Tag: untitled

Untitled drabble (2015-06-27)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

It’d be easy, you think, eyelids growing heavy behind your sunglasses. Your hands flex around the steering wheel, plastic hot from the afternoon sun. So easy. You are already driving over the speed limit–not too much, only enough to keep up–and you could so easily just. Swerve. Into oncoming traffic. Into the wall. Just ram the front of your car into something and feel the metal and gasoline and glass crunch and burn and shatter around you. Into you. It’d be easy.

But no.

No.

That’d put other people at risk. That’s not fair. Your desire doesn’t supersede their rights.

The thought lingers, still.

—-

You have been trying to fall asleep for the past three hours, tears streaming down your temples from exhaustion and frustration and painfully dry eyes. It’s time to give up. Accept your failure.

There are knives in the kitchen.

It’s dark, but you have walked the path from bedroom to kitchen so many times that sight doesn’t matter. You could navigate the drawers, their haphazard organization of utensils, with your eyes closed. And so what if your fingers catch on the prongs of forks or the sharp edges of the cheese grater? It wouldn’t be a problem after you choose the right knife and cut/slice/stab–

Your knuckles brush against a set of measuring spoons, the clang loud and startling in your ears.

That’d be unsanitary. People cook food with those knives, in this kitchen. Just go back to your room and try (fail) to sleep.

Maybe you can get a prescription for sleeping pills.

—-

Some days are better than others.

By that system, some days must be worse than others.

In the span of a month you attend a funeral, a baby shower, a wedding, a graduation, and a birthday party. You visit your ailing grandmother, play with your sister’s new dog, develop and pop your first blister, argue with your father, get a free cookie with your coffee…

Sometimes, you feel fine. You find things funny and you laugh. You witness something new and are amazed. You get participate and live through your day completely at ease.

Sometimes your head feels full and slow. Most thoughts hazy, and you don’t mean to be rude, but you honestly don’t hear or can’t understand what the people around you are saying. You stay silent.

The only things that pop into your mind with any clarity are things you are afraid to say aloud. So they stay inside and fester.

~

A/N: More autobiographical than not, unfortunately. I haven’t been doing too well, but this helps me. It doesn’t have a particularly hopeful ending, but acknowledgement is can be beneficial in and of itself.

I hope it helps someone else, too.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-26)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

“I am not bleeding, bruised, or in any way concussed currently!” Brian cheers, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, arms flung out and nearly punching Curtis in the eye.

“Congratulations,” Alvin says, not even at all sarcastically. It’s practically a miracle if Brian can get through a day without taking on someone’s pain. Most days they’re lucky and he has an opportunity to pass some of it on, but he still ends up keeping some.

“My little boy’s all grown up. Walking around on his own two feet, not hurting himself.” Curtis mocks, faking a sob; but he lets Brian smack him with a pillow, so all is forgiven.

“We can’t all be invulnerable,” Brian shoots back.

“We should get cake,” Alvin suggest, which is somewhat disjointed from the conversation, but not a total non sequitur, so his teammates let it slide.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Brian demurs, confused yet also totally on board for cake. Any dessert, really. Well, all food, really; teenage boy plus biological superpower equals ludicrous metabolism.

Curtis, squinting suspiciously in Alvin’s direction, smacks a fist against his open palm. Then his expression rearranges itself into an exaggerated leer, waggling eyebrows and all, “Is Simon on shift at the Baker Bakery today?”

Alvin blushes, a creeping spill of red across his face. Curtis laughs.

“Dude, don’t play me like that,” Brian chides, kicking at Alvin’s ankle but only just barely grazing it, “If you want a wingman you just have to ask. Don’t risk my twenty four hour streak of perfect health for a lie-cake. A lake. A kie?”

“Yeah,” Curtis agrees through his chuckles before it peters out, “Don’t tease, man. You can’t lie about cake.”

“It wasn’t a lie!” Alvin protests, though suitably shamed.

“And anyway,” Curtis continues, unrelenting, “Isn’t his older sister super protective?”

“I’m pretty sure she hates you,” Brian adds, completely unhelpfully.

