#agent gaudi

[sarahtravelshappy]

Get Awestruck by Travel

There simply is no way to tour Europe and not be awestruck by its natural beauty, epic history and dazzling artistic and culinary diversity. Cultural Heritage Europe’s almost unmanageable wealth of attractions is its biggest single draw: the birthplace of democracy in Athens, the Renaissance art of Florence, the graceful canals of Venice, the Napoleonic splendour of Paris, and the multilayered…

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#Barcelona #Europe #European Travel #Foodie Travel #Gaudi #Sarah Travels Happy #Scottish Highlands #Travel Advisor #Travel Agent #Travel Blog #vacation #Venice #Vienna

[helene-tolden]

Café Gaudi

Jour 21 - Mission

#toldendegrangaudi #tolden_ln #cafe #gaudi #coffeetime #mission #agentsecret #secretagent #asignación #agentesecreto

#mission #agent secret #secret agent #asignaíon #agente secreto #comic strip #toldendegrangaudi #fanzine #grangaudi #coffeetime #café #gaudi #tolden_ln

[fairwellersmustache]

Thinking about a Leverage Regency AU and how easy it would be…

The place is London. The year is 18—

Rev. Nathaniel Ford: a disgraced Irish vicar. (Sorry Nate, I couldn’t make the Catholicism work; you’re a Protestant now 😔✊) Fell out with God after losing his son, Samuel. Then he subsequently fell out with his patron, an Earl, who would not fund an expensive surgeon for Sam’s care, and finally with his wife, Margaret. Displaced from his station, his credibility, and power as an agent to nobility, Nate moves quietly to London, hoping to realize his revenge or to drink himself to death - whichever comes first. His parish is now being preached to by a Rev. James Sterling.

Mrs. Sophie Devereaux: a spy through and through. She might actually be a duchess, but didn’t you see her in that terrible play on Drury Lane? No one’s really sure. In society, she’s viewed as an eccentric and slightly mysterious salon hostess, but that cover allowed her to play the British and the French governments throughout the end of the 18th century. A metropolitan girl at heart, she’ll never be found in the country unless planning to procure a particular pièce d’art from one of the gaudy estate manors there.

Mr. Elliot Spencer: began his career at 9, as a cabin boy for a naval vessel. He saw the world twice over, but also witnessed the cruel hierarchy between officers and sailors first hand. He roved through the navy and the army doing little more than grunt work, but studied the martial and combat techniques of every place he went. Now he’s just trying to live the quiet life in London as a bruiser for hire.

Mr. Alec Hardison: a man who has lived many lives —aided, of course, by his job as a private banker, moving around the wealth of London at his leisure. In his line of work, he has picked up the ins and outs of all the governing bodies and businesses in the empire. Add that to his virtuosic ability to pick up any form of study and Mr. Hardison could bleed London dry, given the right reasons. For now, he enjoys the high life thanks to the fortunes of his “betters”.

Parker: an urchin, a waif, the stickiest of fingers in the nicest of neighborhoods. Once the apprentice of the notorious criminal, Lord Archibald Leech, the Gentleman’s Thief, she’s since left his tutelage and is now operating unseen in the big houses of Grosvenor Square as a scullery maid, putting enough bits and bobs aside to graduate from service and to never look back again.

#leverage #leverage au #parker #Alec Hardison #elliot spencer #sophie devereaux #nate ford #ask me about my Leverage : Redemption regency hcs #see Alex write #I mean I probably won’t end up writing for this #👀👀 unless…. #leverage: regency

[palmettoshitposts]

Supervisory Special Agent Kevin Day, banging his hands down on the interrogation table: WHERE'S THE VICTIM'S HEAD?

Neil Josten, in a gaudy hawaiian shirt, pink twirly straw hanging out of his mouth, handcuffed to said table: Well, I don't know, Agent. I must have dropped it on my way in here!

#original is from criminal minds because i love that show #neil tries to take a holiday and gets framed for murder 🙄 what can you do eh? #kevin is apoplectic with rage #andrew is cackling behind the glass #aftg #all for the game #palmetto shitposts #neil josten #kevin day #admin: 🤺

[alicewonderao3]

Marry Me

Title: Marry Me

Characters: Aaron Hotchner, reader, OC male character.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader, fem!reader x oc male character.

Summary: When it's finally the day of her wedding, after months of planning, why does she feel like she's making the biggest mistake of her life? Isn't every bride second guessing herself, even on her wedding day?

Warnings: None, just a bit angsty and then fluffy.

Author's note: I had the idea for this earlier this week, while I've been recovering from my hospital trip last week. I was inspired by a song, as usual, Thomas Rhett's 'Marry Me'. My muses said to write this and here it is. I have no beta, so all spelling and grammar mistakes are mine, and I just finished it, so let me know what you think.

The day of the wedding was finally here, sunny and warm. Everything was as it was supposed to be. My grandfather was preaching the wedding service and there were plenty of magnoila's everywhere. It was a small wedding, not too many people. But something didn't feel right. It had been this niggling sensation in the back of my mind for months.

My bridesmaids all told me I was crazy, that I was marrying the perfect man. On paper, Steve was perfect. He was tall, and handsome, with blonde hair and blue eyes. He was kind and sweet. Sure, you were supposed to feel sparks, but it didn't always happen, right? My friends told me I'd be crazy to say no to his proposal, so even though I had doubts, I said yes.

I said yes, even as I felt that same feeling in my stomach at my engagement party and my bridal shower. I'd sometimes look down at my ring and my stomach would turn as if I was repulsed by the large diamond ring. My mother told me I'd be crazy to not marry him. But that feeling was still there, and it was even more present this day, standing in my wedding dress, pacing back and forth.

I couldn't get Aaron out of my head. Aaron and I had been friends for forever. He was an FBI agent, tall, handsome, and funny, with brown eyes that sparkled when he teased me and when he laughed. He knew my favorite color and the way I drank my tea. He knew everything about me and I knew everything about him. I couldn't get that night he'd almost kissed me before I met Steve out of my head, that night we spent walking downtown, how he'd paused in the park under that big magnolia tree, and how he'd almost kissed me. I'd never felt such sparks before, never felt so strongly before.

The sparks had always been there, but it was always a case of wrong timing. I remember when he was dating Haley Brooks, and I'd been single, and then I'd be dating someone and he'd be single. All of my friends were dating people, and getting married.

I was pacing back and forth when my dad walked in, a box in his hands. I recognized the tie-dye shirt wrapped around it, a shirt I bought Aaron one summer as a joke gift, but one he loved. It had its place of pride amongst the suits he wore as an FBI agent. Seeing it, wrapped around whatever gift he'd got me, was like a death sentence. It was like the ending of what could be.

I bit back my tears and hesitantly let my dad walk me towards the aisle, but the closer we got the more my nerves increased, and the more I sensed I was doing the wrong thing. I kept panicking and as the opening notes started to play, I took a deep breath and held my flowers and I couldn't do it. I stood there, as everyone stared at me. My eyes met Steve's at the end of the aisle and I realized, I loved Aaron. He loved me.

I glanced down at the large and gaudy ring I wore and met my dad's eyes. He gave me a concerned look and watched as I slipped the ring off, sliding it into his hand. "Tell him I'm sorry?" I said, and he nodded. Then, as everyone gasped, I dropped the too-large bouquet I didn't even like and ran out. I knew right where he'd be, and Dad had pressed his car keys in my hands as I ran out.

I drove there, speeding and praying I wouldn't get pulled over. His car was there, in the parking lot and I ran, faster than I'd ever run before down the paths, in my wedding dress, past people who stared at me until I stopped short of the tree. There he was, standing under the tree, looking wrecked.

He turned around and his eyes met mine. He held his hands up, a shocked look on his face and I started crying, shrugging as my hands landed on my face before I ran to him, launching myself into his arms, and he held me without question. His arms were strong and warm around me as I sobbed into his chest.

"What are you doing? You should be getting married," He said, his voice warm but full of shock as he held me. "I can't, Aaron," I whispered, tears thick in my voice. He was silent for a moment, as he pulled back to look at me. "Why not?" He asked, as one of his thumbs reached up to wipe my tears away.

"Because it felt wrong from the start. Because I'm an idiot for not realizing that I wanted to get married, but that I didn't want to marry Steve. It's you, Aaron. I've been in love with you for years now, and I'm the biggest-" But then his lips descended on mine, and I whimpered as he kissed me, holding me tight as everything suddenly felt right.

Kissing Aaron was like the final puzzle piece being fit into place. Everything felt right again. My world, which had felt so off-center in the months since Steve proposed, now felt right again. I pressed close to him, my lips remaining on his, until we both pulled away to breathe heavily. "I know I'm a big dummy and I should have trusted my gut and said no to Steve, but I'm here. I ran away from my wedding and I'm here."

Aaron hadn't spoken yet, he'd just been listening to me ramble and he pressed his hand to my lips. "Hey, hey," he said, his voice soft. "You're here now. All that other stuff, we'll figure out later. You were always a little slow on the uptake, but you got it. I love you." He'd whispered and I nodded, as I cried again. "I love you too, Aaron Hotchner. I'm sorry it took us so long to get our timing right."

He didn't say anything else, he just leaned down and pressed his lips to mine, kissing me like his life depended on it. I knew I'd have a lot of people to talk to in the next few days, but right now, standing here under the shade of the magnolia tree where I'd had my almost first kiss with Aaron, his lips pressed to mine, everything was right. As long as I had him in my life, things would be okay. I can handle whatever the world throws at me as long as he's by my side.

#aaron hotchner 💞 #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #angst and then fluffy

[lesbianwriter]

Hero couldn’t breathe.

The lashing had stopped a bit ago…an hour? Two? Three? She didn’t know, she didn’t care.

She couldn’t breathe.

That was all she knew in that moment—her throat was tightening, her breaths were staggered and throaty, and each one pained gasp felt as if it would be her last.

It had happened again. Supervillain has found her. And here she was, tied down, wheezing for air, and her old scars shredded open by the same cruel hand that had been the cause of them in the first place.

Panting, Hero tugged blindly at the ropes on the wrists, but it only dug deeper into the tender, pink flesh that burned when she struggled.

She sucked in a hitched breath and trembled.

Supervillain would lash her again and again until she remembered his old teachings; and as much as Hero wanted to be the fearless savior that withstood any horror without flinching…she knew that she wasn’t that type of hero. The only thing she’d ever been good at was pretending, for the public. She was a clown. A liar in makeup and a gaudy grin, when deep down she was a shriveled up creature trying to crawl into the dark for safety. When the torture persisted, she was going to crack.

Everybody would see her spill her guts and not only would she be broken, but she’d be shamed for being fragile enough to shatter at all.

Heroes were supposed to be stronger. Braver.

But her lungs constricted at the mere idea of the next horrible day to come.

When the door opened, she flinched and tried to curl into herself as much as she could manage. She hadn’t expected Supervillain to return so quickly…how long had it been? What more could he possibly do in one day?

“Hey,” Villain whispered, stepping behind Hero. Guardedly, she touched a hand to the injured woman’s shoulder. “You don’t look too good.”

Hero’s whole body trembled.

Her replacement. The person who had been plucked from a field of other promising young agents to be Supervillain’s brand new dazzling starlet after Hero had defected so long ago. But…why was she here?

Revenge? Cruelty? Was she here to rub it into Hero’s face that she had made a mistake when she had ran into the arms of the heroes?

Villain cocked her head, her eyes glittering like jewels in the dim, depressing room. “Hey, I’m not here to…torture you or anything like that. I promise.” She said confidingly, and pulled out a bottle of antiseptic and some gauze bandages. “Though, it might sting.”

Hero gritted her teeth and tried to suppress a whimper as Villain poured antiseptic on her open wounds.

It burned, a fire blazing on her back.

This was the only time that Hero could almost be thankful that her throat closed up and her breath eluded her—at least she wouldn’t further humiliate herself by screaming in front of her replacement.

Villain then wrapped the gauze around Hero’s wounds, the bandages wrapping around her entire back, and secured them firmly.

“There, at least it won’t get infected.” Villain peered at the trembling form, leaning her head down to try to look at Hero’s face. “Are you still coherent?”

“I—yeah…” Hero rasped.

“Hmm.” Villain leaned closer, until they were practically nose-to-nose. Something about her gaze was as intense and mystifying as foamy waves crashing against sharp rocks. “Tell me, what’s so worth it about being a hero? Seems to me like all heroes do is get hurt.”

“Supervillain is a madman—he was going to destroy the world, and I didn’t want to be a part of that.” Her voice was scratchy and dry, the vibrato of her voice ringing against her throat akin to two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. “Neither should you.”

A tiny snort escaped Villain. “So…you’d rather be the part that gets killed and destroyed rather than the part that survives?”

Hero looked down at the floor.

Of course Supervillain’s new favorite was perfectly okay with being on the side of evil; of course he’d want to make sure that he didn’t repeat his first mistakes by choosing someone he’d have to scar into submission rather than someone that already shared his twisted mind.

Though, she couldn’t argue that she felt stupid when Villain pointed out that heroes side would be the one to eat dirt if—or when—Supervillain succeeded in his plots.

Villain continued to talk. “I’m just curious. Why’d you leave?”

“He…he hurt me.”

“And you don’t get hurt as a hero? There’s thousands of people in the world you can’t save, no matter how hard you try or how much you wish you could, but if you’re a villain then you choose who to hurt and how. At least then, even if you’re still hurting, you still have some degree of power and control.”

Hero panted, glancing warily up at Villain. “Are—are you here to tease me?” She shook her head, sweat rolling down her forehead. “Just…say whatever mean things you wanna say and go.”

Her head hung lower.

Pathetic. That’s what it was.

She should’ve been fighting, but her wrists ached too much to keep trying to break the rope and her back stung too much to keep thrashing. Instead of struggling, she was hoping Villain would strike her with whatever verbal blows she had come here to taunt her with and then leave.

“I’m here because you fascinate me. It took a lot of strength to leave,” Villain stroked the curve of Hero’s shoulder, thoughtfully. “I want to know more about why you did that. What was the push that sent you tumbling into the world of heroism? What made you tick? What inspired you to be a hero, instead of finding a safe house somewhere and staying there, hmm?”

“I…uhm…part of it was a plea deal. I—I didn’t wanna go to prison, so I agreed to serve the community.” Hero looked down at the floor again, watching the beads of sweat that hit the ground.

