#I doesn't need to be David Lodge but I feel that if they were going to replace him they could've at least picked someone who wasnt already | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

we-are-inevitable · 6 months

Note

For the fic title game: shallow graves for shallow hearts

(me? Digging through the lyrics of the song I'm currently listening to for a title? It's more likely than you think!)

ohhhoohoooo shit. canon era, jack leaves.

jack leaves, and that's supposed to be it. right? he got what he wanted- he got the train out west, he got a big life in a small town, and when he gets there everything is golden and sunshine and beautiful- but he doesn't feel complete, not the way he expected to.

i'm thinking that if i were to write this, i'd write it as like,, a letter fic? start with jack sending letters with shaky handwriting and dodgy spelling to the lodging house, because he knows there are some kids there who know how to read and they can relay his stories and his messages. the envelopes are always stuffed to the brim with his initial letter, and he usually includes four to six drawings in it- Santa Fe is gorgeous, just like he knew it'd be, and he wants the boys to see that he was right. maybe even sending them some money, too; he doesn't make much as a ranch hand but it's more than he thought he'd ever see, and he truthfully doesn't need that much. he doesn't know what he'd ever spend it on, so he'd rather send it to the boys who need it.

so he keeps this going, detailing all of the adventures he's been having (even with a gaping whole in his chest) and telling them about a girl he's been going steady with (one that reminds him of a certain blue eyed boy without the same spark), and this continues until one day, one of the men he's living with in the bunkhouse on the ranch brings him a letter.

a letter from David Jacobs, all the way in New York City.

more under the cut!

david's letter is much better than anything jack could ever send. his handwriting is lovely- and a little hard for jack to read- but jack is able to figure it out eventually, and it's nice. david updates jack on the news from the lodging house, and tells jack all of the little things that the boys want him to know about. no one seems very upset at him for leaving- not from david's words, at least- but even so, reading the letter makes jack's chest tight.

and this continues on for a while. jack will send letters to the lodging house and david will respond for the boys, until jack gets a little brave and starts sending david letters directly, too. he sends the boys money and drawings and sends david his deepest, darkest secrets- how he misses new york and his "penthouse," how he loves his current job but misses his boys- how he misses katherine, and crutchie, and davey.

jack never meant to have a shallow heart. he needed to get away, he needed to escape- and he never realized that doing so would just tear his heart in half even more. he wakes every morning feeling physically better than ever- fresh air will do that to you, he assumes- but he feels like he's on his deathbed half the time because of the weight on his chest and the hole in his heart.

but he stays, because he made a commitment, and he can't back out on his dream now.

the letter-writing goes on for years. eventually, jack starts getting individual letters from racetrack and crutchie as well- they made it out of the lodging house- and jack continues to write to them alongside his writings to david. those letters to david, his davey, started so innocently- how is he doing, how is his family, the likes- but now when jack writes them he feels a tug on his heart and when he reads david's letters he finds himself flustered and he doubts he would ever be able to say these feelings out loud, but there's something there- and he knows he isn't imagining it because david feels the same, and has written the same in his letters.

i imagine when it hits the three year mark, when jack has been here for three winters, when jack is no longer the new guy and is instead helping the new ranch hands in the bunkhouse, it all feels too familiar and he aches with it.

he gets drunk on whiskey and writes a candle-lit letter about how much he misses home, because this isn't home, this will never be home. he gets drunk on whiskey and writes about the boy with the blue eyes and a fire that's still present even in his words on paper. he gets drunk on whiskey and sends the letter despite his better judgement.

the next letter he receives from david is simple. all it says is, Come home. We will be ready, and I will be waiting.

so jack goes back home, and jack finds his family again.

and jack finds david, too, and maybe his grand plan for his life never involved living in a "bachelor pad" next to a conveniently single David Jacobs, but he can't say he's complaining, either.

#ugh!! historical gays #shallow heart = jack's own feelings about himself leaving #shallow graves = the major depressive breakdown he seems to be two steps away from <3 #god i LOVE THEMMMMM i love them. i love them #jack kelly #david jacobs #davey jacobs #javid #crutchie #crutchie morris #racetrack higgins #livesies #newsies #jac txt.#ask a jac !#newsies musical #newsies live #newsies broadway #javey

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hauntedpaperbag · 1 year

Text

The Angel Said

"Where've you been off to?" David grumbles, whittling the end of a stick.

Maggie sucks her teeth, thin lips pulling shrewdly apart. She opens her mouth to speak but closes it, words lodged in her throat. She's soaking in sweat from the Louisiana heat, humidity clogging her pores. A crane caws.

"Off." She says, sitting on the opposite side of the fire on a moss-covered log.

David's eyes flicker up towards her face, pausing his whittling.

"Off where?"

Maggie doesn't respond, setting her pack down on the ground. It smacks against the wet dirt. She twiddles with her cross necklace, twisting it around her pointer finger until it turns red. Her own form of flagellation. She thinks of Father Michael.

If it hurts, it cures.

"Nowhere, David, just…off. I needed to clear my head."

He sighs, the start of an argument bubbling out of his chest, all the unsaid things of the past three days crawling from the pit of his stomach. His face twists, old visage turning sour, and Maggie almost feels bad. Almost.

"Nowhere," David mumbles, shaking his head. He sets his project down, standing, wiping the shavings off his blood-stained jeans. He picks up his rifle, army backpack, and canteen from the ground.

"What are you doing?"

He ignores her, heavy boots shuffling around their little camp in the middle of the swamp. David looks up at the moon; it reveals nothing.

"Remember what I said about honesty, Maggie?" He says.

"What are you talking about?"

"Back in the swamp, when you were running, and I told you the truth, I said that's all we have. Honesty."

"David, I don't know-."

"Maggie." He says quietly. She stops, slamming her mouth shut, all her mistakes rattling in her head.

"I-I was on a walk." She can't meet his stare, too afraid that if his eyes find hers, she'll drown in them, just like she nearly did back in the bayou. When he hauled her out of green sludge, harbored her in his tiny log cabin, lied to the congregation.

No girls come round these parts, Father.

'You're a gahdamn liar, Maggie Turner." And he starts to walk away from her and their little camp of broken faith.