“She hasn’t even met me yet,” Alvin grumbles, but nods because he’s pretty sure Joy Guerrero hates everyone in general but Alvin specifically.

He has no idea why.

~

A/N: Well, this was not the direction I was expecting it to go in. But okay. Just click on the Alvin Chand tag for related drabbles.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-25)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

There was a certain set of philosophies which had reigned over their household, a strange yet beautiful amalgamation that comes from having the parents she has. A mother who favored Fighting type Pokemon, yet used them to heal; a father who had a team of Psychic Pokemon to catch the human monsters.

Though having disparate bodies, humans and Pokemon could learn from and help each other. Sentience was what made personhood, not sapience. As a child, Adelaide had simplified these lessons to her favorite hobby: just because we dance differently, doesn’t mean we can’t dance together.

She trains her Pokemon the same way she was raised.

—-

She goes out on her journey late; by Unova standards, she’s not too old, but by Kanto standards, she’s practically ancient. City kids tend to be older than country kids when they start their journeys, anyway, and she’s lived in Cadmium City her whole life.

It’s a rite of passage, but the world is a dangerous place–and as city dwellers know, it’s not because of Pokemon. Rather than risk her life with a new Pokemon, her parents send along two of their own with her–her father’s Jynx, who might as well be her third parent from, and her mother’s Hitmonchan, who grew alongside Adelaide from his excitable Tyrogue stage.

In truth, she doesn’t understand why she has to go, but she can’t come up with a reason why she shouldn’t, either.

—-

It is both a surprise and somehow not that she ends up with the title Brawler. Because, to be honest, everyone thought she’d end up as Dancer Adelaide. And she thought so too.

But Dancers… it’s strange. She loves dancing. But to her, dancing is a conversation between her and her Pokemon. For Dancers, theirs is a performance–with their Pokemon, yes, but for their audience. Her dancing is personal. Not to say that Dancers’ aren’t, but she’s a very private person.

And also, much less of a pacifist than she thought.

~

A/N: More of my Pokemon OC Adelaide Jensen. Meh… not too good, but it was the only thing that popped up in my head.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-24)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

This drabble is NSFW (just cussing, though)

“Those assholes are fucking useless!” Apex yells, punching one invulnerable fist straight through an inch of steel into the inner workings of the latest swarm of evil robots and pulling out several still sparking wires.

One down, only about two hundred more to go.

Behind him, one robot readies its blade arm (fucking swords for arms, why?) only to be toppled to the ground by a massive canine. Its head is then ripped off by said canine’s jaws, leaving the body inert. Between one blink and the next, the canine turns into a crouched human who scowls up at Apex in commiseration.

“They lost Griever,” Silverfang growls, jaw and teeth still distorted from his rapid transformation, “I told them to keep track of him.”

“Useless!” Apex repeats, bodily flinging one robot into a clustered group of four that may have been trying to fuse into one larger, deadlier robot (what the fuck, seriously). “Go find him, before he absorbs too much and ends up hurting himself. His power doesn’t do shit against machines. I’ll be fine on my own.”

Silverfang grunts before bounding away, turning from human to wolf between one step and the next.

In between the screeching clash of metal, the slowly petering out screams of civilians, and his own pounding heartbeat, Apex can hear the sounds of conversation between their piece of shit allies and the villain of the week. Are they–? Those tools are trying to get through to him emotionally. All five of them, apparently, at the same time.

“You are fucking kidding me,” he bites out between grit teeth, sacrificing a scratch to the arm to avoid a stab in the leg. It heals slowly, sluggishly oozing blood, “Are these rust fuckers’ goddamn sword arms coated in poison?”

This is the worst.

“We are never working with this team again.”

~

A/N: NSFW because of language… I’m not really prone to cussing, especially not loud explosive cussing so… yeah.

I always wondered why there weren’t more vigilante team team ups in various comics universes. I guess because so many would be unwieldy to write and kind of an overkill. But also… with that many people, personalities are bound to clash, and team philosophies are highly different.

