#My self-indulgent John is baby girl fic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cryonme · 3 years

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ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ

➵ JJ Maybank x fem!reader

➵ summary: You get anxiety at night and JJ is unbelievably patient.

➵ word count: 643

➵ tw: anxiety, paranoia, mentions of alcohol & smoking, tears, fatigue. typos and mistakes guaranteed.

➵ a/n: Miz writes something under 1k words?! unheard of. double posting?! un-fucking-heard of. anyway, this is such a self indulgent thing bc the thing that’s happening to the reader in this fic has been happening to me and I haven't been able to find anything similar w JJ on here so I wrote one myself hahaha. just a short little sweet comfort blurb of jj being a really good boyfriend and me wishing I had a JJ so bad🤬🥺 anyway, enjoy.

┉ˏ͛ ༝̩̩̥͙ ⑅͚˚　　 ҉　　⑅͚˚ ͛༝̩̩̥͙ ˎ┉ 　 ҉ ┉ˏ͛ ༝̩̩̥͙ ⑅͚˚　　 ҉　　⑅͚˚ ͛༝̩̩̥͙ ˎ┉

“JJ.” You whispered in the darkness, wiping at your tired eyes, which were beginning to tear up from your lack of sleep and fatigue.

“Hmm.” JJ stirred for a moment in his sleep, acknowledging you but not fully.

“JJ, please.” You pleaded, wiping at your heavy eyes once again.

The blond groaned and sat up, scrunching his face in annoyance at whoever could possibly be waking him up from his beloved slumber. His eyes softened when he saw it was you.

And his heart ached when he saw you wiping tears.

“Baby?” He questioned, reaching out his arms for you to crawl into as he leaned against the headboard. “What happened?”

“I’m so tired.” You croaked, curling further into JJ’s arms, wanting so badly to close your eyes and go to sleep but anxiety took over anytime you blinked longer than a second.

JJ frowned and tightened his grip on you. “Is it happening again?”

Yeah, again. The raging anxiety that took over your body every time you closed your eyes to fall asleep. The fear that someone was watching you from a window or the worry that your phone would light up with a text of the news of a lost loved one, nothing was off limits. And it was all terrifying. This started a long time ago, back when you and JJ were just friends, and you confided in him about it over a shared joint by the water. He told you to text him anytime, and that he was serious. But, of course, you never did, until you started dating.

It didn’t happen every night, it was more like phases. Maybe, 3 or 4 nights in a row every month, almost like getting your period. Although, you’d honestly rather have your period twice a month over this.

You only nodded as JJ cooed at your response, bringing his thumb up to wipe a tear from your cheek, planting soft kisses on your face.

“My poor girl.” He frowned again, running his thumb over the bags under your eyes. “I’m right here, okay? Won’t let anything happen to you, baby.” His eyelids were getting heavy, but he wouldn’t dare fall asleep before you did, because you’d just be scared and alone all over again.

“Did you have fun last night?” JJ hummed, subtly rocking you back and forth, trying to lull you to sleep.

You nodded in response, smiling softly thinking about it. It was the pogue’s first time meeting Sarah Cameron, John B’s new beau, and you, her and Kie bonded so much over a bottle of tequila and a couple cheap cigarettes, you decided the three of you should have a sleepover on the patio, which quickly became a bad idea when you were a little bit too aware of the fact that you were sleeping outside.

“Tell me about it.” JJ said.

You began to tell him what the three of you had talked about, and how excited you were to have another girl friend, and how she shares the same love of Harry Styles as you do, and JJ just smiled and nodded along, leaving in his own commentary every now and then. Soon enough your words just turned to gentle hums in response and your body relaxed in his arms, finally falling asleep at 5 AM.

JJ sighed and readjusted so you were laying on your side, your face buried into his neck, and his chin resting on top of your head, his arms not loosening their grip on you as he finally let his eyes shut. He would definitely be catching up on his sleep all day tomorrow, but he didn’t mind. As long as you were comfortably sleeping, that’s all that really mattered.

“Goodnight, sweet thing.” He whispered, his lips ghosting over the top of your head before he finally let sleep overtake him.

taglist- not tagging right now since this is just an extremely rushed blurb I wrote in like 20 minutes at midnight lol and im lazy rn im so sorry hahahaha

#jj maybank imagine #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank blurbs #jj maybank one shot #jj maybank blurb #jj maybank #jj outer banks #outer banks blurb #outer banks imagine #Outer Banks #outer banks one shot #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x you

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rumblelibrary · 3 years

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Hello! I'm watching The Alienist- Angel of Darkness, and I keep thinking of a fic where laszlo's wife!reader just gave birth and this case worries the poor man more than usual, because their baby is in danger and he can't get into the assassin's mind. Perhaps the reader could offer to breastfeed laszlo, and they have an in-depth conversation about the workings of the killer's mind and why the reader herself enjoys nurturing her husband. Perhaps it would even become a habit after the case was solved and every time Doctor Kreizler wanted some milk, he would let her know with a touch just below her breast that would go unnoticed in public as a gesture of affection? I think I thought about it too much, what do you think about writing about it?

The Marriage of Happiness [Dr Laszlo Kreizler x Wife!Reader]

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: erotic lactation, breastfeeding kink, mention of other kinks and of murder

A/N: What do I think about writing it? I think THANKY YOU because I could write Laszlo having a boobie obsession for the rest of my life. I do think about it daily and it is just THE kink for him (as poor @cazzyimagines knows how obsessed I am). The case of studies mentioned are taken from psychology books of the time. I don''t know what point you're with Angel of Darkness so I am not giving out too much.

The night was dark and tensed, not a soul on the streets of the residential area you lived in with your husband, the only light up the one in your bedroom.

You became mother three months before welcoming the first little Kreizler of her generation. It was hard but worth every second, every moment of the pregnancy and the delivery your husband was with you. You were lucky, you felt lucky to be with a man like Laszlo: open minded, modern, charming and righteous.

You smiled walking around the room as you lulled your baby humming a soft lullaby, the baby observing you with dazzling eyes, you could see she was tired and the melody kept her attentive but also lulled her to a place of comfort.

You swayed slowly in a gentle waltzer, your arms embracing the tiny body wrapped up into the finest white clothing. You yourself wore your white nightdress with a dark green cover up that Laszlo gifted you, it was slightly bigger in size so you’d use it though the whole pregnancy, your hair loosely braided.

The baby opened her mouth making a soft sound, she was calm and relaxed, to see her like this brought you an immense joy.

You heard steps approaching to the door, the house was empty since Stevie was with Laszlo and the cook you hired was in her quarters, you wouldn’t be worried if your husband wasn’t working on a case of abducted babies, but then you followed Laszlo’s common sense and listened instead of letting your mind worry. You listened to the steps coming one after the other, the weight of them, the pace.

You smiled to yourself as you guessed right, your husband appeared on the door frame and the shadow over his face disappeared for a moment meeting your standing figure with the baby. Since the case begun he refused to have any new staff in the house, he brought the bed of the baby in your bedroom, which wasn’t common back then, and every night sent Stevie to roam around the streets before going to bed to see if there was any obscure presence.

“My love” he said with a smile as he walked his way toward you undoing his jacket as you offered him a look of the falling asleep baby. His left hand gently caressing the little chest to feel the breathe of life in it. The baby blinked at him and smiled. Your baby girl was an early smiler, she smiled in her first month which just ripped off her father soul, tucked it in her little pocket and sold him forever. He was already ecstatic to be a father, only the announcement of your pregnancy got him wild, a mix of worry and tenderness always over him. The constant fear to be losing it. To lose what you brought to his life, not only his daughter but that happiness, the home feeling, the meaning to have something to come back to at night.

He loved you like a flower loves the water, he loved you more than metaphors can explain. He closed his eyes pressing his forehead against your temple, you rocked the baby gently in your arms as she relaxed, the sleep over her even if the presence of her father stirred her a bit.

“I am so worried for her” he murmured, he couldn’t cope with it anymore. The pressure to be following that case.

Sara told him to drop it, but he couldn’t. He owed it to Martha Napp, he owed him to his own child. To be in the case put his darling baby into the spotlight, but the best chance to solve it and avoid the menace of losing the apple of his eyes was to fight the crime from the inside.

And yet, he couldn’t. He couldn’t get inside it.

He looked up and noticed your eyes on him, you detected the twist into his mind, the fear, the tremble of his intentions.

You kissed his cheek as his head was bowed slightly before slowly moving away to lean the baby into her cradle.

“Get comfortable” you urged him softly as he nodded to you undoing his jacket and his waist coat shrugging them off his shoulders as you adjusted the baby into her usual sleeping position, you pulled the covers over her caressing her head full of dark blonde hair like her father had as a child. You brushed them gently as she stirred and relaxed again, a soft sound coming from her mouth. She was well dressed, well fed and happy, you knew your child had all the possibilities in life to be the most charming and smartest woman of her times.

You moved the little veils on top of the crib to shield her from the dim lights of the room before pacing your way back to your husband.

Laszlo was sat on your shared bed. His eyes focused in the nothing in front of him. His waistcoat and jacket abandoned as he wore only his candid white shirt and dark pants.

You picked the hooked needle as you slowly bowed to your knees, he blinked surprised for a moment as you begun to undo his boots silently. You knew him, you gave him time to express himself. He was elaborating still, collecting ideas after a day spent talking back and forth with Sara.

“I saw the body” he said as you looked up.

“The body of Martha Napp’s baby” he added and you frowned, the poor woman, you couldn’t imagine yourself in her position. You’d probably be accused of murder too because you’d probably become feral if somebody touched your baby.

“Are you sure it is her baby?”

You knew he was sure, but the hope still fazed you.

“The child was poisoned, the deadly pallor was evident but Martha mentioned her child had an identifying contusion” he took a pause, he licked his lips as you could almost see him relieve the scene in his mind “A benign hemangioma under her left axilla”

He looked at you, to see the corpse of a baby, a baby that could be his, to find out a baby girl was abducted and this time in a well known residential area. The anxiety took over him. He was pestered by dark worries, images that saw you in a state of loss and disruption like the poor Señora Linares.

His eyes rested onto you, your calm firmness made him shake at times. His strong and aggressive demeanour might show him as the rock of the couple, but you are. You’re the one that can overcome things, that can see clearly when his mind is clouded.

“Might that child soul rest now with her mother, if you allow me I will take care of organising the burial along with the mother’s corpse as soon as the Isaacson’s have concluded their inspections on it”

He looked at you, a soft smile crept on him. Your thoughtful self always finding the cure to the pain. He saw the failure and you found the ultimate resolution. You could not join them in life, let it be in death.

You gave him a warm smile before finishing with both his boots and pulling them out, your hands slowly tracing his calves and ankles resting your chin on his knee to interject his eyes.

“Darling”

He blinked, he zoned out again and your voice called him back.