Maggie scrambles to her feet, tennis shoes sliding in the mud. She runs towards him, grabbing his arm, putting herself between him and his freedom. David looks down at her, square jaw set tightly, hard lines etched into his skin. He reaches a strong, scarred hands hold her shoulders.

"Where were you." And it's not a question because he knows where she was. It's a statement, a threat.

"You know where I was."

"I want you to say it."

"David-"

He pushes her away harshly, discarding everything she won't tell him. She falls into a tree, the breath knocked out of her lungs, empty in the swampy air. The forest screams around them. She slides down the tree, crouching on the wet earth.

"Fine!" She shrieks like an insect horde. "Fine, David! I went back; I went back because he has it, and I need it; it's the last thing of my mothers-"

"He coulda killed you!"

"He wasn't there! I looked everywhere on the first floor, and it wasn't there and-"

"You went inside his HOUSE!?" He shouts, startling the forest awake.

"He wasn't there!! I swear, I triple-checked just like you taught me to-."

"Shit, Maggie! What in God's name is wrong with you? Did he beat the sense out of you too?"

"He has it, and it's mine; it's the only thing I have left of my mother, and-and I-shit-" Maggie cries, sobbing into her knees. The moon shines over them softly, garishly, and Maggie feels all the mushy parts that make her her become exposed.

"I can't go alone. I can't go, David, please; I can't go to his room alone-"

David stares at her. Flashes of the bayou, of Father Michael's slimy words at the door of his cabin-

Have you seen Maggie Turner, a young girl, around? She's been missin and…

David sighs. A moment passes as the cicadas sing around them, harmonizing with the owlish sound of Maggie's grief.

"Fine."

Maggie looks up, calming down, wiping her face with a dirty sleeve.

"What?" She sniffles..

"We'll go get it, but you listen to me. Do you hear me?" David grits.

And for the first time since moving to New Haven, Louisiana, Maggie smiles. It curls on her face like a dying spider's legs, and David feels a shiver crawl down his spine.

Father Michael's house is a monstrous beast that lives in the woods. Old, white, and worn. Inside is nothing but the remnants of the previous priests, their furniture, covered swathes of white cotton cloth. David touches a finger on what looks like a couch, and it comes back bathed in dust.

"Who the hell lives like this?" He mutters. The hairs rise on the back of his neck; someone walking over his grave.

Maggie's looking around, triple checking all the corners she double-checked before. But nothing's here.

"It's always been like this." She whispers. "The parish doesn't come here anymore; he goes to them."

David walks around the living room quietly and steps before a massive fireplace. It's unlit, ashes stone cold inside the hearth, and above it hangs a large painting of The Virgin Mary. It's a copy of some old, famous version. There's a painted golden glow emitting from behind her blue-shrouded figure. But in this light, under her obliterating gaze, David wonders what she's seen.

"We have to go upstairs."

He whips his head around. Maggie is standing by the stairs, one foot already beginning to climb up old rickety wood.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Upstairs, David. It has to be upstairs."

David swallows with a dry mouth. He glances back at Mary, whose stare has not yet left his soul.

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Fine, you stay here, and I'll go alone." Maggie snipes, quick as a bullet, faster than a prayer through town. She starts to walk up the steps, and David knows there is no reason with the unreasonable, he follows. The wood creaks under their feet. David feels the wear in the middle from decades of parishioners before coming to this house for penitence. For forgiveness. He wonders if they found what they were looking for.

When they're at the top, the room is small, with a single-lit candler glowing on a tiny table in the middle. The shadows it casts along the wall tower over them. Suddenly, the air in the room is very, very cold. On two walls are two doors facing across from each other. Maggie tries to open three and finds them all locked.

"Shit. Do you know how to pick lo…" But at the fourth door, the knob turns and swings open.

David and Maggie peer inside.

"This is his room." She whispers, sounding so frail that David worries one step and she'll crumble.

"I can go in and look-"

"No. I can do it."

She steps inside first, shaking from head to toe.

Father Michael's room is filled with crosses. Nailed to ceiling, to the walls, the floor. It's nearly impossible to walk without stepping on one. In the middle of the room, not against a wall, is the largest four-poster bed David has ever seen. The white comforter is stained, the pillows are ripped, and the drapes hanging from the posts are sheer. Moonlight filters in from three windows on the far wall.

It's ghastly.

A small desk is in a corner, with unlit candles melting onto the surface.

"Oh my god," David says, but there is no God here.

And when he looks at the ceiling, he knows that.

Stuck to the wall, directly above the bed that he realizes has no top fabric, is a painting of Jesus, with blood dripping from his forehead, crowned in thorns. And hanging from the ornate gold frame is a necklace.

"Maggie," David says and points.

He expects something, an exclamation, a sob, a prayer. But Maggie's face is stone cold, and David feels a little silly for expecting a reaction.

She walks into the room, carelessly stepping on every cross, and climbs atop the bed. She grabs the necklace and rips it from the frame. Her hands shake when she brings it down to her level. She trips off the bed, her foot catching on the bedding, and falls onto the floor. When David moves to help her up, she shakes her head, red hair falling like the confessional curtain covering her face.

David shuffles his feet, growing antsy.

"Okay, you got it; let's go."

Maggie nods, not really listening, paying more attention to the jewelry in her hands. She presses her lips to the locket and turns to David. He feels the Holy Ghost whisper in his ear.

"I'm gonna kill him." She says.

David knows this to be true.

***

"Lord Jesus Christ, we pray that you will protect our parish in the face of sin. We pray that You will cover us with Your power, Your love, and Your blood. Heal our wounds and soften our hearts so that we may be able to accept Your will into our souls. Surround all of us with Your heavenly Angels, Saints, the strong arms of St. Joseph, and the mantle of Our Blessed Mother. Through Christ our Lord. Amen."

"Amen." The herd repeats.

Father Michael bows his head and raises his hand; father, son, holy spirit across his chest. Atop the platform, behind the podium, he stands, cassock shining in the morning sun. His hand's toy with the beaded rosary braceleting his wrist.

"Now, my friends," he starts, voice curling around the parishioners like a shepherd's crook, guiding, leading, commanding; "We have all been made aware of Maggie Turner's disappearance and the subsequent threat she has become to our church. Her place in The Ritual will not be replaced, so it is pertinent, friends, that she is found. Neighborhood watches have taken the helm in the search, and the Lady's group has kindly offered to go through her Uncle's things at his home. John was a close friend to this parish, and may his soul rest in heaven now."