She shouldn’t even be talking to Villain and she felt ashamed to be lured into responding.

Villain tilted her head. “Do you know how long I’ve been compared to you? I wanted to see how much of that was true, but we’re nothing alike. You’re selfish.”

“And you wouldn’t protect you from Supervillain?” Hero felt Villain’s breath on her face, and her eyes matched the criminal’s with something between awe and fear.

Villain was what she’d wanted to be.

What she still wished she could be, sometimes.

“No, I wouldn’t.” Villain squeezed Hero’s shoulder, her lips brushing Hero’s. “I want to understand you, Hero. I’ll find out everything in the deepest, darkest parts of your psyche. Supervillain has appointed me the honor of retraining you.”

“I can’t…I can’t come back…”

But Hero knew she’d break. Her destiny of being a disgrace was written in the stars and wishing for any other outcome was foolishness.

Villain smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

#my writing #hero x villain #heroes and villains #writing snippet #villain x hero #captured hero #captive whumpee #slight injury whump #villain caretaker #sapphic #wlw

[waywardstation]

since we had Valentines Day (or Palentines Day) just the other day I've been thinking of how the Twins had dealt with that day back in Unova:

As someone who believes that they aren't too much into romance at all (they love trains and battles) they get easily flustered when they get approached with presents on this day. But since Palentines Day gets more and more popular I can see them preferring this over any romantic gifts. And they are holding presents made by children in the highest regard.

Seeing little kids come up to them to show their appreciation for them and/or trains fills them with joy and they sometimes joke to each other that one day they might have these kids as successor or Depot Agents at work. They also always have a little something as a thank you for the kids on them.

Elesa has made it a habit to gift Emmet a card with the best (or worst according to Emmet) Valentines pun and Ingo a card with the cheesiest message to fluster him on that day. The twins know it's not meant in a romantic way just her playfully teasing them.

Yes yes anon! Shaking your hand, I also headcanon that Ingo and Emmet are not all that interested in romance haha

I love the thought of them getting gifts of appreciation on the day though ;w; Lots of cards and drawings and other things!! (And I’d like to think they get handed presents for their Pokémon too!)

And as for all of this with Elesa, it’s funny because I have a few paragraphs for Rain Check (the Palentines day fic I’ve been working on for forever, and STILL didn’t get done this valentines cause I’ve been so busy ^^;) that describes this almost perfectly:

(Keep in mind a lot of wording here will be updated)

—————

“Does that sound like something you used to do with flowers, where you came from?”

Ingo continued to methodically loop the ribbons between his calloused fingers. Black over White. Yellow over Black. White over Yellow. Black over White. Through the holes.

Through the holes…

The holes were big. (in)(this)(one.)

(Elesa) would always surprise him and (Emmet) at work with (the biggest arrangement of) flowers (on Valentine’s Day. The extravagance had always been emphasized with a card, covered in gaudy, hand-drawn hearts) and wrapped in an elaborate style of bows, but offset (with the card being terribly inappropriate for the occasion - usually for a retirement party or a 60th birthday - where she had gone in and written over the card’s message with pen.) It usually contained (a terribly corny Valentine’s joke,) and a (short but ) genuine message appreciating (their friendship - the whole thing was a silly tradition she had stubbornly yet lovingly repeated ever since she had become friends with them in their childhood.)

(She had never once sent it to their offices - Elesa always thought it was hilarious to have the extravagant gifts hand delivered to fluster) the two of them (in front of the whole station, where people passing by would dote over the public gesture, and a few nosy individuals would even pry. Oh, how she’d laugh at them as they recounted to her how embarrassing the whole ordeal was, before taking them out to dinner and a movie after their shifts).

(The)(punctures)(stretched)(painfully,)(and) Not much was left behind.

She would always surprise him and the other one at work with flowers. Wrapped in an elaborate style of bows, but offset. It usually contained a genuine message appreciating… the two of them.

…

“I… apologize Miss Akari, for I am not sure.”

—————

I love these thoughts anon, you and I think very similarly!!!

#wayward’s asks #wip wednesday #<- not really but I’m putting it with my other snippets #love these ;w; #and as you said anon I like to think Ingo and Emmet have things for kids in the station too #always have candy and gear station buttons in their pockets to hand out!!! #Ingo and emmet probably get so many chocolates and stuff too that they distribute everything they can’t take home with their depot agents #and Ingo and Emmet’s Pokémon love love love all the flowers they have to take home haha

[blondeboyfriend]

𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐒

[ PAIRING ] Zeke Yeager x f!reader [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] Another repost from 2021. I'll always have a soft spot for this fic. [ SYNOPSIS ] You're a talented, hot mess of a screenwriter. Zeke is a beloved actor/writer/director that seemingly has his shit together. What better way to repair your reputation than by fake dating him at the behest of your agent? [ WORD COUNT ] 8.8k [ CONTENT ] Film industry AU, fake dating, tall!reader, y/n has a personality, drug use, alcohol, sexual harassment (Don't fret! Zeke is not the harasser!), misogyny, depression, cigarettes, y/n is neurotic and doesn't like eating in front of people, existential angst, swimming pools, Floch is your agent, hungover!Zeke. [ PLAYLIST ] Here's the link.

A car barreled down the street, a puff of dark exhaust spewing out like a specter. The wind carried it off, now nothing more than a grey stain in the air. Still, the noxious smell made its way over to you and buried itself in your nose, seemingly singeing every hair. You sneezed and wiped your nose with the back of your hand, hoping no one saw you. In any other moment, you wouldn’t care.

But unfortunately today was a day different from the rest. You had to present and composed. Dignified. The exact opposite of how you were two weeks ago…

You’d been dragged to one of those gaudy industry parties: a grandiloquent​​ celebration for the cast and crew of a film you co-wrote.

You wore an understated, black sheath dress much too short for the occasion. On the model, the bottom hem rested gracefully above the knee, thighs mostly obscured by the cotton-polyester fabric. But you spent most of the night tugging on your dress and dissociating.

Your conversations were stilted. Your words tinged with uncertainty and distaste. Men licked their lips as they eyed your exposed thighs, occasionally winking if you caught them. The longer you stayed, the more your humiliation bloomed into an unspeakable rage.

Unable to contain yourself, you took to the stage and aired out your grievances. You pointed directly at a studio head, one that had been ogling you all night, and told him he probably had a “fucked-up looking, duck dick.”

It was no surprise the industry didn’t hold such high regard for your blatant disrespect. 

Proverbial water filled your lungs with every attempt to mend the situation. You nearly ruined a press junket with an impromptu apology, your hand gripping the microphone like a lifebuoy. Writers and script doctors, people you once considered friends, retreated and left you in their wake. You weren’t worthy of the insurance the studios had to take out to employ you. They’d rather watch you drown.

But for whatever reason your agency believed your talent was worth going through hell for.

“You can’t fuck this up!” your agent shouted through the phone. “Act normal. Smile or something. That’s not outside of your skill set, is it? ‘Cause if it is, you can go fuck off right now and continue ruining your career on your own dime.” His tone changed to a calmer fury. “Act like you are sociable and reliable. Please. For me.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m a writer. Acting’s definitely outta my skill set.”

“I am going to wring your little neck on our therapeutic, nature walk tomorrow. I swear to fucking god.”

You struggled to stifle a laugh as he berated you about how to position yourself in your chair and what food to order. He even told you what clothes to wear: a gauzy, light pink sundress that barely covered your ass and a trendy pair of chunky sandals. But instead you showed up at the restaurant in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. You looked positively pedestrian.

“Alright. Fine. I’ll be cordial.”

“For the love of—Act like you’re interested in him! You’re lucky he agreed to this. Flirt, be coy. ‘Oh wow, you look soooooo good.’”

“Is that how you woo the boys and girls?”

“Do you ever want to have a job again? Do you want opportunities?” 

“I mean… Duh.”

“Then make this believable. We need people to think you’re stable. And who knows? Maybe you’ll actually like him.”

You rolled your eyes. The idea of “dating” a man to make yourself seem even-keeled and hireable was laughable. Sure, he was rather popular with the masses and industry folk. A beloved actor. A clever screenwriter. A visionary director or some shit. And yeah, maybe he was one of the more dependable men to work with. He was seemingly the exact opposite of you.

He was the industry’s golden boy.

Floch seethed through the phone. “Listen. To. Me. You are going to act like you’re having the fucking time of your stupid life out there, got it? You’re going to ham it up for the paparazzi.”

“Why would they give a shit about this? We’re not A-listers.”

“I fucking hired them, that’s why. Also I’d argue Zeke’s pretty A-list; he’s just boring as fuck… Shit. My daughter’s teacher is telling me I’m making the other parents uncomfortable. I gotta go.”

“Wha—where are you?”

“A PTA meeting.”

And with that Floch hung up.

“Okay,” you muttered.

You stood outside the restaurant, waiting for this Zeke Yeager. Part of you considered running off and finding refuge in the cutlery store across the street. But no, that would make you even more unappealing. You were being watched after all. Suddenly you were suspicious of every person around. Every car, every pedestrian, could have been a paid pair of lingering eyes. In a panic you tried to call Floch only to get his voicemail.

“You’ve reached Floch Forster. I can’t answer the phone right now becau—Louisa quit biting your brother! Jesus fucking… Leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I feel like it.”

You opted not to leave a voicemail.

As aggressive as Floch could be, he always was your biggest cheerleader. When he took you on as a client he made it clear you were his main focus. The only other person he represented was a surrealist director from Chile he had never spoken to directly.

You sighed and looked at your phone, hoping you’d find solace in your barrage of notifications. But none of them were particularly interesting. Still, you scrolled mindlessly, entering some sort of trance. The smell of cigarette smoke was what brought you back to the trappings of reality. You turned around to see Zeke.

“I thought you’d be shorter,” he quipped, taking a drag. “I don’t know why; don’t ask.”

“Is this how you say hello to people?” you asked, voice bristling with irritation.

“Yeah. You want one?” He held out his pack of expensive, imported cigarettes.

“Nah. I quit years ago. The taste makes me nauseous now.”

“How tragic.” He narrowed his eyes and took another drag. “You know I think I’ve met you before.”

“I don’t think so. I’d remember that.”

He wore a dark green flannel with a few buttons undone, his blonde chest hair peeking out. His beard wasn’t as neat as it was on camera; it was a tad longer, a little bushier. You preferred it over the perfectly manicured one. His long legs were clothed in dark blue denim, with a sizable hole in the knee. It was a relief that he hadn’t dressed up either.

“No, no. I definitely have. It was at—what’s her name—Yelena’s. You were with all those coked out girls. I tried to introduce myself, but you ignored me.” He laughed nervously. “But it’s fine. Do you still run around with them?”

You rolled your eyes and sighed. That gaggle of starlets hadn’t crossed your mind in a year.

“No. I got sick of babysitting adult children with perpetual nosebleeds.”

“It does get old after a while. I knew I was done with that whole scene after I gave a guy naloxone behind a Scientology Celebrity Centre.”

“Can’t say I ever had something like that happen.”

“I don’t recommend it.”

He took a few steps closer and wrapped his arms around you, cigarette precariously resting between his fingers. He smelled like fresh laundry and tobacco. You swallowed hard, unable to recall the last time you let someone hug you. The only downside of it all was the potential of your hair getting singed.

“What the fuck, dude?” You asked, trying to act like you weren’t enjoying this.

“I’m supposed to be your boyfriend, aren’t I?”

“This just seems like a lot.”

“This is nothing,” he said.

He kissed your forehead and ruffled your hair. You hated him for taking on the role of your love interest with such ease. For you it was like putting a cat in a sweater.

“Relax,” he said, dropping his arms. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

You stared out into the street, over his shoulder. Your eyes followed a crowded bus as it puttered by. Anything to not look directly at Zeke. His whole person was overwhelming. You had seen him on the screen a handful of times and found him to be unremarkable, but seeing him in person was, again, a lot.

“Wish it was over now,” you muttered, finally stepping away from him. You immediately missed the warmth radiating from his body.

“We can make it fun. I promise.”

“Doubt it. Like don’t take it personally, but yeah. No.”

He grinned and tossed his cigarette out into the street, nearly missing a meter maid.

“What? You don’t trust me?”

“You’re an actor. Of course I don’t trust you.”

“Oh, come on.”

He opened the door to the restaurant. The smell of garlic and basil wafted into your nose.

“After you,” he said.

The restaurant was small. The walls were paneled with Pepto Bismol pink painted wood and decorated with aging photos of what appeared to be a sizable Italian family. Vases of wildflowers were scattered about. It was a level of hominess and familiarity that left you a little unnerved.

“I hate it here,” you whispered.

Zeke lightly elbowed you. “We haven’t even sat down yet.”

“Sometimes you just kn—”

“Wheredyawannasit?” a lackadaisical host asked.

“What?”

“By a window,” Zeke said coolly.

You hated how easily he navigated social situations. Granted he was an actor; it was basically in the job description.

“A window, huh?” you said, cocking an eyebrow.

The bastard winked at you.

You both took a seat. The table was covered with a powder blue tablecloth and a pane of glass, and it was right by a large window. You felt on display. A waiter traipsed by and wordlessly dropped menus on the table. Everything felt unnatural.

“I hate how easy this is for you,” you said, opening a menu.

“That’s only because I’m at least making an attempt to have a decent time.”

“You don’t find this humiliating?”

“Why would this be humiliating?” he asked. “We’re having lunch.”

Why? Because it made you feel vulnerable, like you were tearing open a wound. You were sick of putting yourself out there. So many years you spent with a smile plastered on your face, eager to please, and for what?

“Because I’m over this shit, okay? I’m sick of appeasing people.”

“You’re in the wrong business then.”

The waiter came by and placed two glasses of water on the table.

“You think I don’t know that?” you groaned. “I just wanna write. That’s all.”

“What’s stopping you from doing that?”

“My reputation. Misogyny. Capitalism. That time I accidentally stepped on a service dog at a premiere,” you exasperated.

He laughed. “You’re too hung up on the past.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Don’t think about it then. That’s what I do.”

“You say that like it’s so fuckin’ easy,” you hissed.

The waiter returned and took your orders. You were surprised and mildly disturbed to see that Zeke only ordered a cappuccino and some amaretto. He noticed the face you made and shrugged. You found yourself intrigued and repulsed by him. He managed to be disarming and utterly intimidating at the same time. It was disorienting.

“So why did you have your little tantrum?”

“Which one?” you scoffed.