“I apologise” he only said

You stood up, his eyes lingering over your body for a moment. You healed like a true champion after the delivery, in few weeks you were back on your feet like nothing, in a month you were able to attend events. Your energy and vitality made you seem immortal to his eyes, which triggered his fears of loss even more.

Something so special, so strong like you, the idea to see you broken in any shape or form poisoned his soul and tortured his heart.

“Laszlo” once again, you called him back to reality as you sat beside him “you’re not thinking clearly”

He huffed softly, you were right.

“I can’t focus” he admitted finally taking your hand in his “I even upset the señora with my questions, enraged Sara, I feel like an headless chicken rushing around to find answers I can’t deal with. The scientific community protecting a butcher, John doing all he can at the newspaper and yet I am providing nothing to this investigation but background noise” he frowned deeply.

You could tell he was doing it for Martha and for you. He wanted to protect you and he tried to keep you far from all that darkness.

“Come” you said as you moved to your spot on the bed relaxing your legs as you adjusted some pillows behind your back “come on”

You hushed him and he obeyed quietly crawling on the bed, his frown still present. You hated to see him like that. Usually he was able to keep cases of study and worries outside of the bedroom, but this case was too personal.

You smiled at him as you undid the silly bow on your neck that kept the upper part of your night gown up. It was a maternity gown so to undo that little knot exposed the sensual curve of your breasts in a second. His eyes indulged over that little silky cloth twisted around your finger and the stars of little moles on your chest, he knew each of them by memory, he knew the scent of your perfume and the oils you use after bathing.

He looked up at you with a questioning look, he mindlessly run the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip when you exposed your juicy breasts. He always had a thing for them, he was always enchanted by the feminine chest as the highest form of femininity, big or small, that sensual shape was the epitome of life, of the charms of Eve in the Garden of Eden, the Mother Earth personified into the sacred body of his wife.

His eyes darted up back at you, a silent question on him as you didn’t let his confusion overwhelm you, you fought it with calmness and temperance.

“I know only one way to calm a restless Kreizler”

Your words would have made him smile as your open arms weren’t such a charming offer. He run his tongue again over his upper lip this time, using his left arm as support he slowly slipped closer to you.

His face leaned to yours as you didn’t seem to have changed your mind.

Somebody else would have maybe found it repulsive, a man of simple and good heart like John would have felt that kind of attention misplaced.

But not him.

He lowered himself over your chest adjusting into a nice position as you used few extra pillows you had there to ensure him a comfortable stay. His nose gently brushed over the inside of your chest, his hot breath hitting over your skin as he looked up at you once more and once more a welcoming smile followed his gaze.

He leaned down once again, lips parted to gently capture your nipple among them. Your mouth gaping lightly as he sucked a bit too much at the beginning sending shivers down your spine but just like any child his sucking revealed his anxiety to be fed, his fear and his need of protection.

You wrapped one arm around him as with the other you brushed his hair, your nails gently scratching his scalp to relax him, fingers combing his always well kept hair.

You watched his eyes flutter closed as you resumed your usual humming. It wasn’t a real lullaby, it was some of a rhythm you got stuck in your head.

“You’re here and I am here, our baby is safe from the world outside and nothing bad can happen” you narrated softly to him “you’re the most amazing man I have ever met, I know that the clarity of your thinking will come back. Just stop the world for a moment, it will all be back when the time comes right”

He hummed softly as you fell silent gently caressing him as you observed him lovingly, the fingers of his weak right hand toying with your braid. His beard hitching a bit in the beginning but you got soon used to it, you didn’t speak up anymore, you felt him relax more and more and you also did. This new kind of bond felt pleasurable and sweet, you felt to have reached a new kind of intimacy which is all you could hope for your marriage.

The time passed in silence, not a sound disturbing you until Laszlo’s relaxed body stretched lightly, the common knowledge telling you that the baby is fed.

He pulled back slowly before resting a kiss over your chest in a silent thank you.

He rested his head over your lap observing you like some Madonna staring at him with you gentle tenderness, not even Michelangelo could have grasped the beauty of your act or the absolute unfiltered love of your gaze.

“Was it pleasurable for you?”

He asked as you smiled gently caressing his cheek and his beard

“It was, you are really gentle” you answered. Another thing that you loved about your marriage was the unfiltered expression of feelings. You both looked for clarity through the eyes of your partner.

“Does it makes me your child?”

You smiled understandingly. This is your Laszlo, inquiring, curious, witty.

“No, no I don’t have a feeling that resemblance to breastfeed a child, it is more deep, more bound into my mind as an act of” you stopped thinking about it.

“Communion?”

He dared and you nodded as that was the right word.

“There’s a 1903 study, a German alienist suggested practicing erotic lactation as a way to deepen the relationship between husband and wife in a book called Die Offenbarung im Weibe, quite of a title I’d say, but he advised it as a good way to family plan, to give both the partners pleasure and he focused most of his studies over the idea of women’s sexual satisfaction being vital to the creation of an happy marriage.”

“It pleases me, I won’t deny it and it is a way that makes me feel you closer to me but in a more primal way, closer to the way sex works but with a different meaning”

He nodded as he toyed still with your brain slowly, a little fetish he just noticed in himself still doomed by the charm of unfiltered pure femininity.

Long hair, breasts, welcoming hips, all details that attracted him and drawn him toward you.

“There’s a study case, a man, a very wealthy one, he was obsessed with female hair. The smell, the composition, the touching” he paused as he toyed with yours among his fingers “He wouldn’t be able to suppress his desire, he confessed me his deepest fantasy was to have an orgasm while kissing the female hair and burying his head through them. It was peculiar but not harmful until he got himself a pocket knife, one of those not even good for a little pickpocketing but just as good to be able to cut some ladies’s hair in a crowd”

You kept caressing his hair yourself, probably moved also by the story, observing it and enjoying the texture.

“Do you think the killer of children needs to posses his fetish then?”

He nodded as you’re so smart.

“The possession is part of the final abdication of a person to their fetish, to be up to crime to own the desired being just proves the final commitment to the satisfaction of one’s desires” he explained to you and he paused now almost asking to himself “why would somebody steal a child then?”

You turned around looking at the crib where your baby girl rested.

“Because my crib is empty” you said and his eyes widened lightly.

“Tell me more, try to imagine it”

You frowned lightly as you moved your hands away from him, making distance, imagining the loneliness of empty arms, the excruciating pain of having a child and then not having it anymore.

“I need to give my love to my child” you said then taking a pause, your eyes staring to some unknown spot of the room “and if my child is not there, I will make sure that there will be”

Laszlo sat up as he stared at you.

“But that child won’t resemble you, your child was special and peculiar in its own way, this child grows up, changes, blabbers words while yours didn’t”

He pushed this image in you as you came to the only reasonable deduction you’d do if you were in such a state

“Then that is not my child” you said only “my child is somewhere else and this one is an impostor”

Laszlo nodded “So you get rid of it as soon as the reality outgrows the fantasy”

He concluded.

You looked at him as he stared back at you, a woman, the killer must be a woman that lost a child or got it taken away from her. She finds surrogates and dismisses them, she probably never saw her baby grow so they can’t grow.

“What would I do without you?”

You smiled at his words “you’d be completely lost, we both know about it” you said kissing his lips having a taste of your own medicine “now get into your night clothing, you’ll see Sara tomorrow to give her this new perspective.”

He smiled, not even a trace of the worried and confused Laszlo that stepped I the room before. He was back to his senses, his mind active, he could see with clarity.

- - - - - - -

The case unveiled itself, proof after proof, run after run, document after document he came to the solution.

He was proud, you and the baby were safe and now he could go back to the everyday.

“I don’t see the point Laszlo, you have proved yourself enough against him” John said as he stared up at his annoyed features s you served him some more tea.

John looked at you like why are you not stopping him but you just smiled it off relaxing in the loveseat beside your husband as John shook his shoulders like an annoyed bird.

“A man like Dr Markoe after all he did holding a public lecture with the anguishing title of Murder, Madness and Motherhood?” Laszlo snapped back at John “please, the least I can do is to humiliate him in front of the whole academic arena”

Laszlo leaned back smiling at his friend like he was just a poor fool.

“He will again fight on you, you know he always picks up on you for treating mostly children and being part of the investigation, you get heated with him and you lose your control”

John seemed only to know reasons to get Laszlo to desist, you understood him from your part, your husband was a fiery character and he hardly forgive people with quick and poor judgements. You also noticed he became way more aggressive toward Markoe since before the case, he always depicted pregnant women as prone to lose control, foolish and behaving like animals that had to be kept on a tight leash, it all in particular when you were expecting.

John’s tsunami of words couldn’t be stopped he had a reason not to do anything but your attention was quickly taken away by the soft touch of Laszlo’s hand on your side, just above the hem of your corset, his thumb tracing the side of your boob giving you a shiver as you already knew perfectly what he was demanding.

You could now tell that John actually made him feel unsure or at least unsettled him, he needed comfort and energies to face his enemy now.

Sara groaned making herself heard for the first time, she noticed his gesture and found it actually cute as she could never wish Laszlo with somebody more perfected than you. Your calmness matched his fiery nature, you talked when he needed to think, you smiled when he couldn’t. You allowed him to be more himself than he had ever been.

“Let’s go John, you’re being so obnoxious, at what time we will see the butchery of the doctor?”

You quickly answered to her giving her a gentle smile as she put John to silence.

She asked as she stood up and John groaned following her “See you there” John said still saying how useless it was to still go after that man.

Laszlo stood up escorting them to the exit and then coming back to the living room. You sat there like he left you, he would close the door behind his back locking it before crossing the room with long steps and close the curtains letting the darkness wrap around you. Your fingers slowly undoing your shirt as his shape takes again form in front of you as he turns on one lamp in the corner of the room before moving closer to you again, eyes shining even in the obscurity as his fingers finally meet with your skin once you undid the first knots on your corset.

“Give me life” he would plead to you before lacing his lips your nipple once more.

You knew from the first suck on your nipple how Markoe held no chance on today’s debate.