The women smile in the first row, all pastel hats and perfumed hair, stockings with runs, and kitten heels. They cluck like hens, giggling under Father Michael's gaze.

"The church is also raising funds for John's funeral. Once the Lady's go through his home and find his will, we'll commence with a burial under my guidance in the cemetery."

He smiles with crooked teeth. The parish waits on bated breath; hands outstretched for the morsels he will grant them.

"That is all for today. Through Christ our Lord. May He guide you."

The sermon ends, the herd rises, bleating to each other, spewing the same conversations they do every Sunday, and Wednesday, and Monday. Someone sneezes, and a chorus of bless yous erupts through the crowd. Father Michael says goodbye to the flock, waving them out the door with one mighty hand. When they have all gone, he sighs, wiping the sticky sweat off his brow. He looks up to the arched wood ceiling, mumbling a soft prayer only he and God will know. Then, raising the rosary to his lips, he presses a foul kiss to the cross and walks up the spiral stairs to his office.

Sheriff Will is sitting inside, in a chair facing the mahogany desk, lit cigarette in mouth.

"Beautiful sermon, Father."

Father Michael thanks him and sits at his desk.

"We've been looking all night. Haven't found a hint of her." Will mumbles, cowboy hat tipped down over his eyes. A gold cross necklace shines in the sunlight from the stained glass windows.

"Not hard enough," Father says, not meeting Will's eyes, signing paperwork.

"Father, we've had men-."

"Not hard enough." And when he does look at Will, it's God's lightning striking through his soul. Will chokes on his spit.

"Yes, of course, Father."

Father Michael hums, nodding his head.

"I expect you at confession today, Sheriff."

"Yes, Father."

"I haven't forgotten about your deputy."

"He didn't know it was her, sir. He thought it was some kid playing a joke-"

Michael tilts his head, raising his hand, and with a single flick, Will is ushered out of the room. Michael looks down at the morgue's papers on the desk about Maggie's Uncle, John. His eyes skim over the injury report.

13 stab wounds.

13 times Maggie shoved a knife into her Uncle's stomach, chest, neck.

Oh Maggie, he thinks, you can't run from God.

***

Maggie sits in David's tiny cabin, buried in fleece blankets by the wood furnace, cradling her mother's locket close to her heart.

"That's your mothers?"

"Yeah." Maggie nods, voice solemn. "She was sacrificed in the ritual too, but I was living with my dad. I'd lived with him since I was only a few months old when he left the parish. Then, when he got the letter from Fathe- God…." Tears skim her water line.

"He lost it." There is so much unsaid, but Maggie won't bring herself to say it. "Uhm-that's why I had to move here, to live with John. My Uncle."

David grunts from his bed, whittling a stick with his pocket knife. It's warm inside the cabin, cozy.

"They said she died in a boat accident. Riding through the bayou, that she just fell out and hit the rudder…." She scoffs. "And I believed it."

"You were grieving-"

"I was stupid."

If it hurts, it cures.

Maggie shakes her head, trying to slap the vengeful voice of Father Michael like a fly out of her head.

"You found out, then," David asks, eyes turned down at his work.

"I found Father Michael's letter to John with the news."

The fire crackles in the furnace, but this is no campfire story.

"John was, he was- he knew I wouldn't do it. Said they were gonna force me too. That I should feel lucky-" Maggie can still feel his hands gripping her arms, pulling her hair, dragging her back into his house when she'd tried to run, "said Father Michael thought I'd like it, to die like my mother had."

"Then you killed him." He says, looking at her now, wrinkly face so so guilty.

"Yeah. Then I killed him." She can still feel his hand around her kneck loosen when she'd first shoved his own knife into his stomach. The blood was warm. She'll never feel clean again.

They stew in silence for a moment, reality heavy on their shoulders. Feeling like Atlas, holding the world. "And then you found me in the swamp."

David remembers, on his boat, lamp looking for gators, but instead catching Maggie, trudging through the marsh. Drowning.

"I tried to go to the Sheriffs, but they all- everyone knows. They all knew, and they were almost…jealous. So, I'm going to kill Father Michael. For my mother, for my father."

"Revenge is a fool's game," David mumbles.

"Well, I guess I'm the biggest fucking fool there is."

The wind howls outside the cabin, rattling the window.

"Why do they leave you alone?" Maggie asks.

David stops his whittling, thinking.

"My family has been here for decades. Before Father Michael. They leave me alone; I leave them alone."

"So you all have just, like, lived in the middle of the swamp for forever."

"Yuhp." Back to whittling.

Maggie pictures generations of David's, whittling right where he is, knowing everything yet being silent.

"Did you know?" She asks.

David doesn't answer.

"David."

He looks at her, and in his face, she sees an old man drowned in guilt.

"Yes."

Maggie knew that he had to have known. Kept their secret safely tucked away in his back pocket, the skeleton shoved in his closet.

"Do you believe in God?" She asks.

David finally sets his work down, places the carved wood onto the floor, and puts the knife back in his cargo shorts pocket. He meets her accusing gaze, and they just watch each other for a moment.

"No."

Crackle goes the fire.

"But I've seen the Devil."

And Maggie knows this to be true because she has too.

***

Father Martin pulls into his driveway, tires rumbling on the gravel. The radio's on, crooning the Kossoy Sisters. His head sways back and forth, voice humming along. He parks the truck and steps out, the top buttons of his cassock undone, skin sweaty in the Louisiana heat. The swamp around him hisses in the night.

Walking inside, he skips the first floor, going straight to his room. The steps creak like they always do, and the candle in the top room has completely melted onto the wood table.

When he steps inside his room, undresses, prays, lays in bed, and looks up at the Lord, it takes him a second to realize.

Father Michael grits his teeth, balling his hands into the sheets. He gets out of bed and redresses, buttoning the cassock to perfection, and goes back outside to his car. The truck door slams hard, chipping red paint falling off the side as it rocks under Michael's fury.

He calls the town to a meeting and sends the Sherriff and his useless men knocking on doors, gathering the herd like hounds to the church.

It only takes an hour.