“The one that made a very drunk Floch call me at two in the morning, begging me to make you look ‘normal.’”

Floch’s fascination with you coming off as normal amused you to no end.

“Oh, right… Uh, like, I was just over it. Like doing all that dumb shit. Smiling even though I wanna die. Wearing uncomfortable clothes to uncomfortable events. Being friends with people I despise, like those fuckin’ girls I used to hang out with. Not being taken seriously unless I co-wrote with someone else. I don’t know.”

“It got old.”

“Yeah. I used to be fine with it, going with the flow or whatever. But recently, I don’t know. I can’t be bothered. Like I straight up do not care. I spent way too much time giving a shit about what people thought about me. I’m done with that.”

You found yourself clenching your fists and took a deep breath to dull your rage.

“Fair enough,” he said nervously.

Your voice softened, hoping to put him at ease if only a little.

“I’m not really sure where it leaves me but… Fuck it. I’m past the point of caring,” you said before quickly shoving a piece of bread in your mouth.

The rest of the lunch was awkward and unremarkable. You hated how together Zeke’s life was. He was working on a short film inspired by his salad days filming skate videos. He played in a celebrity baseball tournament for charity. He planned on spending a few months in Aotearoa because he hated wintering in California. And he footed the bill even though you wanted to go halfsies.

“Alright. Well, this was weird. I’ll see you around I guess.”

You started to walk off, but he grabbed your wrist. His calloused hands revealed his past in the minor leagues. You turned to look at him and immediately regretted your decision. He looked so dreamy. His eyes exuded kindness. You didn’t deserve it.

“When can I see you again?”

You glanced to the side and tried to concoct an answer.

“I don’t know. Have your guy call Floch and they can set something up.”

“I—I’d rather us do the planning.”

“Why?”

This was a business transaction; there was no reason to make it personal.

“I want to get to know you without that guy up our asses.”

Zeke pointed out a paparazzo in an inconspicuous silver Tesla. He hauled ass down the street once he realized that Zeke spotted him.

He continued. “If you don’t want to, it’s fine.”

It was strange to see him so bashful. You desperately tried to recall the night you apparently blew him off, but that part of your life was a blur. A haze of cigarette smoke, maxed out credit cards, and ketamine. Too many nights spent flanked by socialites with fake voices and wannabe Kerouacs. That period of your life was one long night. A party you desperately wanted to leave. Something as angelic as him would have stood out amongst the filth and depravity you waded through. You would have followed him out of all that muck.

“I’ll think about it. DM me on Insta or something.”

You went to give him a hug goodbye, but he brushed you off.

“Guy’s gone. You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he said.

A sad, little smile had laid claim to his face.

“Oh, right. Anyway, I'll see ya.”

You turned away as he quietly said goodbye. You hated yourself for your vague cruelness, but this was humiliating. Here was this great guy who was willing to put his career on the line and be seen with you, and yet you were a total downer.

But you weren’t surprised. This was your modus operandi: torching bridges while they’re being built, you standing alone on the smoldering beams.

You were incredibly thankful for the “therapeutic, nature walk.” The morning was calm. The sun drifted through the window, painting your walls with a creamy orange. You sipped coffee, scrolled through your emails, and slowly prepared yourself for your jaunt in the woods. Floch picked you up at eight o’clock in the morning. The drive up was peaceful. You kept the window down and relished in the needley wind pricking your skin.

“He only ordered espresso and fucking booze?” Floch asked, helping you up a particularly steep hill.

“It was a cappuccino. But yeah. Not like I did much better though. I just slyly ate bread, didn’t even bother touching the tortellini I ordered.”

Once you crested the hill you were greeted by a sea of ponderosa pines. Nature had a way of calming your soul, quelling the disdain that seemed to permeate your being. You fantasized about leaving the city and losing yourself in the woods. The further you were removed from the industry the better you’d feel. Maybe you wouldn’t be so neurotic.

“Why?!” He exclaimed.

“I hate eating in public. Let alone in front of someone I don’t know and a guy with a camera. I did grab a bánh mì after.”

Floch sighed.

“I guess that makes sense, but it’s still fucking ridiculous. Think about the food waste.”

You rubbed your temples and took a deep breath. You weren’t in the mood for such a conversation. You were aware of how odd your behavior was and didn’t need to be reminded of its environmental ramifications.

“Are you going to see him again?” he asked, taking a seat on a stump.

“He mentioned wanting to meet up again but on our, like, own accord.”

“Oh, so fuck me then?”

“Exactly,” you laughed.

He rolled his eyes. “What’s the plan?”

You plopped down on the ground next to Floch.

“No idea. But probably something stupid and pretentious. He hasn’t reached out to me yet though. Maybe I scared him off.”

Floch flicked your temple with his thumb and middle finger.

“Stop overthinking it. Call him right now and make plans.”

You stuck your tongue out like a child. “Gross. I’ll just text him… Wait, do you have his number? I didn’t ask for it.”

“I thought you wanted to do this on your own accord,” he said, pulling out his phone.

“I’m adding a teeny addendum to that,” you snickered.

Getting a hold of Zeke ended up being more of a struggle than you anticipated. His voicemail was full and your texts were never read. The lack of response made a pit open up in your stomach. You tried to fill it with coffee and the occasional blunt, but nothing sufficed. He had no reason to get back to you anyway. You weren’t particularly friendly during your lunch.

That was always the worst part. The hangover from your behavior. You used to think nothing beat the shame of waking up after a night of binge drinking, cursed with only a vague recollection of the awful things you did. But when waking up stone cold sober there was nothing to hide behind.

It was a great relief when Zeke finally called you back. He apologized for being so busy, but his words felt rather hollow. You didn’t think he was lying, but you questioned how genuine he was being.

“Meet me at the skate park on 16th and Sequoia. I have some filming to take care of and I’m trying to work with natural lighting,” he rambled.

“Shots’ll look good,” you said, trying to sound knowledgeable even though you didn’t know much about filming.

You agreed to meet him on the grounds that he let you pay for coffee.

Once at the park you were greeted by a sea of teenagers and their cacophonous choir of expletives and shrieks. You waded through them until you found Zeke sitting on the floor, fiddling with a Sony Handycam.

“You seem a little old to be hangin’ with this crowd.”

“The whole point is that they’re young. Tell me, does that kid read late-2000s, maybe early 2010s?” he asked before standing up and grabbing a worn out board.

You stared at a boy dressed like an extra from an early Odd Future video.

“I guess. Please tell me you’re not gonna skate.”

“Of course I am! That’s how it’s done.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here and watch you do this?”

He sighed. “When you say it like that, it’s going to sound boring. It’ll just be an hour and then we can get coffee.”

A kid interrupted your conversation by kicking Zeke in the shin.

The kid barked, “Is Eren coming?”

Zeke shook his head to the kid’s disappointment. They dejectedly skated off without a word.

“You should have hit me up later. I could be at home right now and diving into the depths of Vine compilations.”

You pantomimed diving into a pool much to Zeke’s amusement.

Zeke skated off and exchanged pleasantries with the pack of hormone-addled youths. One of the girls set off and he trailed after her. It was a rather boring experience as a spectator. Zeke skated alongside her, crouching on his board, camera angled at her feet.

“Impressive,” you called out as Zeke reviewed what he filmed.

“Please, that was nothing.”

“Do something cool then. Do a trick.”

What happened next should have been expected, but somehow ended up being a complete surprise. Zeke attempted what you later learned was a heel flip. All you saw was him skate past you and then suddenly he was a mess of tangled limbs on the concrete, his board rolling off into a bowl. You ran to him while the kids keeled over with laughter.

“Shit,” was all he could say.

“Are you okay?” you asked, knowing damn well he was not okay.

“Help,” he coughed.

He looked so pathetic and small on the ground. You reached out and hoisted him up. Now that he was upright the extent of his injuries seemed to be reduced to a few raspberries and torn jeans.

“I keep bandaids in my kånken,” he winced.

“Knew you’d have one of these fuckin’ stupid ass, expensive backpacks,” you muttered.

You tended to his scraped knee, borrowing some bactine wipes one of the teens had on her person. Dabbing Zeke’s knee you looked up and found him gazing down at you, eyes teeming with longing. You instinctively glared at him like an asocial idiot.

“You look like you're proposing to him,” a boy slurred.

It didn’t take much to clean Zeke up, but his ripped jeans revealed his hubris. The walk to the coffee shop was spent with him slightly limping with his arm around your shoulder. You wondered if there were any paparazzi around to document this sad sight. Though maybe Floch decided he had better things to spend money on. You were left with only a wisp of paranoia.

“This is what I get for trying to show off,” he said, easing himself down onto a bench.

You took a seat next to him and couldn’t help but laugh as he iced his knee with his cold brew.

“Is that actually helping?”

“Kind of?” he replied with an eyebrow raised.

“Well, like you said, it’s what you get for showing off.”

“Come on. I’m injured. You should be nice to me.”

“I don’t have to be anything to you.”

He gulped and quickly let out a nervous laugh. You took a long sip of your drink and shifted your eyes to the side, staring into a rose bush.

Zeke sighed. “I hate to use an idiom, but you really are a tough nut to crack.”

You shut your eyes tight and fought the urge to spill all your secrets. Something about Zeke lent himself to it. Or rather you were looking for the opportunity to let it all out and projecting it on him out of sheer convenience.

He continued. “I’m not saying you need to bare your soul to me, but I’d like to get to know you. I want to get to know you.”

“I’m not worth knowing,” you droned.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I can and I am. Like not to be super fuckin’ dramatic, but getting to know people, letting them in and shit… It’s not worth the hassle.”

“Hassle? I’m not asking you to do hard labor,” he laughed.

“You don’t get it. I can’t just ‘get to know people.’ I—if you get to know me it’s like I’ve torn myself open.”

“What if I told you I just wanted to know your favorite color?”

You gritted your teeth and seethed, “You’re not getting it.”

He turned to look at you. You cut your staring contest with the rose bush short and gathered as much false bravado as you could. Gazing into his grey eyes would weaken you. You knew it for a fact and had to be prepared.

“You’re not really giving me a chance to.”

Damn. It. There was no preparing yourself for his patience, his kindness, even if it seemed a little phony. You held his gaze for a while before finally breaking the silence.

“It's like a piece of me is being ripped away… when I let people in... It feels like a weight. Or a void. Or both? I don’t know. I try to talk about it, but I fuck it up every time. 99% of the time I say something cruel or like dumb.” You took a deep breath. “And it’s… it’s not like I can actually be there for people, if I were to let them know me or whatever the fuck. Like what do I do? I gore myself for these people and leave them with… what? Viscera and trash?” Your thoughts were growing hazy, your anger obscuring your thoughts. “I don’t know. I’m a disease. My heart is a worn down mountain. I’m nothing more than the smoking, smoldering mine under that fucked up town that inspired, uh, Silent Hill.”

Saliva pooled in your mouth. Your inability to explain yourself was making you ill.

“Your heart is an eroded landform. And also, somehow, Centralia, Pennsylvania.”

“That is so reductive.”

“Listen. You’re not making much sense, but I think I want to underst—”

“I don’t need to fucking make sense! I… I’m just so sick of feeling like shit and not knowing what to do. Do I keep shutting myself off? Acting like a fuckin’ demon hermit that shrivels in the spotlight? Spitting and hissing at my contemporaries? Or do I go back to painting my face like a whore clown? Do I go back to making people feel vaguely at ease?! Or do I keep pushing against it?! How many hands are gonna crawl up my skirt if I go back to smiling and acting like I’m proud of the fuckin’ Kate Hudson vehicle I co-wrote with five other people? I can’t do that shit anymore. I’d rather throw myself down a flight of stairs.”

“Okay, Zelda Fitzgerald, take a breather,” he consoled or rather attempted to.

His arm hovered around your shoulder before finally patting it with his weighty hand. A small but welcome gesture. You snorted and wiped away the tears that had been collecting in the corners of your eyes.

You knew nothing you spewed made sense, but it needed to be said. It had been festering inside you. You still felt terrible, but lighter. You didn’t feel like Atlas carrying a bounty of self loathing and misanthropy on your back. For once you exhaled and there was relief.

“It’s green,” you said quietly.

“What?”

You spoke up. “My favorite color. It’s green.”

“You seem in good spirits,” Floch noted. “It’s weird. Are you sure you’re not ill?”

“What?! No! I just, I don’t know, I feel decent.”

“Are you on drugs?”

“Ugh. No. I legit feel okay… esque.”

The park was crowded for a Wednesday morning. Usually your weekly walk around the lake was a calmer affair. Granted the park was dotted with everchanging oak trees and it was fall.

“All because of some guy. Wow.”

“That’s not why. But you know, he is pretty fun.”

“Uh huh.”

“Though maybe I only think that because he’s hot.”

You happened to glance at Floch and the cat-like grin on his face. Being embarrassed and saying “just kidding” crossed your mind, but it was true. You did find Zeke amusing and attractive.

“You like hiiiiiiiim,” he teased.

“I said he’s hot. That’s hardly… Shit. Fuck. Okay, maybe I like him a little.”

“This is great! Now all you have to do is make him fall in love with you and hopefully have that convince every stupid fucking studio to suck your figurative dick,” he cheered.

You frowned. You had momentarily forgotten about the transactional nature of this relationship. Floch immediately caught onto your disappointment.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t pursue this seriously. You could probably be his girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever.”

You froze, wide-eyed, letting a rogue jogger bump into you.

“I—I never said anything about that.”

“Your reaction just did the talking for you,” Floch said, punctuating his sentence with a smirk.

“It’s not like I stand a chance anyway.”

You didn’t consider yourself desirable, let alone Zeke’s type even though you honestly had no idea what that was. Your self confidence had been in shambles for months; anything was possible.

“Hm. Now that I think about it I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him dating anyone.”

“Hopefully his type is whatever all this is,” you sighed, looking down at your body.

“People seem to think you two are cute together.”

“Great, but what do the people that matter think?”

“Well… They kind of think a little less of him now that you two are dating.”

“Nothing ‘bout me though?” you asked flatly.

“Nada.”

“I mean that’s not too bad.”

“When are you seeing him next?”

“He invited me to some party at some guy’s house. All I know is there’s a pool and Zeke intends on pushing his brother into it.”

“Oh wow, sounds super romantic,” he snarked.

You stomped on a crunchy leaf. The party could end up being romantic if you tried. So far you made little attempt to impress Zeke and he was still drawn to you. If you actually did something, who knows what you could accomplish?