Tagged @cazzyimagines @lieutenantn @handmaiden-of-mischief @thesunflowersutra @zemomybeloved @fictionlandslanddreams@charistory @greeneyedblondie44 @apparrio @hb8301 @whatawildone @rhymerhymerhyme @thehuiabird @lilith-blackrose @unbeatablecurlgirl @obsidianlaszlo @alindeluce @zemosimp05 @baronesszemo-blackwood @nocapesdahling @everythingbeginsineternity-blog

#dr laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler drabble #dr laszlo kreizler x you #dr kreizler x reader #dr laszlo kreizler imagine #dr laszlo kreizler x reader #dr kreizler #laszlo kreizler fic #laszlo kreizler x y/n #laszlo kreizler fanfic #laszlo kreizler fanfiction #laszlo kreizler x you #laszlo kreizler imagine #laszlo kreizler x reader #laszlo kreizler headcanons #tw: lactation kink

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horselover107 · 2 years

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Captain John Hart, Note the Sarcasm

A Playlist for Torchwood Villians Fest. Descriptions and key lyrics under the cut (spoiler:most of those descriptions are just "was a vibe")

Warning for adult themes and sexuality explicit lyrics in some songs

Song 2 by Blur

It's from the soundtrack but also it sets a vibe

The Cult of Dionysus by the Orion Experience

I'm feeling devious You're looking glamorous Let's get mischievous And polyamorous Wine and women and wonderful vices Welcome to the cult of Dionysus

Sex, Drugs, and Violence by Green Day

Mainly here for the title tbh

Ex and Ohs by Elle King

John is the ex in this song

'Cause I found me a better lover in the UK Hey, hey, until I made my getaway

One, two, three, they gonna run back to me 'Cause I'm the best baby that they never gotta keep One, two, three, they gonna run back to me They always wanna come, but they never wanna leave

Ex's and the oh, oh, oh's they haunt me Like ghosts they want me to make 'em all They won't let go Ex's and oh's

Hit and Run by Lolo

I previously did a fic based on this song for Alice/Emiy but this song is ALSO a Jack and John backstory vibe

Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time by Panic! at the Disco

Really just here for the vibe

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline And most things in between

Bad Reputation by Joan Jett

I Don't Give a Damn Bout My Bad Reputation is a VIBE

So What by P!nk

A Jack/John vibe from the bar fight to "you weren't there, you let me fall"

Toxic by Britney Spears

Aside from the relationship vibe, literally just poison lipstick and the whole thing about The Rules

Kiss With a Fist by Florence and the Machine

Literally just this whole song is the bar fight make out scene

Bad Boyfriend by Garbage

Once again here for more vibes than anything else.

It's wild, the way you tease me It's wild, the way you free me It's wild, the way you reach me Wrapped me up in your wire from the start

Kill All Your Friends by My Chemical Romance

Here for the title because you know, exit wounds

It's been eight bitter years since I've been seeing your face Ba ba ba, ba ba ba And you're walking away And I will die in this place

Sometimes you scrape and sink so low I'm shocked at what you're capable of And if this is the coronation, I ain't feeling the love 'Cause we are all a bunch of animals that never paid attention in school So, tell me all about your problems, I was killing before killing was cool

I'm Going to be a Slut by Pansy Divison

I wanna live for pleasure I wanna live for fun So many lovely guys I want to sleep with every one

I'm gonna be a slut

Fuck Machine by Mindless Self Indulgence

Now we don't care If you're a girl or a toy If you're a game or a boy If you're nerd or a whore

You can have the sex with me (Woah-oh-oh) Science fiction fantasy

Also just the title and artist

Science Fiction by Rufio

Here for the future boy time agent vibes

Toxic Valentine by All Time Low

This is also kind of ALSO a Jack/John vibe.

Sex and white lies Handcuffs and alibis She lays her halo on the pillow where she sleeps Her heart beats, red wine My toxic valentine Lays her halo on her pillow that used to be... She lays her halo on her pillow that used to be mine

Whiskey in Hell by Anarbor

I hope they serve whiskey in hell, 'Cause I'm already on my way. And I've fucked up, You can't save me now. 'Cause I'm already on my way And I'll buy the first round If you come down. I hope they serve whiskey in hell.

#torchwood #john hart #torchwood fanfests #Spotify

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mizufae · 2 years

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@fallynleaf tagged me in this and I procrastinated doing it but here I am!!

Rules: Tag nine people you want to know better.

Three ships: Currently I seem to be stuck in a basic anime phase and really into Bakugou/Midoriya aka Bakudeku from My Hero Academia. Probably my most side-eye-worthy ship is Giles/Buffy, hahahahhaa, but seriously though, I really ship it, it’s a problem. I’m mostly a multishipper because I’m usually into something for found family aspects and friendship feelings and adventure stuff, so it’s rare that I have an actual OTP type ship. I think the only one I can recall is McShep from Stargate Atlantis. Like, I will read and enjoy fic about other pairings but I’m always in the back of my mind like “but what about John? What about Rodney? What about how they are perfectly imperfect for each other and soooouuuuulllmaaaaatesss???”

First ever ship: I’m fairly sure I shipped Lucy/Tumnus from Narnia when I read the books at around seven years old. Before that I also recall thinking that Strawberry Shortcake and Rainbow Brite were definitely in love with each other. I was born in 1984 and the movie specials for those came out around the same time, and my parents had a geeky friend who was into AV stuff and made a bunch of tapes filled with kids movies all strung together. One of them had strawberry shortcake and rainbow brite on it, and I think also a Care Bears movie? Anyway I would have been anywhere from zero to like, eight and watching those and I definitely thought they all happened in the same continuity and the two main girls would meet up on weekends and exchange gossip and probably kiss.

Last song: Yo I had to go look up dates for strawberry shortcake and rainbow brite so obviously I had to go watch the Rainbow Brite theme song. Hrmm but seriously, I don’t usually listen to much music. I really should because my tastes are vast and it definitely buoys my mood, but it’s just not a habit I ever got into. Let’s see, the last thing I listened to on Spotify appears to be… No digo que no (vaca y pollo), a jazzy acoustic and electric guitar number by Rita Payés and Elizabeth Roma. I love Rita Payés, she has such a nuanced voice and funny modern sensibility. I tend to listen to whole albums at once because I’m that douche who wants to listen to the story as the artist intended or whatever the fuck, but anyway the album Como La Piel is really great, give it a listen. It gets kind of abstract and deconstructed sometimes and then pulls back into a full band with layered rich sound with brass and strings and then sweeps the vocals along through different feelings and places and deconstructs again. All while being full of listenable jams.

Last film: I barely ever watch movies! I don’t know why? I think I’m probably just dumb. I believe the last one I watched was the very silly 2002 The Importance of Being Earnest. Whoever decided they should cast that American Elle Woods for the young female lead in that movie was indulging some powerful pharmaceuticals I tell you what.

Currently reading: lol Yuri!!! On Ice fanfic because I am who I am who I am. The last non-fic thing I read was this amazing little story called “ To Embody a Wildfire Starting” by Iona Datt Sharma. It’s kind of about dragons and colonialism and change of self and the making and unmaking of places and people and what a person is and isn’t? It’s good. Anyway the fic I’m reading is about baby Yuri being adopted by skating dads because I’m a hormonal sap.

Currently watching: I am not currently watching anything unless you count DeeBeeGeek’s Zelda playthroughs, but I intend to go watch the new season of Bridgerton very shortly.

Currently consuming: I am drinking peppermint tea with a little bit of honey in it. Earlier I had a roast beef sandwich with tomatoes, horseradish, and gem lettuce on the most amazing miche bread from the best bakery in town, but it was two days old so it wasn’t as amazing as it could have been but it was still pretty great.

Currently craving: I have these tomatoes that I think tomorrow I’m gonna hollow out and stuff with breadcrumbs, mozzarella, parmesan, anchovies, parsley, and garlic and roast them. They are pretty small so I’m unsure about the form factor but I suspect it will be freaking delicious no matter what.

Tagging: @idealism-sits-in-prison @attentiondeficitohlookasquirrel @duckpaint @thatsnotmycow @holodeckprotocols @lunallaun @yamelcakes @thebreakfastgenie @kk-maker also if you want to do this you may 100% consider yourself tagged by me and if you @ me I will go and dutifully read your responses

#memery

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florbelles · 3 years

Note

any unanswered fic writer asks send tweet

we are no longer on speaking terms. 🌝,😈 & 🧠 answered here, 🌙 & 🌈 answered here xx

what do you like most about your own writing?

— i’m generally very happy with my use of narrative voice, particularly in terms of stylistic choices and structure to create atmosphere or convey emotion. i probably consider the latter my strongest suit. it’s also my favorite aspect of the writing process, which is probably why i feel it’s effective :’’)

what embarrasses you most about your own writing?

— the lack of it :/

i jest. you know what’s embarrassing? my organization/lack thereof. it’s near-impossible for me to piece anything together after the fact so if i don’t have it all in one place immediately then girl bye good luck finding it ( there are legitimately passages i have had to look up from wip posts or excerpt memes because it’s the only place i know, without doubt, i can find them ).

what is one wip you think you may never pick back up?

— none, actually. even if there are projects i know i’ll never continue in their original form — the vast majority of my uncompleted original/non-fandom work qualifies — in all probability i’ll butcher them for parts or otherwise repurpose them. ( i realize this is probably asking about in-progress published works specifically, but since i don’t currently have any of those live on main, that’s n/a ).

do you have any wips that you would never let see the light of day? if yes, what are they about?

— not specifically, no. i have plenty of content that i won’t ultimately use just because it doesn’t serve a justifiable narrative purpose, is experimental, is an outtake that i don’t want to publish because it was cut due to changes or incompatibility with another characterization/narrative choice i ended up making ( which i don’t want to muddle, at least at this stage, but i suppose the what-ifs could have a place on main down the line, so not even those are necessarily hard nevers ). alas, no super secret fic, though.

what is your fave fic to receive comments/messages on?

— since i’m not on ao3 and don’t have multiple fics posted, my comments/messages are generally tags or comments on my posts here, and i love & appreciate absolutely all of them :’’)

do you write every day?

— i do, actually! i’m not counting what i write for workshops or uni, obviously, since those are on a deadline, but i can’t think of a day in recent memory i haven’t written something for my self-indulgent projects, even if that’s just a few disjointed lines out of context that will inevitably be buried in the depths of my notes app.

are you a planner, plantser, or pantser? is it consistent?

— the only thing is that’s wholly consistent is i absolutely Do Not Outline, i Will Not Do It. otherwise i don’t think i’ve ever gone into a project without essentially knowing exactly where i want things to end up. that doesn’t mean that isn’t subject to change, obviously, i like to leave myself plenty of flexibility to keep things fresh, but generally by the time i get around to actually writing out fic scenes i have a thorough knowledge of my arc as a whole ( i obviously know all the details of lyra’s canon intimately, for example, but i still don’t have an outline in terms of fic pacing/writing schedule/scene presentation order ).

current number of wips?

— one major longfic and 130+ prompts 💕

do you tell people in real life that you write fic?

— again, not specifically, no. fic makes up a relatively small percentage of what i write, especially in the context of what i have finished ( as you all know ); that’s actually one of the reasons why i have comparatively little completed, i already write on deadlines outside of a fandom sphere, so i’m not willing to put them on myself or make time commitments that could lead to burnout. generally when i discuss my writing projects it’s not in a fandom context. it’s not a secret, though.

what is one growth area you have for your writing?

— proofreading & editing. i absolutely do not proofread. never not going in raw, baby. i do make cuts, but only in the form of culling entire passages if i’m not completely happy with them or feel they’re unnecessary weight/are fucking with the impact & pacing ( which is a habit related to my lack of editing, i would rather just axe it completely or rewrite it entirely ). this is unfortunately true of academic & workshop submissions as well as fandom writing. i’ve gotten by with it all my life, but that doesn’t mean i should, or couldn’t greatly improve my work by putting in the effort.

do you read your own fic?