Apex, Silverfang, and Griever are random vigilante OCs of mine. Apex is the typical superhuman super-strength/healing/senses (though not speed). He is also not usually this angry. Silverfang is a werewolf… maybe? Or just a shapeshifter who prefers wolf form. I have previously written about him here. Griever, who I’m more fond of than makes sense considering I didn’t even showcase him, has the ability to absorb injuries/pain and then transfer to someone else with a touch. He has a max capacity, though, so if he doesn’t get rid of injuries soon enough then they’ll manifest on him instead… his power really doesn’t do shit against machines.

Untitled soul-mark drabble (2015-06-22)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

“You’ve got a little–I think your face is bleeding,” the lone waitress on shift says, as a woman dressed in dark colors enters the diner covered in blood. Lainey tries not to gag at the sight and, wafting it’s way through the air, the smell.

The woman isn’t aggressive or hostile; rather, she smiles absentmindedly at Lainey, and responds with, “What? Oh, no, it’s not mine. But thanks.”

Whatever few thoughts remain in Lainey’s mind after being confronted with a gorgeous, blood drenched woman at two thirty in the morning, flee entirely. She is frozen in fear, too scared to even flinch away as the stranger moves closer.

Because those words? Those words exactly, are scrawled down the side of her left calf. Her soul-mark. The first words her soulmate says to her. Oh god, her soulmate is some kind of serial killer.

Lainey had always been one of those girls perhaps a little too influenced by her soul-mark. She’d hide it with knee-high socks, covetous of the words, yet always pamper her legs when at home. She was always eager to return things to people–or rather, to return things to the wrong people, in hopes of hearing those words in returns. Every time she’d get her hopes up, and though sometimes their responses would be so close, it never happened.

Because apparently her soul-mark is about blood. Oh god, why?

“You’re still open, yes? The neon lights say it’s a twenty four hour diner… though I suppose since the two isn’t lit, you may just be a four hour diner” says the beautiful serial killer who is apparently Lainey’s soulmate.

“Y-yes,” stutters Lainey, brain still offline.

“Excellent, shall I just sit anywhere then?” Miss Super Model of Stranger Danger asks, peering around the empty diner.

Lainey nods, afraid to disagree.

“Thank you, dear. I’ll just use the washroom real quick, but if you could have a cup of coffee ready for me when I get back? I’d like to sit at the bar, please.” Very polite, this murdering soulmate of hers.

Lainey nods again. When the bloody woman passes her by, she tenses even more. It’s not until she can hear the bathroom door click shut that Lainey moves. And breathe, apparently. Her aching lungs thank her.

Oh god, her soulmate is a beautiful, polite murderer.

She gives a full body shudder then scrambles to fix a cup of coffee. The familiar motions seem to dislodge something in her brain because now she can think.

Maybe… maybe that’s not her soulmate? Maybe Lainey’s remembering her soul-mark wrong (impossible, she has those words burned into her retinas). Or maybe she’ll encounter someone else, someone less of an assassin, in the future who will say those words to her as well (possible, but unlikely considering past encounters). Or maybe… she hadn’t acknowledged Lainey’s words… so maybe it’s a non-mutual soul-bond.

That’s… that’s not ideal, to be honest. Non-mutual soul-bonds are rare, but in the sense that maybe a tenth of one percent of the entire population has it. That’s still one in a thousand, still seven million people on the planet, that’s a lot. It’s hard to verify, because maybe the soul-mark is a phrase that will be said in the future.

Her best friend had an uncle with a non-mutual soul-bond. He was nice, and always had time to listen to two teenagers complain about their cushy lives, but he met his soulmate when he was twenty-two–“Hey, I’m Devon, nice to meet you. Happy twenty second birthday, by the way,”–and watched as Devon met his soulmate, the bartender. It… it was a scar, something that had healed over time, but still left behind a mark. He was nice, and helped two dumb high schoolers work through their problems, but he was always sad.

Would a non-mutual soul-bond be better than a possibly murderous soulmate?

“Just perfect, dear,” says the still unnamed possible murderous soulmate, sliding onto the bar stool so suddenly as to startle Lainey. She doesn’t drop the little creamer jug, but she shakes just enough that some sloshes over the side.