That night the driver Zeke hired to pick you up plucked you from your home and dropped you off at a glass windowed monstrosity nestled in the hills. It was owned by the editor of a marginally popular skateboarding magazine.

You were irked that he decided to go to the party early and not extend the invite. You hated shit like this and even more when you were forced to do it on your own.

You exhaled and your fist hovered parallel to the door.

“Just knock, dumb ass.”

Before you could the door was ripped open by a tanned, green-eyed man. He was wearing a red cut-off shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and checkerboard slip-ons.

“You’re not the weed guy,” he said, frowning.

“No. I mean, I have weed. Bu—but I’m not, like, the designated weed guy. I wish I was though. Like that’d be dope.”

He looked you up and down, and hollered over his shoulder, “False alarm.”

You heard a choir of groans and sighs from behind him.

“Uh… so, can I come in? Zeke invited me.”

You introduced yourself and quickly found out the man you were talking to was Eren, a professional skater and Zeke’s brother. He slid out of the way, granting you permission to enter. You stepped inside and stared up at the enormous foyer. A twinkling chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the vacuous space. It was sterile and everything blindingly white.

He led you into a room filled to the brim with people. You found yourself wanting to cling to him even though he was as much a stranger as everyone else.

“So yeah, I don’t know where Zeke is but I’m sure you’ll find him. Let me know if you don’t!”

And with that Eren disappeared. You were happy to see no one looked particularly glamorous, but it did little to quell your nerves. A Yaeji song seemed to blare from every corner of the house; it was inescapable. Doing this shit sober was never your forte.

“Hey! Over here,” you heard a familiar voice emanate from the crowd.

You pushed through and found Zeke surrounded by actors. You plastered on a sickly grin and hoped no one could discern your disdain.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiii,” you sneered unintentionally.

Zeke slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you next to him. You wanted to puke.

“I’m glad you found your way here.”

“You had a dude come pick me up which, you know, made it pretty easy.”

He smiled at you like he didn’t even catch your snarkiness.

A guy you didn’t recognize asked, “You’ve always had a bit of a mouth on you, haven’t you?”

“I was literally born with one.”

“Do you know how to shut it?” he followed up.

“Nah, but I know how to shut yours.”

Zeke dug his fingers into your waist, his face still smiling. You held your tongue while the guy continued being an absolute asshole. This was the kind of nonsense you couldn’t stand. You zoned out, eyes looking outside at the pool. The voices around you melded into a singular drone you tuned out.

“Hey,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of your face. “I asked you a question.”

You looked at Zeke for reassurance and saw that his attention was elsewhere. Your stomach dropped. He may have been standing next to you but he felt miles away.

“What?” you finally replied.

“Did you really fuck Magath to get a writing credit for that Jennifer Aniston movie?”

Your skin felt like it was on fire. Holding back wasn’t an option.

“It was a Kate Hudson movie. Why the actual fuck would I sleep with someone to say I helped write a Kate Hudson movie? Are you stupid or just trying to start shit? Because if your only way to make me feel bad is by implying I slept with someone to further my mediocre career, you need to try again because that ain’t gonna cut it.”

You freed yourself from Zeke’s grasp and got in the guy’s face, towering over him. He gave you nothing but stunned silence.

“Let’s get some air,” Zeke said a little too cheerfully.

Once outside you held your head in your hands, fighting the urge to scream. You should have acted unbothered, but weren’t good at faking. You kicked the air in frustration.

“What was that back there?”

“What was what?” you spat out. “You mean the dumb fuck inside?”

You dug through your bag for a joint and a lighter, sighing in relief when you found them with ease. 

“You should have had my back,” you said, using the joint to point at Zeke.

“I didn’t even know what was going on,” he lied.

“You were right fucking there! You were literally right beside me,” you said, lighting the joint.

“What was I supposed to say?”

You took a hit and exhaled.

“Fucking anything,” you suggested. “Could’ve changed the subject. Could’ve said, like, ‘Go fuck yourself. Don’t talk to my fake girlfriend that way.’”

“Once that guy gets going there’s no stopping him.”

“You noncommittal piece of shit. You fucking Judas.”

“Don’t let something that inconsequential ruin your night.”

“Maybe it was inconsequential to you...” you said, taking another hit.

Zeke reached out for the joint, but you didn’t hand it over. He didn’t deserve it.

“But it wasn’t to me. Do you know how often I deal with shit like that?”

“You should be used to it then.”

You were rendered silent. You couldn’t even verbalize your rage. Words were incapable of capturing the essence of it.

So you opted to push him in the pool.

You stormed off back inside, lit joint hanging out of your mouth. The house felt like a maze, you could’ve sworn it got bigger, vaster. Everyone’s faces blended together. You felt like you were gradually traveling back in time, like you’d been here too many times before. This wasn’t the person you wanted to be. This wasn’t any better than the old you.

You glanced over your shoulder and saw a couple people tending to a soaking wet Zeke, briefly making eye contact with him. Instead of glaring at you he smiled. You were happy he didn’t seem to hate you but it was infuriating all the same. He never dropped his facade. For the longest time you admired this ability but now it was a glaring flaw.

The relief that washed over you once outside was immense. You found yourself sitting on the curb, finishing off your joint. It was a clear night, colder than anticipated. The stars made your discomfort worth it even if most were drowned out by civilization.

“You’re lucky I didn’t have anything important in my pockets.”

Zeke stood behind you, his wet clothes clinging to his body. He was shivering.

“Bummer. I was kinda hoping I’d fuck up your phone at least.”

He laughed and sat next to you.

“I realize I could have probably been a bit more sympathetic.”

“I didn’t want sympathy. I wanted you to have my back. Toss out a witty retort that defended my honor or some shit,” you replied dejectedly.

“You held your own though.”

“That’s not the point,” you called out in exasperation. “I know I can hold my own. But… fuck, I don’t know. I needed you!”

He cleared his throat, his nerves revealing themselves.

“I’m sorry. Next time I’ll—”

“Ugh. Please. I’d rather fucking die than have a next time. I cannot keep doing this shit.”

You looked at Zeke and his pathetic form. You took off your jacket and put it over his shoulders.

“It gets so exhausting. Defending myself. It’s almost as bad as pretending everything is fine, like nothing is wrong,” you said sadly. “I feel like I’m talking in circles sometimes. Don’t mind me.”

“I’m going to mind. You pushed me into a pool about it.”

You groaned and stared up at the night sky.

“All of my self worth used to come from how fuckable I was because I thought that’s all I had to offer. I was made to believe that was the extent of my purpose. The writing was auxiliary. A nice surprise. And I cultivated that notion because I bought into it.” You felt yourself getting frustrated. “Do you know what that’s like?”

“No. I never had to concern myself with something like that.” He paused. “I suspect that was a rhetorical question.”

“It was, but I appreciate you being honest.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m too afraid to,” he laughed.

You rolled your eyes. “I am not that scary.”

“That guy nearly shit his pants when you got in his face.”

“Oh my god! I hardly got in his face.”

“Just own up to it. You’re a little intense. It’s par for the course in this industry. Nothing wrong with it.”

“Fuck. Fine. Whatever. I’m a little intense.”

Both of you fell silent. You scooched closer to Zeke, hoping maybe your body would warm him. You wanted to make up for acting so childish.

“I could never be like that,” he muttered. “Though I'd like to be.”

“There’s nothing stopping you.”

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“It’s just not my nature.”

“Ah yes, I forgot you’re such a gentle boy,” you teased.

He grinned. “Exactly. I’m too delicate.”

You hated how cute he was when he smiled; you wanted to kiss his crow’s feet.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked smoothly.

“Yeah,” you mumbled.

Zeke drove you home in his black Polestar 2. He cranked the heater as he sped down the freeway, still shivering. He tried to keep the conversation light by asking if you had been working on anything.

“I can’t even remember the last time I wrote.”

The realization made you nauseous.

“Why haven’t you been writing?”

You hung your head and struggled to articulate your vague, creative block. “I don’t know. Like why bother if no one wants to work with me?”

“Don’t you enjoy doing it?”

“Yeah…”

“There’s a reason to bother.”

“... True. It’s not like I need permission from anyone.”

“Just yourself.”

He had a point. Whether you wrote or not was one of the things in your life you controlled. There was no reason to hold your ideas hostage. You had every right to free them and let them wander the page.

When you finally reached your home you hesitated to get out of the car. For whatever reason you wanted to remain around the damp man beside you. The hearty yawn he let out though helped you make your exit.

You took your seatbelt off and turned to face him.

“Thanks for the ride. I would not have been as kind to you had you pushed me into a… pool.”

“I know,” he said wistfully.

“Well, uh, get home safe.”

“I’ll try. I hope you feel better.”

“Me too,” you sighed, stepping out of his car.

“When can I see you next?” he asked dreamily, his rough hand latching onto your wrist.

“I don’t know.”

“Ballpark it for me.”

His grey eyes were trained on your lips.

“Soon I guess. Go home, sleepyhead. You look damp and miserable.”

Zeke bid you a weak farewell before driving off. You couldn’t figure out why he put up with you. Why did he want to see you again? You, who had dented his reputation with such ease. All you seemed to do was make his life worse. And yet he kept coming back.

Floch wanted to wring your neck for the pool incident. Someone managed to film it and the footage went viral. The narrative surrounding it all was that Zeke tried to dump you and you simply could not cope with it. You were painted as a hysterical, scorned lover that couldn’t take a hint.

You had to laugh. You wished it was that simple

“You ruined everything. It’s fine. I don’t care, but I need you to know that,” he said over the phone.

Hanging up on him crossed your mind but you wanted to be mature.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I fucked it all up. But it can’t get any worse.”

“Don’t! It absolutely can!”

“Fine. I don’t think I can feel any worse. I think I had a breakthrough honestly.”

“Oh, thank goodness! Will this breakthrough translate into people trusting you?”

“Nah. But it did make me realize, like, I don’t have to do studio shit. I can just write whatever I want. Fuck my reputation. I mean, I know I won’t make money, but I’ll figure that out later.”

“As your friend, I’m happy for you. That’s fabulous. But as your agent, are you kidding me?!”

“Nope!”

Floch groaned and muttered a few indecipherable expletives before saying, “If this is what you really want, I’m up for it.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. I think you got the talent to pull it off. I would have kicked your sorry ass to the curb if I thought otherwise.”

“Wasn’t expecting you to be so accepting,” you demurred.

��Listen I may be a fucking bastard, but I believe in you. I always have. If you don’t fuck around and get your head out of your ass, you can do it. I know you can.”

Elation couldn’t even begin to describe how you felt. All the unnecessary pressure you put on yourself dissipated. You were free, lighter than a feather. You looked out your window at the soft, warm light of the moon. The oak trees’ autumnal leaves ebbed as a cold wind swept through them.

“Th—that really means a lot to me.”

“Alright, alright. I gotta go. Louisa and Reed are running around like wild animals when they were supposed to be in bed at 9pm which was… Three fucking hours ago?!”

He hung up before you could say anything.

“Dude has no phone etiquette.”

Just as you went to set your phone down you received another call. This time from Zeke. You couldn’t imagine why he’d be calling you at such an hour.

“What’s good?” you asked.

“Can I come over?!” he bellowed through the phone.

“You don’t need to yell.”

“I’m sorry. Can I come over?” he slurred.

“It’s a little late. I was gonna crawl into bed.”

“Ah, fuck. Well, I’m already here.”

You peeked out your window and saw him swaying in front of your home. He was drunk, practically wasted.

“Yeah, I see you. Uh… Hold on,” you said before hanging up.

You threw on a robe and greeted him at the door.

“How did you get here?”

“Whoa, whoa. One question at a time,” he leaned against the door frame, “cutie pie.”

“... How did you get he—”

“Caaaaab. Old school. Called ‘em up. That’s how I’m doin’ shit now. New year, new me.”

“It’s… It’s November.”

“I’m pregaming. Can I come in? You owe me.”

“Yeah, c’mon in.”

You let him inside, stifling a laugh as he stumbled through the door.

“I meant to do that.”

“Sure you did,” you replied, patting him on the back.

You led him into your living room and gestured for him to sit on your couch. He happily collapsed face down on it. You winced and decided to get him a glass of water. When you returned he was sitting up, his forehead a little pink from where it made contact with the cushion.

“Can I be honest with you?” he asked, now holding his head in his hands.

“Yeah, dude.”

“You hurt my feelings.”

“Is this about the pool? See, I knew you were fuckin’ mad at me!”

“What? No. I don’t care about that.” He stared up at you over his glasses. “That party. The one where I tried to introduce myself. And you blew me off.”

You held the glass of water out to him. He snatched it out of your hands like a little gremlin.

“I don’t even remember that. Are you sure it was even me?”

He took a sip of water. “You’re very hard to forget for better or worse.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you think I agreed to do any of this shit anyway? My agent’s been on me about dive bombing my career, which that’s him being a drama queen, but that’s not my point. I, fuck… I like you so much. And I want you to like me too, but I get that you don’t and that’s fine. I don’t like me either. I’m fake.”

“You’re not fake,” you said, taking a seat next to him. “You’re not like… the most genuine person, but I wouldn’t say you’re fake.”

“No. Don’t. I’m a phony.”

“Oh my god.”

He groaned and took another sip of water.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whined. “I just… I hate that I can’t find it in me to be like you. You refuse to take anyone’s shit and have no problem sticking up for yourself. A director literally told me to ‘get the stick out of my himbo ass’ when I said he should treat his cinematographer with more respect. And you know what I did? I fucking did it… Not… No, I didn’t pull a stick out of my ass.”

“I figured,” you snorted.

“But I smiled and said, ‘I guess it’s not my place.’ Not a hint of sarcasm. I rolled over, showed that man my belly, and begged him to slice me open as a way to repent.”

“Belly? What belly? You mean your abs? Come the fuck on. Belly? Ha.”

Zeke lifted his shirt and examined his abdominal muscles. He shrugged.

“You know what I mean,” he said, pathetically leaning over and resting his head on your shoulder. “You wouldn’t have done that. You would’ve been said, ‘I’m about to pull the stick out of my ass and beat you with it if you don’t start treating them better.’”

“You’re not allowed to do that good of an impersonation of me. Not this early in our fake relationship.”

It was hard to hear Zeke being so drunk and vulnerable. You didn’t know how to handle him. Jokes and asides seemed to be the only thing flowing from your mouth.

