved over to the couch, pulling the demon’s head onto his shoulder. Crowley sighed. “It burned, it burned. Not only in my wings but inside as it severed the connection to the Host. It felt like I was...withering away. My wings ached so badly I wanted to tear them off, the white feathers peeling off and being replaced with black ones. It was...it sucked.” Crowley huffed, shifting in his seat.

“I don’t regret it, even if I didn’t mean to Fall. Heaven, hell, even Hell only cared about showing the other who was better, and after years on Earth it’s impossible not to be affected by humanity, by their freedom, their resilience.”

“Humanity rubs off on you after being around them for six millennia, as much as I hate to admit it.”

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale. “I probably wouldn’t have met you without them.”

Aziraphale smiled and blushed. “You sap,” He said affectionately as he kissed Crowley’s forehead. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley looked up. “Why, angel?”

“For Heaven, my...side, for the...pain, you endured.”

Crowley smirked slightly and kissed Aziraphale’s hand, looking at him with his cunning yet loving eyes. “We’re on our own side, angel. Don’t apologize for anything.”

That’s that! My first Crowley x Aziraphale fic! I think it came out okay, I absolutely adore this ship! This concept has probably been done a hundred times lol, but here’s my take I guess :)

The ending is kind of weird but I suck at endings...I tried I’m sorry.

Original Prompt List | One Word Prompt List

-river

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caffeinatedfantasy · 4 years

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The Seal pt 21: Sleepless

{ Chris: [bio] [Prologue] [Story in Tumblr] [ AO3 Link From Beginning ] { pic at the end by @uraminowaltz ! }

It took me a few days to visit Belphegor again. Not knowing whether it had been a dream or not messed with me. I'd busied myself with going through the spellbook, reading things over, and taking care of homework. It was after another dream with him in it that I'd decided I couldn't avoid him. He'd told me, in the dream, to come up. He'd seemed annoyed that I'd avoided him. Which. I couldn't entirely blame him for. Either I'd had a very dirty dream about him [which meant I was avoiding him for something he had no control over, or even knowledge of], OR I had begged him to fuck my face and just didn't remember going back downstairs [which meant I was avoiding him for doing what I'd wanted]. Neither options were fair to him.

I just had to face the fact that I was embarrassed. Of all the demon brothers I had expected to be the first one for me to do something with, he had not even crossed my mind. I'd assumed it would be Asmo, since he was the only one interested, but I'd woken up to both Beel and Mammon's morning wood poking me in the back before and it had made me want to. But even without my "rule", I wasn't going to go after someone who wasn't interested. [The kiss had made me wonder with Mammon, but he'd showed up again after avoiding me for a few days and had acted like nothing was different, so I suppose it had just been a slip and he'd recognized that.]

Climbing the stairs, I frowned when I saw that Belph wasn't at the door. Peeking inside, I could see that he was curled up on his bed. I wasn't sure if this was meant to be punishment or if it was just coincidental. He'd always been awake when I came up before now. Quietly, I sighed, walking up to the door and leaning against it. I wasn't going to wake him, but I'd wait a little bit to see if he woke up. Take advantage of the peace and quiet. I pulled out the journal that I'd gotten from Grisella and opened it, starting to read through it. Might as well. Solomon said he'd help me with it, after all.

It was a few moments before I heard a noise behind me. I didn't turn around, unsure if Belphegor was getting out of bed or just adjusting, focusing on the spell I was reading, when I felt him behind me and stiffened.

"Scared of me now?" He asked, and I jumped a little as his hand snaked out through the bars to touch me.

"No." I muttered. My voice was shaking a little as his fingers grazed my neck.

"Then what?" My cheeks were burning and so was every part of my skin that he touched as he trailed his fingers across my skin. I felt some of his power ease into me. Relaxing me a little. Which. That was a really strange feeling. I shivered. He was waiting for an answer. But to answer him, I needed one too.

"Was it a dream or was it did it actually happen?" Last time he hadn't really answered my question and for a moment I worried he wasn't going to again. But he chuckled, his hand sliding back up to my mouth. He barely had to touch my lips before I parted them and let him slide his fingers into my mouth, his other hand now moving to my neck, using it to hold me there.

"Did I fuck your face through these bars, you mean?" I moaned gently, that certainly gave me an answer. He was mocking me. But Gods, it was hot. I nodded carefully against his grip. He chuckled. "Both."