"My friends, the situation has become much worse than I anticipated."

The church is full, every soul there, and Father Michael is doing more than preaching tonight.

"Maggie Turner has broken into my home and stolen something of mine!" He shouts.

The herd gasps.

Father Michael wipes sweat off his brow with a quaking hand, pale face red in anger. He runs his fingers through his thinning hair to smooth out his cracking seams.

"She has broken into my home, friends. She will be found tonight."

The church is alive in agreement, people raising their hands in fists of justice, some shouting for God to help them all.

"I believe that David Halloway has taken her into his satanist cabin, fed her, kept her hidden from us. This man is no friend of ours. We have tolerated him all these years, let him live close to our home, and this is how he repays us?"

The crowd roars.

"Tonight, we will drag Maggie Turner here and perform The Ritual! TONIGHT!!" Father Michael cries, gripping the podium, torso leaning over the front, nearly flinging himself forward. The parish moves out of the church's large double doors, going to their cars, boats, and bikes. Some have flashlights, some have guns. They all have Father Michael to guide them, though.

And Father Michael has God.

***

Maggie hears the cries before she sees them. Shouts of her name, of whore and witch calling through the trees. Footsteps stomp through tall grass and marshy mud; they cry for justice, fire for the sinner.

David grabs her by the arms and hauls her from the fireplace and out back. He brings her to the small dock behind his cabin. The moon shadows his stern face, and the only thing Maggie can genuinely see is his frightened eyes.

"Take my boat. Do what you have to do."

"David, no-"

"If you're not here, I can try to shove them off. Say you stole my boat."

"I can't leave you!"

He shakes her hard. The parish cries, growing closer. A flashlight's beam falls over the front of the cabin; it shines through the windows.

"Take my boat!" He hisses, reaches into his pocket for the pocket knife, and shoves her to the dock.

Maggie falls in the blood, tears falling from her face. She wants to thank him for saving her, and for helping her; but instead, she scrambles down the dock, tripping on the shoddy wood structure, and slides into the tiny mud motorboat. Sitting on the bench, she pulls the engine, which rumbles to life.

With one final glance at David, standing at the start of the dock, she sees him lift a hand. A cry gurgles out of her, and she sobs, waving with one hand and steering away from him.

She turns to look at the swamp ahead of her, unable to face Davids's shrinking form. Parishioners are shouting out, screaming like locusts tearing through crops. Father Michael's voice croons in her ear, whispering of holy lands. She feels nauseous and retches over the side of the boat. Her hand wipes the vomit from her mouth, and she steers away, looking for the church's spire. It's a few minutes before she catches it peaking through the woods.

It spears through the treetops like a stake in the ground.

It laughs at her.

By the time she reaches the church, no one is there. They're all out searching for her, wading through chest-deep water, driving on the roads. Maggie pulls to the dock and slows to a stop, listening for the horde. All she hears is crickets and the deep rrrrribit of bullfrogs. She stops to breathe for just a second and listens.

The swamp surrounds her, holds her, cradles her in mushy arms of wet moss.

But then Father Michael is strolling out the back door, and his steps stomp down the stone staircase, and he smiles.

"Maggie, we've been looking for you." His voice rings like a church bells Sunday morning chime.

She looks the Devil in his cold, hollow face, and spits. It splats on his left cheek, and Father Michael's smile drops. He lifts a sleeve to wipe it off, and Maggie fights a smirk from her face.

"That's not nice, Maggie." he laughs with no mirth.

Maggie steps back a bit, her hand gripping the pocket knife, knuckles turning white. Father Michael advances on her slowly, backing her to the water. Maggie is terrified; she wonders if her mother felt like this, but no, her mother wanted it.

"You stole from my home."

"Fuck you!"

Father Michael's hand snaps out like a viper and grabs her wrist. Maggie cries out in pain, his fingers digging into her skin, no doubt leaving marks.

"No!" She screams as he drags her up the steps.

"Come now," and he's so tall, so broad, so strong. Did Goliath fight this hard? She flings herself backward, but he pulls her like an ox, dragging her into the church.

The altar is ready in the middle of Father Michael's platform. It's tragically beautiful, carved from ornate white quartz and trimmed in gold filigree. Their footsteps echo through the air, crashing and clanging through the pews. Maggie breaks free of Michael's hold and runs back, turning and sprinting to the podium. She holds the pocket knife before her in a fighting stance.

"Fuck you! You're no man of God! You killed my mother!" She sobs, screaming, voice hoarse with raw emotion.

"No, Maggie, your mother was glad to offer her soul to the church."

"Liar!"

"If only you could see it her wa-"

"LIAR!" She wails. And for a breath, Father Michael is startled into silence.

"You killed her! You told her to do it, and she trusted you! You've killed all these people." She advances on him. "You're the Devil." She spits.

Father Michael scoffs, affronted, but backs away.

"Don't be simple-minded, Maggie. I don't need the laws of man to advise me."

Maggie laughs through her sobs, snot trickling down her face, hair sticking to her wet cheeks. She's a wild animal, cornered in a cage. Moonlight filters through the stained glass, washing the room in a muted rainbow.

"He reached down and touched my hand."

"He doesn't say shit to you. You're insane."

"Gave it to my strict and charred. Taught me right."

Father Michael laughs, shaking his head. His eyes burn like hellfire, spreading through Maggie's soul.

"Put the knife down, Maggie."

"No." She steps forward.

"I'm warning you."

"Eat shit."

"Fine." He says, and charges forward, grabbing her hair and yanking her back. Her face is forced upwards, and he grabs the wrist that holds the knife, forcing her to step to the altar. She thrashes in his hold, screaming like a banshee. Father Michael grits his teeth, huffing in the exertion of dragging her up the platform steps.

"Thank you, Oh Lord, for-for protecting m-my people…" He commences the prayer. "Blessed be those that-that follow in your grace-"

But Maggie crashes free and tumbles to the ground, back hitting the altar's side. She looks up at Father Michael with wide eyes and, holding the knife in one hand, stabs his thigh.

He screams.

She takes the knife and stabs him again, and again, and again. Pushes him down the steps and falls on top of him, cracking his head on the wood floor. Till there is nothing left but blood. She's in a trance, adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream like the holy spirit. Jesus on the cross hangs above her, nailed to the church wall, crowned in thorns, face tilted towards her with sad eyes carved from stone. The grief of sacrifice.