“You are on my mind a lot,” he lamented.

“Trust me. I’m not exactly someone to admire.”

“Stop. You don’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to decide if you’re worth knowing, or worth admiring, or worth loving. I get to. Not you.”

“Okay,” you mumbled.

Zeke exhaled deeply.

“I’m not saying I’m in love with you. I’m not that delusional, but… Fuck, just let me like you? Let me get to know you? I need to be close to you.”

His drunk ramblings were bathed in anguish with a tinge of hilarity. You felt bad for him, but it was an unexpected surprise for him to be so forthcoming about his pining. Never before had you considered anyone aching over your perceived indifference. You had to admit it boosted your ego a little bit.

“You’re practically sitting on me right now so we’ve crossed that bridge.”

He sniffled.

You kept speaking. “I’m gonna be real. I’m not exactly used to, uh, hearing shit like this so I don’t know how to—”

Zeke grabbed ahold of your face and kissed you; it was ripe with desperation. You momentarily reciprocated the kiss, leaning into him and his embrace. He tasted like tequila and cigarettes. His teeth clinking against yours pulled you out of the moment, letting you assess the situation. You pulled away and cleared your throat.

He was wasted and, as much as you wanted to kiss him, he was in no position to be doing anything of the sort.

“You’re drunk, Zeke.”

“I know. I should go. Do—don’t tell me about anything I said tonight.”

He tried to stand up before quickly resuming his previous position.

“Stay the night. We can get you home in the morning, alright?”

“Yeah?” he asked, taking off his glasses and rubbing his red rimmed eyes.

You nodded. “You can even sleep in my bed as long as you don’t act like a fuckin’ weird ass.”

“I assure you I will not be a fucking weird ass. I’m very anti-weird ass.”

“Good.”

“I’d—I would even say I’m bigoted towards them,” he slurred as you helped him up. “Weird asses have too many rights. We let them out in the world? They’re just skittering around, weird assing it up?!”

You started to crack up. He sounded so serious and intense. It was like he got possessed by Daniel Day-Lewis for a brief moment.

“Hush. Don’t get yourself all riled up.”

A faint smile crossed his face. It was markedly different from the ones he had worn before.

You couldn’t help but ask, “Are you smiling because you’re happy or are you compulsively masking your feelings again?”

“It’s a real one,” he said, his words all melting into one.

Regardless of their decipherability, you liked having verbal proof that Zeke genuinely smiled in front of you. The second you got him into bed he passed out. You crawled in on the other side, careful to keep some distance between your bodies.

When you woke up the next morning you found him cuddled up next to you. You slept on your back so you wouldn’t have felt compelled to curl up next to Zeke. But somehow in the middle of the night he managed to embrace you. His head rested on your shoulder and his arm was lazily draped across your chest.

You ruffled his hair and gently sang his name. He groaned and held you closer.

“Hungover?” you asked.

He yawned. “Just a tad.”

He rolled over onto his back and slowly sat up, his shoulders slumping forward. His eyes were barely open, protecting themselves from the harsh, autumn sun.

“Is your career really tanking because you traipse around with my dumb ass?”

His shoulders heaved as he gruffly chuckled.

“If I were a hyperbolic man, I’d say yes. Alas, I am but a normal guy so no.” He was interrupted by a hearty yawn. “People give me shit about it, but that’s hardly an issue. And, hypothetically, if chasing after you did take a massive shit on my career, I don’t think I’d care. Or I’d at least try really hard not to.”

“I guess that’s… admirable.”

“You know what would be admirable?” he asked flirtatiously.

He glanced over at you, clearly admiring your sprawled out limbs as the sunlight danced along your skin.

“What?”

Zeke’s face fell into despair. He froze and swallowed hard. His pallor took on a sickly greenish hue.

“I was going to say you should kiss me, but I don’t feel good at the moment.”

“Fuck. That’s so sexy,” you teased.

He gave you a wink before softly moaning as waves of nausea overtook him

“So, uh, now that you’re not wasted…”

Your words struggled to form sentences. You wanted to make sure Zeke meant the shit he said last night.

“Can I… Am I still worth loving? Wait! Or knowing or whatever you said? I can’t remember.”

You remembered everything. There was no use in pretending.

Zeke was quiet for a moment before a sly grin crept across his face. He fixed his gaze on you and simply said, “Absolutely.”

“Really?” you croaked out.

“Yes. I have one request though. I don’t want our agents involved or any industry people. We do this on our terms,” he orated.

You nodded and poked his cheek much to his chagrin. “Got it. We do it for us.”

He laid back down next to you, resting his head on your chest.

 “Exactly. For us,” he replied softly.

#zeke yeager x reader #zeke jaeger x reader #zeke yeager fics #zeke jaeger fics #aot fics #snk fics #attack on titan fics #shingeki no kyojin fics #.fics #.aot #.zeke #x reader #reader insert

[agent-calivide]

Did I post this somewhere else already?

Yes. But I feel it needs to be shared more sO:

IEYTD characters with lovebug/yandere viruses.

The basic thought? Zoraxis tried to make a mind control virus to get everyone to love and worship Zoraxis. Phoenix spits in the virus and drinks the only cure while flipping off Zoraxis, but it warps and now they’re immune to a virus that makes everyone love and obsess over Phoenix.

Zor would be full yandere, but they wouldn't wanna be with Phoenix. No, no they like the distance. They'd be constantly stalking and watching Phoenix, obsessive, creating elaborate plots to trap the Phoenix, but not kill them. If they were to capture Phoenix, they'd put the agent in a gilded cage, fancy, elaborate, maybe a bit gaudy but it's only one room. They like watching them in their cage, keep that safe distance, simply enjoying the fake presence and watching Phoenix squirm whenever they turn on the intercoms and talk, feeling a sadistic joy in knowing that nobody gets the birdie but them.

In a weird way, I feel likee Sans would be the most chill. He strikes me as the type to rationalize the illness as "just feelings" and shrug it off to the best of his abilities. He's still clingy, and if Phoenix goes to leave his laboritory while he's working the have to practically answer a questionaire of where are they going, what are they doing, what's the time frame, etc, but otherwise he's actually very high functioning with the virus.

I feel like Caliente would just be like- an abusive boyfriend. Possessive, aggressive, I think he'd get angry at Phoenix if they paid attention to anyone else. He'd incinerate people right in front of them if he ruled they were getting "too clingy" which could be anything from active fliriting to just talking. He doesn't have them constantly monitored because he doesn't have access to tech like the others, but if Phoenix is out of his sight for a moment he's immediately interrogating them. Where did you go? What were you doing? Why didn't you wait for me?

Hivemind would constantly have at least one bee on Phoenix at all times for monitoring purposes. The bees also have the virus and are super clingy to Phoenix. It would be endearing, if they didn't sting anyone who Hivemind deemed a threat, which was basically anyone who took Phoenix's attention. Resource guarding is a very common thing in the animal kindom, and Phoenix's attention is a resource.

Anna would be incredibly paranoid, even after getting Phoenix to herself. Phoenix would be geared up with body cams, monitors, tracking chips, she's seen what Zoraxis can do, she is not allowing them to disappear ever again. If she had it her way they'd be off the field, but she knew long ago that the secret agent life is the one for Phoenix. However, her paranoia makes her tracking of them beyond extreme. If they're even one minute late getting back from work she already is in the process of a nervous meltdown, grabbing a gun and her tagging gear and is almost out the door to go find them herself.

Solaris strikes me as the type to be very calm, very collected with the sickness when she has Phoenix. If they're in her lab, on the Death Engine, anything the like she's just her usual, slightly unhinged mad scientist self. But the second Phoenix tries to leave she goes off the deep end, getting angry, shouting, demanding they come back right that instant. I could see Solaris threatening to use a laser on Phoenix to make it so they can't escape, either by killing or maiming them.

Fabricator would spoil Phoenix. At least, in the only way she knows how. She'd put them in the lap of luxury, dote on them, give them all sorts of lavish designer items (that she made herself), and always have them resting up in only the finest luxury apartments if she has to travel for work, because obviously she can't leave them alone. However, the other thing she loves is watching Phoenix thwart her traps. She likes watching them panic and struggle to stop the swinging ax, the deadly laser, carefully disarm the desk just in time to be okay. And if they're not? Oh well, now she gets to patch them up, because there's no way she's letting them die on her.

Juniper would be kinda like Zor, but rather than it just being one fancy room and a bunch of cameras, he'd want that person to person contact, that connection. He'd take them everywhere, on set, to Zoraxis meetings, to any celebrity galas or photoshoots or anything. Phoenix would be on a tight leash, always right by Juniper's side, not allowed to go more than a few feet away. Of course, when they go home Phoenix has full reign of any estate, after all he wants them to be happy, but the security is at max whenever they're home. Phoenix is not getting out.

Ollie is clingy, begging Phoenix to stay by his side so he won't be alone like he was in that Zoraxis base for three days. He's never been shown such kindness by an operative, he needs them. He'll do whatever they ask just please please don't leave him alone again.

Prism I think would be kinda like Sans at first, but as the virus went on and she got more and more obsessed with the Phoenix, she'd be equal parts obsessed with Phoenix and improving them. I think it wouldn't help that she was obsessed with proving her robots were better than them, if this is post-I3YTD I could see her trying to create more with Phoenix. After all, "You're the best thing I've ever made", but how can she make them better? What can she add or change about them, maybe prosthetic limbs? New enhancers on the implant? OO- maybe a heart fused with kinesium! Sure, it'll hurt at first, but it's fine. She's making them the best agent the world's ever seen.

#cw abuse #cw obsession #cw possessiveness #abuse mention #possessive #possession #obsession #lovebug #yandere #love virus #i expect you to die #ieytd #ieytd2 #ieytd fandom #i expect you to die 2 #agent phoenix #john juniper #i expect you to die 3 #ieytd 3 #Roxanne prism #zor #daniel sans #Solaris #charlie caliente #hivemind #Ollie ieytd #anna ulanova #IEYTD fabricator

[gentil-minou]

wangxian rookies in showbiz au where newbie idol Wei Wuxian is on set of a commercial wearing a ridiculously uncomfortable outfit getting yelled at for dumb reasons by his incompetent agent while bottom-of-the-totem-pole production assistant Lan Wangji is being bossed around by the awful director

Except wwx isn't actually a newbie he was once popular child actor Wei Ying seen everywhere, the golden boy of the industry known for his upbeat personality and the smile constantly on his face.

That is until his final role when he was 13 where he played a dark jaded teenage psychopath in a psychological thriller and was forced to perform intensely emotional scenes without any counselor or anyone there to keep an eye on him (his manager at the time Madam Yu's focus was always her other children's careers, Wei Ying was just an extra way to make money you see). He even got badly injured on set, and now has an ugly burn scar above his heart from a poorly done fire stunt.

But the movie flops and things just keep getting worse from there...

It gets no attention from critics that is until former golden boy becomes the teen misfit all the gossip rags talk about, with constant cover stories showing him at 15 doing drugs and partying and eventually getting kicked out by his manager/aunt at 16. The narrative becomes clear that Wei Ying is a flop and another failed child star turned deplorable diva

He disappears for a few years, only ever coming up in a low budget TMZ special or some commentary youtuber's videos, but Lan Wangji never forgot him.

Lan Wangji had often worked with his uncle when he came on as a consultant on set and so was able to watch and admire Wei Ying from afar. He's especially fond of Wei Ying's role as the happy go lucky middle child on a popular sitcom role and his smaller movie roles where he played a genius child inventor and solved crimes alongside a precocious bunny rabbit.

So well Lan Wangji has always been a fan of him so he's shocked when the new idol on set of their cheap commercial stage looks so similar to Wei Ying.

But at the same time, they're not the same at all. While Wei Ying was known for being friendly and silly, Wei Wuxian is acting like a pompous and cocktail overly confident ass, flirting with the director and everyone else while making a show of whiny and being cutesy with hopes for more screentime.

It's very unnatural and there's a moment where LWJ thinks he must have been mistaken but there's a moment in between when he's running back and forth on the producer's order while balancing cups of coffee when he spots WWX sitting by himself, huddled in a corner of the soundstage deep in the shadows where no one else is around.

He's staring at the fingernails they've painted and stuck gaudy fake jewels on and fiddling with the ridiculous black demon wings he's wearing, as he picks at the layers of makeup and stickers they've put on his face. He's tugging on his red crop top, cut indecently short and revealing so much, as watery eyes dart back and forth in front him like he's worried someone important might see.

In general he doesn't seem anything like the person he was under those lights just minutes ago.

As lwj approaches he sees that actually wwx shoulders are shaking his hands are clenched into fists, his eyes shut tight so that his makeup doesn't run

Wei Wuxiann watches as the director is barking orders for someone to fix the set as another idol takes wwx's place and finishes the shoot. Apparently his acting wasn't "peppy enough" so they've replaced him with someone else

But this was his first gig in months, years actually but months since he tried to come back and for it to fail like this, so fast without anything to show for it is absolutely devastating. He'd tried so hard to give them what he thought he wanted, desperately hoping for his big break. Only to fail again.

What does he do? What can he say? Why does he even bother?

He's staring at the floor like it might have the answer to all his problems when a pair of white sneakers appear.

He tracks those sneakers up to meet the stonefaced stare of one of the PAs he's seen running around, the youngest one who's been doing the most menial tasks. He looks somewhat familiar but his face is impassive and wwx can't tell at all what he's thinking

The PA hands him a bottle of water that wwx takes with both hands, too taken aback to do much else. Then the PA slips his headset off and sits next to him, the black faux feathers of wwx's wings brushing against the PAs arms, though he doesn't seem to mind

And so they sat. Two nobodies hidden in the shadows of a forgotten corner in a busy studio, far from the reach of the shining spotlights and stage. Little by little, wwx finds it easier to control his breathing and stray sniffles.

Eventually, the PA starts taking off his hoodie, revealing a plain white t-shirt underneath. He reaches into his pocket and holds out a marker for wwx to take as he turns so his back is facing him.

When wwx, understandably confused, doesn't do anything, the PA glances over his broad shoulders and just says "Sign, please."

Wei Wuxian blinks waiting for the punchline but it never comes. He's not even on the roster for any boy group, just a trainee idol whose only fans are the diehards who follow the trainee circuit and his sister. And this guy doesn't seem like the former and he definitely isn't the latter.

But the PA just sits and waits, back facing wwx.