— yes. after the fact. which is why i will notice an entire phrase that was formatted incorrectly and appeared twice in a row a month after the original positing.

what is the hardest part of writing fic?

— writing it. ( no, really, it’s 99% just a matter of finding time & energy for me ).

do you do research for your fics? what’s the deepest dive you’ve done?

— i’ll do cursory research as the need arises, yeah. most of the deep diving i do is related to canon lore, however. ( i have listened to literal hours of far cry 5 dialogue. i have read fps scripts. i have purchased & studied promotional and companion material. i have given myself motion sickness seeking out notes & confirming geographical details. i have a problem. i never wanted this for myself. i never — )

choose three adjectives to complement your own writing.

— i’m not trying to be a twat but i assume this means compliment because it doesn’t make sense to me otherwise :)) uhhhh visceral, poetic, immersive

what is a headcanon you have about your own work?

— kate’s already heard this one but my pet headcanon that will never be canonically addressed is isbaela watching the nukes from her window with her third glass of morning white wine in her hand making a noise of disgust like “i’m sure this is somehow lyra’s fault” and lawrence is like “oh my god, bels give it up what the fuck is wrong with you” but then ten minutes later in hell he’s like “oh lol no shit?”

( i jest. mostly. )

in all seriousness i like to think that since their world is based in mythology & the supernatural that john & lyra are truly reunited in hell where she has taken her rightful place as one marked by god for damnation as lucifer was before her

name one of your fave comfort fics (doesn’t have to be your all time fave)?

— i’m just going to recommend my “other fic” tag instead :’’)

if one of your fics was going to get you arrested, which one and why?

— she wrote in blood and we all know damn well why

do you spend more time reading fic, writing fic, or do you do both equally?

— writing it! i generally don’t seek fic out, i don’t need to because my mutuals are good enough to put premium content on my dash regularly

#honeysides #answered

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1990jeevas · 3 years

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got bored, here's my overly specific dni list! rb with how many reasons you cant interact (note: this is all a joke for the most part, only a few of these actually piss me off and those ones still arent enough for me to unfollow/block/whatever else someone over)

bakudeku's, people who baby deku, people who villainize bakugou, bakugou antis, endeavor kins/simps/sympathizers/apologists, people who think the bakugou's aren't bad parents, villain/traitor mic, shinsou or bakugou enthusiasts, people who ship/shipped fiolee, people who've taken part in the finn/mordecai simp debate, people who know all the songs in hamilton word for word, neurotypicals, people who bought the schlatt plushie yet dont watch/like schlatt, youtooz technoplushie, people who don't like soul eater, soma shippers, people who can easily swallow pills, people who can dry swallow pills, bad boy craig tucker and/or kenny mccormick enthusiasts, non-monster fuckers, memori enthusiasts, john murphy antis, clarke griffin stans, bellarke stans, people who dislike the color green, extroverts, light yagami kinnies, junko enoshima kinnies, people who genuinely think bakugou is a boring/uninteresting/not complex character, dream, people over 5'10" (unless you're ranboo), twitter users with georgenotfound pfps, directioners, people who find museums boring, anyone who's ever sided with tony stark on anything (unless you're peter park), cishet mcyt stans, cishet deadpool fans, people who think eddie brock is straight, people who think eddie brock isn't dating venom, people who write eddie kaspbrak as bi and richie tozier as gay, people who dislike the found family trope, white east los high viewers, people who are good at photography and/or filming, cis white gay men, leo's (unless you're a kpop boy i like or corpse husband), people who had enough money to own osiris' growing up, straight holland fans, cishet men who stan girl groups, people who think 5'6" is short, math enjoyers, people who don't enjoy the song faggot by mindless self indulgence, people who enjoy twisted tea, sloppy drunks, people who get into slur discourse on twitter dot com, apple/youtube music users, people with youtube premium, people who are too pussy to pirate media, cishet male jojo bizzare adventures fans, one piece fans, nalu shippers, people who didnt have a creepypasta or happy tree friends phase, the 1975 fans, licorice enjoyers, current hollywood undead fans above age 15, airpod users, people who can't face the fact that android phones have some better features than iphones, people who think hayloft is the best mother mother song, barbs, blinks, people who've never hyperfixated on a fic/social media au/piece of fan media, texans, californians, jersey people and bostoners, anisa johma, people who dont think maxmoefoe is pretty, people named ashley, melanie martinez enjoyers, people who ship/shipped max and fang in maximum ride (yes that means james patterson too), sasuke fans, people who think dipper pines is cis, people who dont season their food properly (ie white folks), people who learned how to type "properly" in elementary school, kpop twitter users, people who havent heard more than three bbno$ songs, people who eat their steak well done, cishet idubbbz fans, pisces', white dirk and/or vriska kinnies, wooden pencil users, copic users, people who eat their burgers as burgers and dont separate each piece to eat individually, black butler stans, dark chocolate enjoyers, people who's favorite shape is a triangle and people who have paid for adobe programs

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elliot-orion · 4 years

Text

Fanfiction Is Real Writing

Mkay so Elliot has officially had 1 too many people look at me condescendingly when I say I mostly read fanfic so it’s time for a Post. Let’s get one thing clear here right off the bad. Fanfiction is real writing. If you write fanfic you are a writer. You don’t need to tack fanfic on there. You are a writer. You can participate in all the writing spaces without shame. You are just as worthy and valid as any writeblr on this site and what you do is impressive. And on the same vein, reading fanfiction is not inherently lesser than reading published books you get from Barnes and Noble. 50 Shades of Gray was a mistake, but at the very least it proved that. I have read books by canonized authors that were less engaging, dynamic, and well written than a fanfiction I found on AO3. Yes, fanfic might have the occasional gratuitous blow job, but that means nothing. Still real writing.

Now that that’s out of the way, I want to get just a wee bit more in-depth with this, because I know I can say however many times I want that fanfic is real writing and still people won’t believe me. So let’s bring forth some actual arguments on why fanfiction is super fucking valid and fanfic authors are actual authors.

Reason #1 - Published Fanfiction

Fanfiction is out there all over the place. You see people reading it all the time. They teach it in classrooms. They make movies of it. Don’t believe me? Well Dante’s Inferno is a three part, self insert, super self indulgent fanfic of the bible. Literally any Christian literature would also count under this bible fanfiction collection, and any and all biblical paintings? Those are fanart buddy. I don’t know how to break it to you, but Caravaggio’s St John the Baptist reclining with a single cloth covering his nether regions is on the same level as a digitally drawn Tony Stark with a flower in his mouth saying draw me like one of your french girls in terms of fanart credibility okay. It be like that.

And trust me, it’s not just biblical shit. Ever read a book with some sort of Frankenstein’s monster in it? That’s making fanfiction off the goth queen Mary Shelley. Any single piece of vampire literature? Dracula fanfiction. Hotel Transylvania is an epic slice of life crossover with some OCs thrown in for spice. Are you starting to see my point here? Because if not I’ve got more examples, just send me an ask, I can go for a while here. Like, you know, literally anything that’s got to do with Romeo and Juliet, or Sherlock, and so on and so forth. Get it? 50 Shades is super far from being the only published fanfictions and if you think it is then wow you need to get out more.

Reason #2 - AO3 Is Just Digital Publishing

As a self published author, I can confidently say that making an AO3 publication is super similar to self publishing something. I used Kindle Direct Publishing to publish Sparks Fly. I had to age grade it, like I have to put down General, Teen, Mature, or Explicit on my AO3 fics. I had to add tags for people to find it, much like you tag stuff on AO3. I had to mark off it was explicit. I had to list the genre, like one may tag Gen, M/M, and so on for an AO3 fic. I wrote a summary. I gave it a title. Really, taking an au fanfiction, changing the names, and publishing it as an E-book would be remarkably easy. Just actually let a beta read it this time, format it, and make a quick cover, and boom. You’re published. Does that extra step mean you’re any more of an author for doing so than you were already? Of course not, unless I missed the memo that said you need to know how to format and make covers to be a writer.

Reason #3 - Fanfiction Is Fucking Hard Okay?

Fanfiction is no less creative or difficult than original writing. It requires a plot, characterization, worldbuilding, because even if it’s not an au canon gives us all very little to work with half the time, and dedication. You need to have a grasp on the English language and how to make written dialogue, description, and internal worlds. The only difference is that fanfiction has something to go off, but that does no make it lesser. In fact, in many ways I argue it’s harder. If your character is slightly out of character, no one will know. If you write Han Solo out of character, you’re in for a nightmare.

Actually, fanfiction is an excellent way to develop as a writer, and I highly suggest trying it if you haven’t already. You can assume your audience already has a fairly decent grasp of the characters, their basic interactions and characteristics, world (unless it’s a new au), and general backstory of anything canon. You don’t have to spend time with developing a relationship from the ground up if you don’t want to, you don’t need to waste space on exposition, you can, as I like to say, get to the good stuff from the get go. If you start your fanfic off with Harry kissing Malfoy, people are going to understand the dynamic between those two and their history together, meaning you can skip all that and get right into the aftermath of two rivals kissing and whatever you want that to mean for your story. You have so much more room for characterization, and you don’t even need to stick to canon. I find the best fanfictions to be the ones where they take canon elements and break them. Canon means nothing you fools, the writer is now god and if they want those two to have a 200k slow burn coffee shop au then they will and it doesn’t mean shit that they are 2 ageless warriors from hell. It’s coffee time baby. But no matter how much you snap and step on canon, those characters need to be recognizable, which is especially difficult when it’s not a written media and that means you’ve got no idea what the inner world of the character is like and only 2 hours of material to work with and oh god.... Yea, fanfic is harder than you think folks. Again, as both a fanfic and original fic author I can say I’ve struggled equally as much with my 50k Hydra Peter Parker hurt/comfort au as I did with writing The Other Beings.

And these are so very far from the only three reasons!! And even if there weren’t it wouldn’t matter because fanfiction has characters, plot, and is words on a page/screen, whether it’s a 100 word drabble or 200k agonizingly slow burn (seriously how do you have the PATIENCE) and guess what last I checked that’s all you need for fiction writing don’t you think? So now if people could stop snickering when they catch me pulling up AO3, that’d be just great. Have a good day.

#Elliot is bitter and decided to rant about it #fanfic

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whumpdeedoo · 4 years

Text

whats this I hear about no rabbi

AO3 / FF.net

I wrote this instead of the prompts that have been sitting in my inbox for over a year. This isn’t even whump, it’s a self-indulgent B99 fic in which Jake and Amy discuss the religion of their baby bc I deserve more Jewish Jake, chag sameach yall

"Hey, Ames?"

Amy hummed from where she sat on the couch, idly paging through her third baby binder. She still couldn't quite believe that after all this time and effort she was finally going to bring their baby into the world.

"What do you think about religion?"

She looked up to where Jake was dawdling awkwardly a few feet away. "What do you mean?"