Instinctively, Lainey pulls out a napkin to wipe up– mind having fled the vicinity again, leaving her body to function on it’s lonesome–before turning, very carefully, around to place the cup of coffee in front of the diner’s only and bloodiest customer.

“And you’ve added two sugars. Exactly how I like it,” the woman says delighted after taking a sip.

How did Lainey know that? That’s not how she takes her coffee; she doesn’t drink coffee.

“Now then, left-handed Lainey, my diner waitress soulmate. May I interest you in a very early breakfast date with me?”

~

A/N: From that one fic idea floating around–the one where your soulmate’s first words to you are marked somewhere on your body. I thought I’d give it a try. This was pretty fun to write.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-21)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

“You remember Arline House,” he says smoothly, as if they hadn’t just been speaking about the design flaws on the latest episode of Project Runway.

She stares at him, thrown by the suddenness of the topic change and the topic itself, before responding, “I didn’t until you just said it.” It’s a grudging, angry admission. Spat out as she’s flooded by childhood memories previously cordoned off in her mind.

She remembers the creaky, sprawling three story house, the windows and wide double doors arranged to look like a surprised face. The front lawn overgrown with dandelions and a single, struggling rose bush. She remembers the guava tree in the backyard, and even though no one in the house even liked guavas, she remembers picking them every year alongside her housemates.

She remembers Holly, constantly with a book or a pencil and sketchpad in hand, who had always been a pacifist but would be the first to hit below the belt during fights. She remembers Mark who stole fresh plums from the kitchen, even though he would’ve gotten them if he’d just asked, and shared them with everyone–fruit dripping down chins and arms and making everything sticky. She remembers Oscar turning eight, so pleased at being given his own room, yet always breaking into others’ at night because it was dark and he was lonely.

She remembers the younger ones, not yet in school properly, mostly faces and names and impressions of eager youth more than any exact story–Agnes and Delilah and Ulrich and Bertrand and Ivan and Sylvia and–

She finds herself lying back against the sofa, blankly staring at the stark white ceiling, television off. Her feet are raised, propped up by her hideous and hideously uncomfortable throw pillows. She feels a little sticky, damp, as if she had just run a marathon out in the muggy humid heat.

“Wally?” She chokes out, calls out, bracing herself on her elbows to get vertical.

“Are you feeling better?” He asks, face as infuriatingly placid as always. In his hand is a glass of water which she reaches for and drinks from gratefully. She finishes it off with a sigh, handing the empty glass back to him, which he sets on the coffee table in the middle of her living room.

“What was that?” She asks, clutching at the collar of her t-shirt, stretching it out away from her throat.

“That, Geneva, was an awakening.”

~

A/N: Whoa, mysterious past and pilot episode of an action mystery television series? Hahahaha. Well, I had fun. I need to work on my descriptions, I think.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-17)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

“And the both of you can go rot in hell with your stupid matching uniforms and your dumb codes and agh!” he shouted, storming through their apartment and straight to the bedroom he shared with Hazel where he slammed the door in an angry smack.

In his wake, at a much slower pace, were Hazel and Joey, indeed wearing matching uniforms because they were coworkers and they had to wear matching uniforms.

“Can’t you talk to him?” Hazel asked, fretfully unlacing her shoes to slip them off her feet, “He’s your brother.”

“He’s your husband,” Joey responded, calmly kicking off his own pair of boots, before padding over to the kitchen and opening the fridge, “You were the one that chose him. I just happened to get stuck with him.”

“It’s as much your fault as it is mine that the station thought we were together,” Hazel grumped, but followed Joey to stand in front of the fridge.

“We live together because we live with Kevin, and you always bring up household chores when we’re at work. And I told you not to change your last name when you guys got married.” He grabbed two yogurt cups–blueberry for him, peach for her–and motioned at her to grab a pair of spoons.

She sighed, in agreement or exasperation–or both, because Hazel was a fan of multitasking–before grabbing two spoons from the cutlery drawer and flopping down on one end of the couch. A dip let her know Joey joined her, warning enough for the peach yogurt held out in exchange for a spoon.