He let go of me, and I turned to look at him, not entirely understanding what he meant. He had that softly mocking smile on his face as he leaned back and looked at me. He seemed very pleased that I didn't know the answer. "Simply put, you let me into your dream. And I fucked you in there, not right here."

He looked so... Bored talking about it that I almost would've believed he hadn't been affected by it at all. Except for the way his eyes followed my lips so intently. It was like he was trying to act disinterested, keeping his distance from me. Almost as if... He had asked me if I was scared of him just a moment again, hadn't he?

"I stayed away since I wasn't sure..." I admitted, I was adamantly staring at his shaggy hairline instead of his face as I explained, however.. "The, uh, dream and all the lust from it attracted Asmo... Then I spent the weekend trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. Oh! Made a pact with Satan."

Belphegor hummed at that. I couldn't tell if he was pleased or annoyed or just plain bored. I was getting too used to having some idea from the others. The pacts were allowing me to read them easier. But I didn't have a pact with him. So I had no idea beyond what he chose to tell me. And I had to trust that he was being honest. "And he told me, well, confirmed more I suppose, that I'm an empath. And I'm curious how you knew?"

He was leaning back on his hands, watching me. He didn't say anything for a moment. Just watched me. Before he shrugged. I guess deciding it was okay to do so.

"Since we're twins, Beel and I have a low-level empathetic link. It's not the same as empathetic magic, but it sounded familiar when you spoke of sensing their powers on an emotional level. Having you sense and call to Asmo that way was testing whether it was the case." His explanation made sense. And yet it also made it clear that he hadn't needed to go that far to test it. But he had. And-- And I felt his hand brush across my cheek, and I froze, looking up at him. "You blush very easily."

That had almost sounded affectionate. Still the mocking to it he'd had when he'd teased me, but a warmth to it almost. And I almost expected him to want a repeat. But after that point, he didn't mention it, pulling his hand back to his side and yawning. We chatted for a little longer about benign things, whether or not I should try to make a pact with Lucifer [we both doubted it was possible yet], eventually he drifted back to his bed and shooed me away, insisting he was going to go back to sleep. I stayed there for a moment longer, just watching him there, but soon enough did as I'd been asked and headed down the stairs.

I heard Beel in the kitchen and, without giving it much thought, set my things in my room and went to join him. I yawned silently as I walked into the kitchen, covering my mouth as I entered. I was very tired, but sleep had been evading me and I wanted to do something besides lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I heard the slight buzz and heard the munching before I even glanced over at the fridge door, realizing Beel was there, looking through what there was in there. I walked up and peeked into the fridge to see what he hadn't gotten to yet.

"Hey Beel, if you hand me those eggs, I'll make some cupcakes." He must not have heard me before then because he jumped a little bit, glancing down at me, his eyes wide. He'd been mid-way through eating some leftover from earlier, and he abruptly closed his mouth and with a wave of magic, hid his demonic form.

"Sorry." He said. Sounding guilty, and I wasn't quite sure why, but he pulled out the carton of eggs and handed them to me.

"About what?" I said through another yawn and paused, pointing towards the milk as well. He grabbed it and handed it to me while he seemed to consider what to say.

"Didn't hear you come in and I was still in my demon form." I was pulling out flour and sugar from the cupboard and I hummed, carrying a bag of each to the table in the center, frowning at him.

"That's a silly thing to apologize for. It doesn't bother me."

"Lucifer said you'd been feeling uncomfortable--" I froze. Beel sounded so sad. In fact that 'uncomfortable' sounded like he meant scared and-- Oh no. Lucifer had interpreted things way differently than I'd meant them. I'd talked about wanting to feel normal for a bit, and after the last convo I'd had with him about adjusting -- after he'd nearly attacked me -- it made sense that the whole 'demonic' thing was what he had assumed would be the part I was having issues with. "I know that Lucifer, Levi and I had kind of... Gone after you before..."

I stopped sorting through the cabinet and walked over to the table, using a stool to sit up on it so I could be even with him. I grabbed his hand as I did so, holding him in place and tugging him forward. It was funny to me that I'd had a similar conversation with his twin earlier, for slightly different reasons, but I couldn't tell him that. These demons all seemed to expect me to be more scared of them than I was.

"I'm not scared of you guys, you know." I explained, grabbing his other hand and holding him in place. He looked a little confused, so I continued on. "The demon thing is new, sure, maybe a little weird, but whatever. I'm just... Not used to people paying me so much attention? Last time I had someone keeping such a close eye on me it wasn't to keep me safe, so sometimes I just... Kinda get anxious about not being able to just hide for a bit."