"Like, for the baby." Even months into Amy's pregnancy, Jake's lips curved into a soft smile at the thought. Their baby.

Amy raised her eyebrows. "Honestly, I hadn't considered it. I mean, it's not like either of us are particularly religious."

"Hm, yeah." He fidgeted in place.

Amy pursed her lips. Putting the binder aside, she patted the couch next to her. Jake complied, plopping down while Amy angled herself to face him. "What's this about, Jake?"

Jake sighed, reaching absentmindedly for her hand. "Nothing, really, I guess, but I was just on the phone with Mom and it got me thinking."

"About?"

"I dunno, like, I hated synagogue as a kid, but the one day a year my mom took off work was Yom Kippur. And my dad isn't Jewish, and he never went even when he was around, so it was this nice thing, like I would have my mom all to myself for the day. I mean, I would sneak gummy bears when I was supposed to be fasting, so-" Jake chuckled, "clearly I was not concerned with the spirit of the holiday, but still.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that growing up, Judaism was one of the only things that made me feel like part of a family."

"Oh, Jake." Amy leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. "I'm sorry."

Jake smiled at her and shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Plus, I've got the best family right here." He leaned down to whisper conspiratorially to her bump. "Isn't that right, John?"

Amy rolled her eyes and tamped down on a smile. "We're not naming our son after a Die Hard character."

"Bruce-"

"Or actor."

"I could've been about to say Bruce Wayne. We could name our kid after Batman. Did you even think of that, Amy?"

"Believe it or not, I never thought of naming our firstborn child after Batman."

Jake's answering grin was so endearing Amy had no choice but to pull him in for a brief kiss. Pulling away, she sobered. "So what does this mean? Do you... want to raise the baby Jewish?"

Jake shrugged. "I mean, I figured your family would want him to be Catholic. Go to his confirmation or whatever."

"Yes," Amy replied slowly. "But then wouldn't your family want him to be Jewish?"

"Yup." He tipped his head backward with a groan. "Maybe we should just forget it. I mean, it was enough of a nightmare dealing with them arguing over what type of ceremony we should have."

Amy's mouth twisted into a wry smile. It certainly was. "But we'll still have to have this conversation eventually. Personally, I don't care whether or not our kid is Catholic, we'd still celebrate the holidays with my family, it's just that they'd care."

Jake picked his head up to look at her. "See, I don't really care either, I mean, not about the actual religious stuff, but I do want our kid to be a part of this tradition that keeps my family together. It's not super important to me that he's Jewish, but I don't want him to be not-Jewish, y'know?"

"Yeah." Amy contemplated for a few moments. "We could do neither. Celebrate our respective holidays with our families without officially raising him as one or the other. Or we could let him choose, once he's old enough."

Jake gave her knee a gentle squeeze. "Amy, I love you, but that is a terrible idea."

"What?" Amy said, indignant.

"Let a kid choose whether they'd rather go to Hebrew school or eat a cracker? Pretty sure I know which way that's going to go."

Amy laughed. "Okay, I guess you have a point. But we could still do neither."

"Yeah, that would work." He grinned at her, but it was tight.

"But what?"

Jake bit his lip. "It's just, you're not Jewish, so it doesn't matter how many holidays we celebrate, if he doesn't get bar mitzvahed, he's not technically Jewish. And I don't know why that matters to me, it never has before, but it kind of does."

"Okay." Amy said easily.

"Okay? That's it?" Jake blinked.

"Of course. If it's important to you that our baby's Jewish, then our baby'll be Jewish. It doesn't matter to me."

Jake smiled, genuinely this time, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I love you, thanks, babe."

"Love you too. And you'll be the one to break the news to my family." She grinned wickedly. "Plus, Judaism's the only culture you've got to pass on to him, white boy."

Jake cackled. "Is it a boy? A girl? No, a Jew!"

Amy leaned her head against his shoulder with laughter. "AJAB, assigned Jew at birth," she got out between laughter.

"That's called circumcision, babe." The pair burst into giggles again.

"I do like Jewish names," Amy said, once they had gotten ahold of themselves. "Elijah, Isaac…"

"David?" Jake suggested smugly.

"Absolutely not."

#B99 #not whump #jewish jake #i love them #baby peraltiago #i like leo but i high key love elijah for the baby tho #im a genius

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rogerina-deacon · 5 years

Text

Candle In The Wind // Joe Mazzello x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Joe Mazzello x Fem!Reader Summary: After finding out your brother died of a heroin overdose, Joe helps you get through it. Warnings: A lot of sadness, a bit of angst, mentions of drug use (heroine, weed, cigarettes), mentions of death (specifically by overdosing), but a fluffy ending Word Count: 1296

(Gif via pinterest)

A/N: Hey guys, so this is a very self-indulgent fic. My brother recently passed due to an overdose, and it’s hitting me hard and I just wanted Joe to comfort me through it, so I wrote a fic based on it to cope. If any of you are either struggling with addiction or know someone who is, please get them help and make sure you check up on them. No matter how well they seem to be doing, please make sure they’re doing alright.

A/N 2: I just wanted to say why I titled it that way I did, since there isn't any mention of it during the fic. All day I’ve had the chorus to “Candle In The Wind” by Elton John stuck in my head, since it reminds me so much of my situation. My brother lived his life vulnerably, often times didn’t know who to turn to when he needed help, and he has been struggling for most of my life since I’m 13 years younger than him, so I never really knew him, and that’s just what’s described of Marilyn during the chorus. That song hits completely different to me now, at least during the chorus.

Shock. That was all you could feel - pure, stand-still shock. He was gone, the man you barely knew yet lived with for however many years was gone. When you got the call from your father, your heart sunk, though you didn’t cry. You couldn’t understand why you weren’t bawling your eyes out, cursing the world, but you weren’t. It didn’t seem real, bad things like this don’t happen to you, there’s always a happy ending. But it was real. Your brother was found dead in his room, hunched over, stiff and blue in the face. You could hear the pain in your father's voice as he told you the news, cursing the guy that sold his baby boy the dope, his baby boy that was just getting clean and was getting his life together.

You were out with Joe at an old friend of his’ house over Fourth of July Weekend when you got the call, and as soon as you finished talking to your dad you told him the news. You just stared at him, eyes wide with shock as you told him, your brain not registering it. But as soon as you said the words, tears started flowing freely as Joe enveloped you in his arms, holding you tight as your tears soaked his patriotic shirt.

“I can’t fucking believe it, Joe. He’s gone.” You said into his chest, voice breaking.

“We’ll fly out in the morning to your parents house, I’ll book our tickets when we get home baby.” He said, knowing you needed to be with them, especially with your father. He was probably the closest with your brother, and loved him more than life itself, so you knew you needed to be there for him, and you knew your sister would be doing the same. Thankfully she lived in the in-law apartment attached to your parents house, which was also where your brother was living as he got on his feet.

Joe told his friends that you two had to get going, and they understood and said their goodbyes to Joe while you waited for him in the passenger seat of his car. Your head was in your hands as you said “I love you, Y/B/N” over and over, hoping he could hear you, cause God knows you never said it enough to him. He was always so distant, his struggles happening at the same time as your own, which just so happened to be while you were growing up. You never really knew him, only remembering that he loved classic Nick cartoons and weed and had some disgusting habits that made you dislike him, like always trying to get something out of his throat and wearing his jeans so they landed under his ass. But he was your brother, so of course you loved him, no matter how much you rolled your eyes when he walked past you reeking of cigarettes.

The ride home was silent besides your crying, your head in your hand as Joe drove with one hand on the wheel and his other on your knee, squeezing to let you know that he’s there for you. When you finally got home, you made a beeline for the bedroom, plopping down on the bed and hugging the pillow as you cried. Joe sat down beside you and ordered one-way tickets to the airport closest to where your parents lived before placing his phone face-down on the bedside table, wanting to put all his attention into comforting you. When you stopped crying into the pillow, your moved to curl up into Joe’s side, your arms wrapped around his waist as you just laid thinking about everything, Joe’s arms wrapped around you, brushing along your sides.

“I can’t fucking believe it, Joe. I just can’t.” You said, staring blankly ahead of you.

“Neither can I, babe.” He agreed, placing a kiss to the top of your head.

“And he was doing so well, too. He was clean, just smoking pot and cigarettes, and he was even cutting down on the cigarettes. He was going to AA meetings, reconnecting with friends, even seeing this girl a bit. But he’s gone now.” You said in disbelief, wondering how he hid everything so well.

“My dad said he had a feeling last night, and he checked him all over for any needle marks. And he promised he would never do this to us. He promised.” You said as you started crying again.

“I don’t think he meant to, honey. Probably just underestimated his levels. He has been off it for a few months since he got out of jail, maybe he just got potent stuff, like Janis Joplin did.” He suggested, and you hoped he was right.

“It just takes a little bit of fentanyl mixed in to kill ya, and I swear if that dealer had mixed it I’ll have his ass hung on the flagpole by morning-”

“Babe, I’m sure they’ll catch the guy that sold it to him.” He assured, but you just scoffed.

“How? The guy probably used a burner, they switch them out every other day and throw them in the gutter once they switch over contacts. It’s like chasing a damn ghost.” You said, now more angry than upset.

“But he lost his license, right? So your mom would’ve known where he was when he got it.”

“Probably, but that doesn’t really mean shit. He could’ve gone after one of his meetings.”

“Well anyway, I’m so sorry babe. You shouldn’t have to go through this. But I’m here for you through all of this, okay?” He assured, and you nodded before muttering “Okay”, nuzzling your head further against his chest. You laid there for a few more minutes and you could feel the post-crying headache set in, the pain at the front of your brain hurting like hell, so you pressed your head harder against his chest for some form of relief.

“Need an aspirin? I can go grab you one if you want.” he suggested, and you nodded prompting him to get up and head into the bathroom connected to the bedroom to grab a few pills from the medicine cabinet. Walking back from the bathroom, he emerged with two pills and a glass of water in hand. Taking the pills and glass of water from him, you thanked him before downing them as he went over to the dresser to grab pajamas for you, which was just an old t-shirt of his, knowing that wearing his clothes always calms you down and comforts you. He just stripped down to his underwear since it was so hot for any more than that before climbing into bed with you, and you got changed as he just watched you.

“I love you, Y/N.” He said, feeling the need to tell you in that moment. You leaned back, into his arms and against his chest.

“I love you too, Joe.” You said, moving your head to look up at him. Leaning down, he placed a sweet, loving kiss to your lips, as if to confirm it.

“And he loves you, too.” He added, and you nodded, a sad smile on your face.

“I just hope he knows I love him, too.” You said, tears starting to well again.

“I’m sure he does, baby. I’m also sure that he would want you to get some sleep and be well rested for your flight in the morning, okay?” He said, kissing your forehead.

“Probably.” You confirmed, yawning as you snuggled closer into Joe, falling asleep in his arms as you remembered the good times you had with your brother, no matter how small they were, whispering a goodnight to Y/B/N as you drifted off to sleep.