When Maggie is done, she's done slowly. Like rising from a deep sleep, eyes foggy, blinking away the haze. One final stab into his corpse before she rises off of him and drops the knife. Staring down at him, at his desecrated body, she smiles.

She hears rain.

Drops pitter-patter on the roof, and the world is still. The swamp is alive outside; frogs sing, and crickets chirp. Maggie huffs in heaving breaths. She steps over Father Michael's unrecognizable body and walks to the back door.

Stepping into the rain, she lets it wash away her sins. A newly baptized baby, naked and swathed in fresh cotton. Her clothes are drenched in blood and water, and her shoes feel like swimming pools. She thinks of her mother, slitting her throat on the altar, or her father, hanging himself in his bedroom. She thinks of David, fighting Goliath and winning, and David, finding her drowning and helping. She thinks of Father Michael, the wolf in sheep's clothing, with a shepherd's crook the shape of a sickle.

The parishioners are arriving. They're emerging from the river, out of their airboats and canoes. With rifles slung over shoulders and flashlight beams streaming through tall grass. They gasp, wobbling back on their heels. The Lady's group cries out in horror, men aiming their guns at Maggie's crimson figure. Shouting erupts from the herd. They tremble in fear and suffering, bones shaken with grief.

"He's dead."

And the Angel said be not afraid.

But they were, Oh, they were.

#short story #horror #thriller #religious

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jesse-eisenberg-interview · 14 years

Text

Jesse Eisenberg: Privacy settings engaged

By Catherine Shoard

Thursday 14 October 2010 17.00 EDT

——————————————————————

You won't find Jesse Eisenberg, formidable as Mark Zuckerberg in The Social Network, on Facebook. It's a different kind of attention he craves.

Jesse Eisenberg is eager to deflate expectations. This, he assures me, will be a mediocre interview. His answers shall be trite and generic. He doesn't have a clear thought process at this stage in the day. He'll ramble. It'd be better were I to lie on the couch and have him quiz me instead (he sees two therapists a week, so he's pretty proficient in probing). Words rattle out of him: self-deprecating scattershot from a salmon-shirted manboy.

Muting the buzz is no easy task. After a decade as the go-to guy for directors in need of a sweetly inept alter ego – Roger Dodger, The Squid and the Whale, Adventureland – he's suddenly, at 27, playing a rather more formidable real-life character: Mark Zuckerberg, in David Fincher's The Social Network, a fictionalised take on Facebook's birth and subsequent internal fallout. It's topped the US box office for the past fortnight, been hailed as the film that defines the decade, and is a shoo-in for Oscar nods. His face is everywhere, in alarming closeup.

So, managing expectations is tough. Plus, Eisenberg has a reputation for being as bright in the flesh as he seems on screen. Unlike, say, Michael Cera – his weedier, creepier doppelganger – he's one of those rare actors who can project real intelligence (not just fluency or intensity). Cute casting, then: few could pull off Zuckerberg without making him seem frighteningly isolated or unreachably geeky. Eisenberg makes it look a cinch.

There's an emotional connection, he thinks. "Mark doesn't feel happy interacting in person," says Eisenberg, "and so he creates a comfort zone, an environment where you can have relationships which are the ideal version. At the start of the movie, he has trouble with a two-way dialogue, first when he's talking with his girlfriend [she dumps him], then when he writes his blog [he trashes her]. And then he creates Facebook."

Eisenberg's equivalent was acting. He turned to plays aged nine after struggling to fit in at school, and suffering what he's described as "terrible separation anxiety" (Eisenberg's Woody Allenish neurosis is no mere patter – it is absolutely for real). "When playing a role, I would feel more comfortable, as you're given a prescribed way of behaving. So, both Facebook and theatre provide contrived settings that provide the illusion of social interaction."

It's a ferociously unvain performance – feral-faced, stiff round the torso, left hand forever lodged in hoodie pocket; a movement born from his discovery that Zuckerberg is an expert fencer. His Zuckerberg is bitter, ruthless, obsessive – another of the focused sociopaths that Fincher specialises in, rather than one of the lovable stutterers from Eisenberg's CV.

Eisenberg leaps to Zuckerberg's defence, nonetheless. "I really view him as an artist. And if you view it in that way, a lot of what he does is not only defensible but necessary. As an actor, if I show up late somewhere or I say something that's eccentric, it's totally acceptable – not only that, it's lauded in some perverse way. Because Mark is a businessman, we don't give him the same leeway."

He sips some orange juice, bristles with the injustice. "But if you substitute Facebook for the Mona Lisa, then everything in the movie is seen in a different light. His kicking off his friend because he has to protect his painting: I think we would all understand that."

Eisenberg brilliantly captures the creative fizz Zuckerberg feels while designing and coding Facemash, the Hot or Not-style site that's the precursor to Facebook; flexing his fingers, playing the keyboard like a Steinway. "It's this very exciting feeling that you've got something that's yours and is original and is some way contributing. Mark creates Facemash in a flurry of inspiration. The end result is really painful for many people, but the creation is really remarkable."

Eisenberg isn't on Facebook himself – far too self-loathing, he says, plus further celebritisation of his personal life is the opposite of what he wants – but he's open-minded towards those who are, and defensive towards the charges of destroying privacy levelled against Zuckerberg.

"It's just a technology; it can be used either benevolently or harmfully. When cellphones came out, my girlfriend refused to get one for five years, because she thought it would turn her into somebody who couldn't connect with other people – and, of course, she got a cellphone. And I'm sure after Facebook it will be the little cameras that we have implanted into the palms of our hands and we'll be debating whether we should get them, and then we'll all get them. And then we'll have pants with holes cut out for our genitals and at first people won't want to have those pants and then of course we'll all have those pants. Society will decide after the technology is created what we will and won't accept.

"I already have way too much attention paid to me. I wouldn't want to be totally invisible because it would be hypocritical to say I want no attention at all. I assume that's 90% of why I act; I didn't get enough attention as a child. That's why all actors act – they want more attention." He smiles and his eyes flit nervily round the room.

