#not self-insert

            Clumsiness

NOT Self-Insert:

Normally, someone requesting a large pizza delivery to a dark alley would be a red flag for any delivery driver, much less one on a particularly dorky grey scooter. Fortunately, this wasn't just any delivery driver, and the customer was a regular. Full helmet still in place, she examined her nails as though bored with life in general.

A faint scraping noise changed everything. "Yer late, Mister Angelo," the driver drawled into the darkness. Sure enough, Mikey hopped down from the fire escape and swaggered over to her—that was her cue. With all the seriousness of a fashion model, she leaned back on her scooter in a generic 'sexy on a motorcycle' pose, swept her helmet off, and threw her head back to send her hair flying…only to squawk in pain. Her audience cackled with laughter as she fought to free one of her two grey-streaked braids from the helmet's straps. Only when it became clear she was truly stuck did he lend a hand.

"Jeez, Sis," he teased as Amber grumbled into her covered cleavage. "On a scale of meh to holy frijoles, I'd give that an eek!"

"Better an eek than an ick, right?" Amber retorted with an equally playful grin; he laughed, so mission accomplished.

Self-Insert:

Slow, clumsier than usual footsteps passed the sunroom and shambled down the hallway, where their owner whacked into a wall—HARD—spat "There's a wall there, Dumbass"—then a door shut. Donnie waited a few minutes, thinking she'd come back soon enough. When she failed to emerge, he followed and found the bedroom door shut with light filtering through underneath. Every now and then soft noises came through—a snap, a click, the rustle of cloth and the buzz of a zipper—then, without warning, the room echoed with several loud successive crashes and a shrieked expletive of surprise.

He was through the door to check on his aggravating host before he even considered that his presence might not be welcome. The sight that greeted him made him heave a heavy sigh: the eccentric woman sprawled on the floor of the closet underneath three baskets worth of clean laundry, visibly stunned and blinking in obvious disorientation. "Do I wanna know?" he asked dryly but she just shook her head in a daze, staring through the wall before her.

              Anti-Morning People

NOT self-insert

"Good morning," Tapion greeted sheepishly guiding his energetic younger brother to sit at the counter. Minotia eagerly clambered up on one of the high barstools and was soon practically vibrating in his seat. Oh, to have that kind of energy again… "I trust you slept well?" For a moment, all Sierra could do was blink at the older alien, her face even more blank than usual and her dark eyes focused somewhere behind him. He winced, visibly nervous; she physically shook off her daze.

"I'm fine," she insisted simply then paused for another gulp of coffee. "He's fine. It's morning. I'm always like this in the morning. Mornings need to die."

Self-Insert

An ominous creaking noise echoed down the dark hallway; a bolt of white and ginger followed—Woozle taking off like a bat out of hell with panic in his copper orange eyes. "Lil' Trai'er," a sleep-graveled voice reprimanded the spastic feline then paused for a loud yawn. "Keep pushin' it, yer stanky ass's due fer a bath." Out of the corner of his eye, Donnie caught sight of something out of his worst nightmares.

Donnie's startled yelp drew a dirty glare from Ghost—a glare that seemed unusually poisonous peeking through the sleep-mussed hair sticking out in every direction. "Short hair don't care," she grumbled at the frozen mutant and shuffled over to the coffee pot. "Suck it."

             Being ridiculous to avoid admitting something

NOT Self-Insert

The door of the teashop burst open with what sounded like hurricane level winds, followed by familiar laughter. Riko craned her neck to see around the half-wall. "Tanaki! Lee-san!" she grinned, waving them over. Her sister's messy brown hair was even messier than usual, and her bo staff was strapped to her back. She and Rock Lee must have been out sparring again, but something seemed…off... "Why do you have moss in your hair?"

Next to Riko, Gaara choked on the sip of tea he'd taken, and commenced trying to beat it out of his lungs. Tanaki turned white, then red, and stammered something about long missions, sparring, and killer moss. Lee seemed halfway between shy and cringing, yet seemed to be radiating masculine pride. "Never mind," Riko interrupted her sister's stammering. "Not sure I wanna know."