The day had been frustrating and embarrassing all around, but especially for her–on behalf of and towards the rest of the station, who had gotten it in their head that she and Joey were married and that Kevin, her actual husband, who had shown up for a surprise lunch, was some kind of home-wrecking interloper.

Apparently, not only had Joey and Hazel been everyone’s ideal of perfect partners–in the field and at home–but there had been a series of betting pools on each of their nonexistent relationship’s milestones.

“They’re going to have to reverse all of those payments,” she said inanely, before morosely partaking in her yogurt.

Beside her, Joey snorted, “I don’t think anyone had ‘secretly in-laws’ as their bid… They’d have made serious bank.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hazel sighed again, this time more amused than not.

“Okay, rock paper scissors? Two out of three; loser has to go comfort his majesty first?”

“Don’t bother, I’ll go first,” she waved away his outstretched fist.

“’Cause you know you’re going to lose?”

“Because you always choose in the same order and I always win.”

He didn’t deny it.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-11)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

“There, perfect!” Jun cheers as he finishes styling her hair. He rests his hands lightly on her shoulders and in the mirror she can see how pleased he is with his work, his smile matching her own.

Hair artfully arranged over the tips of her ears into a low bun at the nape of her neck, a layer of makeup transforming her normal blue-grey pallor into cream and tan, and contact lenses to modify the shape of her pupils, she looks… human.

“I’m so impressed with myself right now,” Jun crows, packing away his supplies into his cosmetics bag, “You look great,” he continues, as much a compliment for himself as for her.

“Thank you, Jun,” She says, her gloved hand–it’s already November, so it’s not too out there–touching the space a centimeter above her cheek, so as not to smudge the makeup.

“Hey,” she meets his eyes in the mirror, he looks serious. Happy, still, but controlled, “You’re welcome, okay? Any time you want me to do this, I will totally spend the hour and a half to do this. I got your back.”

They spend a moment beaming at each other before he continues, “Now, are you ready to explore the fascinating world of Cadmium City during the daytime? Because, let me tell you, there’s a bakery that always closes before sunset that is fantastic and you have been missing out!”

~

A/N: A short… whatever. I was in the mood for something cute and then kind of got bored midway so just stopped.

Untitled drabble (2015-06-09)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

This drabble is NSFW.

They first meet on a Friday evening.

Besides the custodian, she’s the only one left on her floor and half of the lights have been shut off already. The walk to the elevators is dim, but it’s a well-practiced route, one she could do in her sleep. Her stockinged feet pad softly across the carpet. As she passes by Phil emptying trash bins, head bobbing to the music in his headphones, she gives a small wave. Her high heels are clutched in her hand, but the other arm weighed down by her bag; he nods to her in greeting, used to her late hours.

It’s been a long week, she thinks as she pushes the call button for the elevator. She’s eager to go home and change into her pajamas and just veg out in front of her TV for the next two days. Possibly go to the dog park with Felix. Try that recipe for blueberry cheesecake that her brother sent her.
Then the elevator doors open.

She’s so caught up in fantasizing her weekend plans that it takes her several moments to process what exactly she’s seeing.

They first meet on a Friday evening, Mina shoeless and silently gaping in front of the elevator doors, Jessie in said elevator on her knees with Steve from Accounting’s dick in her mouth.

“Ah,” Mina says, unsure of what there is to be said, yet being the only one able to say something–without someone else’s genitals or their own hand in her mouth.

It’s… well. It’s actually not that explicit, really. The occupants of the elevator are mostly clothed, only slightly disheveled. Really, if it weren’t for the way Jessie’s hand was conspicuously in Steve’s trousers and the obscene stretch of her lips around his cock, it wouldn’t even…

Okay, no. It’s pretty obvious what’s going on, she can’t deny it.
Steve’s stuttering, helpless hip thrusts notwithstanding, the elevator occupants are almost frozen in their graphic tableau of interoffice fraternization. As if so long as they didn’t move, didn’t make any noise, it was as if they were simply paused in time instead of awkwardly interrupted.