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

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stedes-black-bonnet · 5 years

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My Baby Does Me: Chapter 18

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: ongoing fic, we have a tag list; we take requests.

Warnings: n/a just pure fluff

Abstract: John is hungry for your touch; reader knows there’s so much left unspoken.

John Deacon couldn’t sleep. He usually could, but this wasn’t a problem for him. He was an extreme night owl, and he preferred the company of the murky twilight to that of the too bright day; this didn’t mean he wasn’t blessed with a naturally sunny disposition, or that he wasn’t also deeply pragmatic; rather, just that the night was meant for magic and art for him. These two ideas were inextricably united for him; magic and art danced together in his mind and were the impetus for his romantic sensibilities as much as his musical ones. He enjoyed being up late enough to see the sunrise and promptly surrendering to his bed and to a good day’s sleep, only preferably after writing some song lyric or lingering refrain down on paper.

That ineffable time between twilight and dawn was the time to write, to compose. There was something wholesome and transcendent about seeing the sunrise. No two were ever the same and yet the feelings they stirred in him were always the same; basic pleasure, satisfied contentment, and nostalgia. Sharing the sunrise with someone was inherently romantic. He wondered if you were big on sleeping. Would it be lethal to wake you to share the moment when it arrived? Was it too trite?

John Deacon felt like he was suddenly in some romance novel. He feared it might be too soon in this relationship thing to find out just how trite you liked your romance. Might be too embarrassing to ask, too, he figured. Wake up, baby; see the sunrise isn’t exactly a virile or creative stance to take with any partner, new or old. Towering romance and sweeping, dramatic romantic gestures can seem terribly disingenuous or earthshakingly heartfelt all depending on execution and timing.

He was overthinking this sunrise business. He was probably overthinking all of it--you, the bed, the music in your snores. However, and this was a big however, this tendency to overthink wasn’t one he indulged on the main; he usually acted with complete abandon and chaos, so overthinking every small detail as he was now led him to believe he was on the right path with you; if he didn’t care so much about you, he wouldn’t be obsessing about doing the right thing or even contemplating what the right thing was; he’d just Nike it up and just do it. He smiled to himself, knowing his head and heart were blissfully united.

Holding you and listening to your rhythmic snores gave him a purpose far beyond occupying his wandering mind; he enjoyed being the framework to your slumber. The knowledge the very way he was holding you meant sleep for you was oddly empowering and deeply sentimental. He knew he could get used to this: listening to you sleep, composing songs to your languid breaths, tapping out rhythms on your waist. This was a routine well worth preoccupying himself with. He might never sleep again, but it was worth it, you were worth it. If you were a song, he thought, it would have to include the rhythm of your drowsy dozing. He couldn’t get enough of it. Music was everywhere for John Deacon. Music was magic, and you occupied a place in the palace of musical creation even in your sleeping moments. He treasured that about you. He needed to write you as a song; everything you were he wanted to distill into notes so he’d have something of you to carry with him always. Something by him, that was undeniably yours together.

What would it be like to write a song with you? He wondered if you were a good musician; he realized he had never heard you play before. This needed to be remedied right away. You must be good, going to a Oxford and all, he figured. Clever girl. Maybe even his clever girl. It hasn’t even been 24 hours yet; slow down, he told himself. There would be all the time in the world together if it was meant to be, if you were right for each other; rushing did no one good in matters of love.

And speaking of rushing about, what about Roger? The surprise of Roger being here tonight had been such a misfire. They really couldn’t do anything without each other, could they? It was a little uncanny they had both fallen for girls who weren’t only incredibly close but also lived together. What were the odds? Especially since Roger and Deacy didn’t exactly have the same tastes in women. Roger preferred, well, a pulse. Deacy’s tastes were somewhat more refined.

What would it be like dating ladies who lived together? Courting a woman next to Roger’s too blond hair and perfect swagger wasn’t exactly appealing. Well, that was if Roger ever came back here in the first place. Deacy would have to deal with his teasing and prodding eventually no matter what Roger himself decided to do about the situation; that could be a bridge Deacy would conquer when and if the time ever came. Knowing Roger as well as Deacy did, he knew Rog wasn’t typically a repeat offender. It would be a miracle if Roger returned here at all. Which was really unfortunate; Deacy was sure someone could live a fulfilling life without a permanent partner; there were as many different successful relationship types as there were people to have them. Deacy was a serial monogamist; so he and Roger would never understand each other's chosen proclivities regarding dating, despite the fact they saw pretty much eye-to-eye regarding sexual expectations and desires.

This relationship drama, however, could easily create a fissure between you and Deacy, which he definitely did not want. If Roger decided to not come back, Lydia could be hurt, and you could take her side, and should, and this could make your relationship together awkward, since Roger was and always would be a best friend of Deacy’s. Come hell or high water, Deacy never wanted to know what life would be like without Roger Meddows Taylor stomping around in it.

Or, there was another option: it could be for the best and in accordance with Lydia’s own desires to never see Roger again, too. He didn’t know Lydia well enough to know, and Deacy, curiously enough, didn’t see her taking a backseat in any relationship she’d enter into, whether it was a passionate one night stand or a dedicated relationship spanning several months or years. Deacy also knew he didn’t know you well enough to know what you’d think about the situation; he’d have to ask you sooner rather than later to head off any potential issues.

There was another possibility, however unlikely it seemed: mainly that Roger was legitimately smitten with Lydia and would be back constantly and consistently to invade her life, and in doing so would make Deacy’s carefully balanced life hellishly chaotic. Chaos of his own doing was good, wonderful even, but chaos caused by others wasn’t always Deacy’s thing.

Roger had been acting rather bizarrely tonight, Deacy remembered. Not that Rog acted in the usual casually basic non-concerned ways of the normal folk; but, he seemed distracted, which was a state rarely seen from someone who was masterfully self-aware, so in self-known-harmony to a point most people confused him for being self-obsessed or self-absorbed. And, yes, fine, he was those things too, but only because he was naturally self-assured and confident: Roger might have many faults but Deacy didn’t consider his actualized confidence to be one of them. Quite the contrary: he envied him this blessing.

Would Rog return to woo Lydia? Deacy hoped so, not only to make his own life easier, but also for Roger’s sake. The fear in Roger’s eyes tonight probably related to his confusion and dire instincts of self-preservation of finally--finally, finding an equal, and what that would mean for his self-directed, devil-may-care lifestyle. Roger would be miserable if he denied this new revelation, and yet he’d be happy in his misery if he just embraced this new opportunity; change is rarely painless, especially when it is good for us.

Deacy wasn’t so sure his fear wouldn’t win out, though; he felt sorry for Roger. Yes, Roger was happy sleeping around and going from woman to woman to woman--sometimes in the same night. But now that Deacy had seen his reaction to finding a equal in Lydia, and seeing the reaction was so volatile and panicked, this made Deacy think maybe Roger wasn’t as happily satisfied as he appeared to be. Predicting what Rog may or may not do was like trying to predict the weather on Jupiter; why even bother and what purpose did it serve?

Deacy, on the other hand, was pleased as punch to find an equal, and he couldn’t wait to start the rest of his life with you.

Not that he could tell you--yet. That would be going too far. And, well, quite honestly, it would remove some of the game from the situation, and the game brought him greater satisfaction than he could readily explain. Or could he explain it, he wondered? Nothing makes a person feel desired more than the first blush of love. The snapshot of the first time someone gives in, relents, accepts a date, holds your hand, the first kiss that everything is in harmony...it all related to the chase for John Deacon. Every moment could be a chase, rather in miniature or grand situations, everything was a chase. He wanted stability with an ever changing sense of the chase.

This was another paradox. His life was governed by them. He couldn’t escape it, and he didn’t want to, but felt he should. Another paradox. And he certainly wanted you and definitely knew he needed to use good judgment over whatever it was his heart was telling him. Bad judgment could scare away a partner easier than breaking promises or relationship vows and standards. You couldn’t tell a woman you had just met you wanted to spend the rest of your life with her. It wasn’t romantic; it was bad judgment. Building the desire up over a course of time, however, was romantic. Showing you he wanted you was going to be his new favorite game.

He considered what time it was, but he couldn’t look at his watch, as it was wrapped around the wrist that was wrapped around your waist. And he hadn’t been able to locate your alarm clock, though he knew you had to have one. Unknowing, he wondered if time had sped up or slowed down. The party, he recalled, seemed to have lasted forever. A fact that had overjoyed him at the time, and weighed heavily on his heart now. There would come a time, and soon, when he’d have to let you go, and and you’d go about your business, and he’d go about his until you reunited for that dinner tonight.

Deacy sighed. The dinner with Miami Beach wasn’t going to be easy. The only thing making him feel comfortable at all was the notion you’d be there as his armor against Rog and Bri. At least Freddie was on his side. And more than anything else he hated thinking they were all on sides at all. It was abhorrent, the notion of them being on different sides. Whatever happened tonight, it wasn’t going to be pretty or easy and certainly nothing about it was going to be fair. The idea to hold the meeting in a public place had been Jim’s. He hoped it would help keep tempers to a calm simmer instead of throwing fuel on the fires and sending them raging around the room. Deacy was sure Jim had been mostly thinking of Roger for this arrangement. It wasn’t beyond him, or any of them, to flick anger or objects at each other when provoked.

Maybe everyone will get along and we can come to an agreement and just processed with the record, Deacy hoped. He sighed again, troubled in his thoughts, too wound up to sleep, and too surprised to have met you among the muck that was his professional life.

Maybe he was making the fighting out to be a bigger deal than it was? Maybe we all were, he thought. They had fought before, and this was surely no different. They’d make it over the disagreements and resentments and find their way back to the careful and cherished supportive love they had always had for each other. The creative times, when they were all writing together, were simultaneously the best and worst times they had as a band. Wonderfully robust sessions with new ideas and fantastic gems of songs wrought out of nowhere, and then there it all was, placed on a page, and then they’d record the magic, and suddenly they’d have music. Deacy lived for these times, and he knew the others did too. On the other hand, these times always also had fights, jabs, heavy hearts, dark piercing criticisms made threats, and too easily hurt feelings and egos. Nothing about Queen was clear cut and certain; they were always changing and redefining themselves while constantly and consistently staying true to who they were.

Another paradox. If he kept thinking about the business of Queen he’d never sleep. It’s difficult when you’ve created something with people you love and those people don’t always agree. Everything is personal. Everything is emotional. There’s just no way to separate the heart from one’s art. And Queen knows that more than any other band. They just needed to surmount this one slump and everything would be peachy.

Your skin smelled faintly of peaches, he thought, taking in your scent. He wondered if your bed would smell like him, and if you’d be able to stand it when you realized it. You were half on top of him and half on the bed, still snoring in a secure and carefree way he knew he’d have to get used to if he ever wanted to sleep again. It was comforting, yes. Endearing, too. Though not conducive to sleep when one plays in the rhythm section of a band.