Eisenberg was born in New Jersey in 1983 to Barry, a sociology professor, and Amy, a professional clown. He found a happy niche at a performing arts college, where he was studying when he won the lead in Roger Dodger, in which he plays Campbell Scott's callow nephew, coached in the art of the pick-up. Then, a pause, until The Squid and the Whale, since when he's worked steadily, in between completing a degree in democracy and cultural pluralism ("It's meaningless. You have a choice of 17 degrees and then you take the same exact classes as the guy who took art history.")

The common thread through most of Eisenberg's performances is that he plays a young man intellectually seduced by someone older who turns out to be less impressive than expected. In The Social Network, this psychological framework is repeated: Zuckerberg is a sucker for Sean Parker, the Napster founder played by Justin Timberlake, who eventually becomes a liability.

Eisenberg nods, and enjoys the reductiveness of the reading. "Yeah, I play that revelation really well. It's like: wait a second, you're not everything you're cracked up to be? The world is not black and white? Wait a second, I think I just grew up! Let me check." He peeks beneath his shirt to check on the progress of any chest hair. "Nope, still a kid."

There's something remarkably youthful about Eisenberg. He's less personally assured than he seems on screen; the opposite to what you'd expect. For the evidence suggests Eisenberg is both erudite and enterprising. At 22, he launched oneupme.com, an internet parlour game in which users must provide punchlines for a gag set-up ("She was like a Laundromat ... kept stealing my socks"). At 26, he wrote a couple of pieces for literary mag McSweeneys – a list of Marxist/socialist jokes, another of manageable tongue-twisters. He's also knocked off a novel and a musical, and has lived with his girlfriend, Anna, 33, for four years.

He acknowledges the confusion. "I've never had tastes of people my own age. All of my friends when I was 15 were in their 40s. I'm not actually mature, just very self-conscious around people my own age because I feel like I'm supposed to act the same way they act and I don't know how."

He stops and swallows. "Well, OK, no – the truth is I like to infantilise myself because then I don't have to be an adult. If I'm always around people who are older than me then I can act like a child, which is how I feel most comfortable because I miss my mum." I laugh – but he's not kidding. "I get really homesick. If I'm with someone my age and I act like a child it seems very strange behaviour. If I'm with someone younger, it makes me very uncomfortable. Because I have to take care of them; if there's a fire I'm supposed to save them. I want to be saved."

Still, Eisenberg will, at some point, get older. Does he fear a sell-by date on his coming-of-age schtick? He looks cheery. "No. That feeling – of deification and then demystification – is timeless. The joy of acting for me is to be able to experience emotions in a safe environment. You can't scream and cry in the street because everybody will look. If you do it on a movie set, you get applauded. And that's one of the great emotions we can experience. Everyone can put somebody on a pedestal and then realise the pedestal is of your own making."

He's right. A good point, by a fine actor. Curious, then – sad, even – that Eisenberg should try so hard to dislodge himself from a pedestal he belongs on.

SOURCE

#jesse eisenberg #2010 #the social network

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one-boring-person · 4 years

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Only Traitors Consort With The Damned. (Part Twelve)

The Lost Boys x reader

Warnings: some graphic injury detail, bad language, mention of death

Context: Nico and (Y/n) go to the cave and talk with the boys

A/N: I have finally figured out how this is going to end, so at least now I have a target to aim for!😁 enjoy!😊💛❤ (p.s. it's a little bit cringy, sorry)

Masterlist

"It stinks here, (Y/n). You sure this is the right place?" Nico questions me as we pull up near the Bluff, leaving the car in the forested area a little way back from the edge to keep it hidden from unfriendly eyes.

"I'm sure. It only smells because vampires live near here." I point out, swinging open the car door and attempting to climb out, a sharp yelp of pain leaving me as I put weight on the injured knee.

"Yeah, I can tell. Hey, you shouldn't be trying to walk anywhere, you'll only make it worse." The werewolf says to me, exiting the car and coming around to me, holding the door open for me as he watches me struggle, "I can go get your stuff."

"No, that's not a good idea. They'll attack you as soon as you go inside." I tell him, sitting back as i try to think of a way of doing this.

"You still can't walk, (Y/n). I think I can take my chances with them." He lifts an eyebrow; internally, I know he's right, he's the strongest person I've ever met, and has easily fought off a pack of other wolves before by himself. A few vampires would be no problem.

"I'm not letting you kill them, they're my friends."

"Friends who left you to die back there." Nico points out, before reaching down and scooping me up into his arms again, "If you insist on coming, then I'll carry you."

"Fine, but don't act all hostile around them." I don't mention his first words, trying not to dwell on that thought too much.

"I can't promise anything." He says, tightening his grip on me briefly as he uses a foot to close the car door, turning and walking in the direction I point him in.

"Just be careful at the bottom of the walkway - I put traps there and they're probably still there." I inform him, loosely wrapping an arm around his neck as he walks.

"Traps? What kind of traps?" He questions, stepping gingerly onto the walkway, testing it carefully under his weight. It freaks slightly, but holds, allowing him to step out onto it properly.

"Just a couple of tripwires. I didn't have much to work with, as I left most of my stuff back in the shack, but they work well enough."

The werewolf nods, carefully moving down the steps and onto the stretch leading into the abandoned hotel, noticing the tripwires laid out there even in the darkness, deliberately stepping over them to avoid setting them off. Upon entering the actual cave, he avoids the last trap and stands in the centre, sharp grey eyes quickly locating the resident vampires, who have all formed a protective line with David at its head, faces contorted into snarls. Each of them is tense and menacing, fangs bared, eyes glowing dangerously as they regard the newcomer, who let's out a low warning growl from deep within his chest, the sound of which vibrates under my hands.

"What do you want, dog? How did you find us?" David spits across the room, standing stock still.

"You should be more careful about who you call a dog, leech." Nico bites out, voice dropping an octave as he makes himself more threatening.

"Hey, hey, we're not here to fight. I just wanted to get my stuff back." I interject before things get out of hand, Nico's muscles having tensed around me slightly, his skin heating as he fights the instinct to turn.

For the first time, the vampires look at me, their faces morphing back to their human ones as they realise I'm there, though they remain tense and keep their distance.

"(Y/n)?! You're alive?!" Paul exclaims, blue eyes incredulous as he stares at me.