Eventually, almost mechanically, he signs his new autograph, the one where he uses the 2 W's to make a smile.

He asks for a name to make the signature out to, and the PA answers in a quiet hesitant voice that he can barely hear over all the background noise, "Lan Zhan."

That name sends a spark up his spine like it should be familiar but wwx can't figure out why. So he finishes his autographs with a star and a flourish. He hasn't gotten to test out the new signature yet. He thinks he likes it better than he'd expected.

Wei Wuxian beams up at him, heart beating a beautific beat against his ribcage and asks, "Why would you want a signature from a nobody like me?"

He means it as a teasing joke but the PA, Lan Zhan his brain corrects him, gives him a grave look that steals the breath from his lungs.

"You're not nobody, Wei Ying"

Lan Zhan takes the marker and slips his hoodie back on, covering the autograph with their two names side by side, and with a final nod he walks away, melting into the general chaos of the production floor.

It takes a long moment for Wei Wuxian to realize he'd never told the guy his real name.

(originally a threadfic here)

#if you noticed the reference to DO's new MV gold star to you #this originally came up cause i saw the girl's outfit and my brain went wwx would absolutely kill that look #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #chen qing ling #wangxian #mdzs fanfiction #the untamed fanfic #wei wuxian #wei ying #lan wangji #bushy writing #i have an idea of where i want this to go from here mostly i want them to go on and become like insanely successful on their own but like #they keep tabs on each other and see each other every once in a while like all their milestones #lwj is there helping with production on wwx's first concert appearance and when he wins an award while wwx follows all of lwj's small #indie films and is even there at sundance to see him talk about one that wins #and they're growing with a handful of encounters but they keep missing the oppportunity to really become something until they get to work o #a project together and then it's just a matter of time #but yeah im still working out my ideas for this i just wanted to share it #hope you enjoyed!

[league-of-blorbos]

Hi, I write fanfiction sometimes but my biggest issue is that I'm very slow at it and I always end up leaving my half finished drafts to rot and never get posted. But I started writing this Heartsteel Yone fic in like 2 sittings and I really wanna try and finish it since I like the direction it's going.

It's mainly about my transfem Yone headcanon and them struggling with both dysphoria and the music industry, and maybe lead it into some Aluyone content since I love that ship in this au. While what I have is just set up for how Yone first met the band, I would LOVE any feedback on stuff I could improve or just some motivation to help me finish this draft.

(One last note, I'm referring to Yone with he/him so far but the pronouns will change later in the story as Yone sorts their gender out more)

Yone had very strict parents growing up. He knew it ultimately came from a place of love, but sometimes it was like they kept raising their expectations for him as soon as he started to get close to meeting them. When most looked at the two brothers, they would never guess Yone was the only one their parents had to constantly pull back in line while they never seemed too concerned about what his brother, Yasuo, was doing. Maybe it was because Yone always did better in school as a kid and had more potential in their eyes, or their parents had just long given up on trying to keep their younger son in check when he was always on the move. Whatever the case was, it felt like Yone’s parents wanted a say in everything he did, from trying to push him towards a more “respectable” career than music, to not allowing him to to buy the more gaudy and revealing clothes that he admired. It took so much convincing to even grow his hair out long and dye it, his mother telling Yone how handsome he looked with short hair, or his dad warning him that others would think he’s a woman. Of course, they relented after Yasuo also started growing his hair out to support his brother. 

Needless to say, Yone was relieved when he finally built up enough money from gigs to move out, and was able to have a bit more freedom in his self-expression. He wasn’t even completely sure why having long hair or pretty outfits meant so much to him, he just knew it somehow felt natural when he brushed his fingers through his long locks, felt his ponytail swishing behind his back, or how clothes that brought out his slender figure made him stare at himself in the mirror for a little longer than usual. 

But Yone didn’t have the time to question these little things as his career quickly took off, and a lot of those familiar restrictions from Yone’s childhood started to return. Now he was stuck where the people he’d DJ for had specific requests for what to play, and he’d gotten big enough to have agents and managers that kept him from straying too far from the mainstream sound. On top of that, Yone still cared for his parent’s approval to a degree, even if he didn’t live under their roof, and didn’t want to squander any big opportunities just because he felt a little constrained. 

But as the bar everyone expected him to meet flew higher and higher, Yone felt all the restrictions growing tighter and tighter, weighing him down more and more. He felt he had barely any time and absolutely no energy to work on any passion projects, the actual experimental and groundbreaking music that got him into the scene in the first place. His frustration reached a breaking point after a particularly tiring show. The equipment kept acting up despite there being no issues during setup, Yone kept having to play the same few songs over and over, and the set had to be cut early after a drunk fan rushed the stage and tried to get handsy with him. Yone was on his way home, feeling irritated, violated, and just so fucking exhausted. 

The very last thing Yone wanted to do when he got back to his flat was argue with a stuck up manager over the phone who insisted he should’ve continued the show after the crazed fan was dealt with. With Yone’s mind not in the best headspace and absolutely sick of never getting to do things his way, he finally lost his cool and got into a shouting match with the agent that went well into the night. When he hung up, tears were streaming down Yone’s cheeks, and he couldn’t tell if they were from all the yelling or if they were from the relief of getting everything off his chest right at the people who, at this point, felt like they were just there to make things worse.

The relief was short lived, as the agent had quit the next morning, leaving Yone with no one to help him manage the business side of his job. 

Yone felt at his lowest possible point. Maybe his parents were right that this wasn’t the path he should’ve taken, and that he should’ve just stuck with his robotics classes. But that all changed one night, it was a rare night when both he and Yasuo had time to meet up and just chill together like they used to. Of course, with both of them being DJs, the siblings naturally talked about music often, and while discussing up-and-coming artists, Yasuo brought up a duo trying to start a group; their names were Sett and K’Sante. 

#dont worry i have rhayn drafts too but this idea has been gnawing at me for a bit #league of legends #lol #riot games #leagueoflegends #heartsteel #yone #trans headcanon #transfem headcanon #league fanfic

[dailyadventureprompts]

Patron: Zivett Briar, the Lord of the Long Game

Listen, there’s a simple arithmetic to this arrangement: you do my bidding, I settle your debts, and then we all go our separate ways with clean slates and a newfound appreciation for the good we can do in another’s life. Are we understood? Lovely.... now, pick up that knife and I’ll tell you who’s back you can lose it in

A dour shade among the gaudy gossips and braggarts of the court, Lord Briar  is most likely to come into the party’s lives after they’ve fucked up in some manner or another, dispatching agents to smooth things over with the local authorities and distribute bribes before leaving the heroes with a polite but irrefutable invitation to whatever roadhouse he happens to be staying at in the moment.

After a good meal Zivett will inform the party that they’re working for him now, or that he will use his influence to un-fix whatever he fixed to get them off the hook. He’ll point them in the direction of the errand he wants done nearby and give them a simple two-way communication stone so that they can receive further orders from him without needing to meet face to face.  With their meeting done, Lord Brair will promptly leave, informing the party that he has business elsewhere to which he much attend, that he’s rented them the roadhouse’s best rooms and that they should avail themselves of a hot bath before they set out on his bidding. Little does the party know that they’ve suddenly become pieces in a game that's been going on longer than any of them have been alive.

Hooks:

Centuries ago, long before he became Lord Brair, the boy Zivett lived through a disaster that plunged the continent into a generations long cycle of chaos, war, and famine. When stability began to reassert itself, Zivett swore to whatever god that would listen that he would never let such a calamity happen again, and would dedicating his life to ensuring that it did not. In doing so, Zivett accidentally marked himself as a chosen of the platinum dragon and his life has not known peace since.  Heroism is foisted upon the elf, which earned him his fortune, his lordship, and the enmity of every scheming noble for the past three centuries. If there’s court intrigue going on, lord Briar is sure to be caught up in it whether he wants it or not

Zivrett’s commands often seem innocuous: find out why those merchants got into a brawl at the tavern last night, check if that package I’m expecting has arrived in harbour, look something up for me in the royal archives and get back to me with your findings. In each instance a seemingly banal request will plunge the party into discovery and danger, opening the chance at heroism. 

Having actually proven themselves at least mostly competent, Lord Briar invites the party to his estate in order to congratulate them personally on a job well done..... only to have an assassin’s dagger cut the meeting short. Barely scraping through with his life and ravaged by poison, Zivrett retires to his sickbed for the foreseeable future and leaves his substantial holdings and information network in the party’s hands, dropping his god appointed burden on their shoulders.

#noble #nobility #patron #elf #social #Assassin #dnd #dungeons and dragons #d&d #5e #mid level #low level #town #city #Village

[lockyle-and-skull]

My thoughts on the show:

(minor spoilers)

I really liked the indie feel, like even though it had production value it still felt a lot different from other, bigger, shows. Kind of like Sleepaway Camp but better? Idk.

not a lot of exposition? - I’m not talking about The Problem, I kind of liked how they showed more as the show went on, but the entire Screaming Staircase arc felt rushed to me - they didn’t even really explain why the screaming staircase was dangerous, it felt unearned the way Lucy and Lockwood rushed off it so fast. They did spend more time on the Whispering Skull arc, which I felt was executed very well.

idk if it was just me, but the episodes felt like they ended at abnormal times? Like something would happen in the middle of an episode and I’d expect it to roll credits after, and then the episode endings weren’t as deliberate as other shows’ (which I honestly kind of prefer? It made the story feel more continuous, and I feel like a lot of shows nowadays kinda abuse the cliffhangers to keep people watching - idk any way to describe it other than dystopian I guess, very calculated; so I like that it didn’t follow that trend)

the episode titles were kind of uninspired

soundtrack 11,000/10 I died and came back to life when bld played

I loved the Whispering Skull arc - I did miss the rats, but Flo absolutely slayed 10/10 get that girl an oscar. I really liked George’s performance as well, and Pamela was a very good mad researcher type.

LOCKYLE LOCKYLE LOCKYLE - it was as much as I hoped for and more. I was, in fact kicking my feet and squealing.

PROP AUCTION WHEN????????? I would spend thousands (/hyp) on a rapier (or the fucking skull, can you imagine?)

The relic columns were as impressive as I imagined

I rly want to see Kipps in those goggles, he would look so disgruntled

the Lucy and George bonding at the end was perfect

THEY REPLACED THE FUCKING LOCKET :( - I wanted something big and gold and gaudy I could buy a replica of and wear. The ring did make it more of a romantic gift, and she did keep it in a locket, I liked that part - it’s like a little easter egg if you read the books

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: ANNIE WARD >>>>>>>>>> she’s my favorite character idc idc

HOLY SHIT I just realized if we get more we’re gonna see the FEATHER CAPES!!! that might break me.

the skull’s voice was great, the skull’s cgi was great (idk if it actually was, I’m very easily impressed), the skull was great.

Lockwood being a cocky egomaniac is so fucking true (he did Lucy p dirty, but I liked that they showed his character flaws)

I CANNOT WAIT TO SEE MORE KIPPS’ CREW AND L&CO TEAM UPS (especially the department store)

I liked the one-liners, it retained a lot of the humor

it had a good amount of Flubbins (are we gonna have to get a new name for that for the show version?), which I absolutely adore, obviously

rip to that undercover agent

Portland Row is fantastic - 11/10 set design (I especially enjoyed the thinking cloth)

the cliffhanger at the end should hopefully keep non-book fans wanting more, they did a good job of building up Lockwood angsting over his dead family

I liked how they spent a good amount of time on Jacob’s agency, that was interesting

I WANT MORE

#lockwood and co #lockwood & co #lockwood and co tv show #lockwood and co netflix #lockyle and skull op #flubbins #lockyle

[j-august]

As Harriet followed Miss Lydgate across the lawn, she was visited by an enormous nostalgia. If only one could come back to this quiet place, where only intellectual achievement counted; if one could work here steadily and obscurely at some close-knit piece of reasoning, undistracted and uncorrupted by agents, contracts, publishers, blurb-writers, interviewers, fan-mail, autograph-hunters, notoriety-hunters, and competitors; abolishing personal contacts, personal spites, personal jealousies; getting one's teeth into something dull and durable; maturing into solidity like the Shrewsbury beeches - then, one might be able to forget the wreck and chaos of the past, or see it, at any rate, in a truer proportion. Because, in a sense, it was not important. The fact that one had loved and sinned and suffered and escaped death was of far less ultimate moment than a single footnote in a dim academic journal establishing the priority of a manuscript or restoring a lost iota subscript.

Dorothy L. Sayers, Gaudy Night

#quote #quotation #Dorothy L Sayers #Gaudy Night #real life #academia #past #importance #significance #love #loss #suffering #death #is this a joke? I think it must be a joke

[devil-doll13]

Dear Prudence.

Cw: Prudence, the POV/Narrator, is basically a repressed church girl, Carrie lite suffering from catholic guilt™ and she isn't exactly the kindest in her thoughts. Character Death, Physically/Emotionally Abusive Mother, Religious themes/Cult, Implied Drugging, Sex mentions/Fade To Black, Killing/Murder, A Gun Is Shot, Implied Police Brutality/Cops Causing Trouble (they also die), Panic Attack, Vomiting, Feelings of Shame

(If anything else needs to be added, let me know)

Word Count: 5.3k

Summary: The Organisation sends an agent to infiltrate and expose a cult led by a man they call ‘Adam.’ The tight-laced Prudence is their first choice; upright, pure and incorruptible.

Or so they believe…

Dividers by firefly-graphics

Prudence claps her hand mirror shut.

She’s sitting in her car. Her windows are down, and a light breeze lifts her hair, ruffles her clothing, wafts over her skin. She takes a deep breath.

She sees herself in the rear view mirror, all beach-blonde, lightly tanned, sunglasses-wearing hippie. Prudence had combed over her appearance with the meticulous eye of a watchmaker, perfecting ‘Leah,’ the wandering soul.

And the way she’s dressed now… Her mother would have some choice words for it, at least. That’s all she can think about; not how much more air she can feel on her skin, or the ease of which she moves, but inherited disgust from a woman long dead. This job was never going to be enjoyable for her. It required her to assume the identity of someone she’d normally sneer at, judge, belittle. Then she’d have to infiltrate the ranks of the hedonists, grit her teeth and bear their hands and eyes and smiles.

But it was all for a good cause. It would be worth it, in the end, to aid The Organisation. She was purging an infestation of sin.

That was what she believed.

She opens the car door and steps out.