Self-Insert:

"You say you can see what's going on in my world," Donnie reminded Ghost. "What's happening right now? Can you check on them for me? Please?" Ghost blinked at him, her expression blank.

"They're good." Something in his expression must have convinced her he wasn't buying it. "Uch…fine." She closed her eyes, lifted her hands up to hover on either side of her head and wiggled her fingers. "Oogedy-boogedy bing-bang-boom," she proclaimed with complete sincerity. "show me the inside of Donnie's room." He stared at her in utter disbelief. Almost immediately her eyes popped back open innocently as though she didn't just make a fool of herself. "You're both still sleeping; all's quiet on the home-front." His shoulders fell in defeat.

"Are you serious right now?"

“Nope.”

            Banter

NOT Self-Insert

"Just stop the bleeding—don't heal it all the way," Piccolo clarified slowly as though talking to a person of low intellect; the effect was ruined, however, by being delivered his squeaky prepubescent voice. Still, the irritation in the other child’s expression was worth it. "If it scars, it'll prove I'm strong—that I'll survive anything!" Aubergine rolled her eyes again but held her hand out to his forehead, the very tips of her fingers gingerly touching his skin; he felt every single one of them, heat spreading outward from all five points of contact. As her eyes turned solid black again, and the same soft white glow surrounded her hand—nearly blinding him—a strange feeling replaced the heat of her skin, something almost like slipping into a cold brook on a hot day. A barely visible shiver ran through him, but he didn't let it show in his face.

"I hardly think a little line on your face proves you're King Shit," she drawled as the glow faded away. He couldn't fight the feeling that she was staring right into his own with those creepy black eyes, but with no visible pupils, he was left guessing. When she pulled away, he reached up to feel around, and sure enough, the wound was still there, only scabbed over. "Still. Whatever you've got to tell yourself, I guess." Growing tired of her company, Piccolo lunged to his feet and prepared to stalk away into the forest again. Before he could get far, though, her voice stopped him in his tracks and brought an angry blush to his cheeks. "If that scar means you're strong, does the one on your ass mean you're a chicken?"

Self-Insert

The ninja on the floor and the nutcase on the mattress sat up on their sides, one looking for answers and the other unable to given them. Their mutual shrug was interrupted by Cold hollering from the kitchen. "—Hands off my bitch, Dork!" Never one to let a taunt pass unreturned—or leave well enough alone—Ghost shouted back,

"Oi! Everyone knows yer the bitch here, Cold! Don't make me show ya what that ass'a yers is good fer!"

"Blow me, Asshat!"

“You first!”

            Being Bristly

NOT Self-Insert

Sonja stood slightly stooped at the counter, rummaging for flatware; he could see by her posture that her leg was cramping again. For a single, fleeting moment, he considered helping her to her seat and doling out lunch in her stead. Not for the first time, he fantasized about easing her pain. Massaging the stiff ache from her scarred, battered leg could easily transition into soft caresses and sweet kisses…if she weren't Sonja, that is. Being as she was Sonja, he knew he'd be dodging every piece of her favorite socket set if he even mentioned the idea. Still…

His line of thought was obliterated when she turned to greet him, her deep blue eyes full of fondness and gratitude. His heart fluttered—his gut clenched—his palms became drenched with sweat. As though she somehow knew the direction his runaway thoughts had taken, she arched one black eyebrow at him, pointing a dinner fork at him with a knowing smirk; he knew without asking that she was threatening to fork him. Caught.

Self-Insert:

"If you're sick and can't keep standing you should rest," Donnie insisted relieving Ghost of the nearly-empty bag with a stern frown; she snatched it back with an oh, no you didn't! expression. "Unpacking can wait," he insisted slowly trying again to grab the bag only for Ghost to latch on with both arms and an I will bite you! scowl. Even with the difficult brunette being even more difficult than usual, he insisted on being the voice of reason. "You really need to be able to walk for this—at least without falling into walls."

“NO.”