"Yeah, no thanks to you four." Nico growls, holding me closer to him in a protective way, eyes fixed on the vampires.

Marko and Paul both hiss at the werewolf, moving as if to advance on him, before Dwayne puts out a hand to stop them, clearly recognising that there is no real threat as long as they act amicable.

"I'm alive. Nico was the one shooting, and he's the one who rescued me." I explain briefly, "Now can I get my things, please?"

David doesn't say a word, keeping his eyes trained on Nico as Paul and Marko move to stand behind their leader. Dwayne rolls his eyes and leaves the room momentarily, returning a minute later with my rucksack, which he hands to me hesitantly, uneasy about being in the presence of such a large werewolf, unused to being completely dwarfed in size.

"Thanks, Dwayne." I smile gratefully at the vampire, going to take the bag, only to wince when my leg throbs suddenly. Instantly, Nico is adjusting his grip on me, concern flooding his features, Dwayne frowning slightly as he notices.

"Did you get hurt, (Y/n)?" He asks me, looking over my body.

"Yeah, I was shot by one of the Hunters when they were chasing me. They beat me up pretty badly, too." I admit, gesturing to my leg with a grimace.

The brunette vampire moves to look at it, hesitating briefly as he shoots both Nico and I a questioning look, waiting for us both to give permission, which we do. Very carefully, the vampire takes my leg in his hands and looks at the sound, before releasing it again swiftly.

"Do you want me to take a look at it? Or do you need to go?" He offers, ignoring the protests from the vampires behind him.

"That would be great, actually, though we do need to be quick. They'll come looking soon enough." I accept, gesturing to Nico to put me down, which he does, placing me gently down onto one of the sofas, going to stand by me as he eyes David, Paul and Marko. Dwayne takes a first aid kit from a nearby surface and comes over, rolling up my trouser leg so that he can look at the wound, which has narrowly missed my kneecap.

"What's your plan?" He asks as he works, starting to clean the area before reaching for a pair of tweezers and starting to try to locate the bullet still lodged in my leg. I wince and grimace, fighting off the urge to scream as I try to ignore the pain.

"We're going to leave Santa Carla. It's not safe for me here anymore, and I've got you four in enough trouble as it is, which I'm really sorry about, by the way. I should've left weeks ago." I inform him, staying as vague as possible, so that the information can't be extracted from him if he were to be tortured.

"Its fine, (Y/n), we knew to expect trouble when we first befriended you." The vampire smiles, pulling the bullet from the wound with a small tug, blood pouring out over his hands, making the four of them turn their heads towards me, his fangs trying to break out. Noticing this, Nico moves to stand in front of Dwayne and I on the sofa, his eyes flashing yellow as he growls deep in the back of his throat again, using his body stature to deter them.

"Still, I feel terrible." I wince, before continuing, "I'll be out of your hair forever by the morning."

"Forever?" Paul asks from the back of the room, sounding somewhat saddened by this.

"Yeah, forever. I'm a fugitive now, I can't stay anywhere anymore, or I'll be caught. That's why I've asked Nico to help me - he's an expert at staying hidden." I grin up at the werewolf as he turns and gives me a fond smile, relaxing slightly as he notices that Dwayne is ignoring the blood on his hands in favour of bandaging me up instead.

"So...we can't see you again? Ever?" Marko chips in this time, the blond sounding almost upset.

"Its unlikely we'll meet again. I'm sorry, but that's how it needs to be." I make eye contact with David at this point, who simply looks away, as if trying to hide some sort of emotion. With a final pull of the bandage, Dwayne finishes up and stands up, going to wipe his hands on a piece of cloth hanging around, inspecting his handiwork proudly.

"Ther-" He goes to say, only to be cut off by Nico shushing him, the German werewolf holding up a hand.

We fall silent, tension souring the air as we wait for him to reveal what he has heard to us, my pulse nearly audible in the room, blood pounding in my ears.

"They're here." He says, eyes widening slightly as he looks to me, "And she's with them."

"Oh fuck..." I curse, knowing exactly who he's talking about. Instantly, I find myself held in Nico's arms again, the werewolf trying to locate another exit.

"Hang on, you're telling us that those bastards are here now?" David exclaims, going to stand in front of us.

"Yeah, but it's not just them..." I admit, gritting my teeth.

"What do you mean?"

"Valentine Fletcher is with them." Nico reveals, staring the vampire down.

"Ok, and who the hell is that?" The platinum blonde snaps, becoming frustrated.

"Isn't that..." Marko whispers across the room, paling, if possible, considerably at the thought.

"Who? Who is it?" Paul chimes in now, clearly terrified.

"Valentine Fletcher is the leader of the SRS, and now she's here to finish the job."

Part Thirteen

#the lost boys #joel schumacher #vampire #david(thelostboys)#kiefer sutherland #paul(the lost boys)#dwayne(the lost boys)#santa carla #marko(the lost boys)#star(the lost boys)

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newtsies · 3 years

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Great Outdoors || Ch. 1 {{ Kid Blink x Mayors Daughter OC}}

A/N: hiya! so here's somethings you might wanna know about the story!

1. it's a kid blink x oc story, the oc is the mayors daughter. based off of his line in King Of New York (92sies version) where he says 'a saturday night with the mayors daughter'

2. i included their accents, but not like too much? let me know if you think i should write it with less of an accent or more of an accent.

3. this is based off of the 1992 version but includes some characters from the Broadway version. any character in both versions are based off the 1992 version. for example: racetrack, david, jack, les, mush, ect. are all based off of the 1992 version

4. i won't be writing any of the songs, because it's harder to do that. if you think i should include songs, let me know!

5. i swear the other a/n after this will be way shorter-

word count: 4375

read on wattpad

Heat stuck to her skin as she slipped out the window of her room. In New York, the middle of summer scorched everyone who dare leave their fanned homes. It also scorched those who worked outdoors, or burned those who didn't have homes. But Juliet was willing to take the chances of getting sun burned, she needed to get out of her room.

She had been reading for hours, there was really nothing else to do. Reading for 6 hours tends to get boring, especially when all the books you can read are about wars. Most of the war books were historically incorrect anyways. She swore to one day rewrite every historical book she read, but make it accurate.