The site of the cult is a large, sun-kissed plain. Beyond are mountains, dotted with forests. Great poles stick out of mounds in the soil, adorned with fluttering, multi coloured ribbons and supporting hammocks. Long-haired, bohemian people are draped wantonly over each other, or dancing in rings. A gaggle of children run past her as she walks. Dew from grass caresses her ankles, tickling.

Prudence shivers. It feels so unnatural to have her legs bare. She pushes past a flap and enters the main pavilion. It’s bright and humid like a tropical rainforest, with potted plants and succulents hanging from the canopy. Then she stops.

There was her target.

Right in front of her. Her gun feels hot against her thigh, itchy and painful. He’s sitting cross-legged on a carpet, bent forward in conversation with some other young vagabond. The gaudy tent she’s in feels very small, filled with his unearthly presence.

“... I mean, if this keeps up, they’ll ravage the whole forest. We’re seeing loggers come in every day, and it’s completely destroying the natural environment…”

He’s nodding along to the dull drone of his follower’s speech with a seemingly careless air. She is shocked to see a delicate chain of pink flowers braided into his hair. It’s something she’s going to have to get used to, but most men she knew wouldn’t be caught dead wearing this. With his bright, tie-dyed vestments and dangling gold earrings, he looks boldly flamboyant, like a tropical bird.

“It’ll all be fine, Soren. You’ll see.” Is all he says.

Soren just sighs wearily.

Prudence can’t see her target’s eyes, but when he turns to look at her she is pierced, naked. She’s sweating so badly she feels her floral top stick to her skin. It takes every ounce of willpower she has to smile down at him and make it look half-way natural.

“Hi, I’m Leah,�� she recites. “I’ve come here to join with your community?”

“That’s wonderful.” He beckons her forth with a welcoming hand. “Leah. Come, sit with us.”

She already knows his name: Adam. He’s so infamous around this area that he needs no introduction. Prudence almost can’t believe how easily she’s getting close to him, but he doesn’t seem wary of strangers at all. Still, she acts like she expected this.

The bearded man sitting beside him looks less than enthused that she’s interrupting their conversation, but he doesn’t protest when she joins them on the mats. Instead, he scratches his neck and looks back to his leader, continuing:

“Well…Anyway. Some of us are going to start a protest on Monday. I would…” He gave him a pleading look. “...Ask for your approval.”

Adam chuckles, shaking his head.

“But you don’t need my approval, do you? You’re asking for my help.”

Soren grimaces. There’s a thin sheen of sweat beading his forehead. He looks like a little kid who’s come to confess he’d done something wrong.

“It would really be useful to us, I mean… After what happened last time with the cops…” He trails off.

“What happened?” She questions softly.

Help. Prudence immediately latches onto the word. And how could he help? With his abilities? Prudence had leaned forward, listening aptly to their exchange. Now, she sees an opportunity to show an interest in their cause, to blend in. They both turn to look at her. Soren purses his lips.

“It got messy,” he says mournfully. “It wasn’t so much of an intervention as it was a beat down. No one died, but that was about the only mercy of it.”

Prudence gapes. It’s a somewhat genuine reaction, because she’s only known the jolly, toothless side of the police force here.

“Um… Wow. I didn’t know they would be so violent.”

She immediately suspects she’s being lied to, too unwilling to trust the word of a layabout like this.

“Yeah, well it happens a lot more than you might think. If you’re really thinking of joining us, you should consider that.” He regards her, tight-lipped.

“Okay,” she delibrates. Prudence clears her throat, deciding to swing her best foot forward with this. “Well, a little pushback isn’t going to scare me off.”

She looks at Soren directly. He’s still watching her closely, and she squirms underneath the scrutiny. Adam’s eyes are still hidden by his shades, but she can feel his hypnotic gaze on her, too. It seems to render her mind fuzzy somehow.

“When I first heard about you guys, I was a little sceptical, but… You’re trying to make the world a better place, right? I’m here I want because to help. Um, I want to be a part of it, too.”

She clips it off there, and it strikes her just now how hollow and plastic it all sounds.

There’s an awkward, risky silence for a moment.

“How did you hear about us, Leah?” Adam finally asks. He’s staring at her again with that unreadable expression on his face. She shifts.

Everyone knows about you, Prudence grumbles inwardly. The whole virtue committee has been calling for your immediate arrest…

“One of your people.” She tilts her head, pretending to think for a moment. “Sofie, that was her name, I think. She told me about you… About this place.”

“Ah… It’s our people now, sister.” Adam smiles charmingly at her, holding up a finger. Soren sighs again. Prudence can only grin listlessly.

Somehow, it really was that easy.

That night she retired early, huddled in her bedroll. She was sharing a tent with several other people and her skin was crawling and the thought of bugs invading it. Why anyone would willingly choose to live this life, she would never understand.

Lying there, she thinks more about her mission. It was easy to get in the front door, but what she had to do was actually get confirmation that this man was the one they were looking for; that he could indeed conjure plants from thin air and influence the minds of his followers with pheromones.

None of the others would be a real threat to anyone, she decided. Maybe a bad influence, but not actually dangerous. It was only him, and she needed to confirm first if he was her true target. If he wasn’t, she would have to move on.

Prudence sighs, sitting up to wipe sweat from her forehead. Outside, she can still hear the cult members holding a muffled singalong. When she nudges the tent flap aside, it comes louder and clearer. Some nonsense psych rock number.

Sooner or later she would need to participate herself, and she was dreading it. But then again, she might do well to rip the band-aid off now, and clear any suspicion that could be directed at her… Prudence coils her face up, then wipes it over with a doped up smile. As she steps out and takes a gulp of crisp night air, she sees perhaps almost the entire camp is gathered around a huge bonfire. They’re sitting crammed into a communal ring, practically conjoined by the hips and elbows.

When she approaches, she is almost swallowed up by their affectionate caresses. Prudence endures the unfamiliar arms thrown over her shoulders, the hands like spiders in her hair. For Leah, this must be a warm welcome, easy and inviting.

Sofie is there, too, in her olive-green dress, and beckons Prudence lazily towards her. “I knew you’d be here,” she says with a smile, looking half-baked already. “So, wasn’t I right? Isn’t he amazing?” Then she drapes herself over Prudence’s lap.

‘Leah’ slurs an agreement, mostly to keep her quiet, as she refocuses on the man of the hour: Adam is bent over an acoustic guitar, leading the sing-along.

Prudence feels the familiar twinge of unease as the amber light of the fire casts dark, creeping shadows on his face. Once it appeared to her as sly and youthful, but now the lines, the cracks, are shone upon. For some reason, he reminds her starkly of the young preacher in her local church.

No. She tries to shake the notion. He’s a man of God. He can’t be compared to these degenerates.

Prudence joins in reluctantly with a quiet hum, and peers down at Sofie. She is so very different now, compared to the wilful activist she met on the highway. In her glazed over eyes, Prudence can see something like slavish devotion, a sort of hypnotised haze that wasn’t there before. There is no spark left.

This man is a drug, Prudence heart rate spikes. It’s the pheromones. It has to be. She weathers it too, a heavy, distorting fuzz pressing down on her, lathering over her shoulders like melting wax. She has to grit her teeth to bear it, to not give in immediately.

The song ends. And then, just like that, it’s as if her resistance is known and a spotlight is beamed on her; Adam turns to look at her. The entire circle follows suit. At once, all of them snap their heads over in her direction. Prudence begins to sweat.

“Everyone. Let’s welcome the new addition to our happy little family.” His voice is heady and warm. “This is Leah.”

She is congratulated in turns, but Prudence can’t help but shake the feeling that the glassy-eyed crowd had formed into one, single entity.

From then on, Prudence is a well respected member of the community. It frightens her how quickly she becomes comfortable among the hedonists. But aside from the more obvious, glaring differences, it actually isn’t all that much of a departure from her regular life. She still prays, muttering in hushed tones while huddled away in her tent, hoping that she will be forgiven for associating with such degenerates. But if there was a place that God could not reach, it would be this one. There are times she witnesses unblessed things, and turns her eyes quickly away, or learns more of the hippies’ private affairs than she ever hoped to.

No, she does not want to stay here for too long, lest she be corrupted by their lustful madness. It is this foreboding thought which clings to her as she lopes through knee-high grass, far steadier and confident in her wedged sandals than she was before. As she passes by tents and waves greetings towards her enemies, cursing them under her breath.

From today, it will be half a week until Monday rolls around. By then, she anticipates she will find proof of Adam’s guilt. But Prudence is pushed by a sense of urgency; something just seems terribly, terribly wrong about this place. She needs to resolve it now.

With a deep sigh, she approaches the main pavilion and steps inside. Again, she passes by a waterfall of clacking beads, hears the gentle call of wind-chimes, and a strong, blanketing aura of peace washes over her. Adam is once more sitting cross-legged on his mat. But today, he is alone.

“Leah. Good morning,” he cocks his head mischievously up at her. “Up bright and early?”

His brown hair falls down his shoulders in tresses, and with his vibrant green earrings and vestments, he looks rather like an oak tree today.

“Mhm,” she nods. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Tell us, then. What is it?”

“Well,” She starts, then realises somewhat late that he’s cradling something sharp and alien in his arms. “Uh, what’s that?”

“She’s a Venus flytrap,” he says, holding ‘her’ up as proudly as if she was his own child. “Not too big right now, but… Well, you’ll see.”

“Her name is Arabella,” he continues.

Prudence shuffles awkwardly, then decides to mirror his sitting position to avoid lollygagging. No, that wasn’t what she had meant to ask him, she…

“You’ve never seen one before? I’m surprised.”

“No,” she shakes her head before she can stop herself. “I mean, seeing it now, I know what it is, but I was never allowed to- to…”

Adam sets down his plant.

Prudence pales, but his expression remains relaxed and easygoing. Then, words start pouring out of her like the leakage of a drain pipe.

“Only the bible, I only read the King James bible. Wasn’t supposed to read any other… Other books…” Suddenly it feels as if all the breath is stolen from her lungs, like something strange and foreign is expanding inside, bleeding and infesting.

“It’s alright, Leah,” he soothes. “Keep going.”

No, no… An itch in the back of her brain is screaming at her to shut her mouth. Why is she telling him this? Maybe it is the aroma of incense, the powerful, intoxicating scent that’s clouding her mind. Yes, she wants to tell him. Tell him everything...

“But I did,” her mouth is running of its own accord now. “Even though she told me not to. I did, and I got such silly thoughts in my mind…” She shakes her head at the memory. She still feels disgusted with herself. “They had to be corrected, had to be…”

(God’ll make you right, mama snarled into her freshly boxed ear. He’ll fix you even if I can’t.)

“Did she hit you often?”

Prudence stares up at him in abject horror. She still can’t see his eyes behind the shades.

“No, I- I mean,” her voice is as small and quiet as it was back then. “Yes, sometimes, but it was my own stupid fault, I shouldn’t have…”

(I know when you lie, Prudence. He knows when you lie. Lying is a sin, Prudence. Liars will burn for an eternity in hell. Is that what you want, Prudence?)

She clears her throat and realises it’s parched.

“Have a snack, Leah. Here’s some orange juice.” Adam slides his drink over to her. Her hands accept it automatically; she’s obeying him mindlessly now.

“It wasn’t your fault, Leah. You understand that, right? What she did to you was abusive.”

(I do this because I love you. You think anyone else out there would want a defective child like you?)

Prudence is peeling a lemon off his fruit platter. Normally, she recoils at the bitterness of it. But now it tastes like freedom. She doesn’t even realise she’s crying until tears soak her thighs.

“But you don’t need her anymore, Leah. You have us now, Leah. All you need is us, Leah.”

(All you need is him, Prudence. Do you understand me? Rely on God, and he will provide…)

Everything is swimming together in technicolour hues. Adam’s mouth is cracking open like the alluring maw of the Venus flytrap. She can’t resist…

Adam claps his hands together.

She jumps. Her monstrous vision disappears.

“So. What did you come in here to ask me about?”

Oh. What did she… Her memory is so murky it’s like she’s roaming through dirty water. Her senses feel as if they’re clogged up with sewage.

“… Heard that you… Did tarot readings…” Prudence murmurs faintly.

Was that what she wanted?

She can’t remember.

“Ah,” he chortles, and strokes his fluffy beard. “Okay. You wouldn’t be the first. Wait here a second.”

Adam springs up with unexpected vigour and breezes past the beads into a seperate tent. He returns with a deck of vibrantly drawn cards. Prudence focuses on the way his bangles clink together as he shuffles, so light and pleasant, like coins in a tithe box.

So pleasant, like those brief, precious moments when her mother was kind, when she loved her, because she was good and pious and Christian. And if mama’s love bared claws and teeth, how dangerous would another’s be? She had to be kept safe and pure, always watched over by God’s all-seeing eye.

She blinks away tears again.

No. I don’t want to think about my mother anymore.

Adam’s softly worded instructions are passing noiselessly through her ears. All she hears is buzzing, like countless honeybees.

“Leah.”

Prudence flinches.

Adam patiently taps on the floor.

Before her are three cards. On her left, a queenly woman lies upside down and lopsided. In front, a priest. On her right, a hanged man.

“I…” She stutters.

I don’t know what it means.

“It’s not about knowing, Leah,” Adam’s voice echoes inside her mind. “We don’t think in absolutes.”

Yes. we don’t think in absolutes.

“We are kind and tolerant and welcoming.”

Yes, we are kind and tolerant and welcoming.

Her orange juice ripples. It’s now grapefruit purple.

“Now have a drink, Leah.”

Yes, have a drink….

What was in the drink… What was in…

Prudence downs the cup in one, large gulp. It doesn’t burn as it goes down, but it tingles. It doesn’t stop even when she escapes the confines of his tent. She realises she can’t breathe, that her lungs are constricting, tightening like a vice clamped down over her chest, oh no, she claws at her top, oh no stop I need to stop it stop thinking that, and rushes past Soren on her way to a bucket, I’m sick I’m sick I’m sick where she retches and throws up and expels so much filthy, sinful thoughts that it leaves her cold and empty inside.

It feels like an eternity passes as she kneels and stares at her own slimy vomit. She’s trembling, somehow so acutely afraid that her body will collapse altogether. Prudence winces when a hand is placed on her shoulder. It’s cautious and gentle, but right now it feels that all human touch will burn her.

She whirls around. It’s Soren.