His arm was falling asleep. How best to move it and you so you don’t wake up? He wasn’t sure how light or heavy a sleeper you were.

However, if he woke up you, he wasn’t sure he’d let you stay asleep…

Kissing you, he thought, was paramount. And it was a right well shame you weren’t kissing at that very moment. This wasn’t going anywhere good fast; he could feel himself getting excited and desirous of you in his mind that always led to a physical reaction. He either needed to wake you up right now and consider ravishing you, or think about electrical diagrams to distract his cock from waking up.

What use were electrical diagrams when you had a woman on top of you, he thought.

It was essentially what they called a no-brainer.

Your head was on his shoulder/chest area still. He traced a hand through your hair a couple times, gently saying your name.

Didn’t work. Okay, not a light sleeper. Noted.

He shook you, still tenderly, from his gripping point on your waist. The sensation of pin pricks shot up his hand and arm as he did so; his sleeping arm wasn’t recovering. He lifted you up, and slid his arm out from under you.

And that’s when you snapped awake.

“Am I late again?” You asked to the room. You sunk a hand under your bed and brought up your alarm clock. It said 6:27AM in damning red letters. You dropped it to the floor and began to snuggle back into the man in your bed.

There was a man in your bed.

And that’s when the party and it’s events raced to catch up with your not quite fully awake mind.

John Deacon was in your bed.

John Deacon, bassist of Queen, was in your bed.

You sat up. John was staring up at you from his grey eyes, a small, curiously engaged smile on his face.

He still looked great. Did sleeping attack men like it did women, you questioned? Didn’t seem fair he’d still be looking fabulous while you probably looked like something found at the bottom of a drain.

He reached up, slowly hooking a strand of wavy hair behind your ear. He wasn’t sure what to say, or even if he could make coherent sounds let alone string together the dance in his heart into coherent words. The dawn was rising, and its shy light was hitting you like a caress, and in that moment he knew he was looking at true beauty.

“This is my preferred moment.” He said this exceptionally quietly so you’d have to hear him.

“Oh? Right at dawn?” You yawned and noticed drool marks that could only be yours on his tank top, and rubbed the corners of your mouth as slyly as you could.

“No. Well, yes. I love this time of day. But I wasn’t referring to that.”

“What were you referring to, then? Out with it, Johnny.”

Smiling like the soft curve of a rose, he said, “You. How you look right now. You captivate me; you’re more captivating than any song I’ve ever written.” He shrugged then, as if to say, that’s just how it is. Deal with it.

You froze, thinking of your boring flannel pjs, your bed head hair, the sleepy breath you had to have had by now, and what you’d come to think of as the drooling incident of 1981. You studied his eyes, to see if he was teasing you, possibly playing some game he had yet tell you the rules of, or something like that. His eyes were steady and something about them was far away yet piercing; he was looking in your eyes but seeing all of you simultaneously. He was taking you in as each second passed as if he were committing you to memory. You figured he had really meant what he said. For no one had ever looked at you like that.

You thought what a life with Deacy would be like, then. In that moment, as he stared at you thinking the same exact thing, you wondered how it could work together. He travels for work. You don’t have a career to speak of, though if yours took off, you’d most likely be traveling too. The logistics weren’t the best. But those eyes. Those grey eyes. And how he kissed you, how he made you feel beautiful, and interesting, and desired. That meant more than a few months apart, surely. You sensed in him a great capability of devotion, a fantastic unshakable loyalty not only towards you, potentially, but with anyone he chose to form a bond with—including Queen. Once he entered into something, it would take a great cataclysmic event to end it. Once John Deacon was all in, he was in for good.

You couldn’t stop imagining a life with him. You didn’t want to stop.

And that’s when Deacy pulled you to him.

Tag List: @phantom-fangirl-stuff @triggeredpossum @obsessedwithrogertaylor @partydulce @richiethotzierz @groupiie-love @sophierobisonartfoundationblr @psychostarkid @teathymewithben @smittyjaws @just-ladyme @botinstqueen @mydogisthebest @little-welsh-wonder @maxjesty @deakysdiscos @yourealegendroger @marvellouspengwing @molethemollie @deakysgirl @arrowswithwifi

#john deacon x reader #John Deacon #roger taylor #jim hutton #joe mazzello #ben hardy #bohemian rhapsody #queen x reader

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sonicenvy · 5 years

Text

otterandterrier mentioned you on a post “I have no chill which is why there are like a million deckestar and...”

@sonicenvy I think you win! ��

@otterandterrier lol. Some of this fic is so incredibly self-indulgent and bad that i don’t think it will ever leave iCloud, but its there... I have 32 WIPs in iCloud, 21 in google docs, 5 one drive and an unknown number of local fics between my 7 computers and their multiple partitions, largely because im not organised at all. most of these fics are star wars or lucifer. There are also a few TNAOS fics and doctor/rose fics hanging out there too however. realistically there are probably only about 10-15 of these 50+ individual WIPs that I might see to completion.

Some excerpts for the interested parties under the cut (y’all should chat with me about them... im stuck in places with all of them

Lucifer fic (untitled)

Strange and inexplicable things had been Chloe Decker’s reality for the whole of her life, so when she met Lucifer Morningstar, it was just another Tuesday.

“You have to admit there’s something weird about him Chloe,” Dan said, “He’s totally crazy.”

Chloe shrugged. How could she explain to Dan why Lucifer’s Luciferness barely bothered her? In all the time that they had been married, she been unable to explain to him any of the strange things about her own life. How could she do it now?

~!~

Chloe Decker is five years old and she dreams of her dad getting shot in a diner. Dad is the one who comforts her after she wakes screaming and crying from her nightmare. He assures her that it is just a dream. Of course, years later when John Decker is shot in a diner, Chloe Decker learns that her dreams have never just been dreams. She’d seen her father’s death, and she hadn’t been able to do anything about it. The night her father dies, she rages and screams at the sky and the ground and she hates herself more than she has ever hated herself. She knew what was to happen and she did nothing. Guilt blossoms in her soul.

She doesn’t accept that she couldn’t do anything until much, much later.

Foresight is a terrible gift and Chloe wants nothing to do with it.

Still she dreams.

~!~

Chloe Decker is born with wings drawn on her back with white lines like old scars. The only other person who ever seems to be able to see them other than her is her mother.

Penelope Decker was born with white scar inked handprints on her hands her arms, her back. When she meets John Decker he is grabbing her, pushing her to the ground to protect her from being shot. The handprints on her skin fill with black ink. Warmth ran through her whole body and the blackening handprints on her skin tingled.

When she sees the beautiful wings printed on her daughter’s back, she knows that she can’t keep this secret from her. So she tells Chloe a partial Truth.

“The women in our family have a secret,” Penelope tells her daughter. The women in their family have many secrets, “We’re all born with marks on our bodies.”

There is more, but she dares not say it. She wants, more than anything for Chloe to be normal, human, ordinary.

She shows six-year-old Chloe the inky handprints on her arms and her back and her palms. Ever perceptive, Chloe scrutinizes them and says, “They’re dad’s handprints!”

“Yes,” Penelope says. She remembers the tingling sensation that ran across the marks on her skin the moment that John Decker had first touched her, “They were white like yours when I was a little girl.”

Chloe’s eyes go wide and she gasps, easily following Penelope’s trail, “They changed color when you met Dad!” She says.

“Yeah baby,” Penelope says, “They told me something very important about your dad too. They told me that he is my soulmate.”

“Like in fairytales?” Chloe asks.

“Uh uh.”

“Are we the only ones?” Chloe asks.

“Yeah baby. Only the women in our family get soul marks.” This is the truth. Technically. All of the women like them are from the same line.

“So it’s only you and me then,” Chloe says, resolute, and sad. She’s only six, she shouldn’t look so jaded.

Penelope doesn’t answer. She doesn’t want Chloe to grow up know just how different she is from other children, but she doesn’t want to lie to her either.

~!~

The day John dies, the handprints on Penelope’s skin open and bleed. The bleeding doesn’t stop for days. Every single set of sheets in the house is stained with blood and the pain doesn’t really lessen. When the bleeding finally stops the handprints are scars on her body. She hides away from the world, and she wraps herself in gauze the day of the funeral, hiding the bleeding of her palm with Chloe’s hand squeezed tight in hers.

Chloe punches that paparazzo’s camera with her bloodied hand, shattering it with a strength she does not know she has. The paparazzo, Nick goes flying, landing a solid ten feet away. Penelope watches Chloe panting, the fury and grief burning and blending on her face.

~!~

Nick gets a picture. But it is not the shot he is looking for. The picture is of Chloe Decker’s fist approaching his camera lens. There is something in her face that is not human, her eyes are glowing and in the photo there is a trace of fangs in her mouth. Nick shivers, frightened. He knows that his picture is unpublishable, and he knows that no one will believe him about what he saw. He is stuck with the memory of traces of a monster on Chloe Decker’s face burned into his brain, looping in his nightmares. The picture he publishes is one from far away, the ten figures that stand around the grave indistinct. Guilt pulls him down, day after day, each time he dreams of Chloe Decker’s monster face.

~!~

The day that Chloe graduates from the police academy Penelope wakes up in the morning fully intending on attending. She misses John that day so much that it hurts. Then, of course the scars open up, bleeding and bleeding. Her sheets are stained red and she lays in bed for hours, clearly seeing the image of Chloe standing on that stage looking out across the crowd for her and being unable to find her. She can easily imagine Chloe’s anger and disappointment. The scars bleed even more in response.

She drinks six bottles of wine and it is barely enough to get her tipsy. There are many other things that she hasn’t told her daughter about their bodies and tonight she is feeling especially guilty about the ways she hasn’t been there for Chloe, the things she should have said and done.

~!~

When Beatrice Decker is born, she has white scars lines in the delicate patterns of bouquets of flowers on her legs and her arms. Penelope is forcefully reminded of the vines that run across her mother’s arms and legs twisting and turning. She remembers being nine years old and watching them bleed through her mother’s dress, onto the carpet and blankets in mute horror, not yet aware of what it meant.

They received a call from the hospital ten minutes later, and Penelope’s father and her older brother are both dead. The car they’d been driving in had been T-boned by a drunk driver and they were both dead on arrival at the community hospital.

She kneels in front of the toilet and vomits her guts out. Blood covers everything in their apartment. Her mother screams and she can’t do anything about it.

That day, Penelope swore that she would never meet her true love, if this was what losing them was.

~!~

The first time Lucifer Morningstar touches Chloe she feels a powerful tingling running across her back. That night when she returns home, she notices that the white inked lines of feathered wings are flush with black ink, the feathers even more intricate in this form than they had been before. She runs her fingers across the wings, though nothing about the texture of her back has changed. Her back still tingles.

Chloe doesn’t think too hard about. Doesn’t want to connect the wings on her back to the irritating playboy she’d met earlier and resolves to stay as far away from him as possible.