“… I’ll just get the next one then” Mina chokes out after the silence has extended long enough to leave her ears ringing. Luckily, the elevator doors take pity on her, and close with an apologetic ding, taking away all the evidence that the past thirty seconds ever happened.

When Phil and his cleaning cart pass by her ten minutes later, her cheeks are still flushed a ruddy, embarrassed red.

~
A/N: I’m gonna be honest, this is my first time trying to mention/reference/write sex in any sort of explicit manner. But this blog is a way for me to develop my writing skills so it’s as good a place as any to start. I know it’s not like full on smut and porn but getting into even a somewhat sexual headspace is kind of difficult for me, so… I am, unsurprisingly, more like Mina in this situation than anything else.

I think I’m going to continue this… like a specific NSFW series I can go back and play with when the mood hits me. I’ll try to come up with a title for this series, then.

Untitled Swan Princess drabble (2015-05-26)

jacksgreysonLeave a comment

The news of King William’s death is sorrowful, but not a surprise. The king was old and his health had been waning ever since the death of his wife, Queen Genevieve. In truth, the young Crown Princess Odette was all that kept him in the world of the living–ensuring that the kingdom would be a good inheritance, and her a worthy ruler in turn.

No, the news of King William’s death was nothing Stuart hadn’t already prepared for, contingencies at the ready in order to help the kingdom transition between monarchs. What was startling and disheartening alike is the news that Crown Princess Odette is missing.

From the beginning, it did not bode well that the formal report came from Queen Uberta’s Chamberlain. But for all they are allies, Stuart has spies within their castle, and what trickles to his ears worrying. All of the royal guards are dead. It was Prince Derek who was present during King William’s dying breaths. Derek claims that King William said it was an animal attack. No sign of the Crown Princess.

Earlier that day, Crown Princess Odette had officially rejected the marriage proposal. She had despaired of it from the beginning, but she was finally of an age that her opinion held political weight.

Everything was suspicious, and it painted a very bleak picture.

Their kingdom is small, one of its borders is a river, wide and generous, and yet another is part of a wide bay full of ports. Their kingdom is fruitful both in agriculture and trade. The people are good, and they are ruled by a great family. But now that family is dead and missing. Killed and vanished in the  the neighboring kingdom who has equal claim to their bountiful river and the other half of the bay.

The kingdom of a prince who Stuart has been informed is petty, spoiled, and shallow. A prince who had been scorned. The marriage had been considered as a way to unite the two kingdoms. A way for the entirety of the river delta and the bay to be controlled by only one nation.

Marriage is not the only way for two kingdoms to become one.

If he could, Stuart would declare war; or at the very least bring the matter up with the council. But he is not king, has no right to the throne. Nor would he want it.

Odette had been cherished by the kingdom. As much as the people respected King William, they had loved the Crown Princess. Had been eagerly awaiting the day she would be Queen. She was everything one could hope for in a good ruler; smart, kind, brave. Is. She is.

Stuart must believe she is alive. The alternative is chilling to consider. Until then, he continues to fulfill his duty to the kingdom.

But he cannot help the rage that grows with every additional tidbit of information he gains. Queen Uberta is holding a frankly unnerving number of parties for the nobles of her kingdom. Prince Derek has been seen practicing his archery and swordsmanship. Invitations to other princesses are being sent for some kind of ball.

As if that day was some minor mishap to be brushed away and forgotten, not the world-ending blow it really was. No King, no Crown Princess. Just a neighbor cultivating political and martial power, standing at their doorstep.

~

A/N: Kind of a mess, really, but hopefully understandable. Yes, this is Swan Princess fanfiction. I used to love that movie as a kid, but now whenever I see it all I can think of is BUT WHAT ABOUT THE POLITICAL RAMIFICATIONS. IF I WERE FROM ODETTE’S KINGDOM I WOULD BE SO SUSPICIOUS. Like, seriously, their King and Crown Princess are killed/vanished the same day as a rejected marriage proposal? SO SKETCHY.

And the way Rothbart phrased some things made it seem like Odette was the only one in line for the throne. Hence, Stuart, the unimaginatively named steward of the kingdom who thinks his neighbors killed his ruling family and is preparing to invade/conquer.