“Leah, are you alright?” His voice sounds so far away, as if smothered with a muffler.

“No- I’m, no,” her words spill out, jumbled.

Soren’s bearded face twists in concern. Prudence blinks away tears, but he still looks blurry.

“Hey,” he tries. “Why don’t we get you something to clean you up?” And then he seems like he wants to say more, but stops himself.

Prudence nods, and allows herself to be led.

Her distress didn’t go unnoticed. Everyone she meets offers her water and soft, fruity yoghurts to soothe her throat and wash away the aftertaste. They all cast her sympathetic gazes and stroke her back as she mumbles out censored, ambiguous versions of her story. It’s all so overwhelming. But at the same time, the overwhelming pity is addictive.

For a short time, their eyes are alert and bright. They also share tales bearing resemblances to hers. Sofie finds her and wraps her in a soft, warm hug, one like she’s never experienced before. I had nowhere to go either, she says. But at the end of the world, I found my place here. It is now, swaddled in deep, unconditional compassion that she feels herself sliding down towards the point of no return. What’s worse, she’s letting it happen.

Leah can’t fight it anymore. Yes. They were a family. She just didn’t see it before. They cared. They weren’t going to hurt her.

And just like that, the Venus flytrap snaps shut.

Then, Monday arrives, too fast, too soon.

Leah has been kept so busy, scrubbing and glueing and painting and crying and dancing. Now, the day has come. She feels light as air today, free and unburdened now. Sofie runs over and greets her, hoisting a colourful sign over her shoulder. Leah rushes to bear it with her. It’s a heavy weight, so they’ll carry it together.

Both of them dip through a throng of tents and head over to join the main gathering. The full scale of her family is an awe-inducing sight. It’s a waving sea of long hair, flowing skirts and flashing bandanas. Minus the small children who are left behind, there are perhaps over two hundred people at this rally.

In massive unison. They raise their flags and march into the windswept plains like a holy crusade. Leah allows herself to be coated with dabs and splashes of vibrant colour, so that now they shimmer like a kaleidoscope. These nonconformists, with the same sedated smiles, the same tranquilised eyes.

Flooding over grasslands, Leah finds herself slotted into her appropriate role. She knows that Adam himself is leading their charge at the front.

“Are we going there?” She asks, pointing down towards a strip of the highway teeming with trucks.

“No,” mutters Soren beside her. He’s drenched in sweat, eyes blown wide and feverish. “We’re going to liberate them directly, cops be damned…”

Immediately, she understands.

They arrive, flowing through into the tortured woods and spilling over already decapitated stumps. Adam bids them all to sit and be patient, but Leah can’t wait that long. She’s frenzied like a hungry piranha, desperate for a whiff of blood.

Then it comes. The flashing chrome plate of a lorry bustling in, puffing thick, grey plumes of smoke into the air. But it breaks, growling monstrously in the face of their smiling huddle. A cigar-chomping logger climbs out of the driver’s seat and slams the door, his ruddy face twisted in displeasure.

Adam only grins slyly at him. Leah strains up on her tip-toes to try and see over the crowd. All she can hear are spat accusations of ‘ecoterrorist’ and ‘filthy hippie.’ More trucks are pulling in now, revving menacingly. The collective does not budge.

More loggers disembark. They are cursed at, spat on, belittled, though not attacked. Not yet.

Adam continues to pursue diplomacy. There’s something barbed and violently red-green cradled lovingly in his arms. It’s Arabella.

Leah starts to think that perhaps this isn’t an attempt to be diplomatic at all, and a coil of excitement begins to build in her stomach.

Abruptly, she strikes!

Her maw gapes wide open, pulsing into enormity. The logger doesn’t even have a chance to shriek before Arabella consumes him.

The broken stalemate erupts into chaos. Beneath them, the vegetation springs up and entraps their helpless, screaming prey. Vines spring from the canopy and strangle them, impaling them on razor sharp stems. They bloom into huge, crimson flowers. Arabella feasts ravenously, and grows larger, mightier, dwarfing all of them now. The stragglers fall into a panic and flee for safety, but their vast opposition swells and drowns them under waves of multicoloured banners.

An earthy crack thunders across the scene, and the ground trembles. Leah gapes, enraptured, as the injured forest heals before her eyes. The stumps were regenerating… Healthy, thick bark feasting on the blood and flesh of their killers. Everyone else has stopped, too, craning their heads up to watch as the newborn trees reach far above into the sky.

Adam orchestrates it all with a serene hum. His consciousness buzzes in their heads:

“Let us rejoice, my friends, for it is not my doing alone that performed this miracle, but a manifestation of our will. Our voices. I’d like to thank you all for your contributions. Your faith, your love and your acceptance sustains me.”

Leah’s heart flutters with a rush of gratitude. No. It was all him. It always was. The frightened, repressed woman she was before had shed her skin, remoulding into a serpent. And here was the garden of Eden, the benevolent prize of a God.

That night, she dances wantonly around the bonfire, and it licks high, stoked by the passions of two hundred delirious fanatics.

This is what it is like to be free, she breathes.

“Leah,” calls a familiar voice. She turns around.

Soren’s staring at her, and there’s a glint in his eyes she can’t quite place. The light of the flames casts ghostly shadows on his bearded face.

“I thought you were just putting on an act, to be honest. I didn’t realise you were this committed…” He tells her. His Adam's Apple bobs nervously.

“And now…?” Leah murmurs, and loosens her shawl.

Soren walks up to her and kisses her. Her hands find themselves wound in his hair, tugging. Embracing, they stumble into her tent, and make love.

After that, everything blurs together in one messy, lusty fever. Nothing matters anymore except Adam, except the family, except flowers and trees. Leah’s sunglasses gleam in the light, shaded gold, shaded rose, never bitter or sour. Never ashamed.

One afternoon, the messiah approaches.

“Come. Walk with me,” he commands.

Leah finds herself obeying him without thinking too hard about it. She doesn’t do much thinking these days. She doesn’t have to. She is led to a clearing where the poppies grow tall, where the butterflies flutter, and the air is clear and sweet.

“I’m glad you’ve found happiness with us,” says Adam. His voice is lilting, like birdsong. “You’ve adjusted well. It must’ve been hard for you.”

“No, not at all!” Leah exclaims. She shakes her head. It feels numb, slightly pin-pricked.

He smiles gently at her, but the crinkles around his eyes lie dormant. Leah can’t remember if she’s ever seen them wrinkle before.

“I’m doing really well,” she feels the need to repeat it over and over: “Really, really well.”

Adam reclines on the grass. Leah kneels beside him. He brushes a hand over the greenery, and it bursts forth in blooms of blushing pink and canary yellow, as if desperate for his touch. Then, he does something very unexpected.

He takes off his glasses. Leah sucks in a breath. His eyes are- they’re- no, they’re not, they’re-

For a while, her world is fractured. She stares at him. He looks like a father. Or a Father.

“Prudence.” He finally begins, stroking his beard, looking significantly older than he did before. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing.”

She’s nodding. Of course she does.

“Well… To a certain degree, we all do,” he continues, and sighs, almost painfully. “Believe me when I say I understand what you’re going through.”

For a split second, he seems almost human.

“What I’m…?” But her mind blanks.

Almost. His eyes are twinkling with something that is not mirth or humour.

“Your big decision,” he continues.

She doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“But I know that when the time comes, you’ll make the right choice,” he finishes, and looks away. He puts his glasses back on.

Then he is untouchable once more, far above her. Adam pulls himself up off the ground. A tiny sapling is still clinging to his pant leg.

“I’ll see you around, sister.” He pats her shoulder fondly, drifts away, and leaves her standing there, alone. The birds are quiet, then.

They’re so quiet.

Prudence, he’d called her.

Oh. She feels nauseous.

Abruptly, it all comes flooding back. Her sweet high crashes down into the mud and dirt. Prudence looks down at herself. Her ears are ringing. She’s so filthy.

The mist clears, if only for a moment. She sees the gardens full of sin, now. Venomous green, jaundice yellow, blood red. Even the sky is turning a violent, bubbling purple. It’s choked with poison, intoxicating and deadly. It is false, hollow, lies.

Prudence breaks into a sprint towards the road, anywhere away from here. Soon, the vibrant meadow gives way to grimy asphalt.

It’s all real. All corporate, grossly neat design.

Now, the dream is over, but the sickeningly pleasant haze is still buzzing around her mind like a swarm of bees, threatening to submerge her again.

She forgot. How could she? Foolish, godless girl.

Prudence stumbles, feverish, across the grassy bank along the highway. Almost limping, she falls against a roadside phone booth. She pulls it open, hands slippery with sweat. There’s a small paper lodged in her knuckles; her only salvation. She needs to seek help now, or this fog will never lift.

Her hands are trembling as she punches out the sequence scrawled on the slip. Once she calls this number, it’ll all be over.

She only needs to wait a moment before the dial tone fizzles out into static. The person on the other end is waiting. Prudence swallows. Her throat is dry.

“Apricot.” She says in a shrill, choked voice.

She slams the phone back with a metallic clang.

The day passes, and she does not sleep.

Now, It’s too late to turn back.

Beside her, her partner is smirking. He’s never appeared so cruel to her until now. There’s something hard and cold in his eyes.

Flanking them is a row of cops and police cars, armed with shotguns and revolvers gleaming in the light. They’ve come on her signal, and now they have her target surrounded.

Adam is standing in front of her, defenceless. The tip of her pistol meets the centre of his forehead. He smiles at her, so infuriatingly serene.

“Sister…” He’s saying in his soft voice.

Prudence’s lungs feel tiny, constricting in her chest like she’s being strangled by a boa. Hot tears prick her eyes. She loves him.

“I have to… I have to do this…” She mutters feverishly.

All is still. Her finger twitches, ready.

“Yes. You know what you have to do, don’t you?” He coos at her. “You’ve always known.”

She always has. Prudence pulls the trigger.

Her bullet hits her partner straight in the eye.

The world explodes with light. White hot pain shoots through her ribs, and she’s falling, and her body is sprawled on the ground. Everything is spinning.

Someone is shouting, but she can barely hear it above the din of gunfire. In her blurry vision, she watches as a police car is swallowed whole by gigantic vines and cops are melded screaming into the fertile metal. She feels herself grinning, ecstatic, laughing madly.

She did it. She did it. She made the right choice.

Adam is standing above her, bathed in sunlight, his arms outstretched, shining like a beacon. In her eyes, he is the source of all life, and life overwhelms all.

Then, everything is quiet, except for the soft crunch of feet on grass, coming closer.

She is aware of gentle hands cupping her face, cradling her in a blooming flower bed. She tilts her eyes upwards to see the glowing face of Adam.

“Prudence.”

He’s saying her real name, murmuring softly. She barely hears it over the ringing in her ears. Everything is numb and fuzzy, like her body is wrapped in gauze. She’s tired, so tired. She wants to fall asleep in his arms like an exhausted child.

She knows she’s dying.

“Now you’ll become a part of me.”

He hushes her when she tries to speak. Something wet and cold is rushing out of her, emptying her body. But he brushes over her eyelids, and tiny daisies push out of her mouth. Her lungs are filled with mushrooms. Ivy is winding up her legs and into her skin. Nothing else matters now. He’s looking down at her like a benevolent God.

She feels a sense of completion, like her life has meaning. Her death will have meaning.

Leah smiles. She closes her eyes.

Dear Prudence

See the sunny skies

The wind is low, the birds will sing

That you are part of everything

(Taglist: @rottent33th, @slaasherslut, @the-pinstriped-hood, @goldrose-star, @soupbabe, @bluecoolr-main, @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better, @solmints-messyocdiary, @flower-crowned-lady, @probably-a-plant-thing, @myers-meadow)

#I shouldn’t be allowed to write fics this long wtf 💀 #someone take google docs away from me #so ​sorry if your name is Prudence or Leah. I chose the latter randomly #half of this gushed outta me like a waterfall #so uh enjoy I guess?? #possible period piece (60s/70s) #Adam #Bill Sage #slasher oc #horror oc #fic #oc #my writing

[ninebaalart]

What are some other forgotten Marvel characters that you like? (I understand if it's hard to choose, since there are so many forgotten Marvel characters...)

I love Galacta, daughter of Galactus, def need to draw her in the near future... Addy Brock aka VEN#M is a tragic one but a fucking incredible and dark addition to Peni Parker's story... I know Tempest has gotten like a pretty sizable role in Hickman's run but its more of a "she has a very op power that I can use" thing for his run from what I understand...

There are a lot of Inhumans that didn't really pick up like Kamala that seem pretty cool too. Auran, Xiaoyi Chen, Ren Kimura, Sheath... they are very unlikely to go to the Inhumans well anytime soon so that def sort of sucks.

I've always really liked Doppelganger's design from Spider-Man but he has a figure and was one of the million cameos in Across the Spider-Verse so I don't know if he's really forgotten, lol.

Scorn is a really fun symbiote user, a really unique one in that she utilizes technology along with the symbiote. Earth-65 Black Cat was a really fun addition that they didn't do a lot with in the original Spider-Gwen run as most things with Gwen's relationship with the band tend to kind of be...

Toni Ho rules too. Iron Patriot armor is a little gaudy but "lesbian daughter of the guy Tony Stark was stuck in a cave with" is a fucking excellent premise for a character and it is such a huge shame that she never was capitalized on.

Barbara McDevitt aka Quickfire is sort of an interesting one- I like time-based superpowers and she sort of was labelled as a agent who didn't necessarily need or use her powers before she underwent a "second terrigenesis" that made her into a monster that can infect other inhumans with similar effects. She reminds me of Rachael Foley from Resident Evil Revelations in that way who's also a character I feel could have been executed better but there's interesting premises to both characters in that they show someone who is skilled and overconfident becoming incredibly powerful and dangerous creatures- false otherwise-protagonists who set the stakes as something our characters could face that is worse than death.

Lastly want to shout out Red Widow Ava Orlova. I don't understand if they forgot she existed or if the other Red Widow existed but her story was set up and then they just never went anywhere with it, it seems? She has a cool design but like unless she's just severely underdocumented she never even got a chance to be a real character.

Oh god. I actually just remembered Black Cat's ex-girlfriend Tamara Blake. I knew about her before she was revealed to be Iron Cat and like the moment of reloading her page because I had her tab open for like a couple months (I'm very bad at cleaning my tabs) and seeing it update to Iron Cat was such a unforgettable way to find out that reveal.

#ask #marvel comics #long