           And finally, PANIC ATTACKS

NOT Self-Insert

Abe's head reeled as Amber's office became clear once more. She sat beside him, squeezing him as tightly as she could. Cold tears trailed down her cheeks. The memory of her childhood self, fading right before his eyes, haunted him. He tugged her from her chair, pulling her to sit across his lap and folding her in shaky arms as though they could protect her from what had happened. Neither spoke; neither needed to. From the skin-to-skin contact, the blanks were being filled in. Somewhere between the horde of mangy rats and the unseen spider, the truth became clear...even a day later, and Amber Willow Jr. would have died.

Amber had never admitted aloud that the air type Elder was responsible for her entrapment in the abandoned barn, nor would she admit how deeply what happened there scarred her. Amber lived in fear of the woman as a child and that fear grew to paranoia. Decades after leaving the compound, she still refused to speak of the incident to any who didn’t already know of it. Her own father was never told; Jasmine and Alesha—her sister by blood, and her sister by choice—knew only half the story. Even now, with Amber Sr stripped of her aerokinetic abilities, heavily guarded, and isolated from the general populace, she feared the woman with all her heart.

Amber sought out Abe’s hand, eyes haunted; as his fingers linked with her own, scattered, fragmented thoughts flowed between them.

I'm sorry. I overreacted. I should have been more supportive. I shouldn't have pushed you away. Please forgive me. You couldn't have known. Though her cheeks and lips tasted of salt, and her shoulders trembled with vulnerability and the last vestiges of panic, no anger, no hurt, no condemnation remained. Her heart was in her brimming eyes, and his in his throat as he finally spoke aloud. "Amber…Dearest Amber, how I do love you." His voice was husky from emotion, and his eyes burned. Amber shuddered, relaxing into his embrace and letting go of her fear.

"I love you, Darlin'," she murmured softly. She felt safe with him; after living her entire life in fear, she felt safe in his arms, and she made sure he knew it. As her lips met his in a tender kiss, he thanked the very heavens that she lived and was there with him, and he prayed for the strength to keep her there.

Self-Insert

An ear-piercing shriek rang out in the kitchen followed by an even louder clatter of metal on tile and the sound of shattering pottery. Instantly on alert, Donnie reached up for his goggles…and found nothing. Their absence was ominous, and he quickly realized the rest of his gear and equipment were all missing too. How could he have not noticed that?! How could he have simply found himself in the forest, unarmed and practically naked, and not noticed?! Oh…right…he woke up puking his guts out.

The sounds of a one-sided struggle silenced his mental tirade; his hostess ordered him to stay put, but if she was in danger… Before he could talk himself out of it he crept down the dark hallway armed with the only 'weapon' he could find: a letter-opener of a knife from the desktop. "Hey, hey…shh…shh…" The frantic cries smoothed into choked sobs and the sharp sounds of someone on the verge of hyperventilating. "It's okay, it's just me…it's just me…"

At the doorway to the kitchen, Donnie paused to scope out the situation. A large terra cotta flower pot—broken—had doused the floor with clay dust and potting soil; its previous occupant, a bunched up grouping of mint-like plants, slumped wilting in the dirt. A metal pizza pan leaned against the far wall and an unbaked supreme pizza was crumpled nearby.

Most likely the cause of the commotion, a new stranger had arrived—a rather short man with off-kilter blue eyes, wire-rimmed glasses, pronounced muscles, and short-shaven blonde hair. Ghost—Donatello's strange hostess—was uninjured, clutching the man's shirt like a lifeline, gasping for breath and whimpering a familiar name...Walker. The blond man, in turn, held her tightly in his thick arms, rubbing her back and shushing her with surprising gentleness. He wasn't a threat. Donatello's hackles lowered, the sudden burst of adrenaline petering off into nothing as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place—the music he'd barely heard in the office was practically blaring in here. Ghost clearly hadn't heard the man's arrival or approach and she already had an exaggerated startle response...this, he recognized with a grim frown, was the aftermath of a panic attack.

As the song went on and Ghost's breathing slowed and steadied, Donatello crept back down the hallway to the office. This moment wasn't one he should intrude on…and it was entirely too familiar.

The verdict? Don’t accuse me of my OC stories being self-inserts - it would be a compliment because the real self-insert shows the real me, and that real me is nowhere near as put together as my OCs are. Please. Don’t inflate my ego like that.