I shifted, frowning and trying to figure out how to explain it to him. I hated having to explain any of this. But that was becoming more and more common with them. Experiences were so different that I just didn't know if he'd understand. Not that they explained much to be, but... He just nodded at what I'd said, accepting it. So I sighed, smiling a little, and leaned forward to rest my head on his chest instead. He didn't really hesitate to wrap his arms around me, gently stroking my hair. I was glad he wasn't asking any more questions, though. That really was the nice thing about being around Beel.

And then his stomach growled. Loudly. I couldn't help but laugh, pulling back to smile up at him. "Imma get back to making those cupcakes, okay? What kind sound good to you?"

I shouldn't have been surprised that the answer was some weird demonic flavour. We settled on something a bit more... Human? Since I was still getting used to demonic ingredients [I'd put some in the frosting still, that was easier to fix if it didn't turn out alright]. He went back to the fridge to find something to eat in the meantime. He didn't go back to his demon form, I noticed, but that could have simply been a matter of ease. If I remembered correctly, it took effort for them to go between the two forms.

If he wasn't the Avatar of Gluttony, I would have expected him to be full by the time everything was done with how much he was eating, but he even managed to [mostly] keep his hands to himself as I was getting the cupcakes iced. I'd scolded him that he couldn't eat them until I was done because I wanted to make sure he liked it. [I know he still snuck one pre-icing while I wasn't looking, but he was pretending he hadn't, so I was going to let him think he'd been sneaky.]

I did make him wait a little bit extra because of that, though, setting them all nicely on a plate and making a point to get a picture for Devilgram first. Which Mammon walked into the kitchen while I was trying to get a good angle. I wouldn't have noticed he was even there if it weren't for his hand creeping into my picture to try to grab one

And I say try because Beel immediately picked him up to stop him from taking any of them. I clicked my picture and just laughed, getting a shot of the two of them next. Setting my D.D.D. down, I motioned towards the plate. "Alright Beel, they're all yours."

"All of them?" Beel asked, already drooling and looking way too happy about it.

"H-hey! I should at least get one of Chris's cupcakes!" Mammon protested. But Beel had already started digging in on the plate, not bothering to even bother replying to his brother. And Mammon was pouting about it. I had to hold back my giggle. "F-fine. It's not like I really wanted one anyway."

"Yes you did." He started to protest, to try to argue with me, but I ignored him and grabbed the cupcake I'd left for myself [with just plain vanilla frosting] and slowly started to peel off the wrapper. "And I'll let you have half if you admit it."

He continued to pout as I finished pulling off the paper and took a bit. I made a point to let out a pleased, drawn out "Mmmmm". And Beel was finishing his, so I'd have to start worry about him snatching it from me soon. "Come on Mammon, just say you want some, and I'll let you have it."

That, amusingly, had him blushing, the pink spreading across his face. But I took another slow bite to tease him, this time with 'Yummy' for emphasis. It was getting Beel's attention for sure, as he was now eyeing the cupcake.

"If Mammon doesn't want it, can I have it?" Beel muttered. I could feel that he wasn't really that hungry at the moment, which made me wonder why he'd asked instead of just letting me have all of it. But Mammon's reaction told me what I needed to know. Because the moment Beel asked for it, he stepped forward in between me and Beel, already looking indignant [and I felt a wave of greed from him] and that's when he managed to get the words out.

"Chris. Can I have some of your cupcake?" He said it so quietly, barely able to look at me, that I almost gave it to him right away just from how cute he was being. Except. It also made me want to tease him just a little bit more.

"What's the magic word?" I asked him, grinning and leaning forward into his field of vision a bit. He went a bit redder and stammered, but after a moment, he did manage to get out a very quiet 'please' and I grinned, giving him the rest of the cupcake. [Definitely more than half.] He lit up and devoured it, making sure not to let Beel take it.

Mammon was smiling by the end of it though. His big goofy smile he'd get when he was really happy. And it was contagious. Between the two of them, and how much they'd both enjoyed the cupcakes, my cheeks were hurting. I stifled a yawn as I reached towards Mammon and swiped some of the icing off of his cheek, sticking my thumb in my mouth and giving him a wink. I didn't acknowledge his blush though, instead choosing to walk past him and head back to my room, wishing the two of them good night with a small wave.

#the seal obey me fic #obey me #obey me mammon #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me fic #obey me mc #obey me mc chris

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