~!~

Of course, Lucifer is persistent. Her resolve to keep distant is ruined entirely by his resolve to follow her around. And despite his many irritating qualities he grows on her. She doesn’t quite know what to make of his Devil-Shtick. The conviction in him and the fact that she has never once caught him in a lie does make her think that it could all be the literal truth. The more rational explanation within the framework of her strange life is that he is simply another person like her, with strange gifts. She puts up with his strangeness unquestioningly because he puts up with hers. And because, when he isn’t trying so hard he’s actually quite charming and fun to be around.

Somehow, Lucifer Morningstar becomes her closest friend. He doesn’t stop being terrible at following protocol or excellent at needling Dan, but he does give in to Trixie’s exuberant hugs with less and less complaining and he is there for her when she needs him most, so Chloe is satisfied.

She doesn’t think about the wings on her back. They tingle and a comforting warmth washes across her skin every time he touches her.

~!~

Lucifer is the most aggravating, stubborn person she has ever met. She tells him not to come with her to the airplane hanger to meet Malcom, and he doesn’t. But he does follow her there.

Malcom shoots Lucifer and the sound of his body hitting the floor is magnified a thousand fold. A flash of painful heat rushes through her body and then she can feel the bullet under Lucifer’s skin as though she herself had been shot. It takes all the grit she has to remain standing and silent. She can’t let Malcom find her.

She knows the moment Lucifer dies because the wings on her back open to cuts, and she can feel the wet blood soaking through her shirt, running down her skin. She bites her tongue crouches onto the ground, waiting for the pain to be over.

It is only the reminder of Trixie’s presence in the hanger that keeps her from keeling over and giving in.

Then. She feels the cuts on her back closing up far too quickly. Lucifer gasps on the floor and rises. Somehow, he’s alive again. She’s so grateful to see him alive that she doesn’t really question the mechanics of the trick. Really, she doesn’t want to.

She remembers being at home with her mother when her father died. The moment it had happened they’d both known because the handprints on Penelope’s skin opened up and began to bleed.

Chloe doesn’t think too deeply about what it means that her own mark began to bleed the moment that Lucifer died.

~!~

When Lucifer tells her he is immortal, that he is the devil himself time and time again, she teeters between believing him and rationalizing it away. Truthfully, she tries not to think about it; her whole life she’s tried not to think about it, to think about all the things that make her strange and different.

When Chloe Decker was eleven years old she had wanted nothing more than to be completely and utterly ordinary. At thirty-six she wants the same thing.

~!~

The first time she sees Lucifer’s desire mojo in action she believes it.

Chloe was a fresh faced twenty three year old police officer in only her fifth interrogation. Daniel Espinoza sits next to her at the table and their suspect, Carl Halmore sits across from them, silent and defiant.

Chloe thinks about her mother’s honeyed tongue. All Penelope has to do is speak with the right intonation and men and women trip over themselves to do whatever she wants, utterly enthralled. Chloe takes a deep breath and closes her eyes bringing forward the memory of her mother’s voice and she speaks.

“Talk to us. Tell us what happened,” Chloe commands, putting all of the syrup and weight into her voice that she can, boring her eyes into Carl’s. Pushing, pushing.

She can see him falter, fight, fight. She pushes harder, “Tell us what happened,” she repeats, and she can feel the power layering over itself in her voice, strengthened by her frustration.

Carl gives in, his eyes glaze over and he is staring into her eyes blankly. He opens his mouth and a confession comes pouring out. When he finishes, he says, “What must I do next my lady?”

His voice is earnest and his body is loose, lost. Chloe hadn’t expected this, and she falters, staring at his eager and desperate face.

“What must I do next my lady?” Carl says, again.

There is something like fear on Dan’s face for a moment before his expression smoothes over into something emotionless.

Chloe takes a deep shaky breath and says, “I free you.”

She remembers her mother saying these exact words to some movie producer who’d visited their home when she was a little girl. Penelope Decker had suggested that the man give her a role in his upcoming film. There had a been a thread of power in that suggestion and Chloe had watched from behind the sofa, fascinated.

Carl blinks and his posture stiffens and his defiance is back.

“I want a lawyer,” he says.

Dan starts to protest, but she takes him by the arm and says, “We’re done here.”

To Carl, she says, “A lawyer will be sent for you.”

He nods jerkily at her as they exit interrogation.

She is still afraid of what she’d done and promises never to do it again.

She upholds the promise. Mostly.

more lucifer fic: (also untitled)

“No! Absolutely not! I don’t do children Detective. You know that,” Lucifer says.

“Please. For me,” she says. And of course, her please is his undoing.

Lucifer sighs, and for a moment stares up at the sky, “Very well darling,” he says.

Lucifer knows he’s fighting a losing battle against her, because every time she looks at him in the right way he caves to her will. He’s far more susceptible to being commanded than he would like to admit — whatever else he’s become in the eons he’s been alive he is still an angel and all angels were made subservient. He just hadn’t expected that he would desire to serve a human. Everything about Chloe Decker surprises him, and the novelty of that is what got him into this situation in the first place. He shakes himself for a moment, but he finds himself still lightly under her thrall and he finds that he has no desire to leave it.

Lucifer lets Chloe drag him out to the backyard, doing his best to play at resistance, when all he wants to do is follow her to the ends of the universe.

Sitting on the porch is a child, human and only a few years younger than Beatrice. She is still and silent, clutching onto a tiny stuffed rabbit. The rabbit is blood soaked, as is the child’s nightgown. Even in the low light he can see that there is blood on her face and her hands. Her dark eyes look empty, and if he hadn’t been able to smell her soul, he would almost have thought it had left her body.

“She won’t talk to anyone,” Chloe says, at his side. She does an admirable job of hiding it, but he knows her well enough to see the heartbreak carved into her stony face. Chloe is barely holding it together.

He waits, silent and still for her to continue. Does she suspect the child of murder?

“We think she might have witnessed her parents’ murders,” Chloe says, “We found her laying on her mother’s body, but we think she must have been hidden somewhere else before.”

His feelings for his parents are complicated and not entirely positive, but even he thinks he would be deeply bereaved if he witnessed their deaths. He can only imagine how the little sproglet is feeling; she is only a child, innocent in every sense. Fury rises in Lucifer.

At Chloe’s pointed look, he shoves it down, and walks over to the child, sitting down next to her. He has no idea what to say, and under Chloe’s gaze he feels deeply uncomfortable. She must sense his discomfort because she touches his shoulder and whispers in his ear that she’ll be in the house with CSU if he needs him. Then, she’s gone, leaving the ghost of her touch and her scent in her wake and he is alone with the child.

“Child…” he says, trailing off, unsure of what he is meant to say to her.

She looks up at him, head tilted, curious. Children are irritatingly perceptive. He gets the feeling that she’s seeing into his soul, studying it intently, and he squirms.

Humans are naturally susceptible to the presence of angels — an angel that doesn’t hide themselves under any cloaks makes a human suddenly comfortable in their presence. All humans excepting Chloe Decker of course.

Usually, he keeps his presence cloaked, being swarmed with humans constantly isn’t something he’s particularly interested in. But, the longer the girl stares at him, searching, searching, he feels his cloaks dropping.

“Who are you?” The girls asks him finally. She fidgets with her little cross necklace.

“I— “ he says, “You may call me Sam,” he finds himself whispering to her.

Lucifer has no idea what possesses him to give the child this name — one he hasn’t gone by in eons, but it melts off his tongue clear and easy.

“I’m Lucia,” the girl says, still fiddling with that little necklace.

He almost laughs. Lucia. What is the universe trying to tell him?

“That’s a pretty name little one,” he says instead.

“Thank you Mr. Sam,” she says, this time looking him in the eye again, her fathomless brown eyes cutting straight into him.

Then, she says, “A bad man hurt my Mommy and my Daddy, Mr. Sam.”

“I know. My partner and I are looking to find him and punish him.”

“Mommy was reading me a story when we heard Daddy scream. She pushed me into the closet and told me that I couldn’t make any noise at all.”

Something inside him twists as he listens to her re-count the most horrible experience of her young life.

an anakin doesn’t fall ROTS Au continuation of this fic of mine:

“I might not ever see Naboo again,” she said softly, not meeting Anakin’s gaze.

“We will,” he said, “I promise Padmé. One day we’ll return to Naboo.”

He sounded so unshakably certain, and so horribly naïve; this was a forceful reminder that he was five years her junior. But there was a comfort to be found in his words, in the strength of his body standing next to her, his fingers twined with hers.

“I hope so,” Padmé said. They hadn’t even left Naboo yet, and the longing to return already hung heavy in her soul.

Padmé stared out at the mountains, doing her best to hold in her tears. The force swirled around them, dark, clouded and uncertain. But the mountains remained, strong ancient and unchanged. She’d stood on this very veranda filled with the same burning grief of leaving the night before her coronation, the night before she left for Coruscant.

“I can’t imagine what this feels like,” Anakin said.

“What?”

“Having to say goodbye to your world.”

“You left Tatooine,” she said, staring up at his face for the first time in this conversation.

“I never loved Tatooine,” he said, though there was a grief that came with his words that contradicted them.

He had never loved Tatooine — the harsh, unforgiving world he had been enslaved on. But he had loved his mother.

“You love Naboo so much,” Anakin said, wistful and awed in equal measures, “I don’t understand it, but I believe in that love.”

He squeezed her hand, “So I know we’ll return to Naboo one day.”

He had loved his mother, and he had returned to Tatooine long after he’d left to see her again. To save her.

“I feel like I need a lifetime to say goodbye,” she said, “Even though I’ve been leaving home my whole life.”

“It doesn’t make it any easier,” Anakin said.

When she met his eyes she was struck anew with the sight of the Jedi Temple burning in the distance. His people had died and his home had burned. And yet, he survived, standing next to her as solid and sure as ever.

Padmé wanted to cry. She wanted to cry for herself, for Anakin and his people, for the republic and for their child. But there weren’t enough tears in the whole galaxy for all the grief that today had wrought.

Her body trembled and she looked away from Anakin and out at the mountains and forests again, drinking them in, locking their memory away.

I am solid as a mountain, she told herself for the thousandth time. It grew harder to believe each year, after each failure.

The galaxy was burning and she remained.

This time, leaving Naboo felt like a betrayal. This time, she was not leaving Naboo to fight for her. This time, Padmé was running away, fleeing into the dark, with only Anakin by her side. In some ways, this felt like a betrayal of her very self.

“You do Naboo no good if you are dead,” Mother Amidé had once said to her.

You carry all of us with you Memé, her father’s voice whispered to her.

Padmé took their words in and made them her strength and she squeezed Anakin’s hand.

Together, they looked out over the mountains and stood in silence. I love you, she thought, though the words remained unspoken.

Together they remained. One day, the galaxy would be free and Palpatine would be sorry. She could easily imagine him falling under her blade, body toppling, the force claiming him back destroying him.

Together, they would take on the Empire and win.

#otterandterrier #replies #my fic #star wars #lucifer on netflix #lucifer fic #star wars fic

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