She ran down the fire escape and took in the scene of the hot Manhattan streets. She had no idea what to do, Juliet rarely left her house and when she did, it was with her father in a carriage. Without a map or guide to help her, she let her feet lead her through the streets.

"Hiya, ma'am," A boy said exhaustedly, tipping his cap at her, "Care ta hear todays news? The World seems ta want everyone ta know there was a baby born with two heads!"

"Oh, well, sure! Is a quarter alright?" Juliet asks, pulling out a quarter from her pocket.

"Ma'am, a pape is only 1 penny!" He smiled at her as he took his cap off and wiped his forehead, "Please, I really couldn't take any more than a penny from a sweet girl like you."

She flushed with embarrassment, "I'm so sorry, I've never been out in the city on my own before. I promise you, loosing a quarter sure doesn't affect me much."

"Thank ya, ma'am," The boy grinned, trading the paper for her coin, "Ya said ya'd neva been on da streets?" Juliet nodded, scratching her arm as the feeling of embarrassment bubbled inside her. "Care ta wander with me?"

"Well- I'm sure you're busy, right? I'd hate to intrude," She rambled.

"Ma'am! I'm free all day, honestly. I'd love ta show ya around, if you're up for it o' course!" He admitted with an honest smile, "Come carry da banner with me for a few more minutes and I'll show you good 'ol Manhattan!"

"Thank you-" She started, pausing to silently ask him for his name.

"Kid Blink," He smiled, "Wanna try sellin' a pape, ma'am?" He offered a newspaper to her, which she hesitantly took and turned to look at people walking by.

Juliet raised the paper and called out, "Daily news!"

A chuckle came from behind her, "All due respect, ma'am. You gotta yell out a headline or a story!" Her cheeks went red with embarrassment but she nodded, flipping through the paper quickly.

"Baby born with 2 heads! ... Medical anomaly!" She added, someone rushed towards her and handed her a penny for the paper. "I did it!"

"Great job, miss! Oh, keep the penny, ma'am!" Kid Blink stated sincerely as Juliet attempted to give him the penny, "Da quarter ya gave me has got me set for longer den a week!"

Juliet admired the boy, for he had great talent when it came to selling newspapers. When she had bumped into him, he had been carrying a whole stack of papers. A stack that looked plenty heavy. However, not once did he complain nor even look for a second as if he might drop them. He just kept carrying them and calling out headlines. Within 10 minutes of meeting him, his stack of papers were all sold.

"Honestly, ma'am, the streets of Manhattan ain't got much to see," Kid Blink explained earnestly, "Oh! I gotta place that's got some good wadda, want to go there?"

She grinned, "I'll admit, I'm a little hungry. I don't know any other restaurants, so if you say the place is good, all I can do is believe you! Lead the way, Kid Blink."

"Please, ma'am, call me Blink!" He stated, starting to walk away. She walked close behind him, nervous from stories her father had told her about the streets, "You alright, miss?"

"Peachy," She lied, "So, you, uh, do this everyday?"

Blink nodded, "Everyday! Carry the banner, eat if I'se got the money, sleep, den do it all again!"

"That's gotta be rough, how old are you?" Juliet asked.

"14, ma'am," Kid Blink replied before turning to her, "How old are you?"

"14," Juliet answered, "It's insane you're doing this everyday, living like this."

He smiled at her and tipped his cap, "Jus' life, ma'am!"

They stood together in front of a restaurant, the sign above it read Tibby's. Kid Blink turned to Juliet with a grin then moved to hold open the door for her. She nodded at him before cautiously stepping in, feeling the boy press against her as he closed the door behind him.

"Blink!" A boy called from a table, waving him over. Kid Blink looked at Juliet and nodded at the table full of boys then started walking over to them. She let her head fall down as she walked close behind him.

"Hiya, boys!" Blink grinned, sliding into the seats and shoving another boy into the wall so Juliet could sit down too, "This is, uh-"

"Juliet," she stated nervously, "Juliet Adams."

One boy joked, "Say, Adams is da mayors last name. You his daughter?"

"Yeah," She laughed, obviously very scared.

They all gaped at her. Kid Blink laughed and wiped the sweat off his forehead, "I woulda neva guessed. Anyways, Ms. Adams, this here is Racetrack, Elmer, Mush, and Skittery." The named boys grinned and waved at her as their names were called.

"Nice to meet you all," Juliet said, "Do you all work as newsies?"

Racetrack nodded, "Yes, ma'am. Now, I've gotta ask. What did 'ol Blink here say ta get ya ta come all da way over here wit 'im?" Blink rolled his eyes and ran his hand through his hair before placing his cap on his head again.

"Well, you see, I've never really left my house, not on my own at least. Kid Blink offered to show me around the city!" Juliet explained before looking at a menu above the register, "What do you boys usually get?"

"Wadda," Elmer states, then adds with a shrug, " 'Ts free."

She glanced around the table, assuming it was a joke, but was met with honest faces. She shook her head, "Why don't you all get some food. I'll pay, don't worry."

Kid Blink interfered, "Ms. Adams, we couldn't possibly let you pay for us-"

"Call me, Juliet, or Julie, all of you. Honestly, you've helped me a lot today, Kid Blink. It's the least I can do to make sure you all have full stomachs for at least a day. Let me pay, please," She pleaded. He looked at her and sighed and nodded before looking over the menu.

"She's a gift from the gods!" Elmer exclaimed, leaning over the table excitedly and giving her a hug. She laughed and pat the golden-retriever-like boy on the cheek.

Skittery nodded in agreement and Albert joked, "An angel me thinks. Think Big Man'll miss her if we keep her?"

"The mayor or God?" Racetrack asked before drinking his water.

Elmer looked at her with a look of fear, "Think he'll try to chop off our heads?" She laughed and shook her head.

"If anything, I'll be the headless one. He'll kill me once I get home. It's already getting dark," Juliet stressed, "I should be heading back after you all eat."

And so the boys and the girl, who had been isolated her whole life, joked and laughed together over plates of food. They begged and begged to help her and chip in for the bill, but she stubbornly refused. Eventually they were forced out of the building due to the 'dinner rush.'

Racetrack had joked, "By dinner rush, he means 5 customers who actually buy da food instead of drink all his wadda!'

They talked for a while longer before reaching the lodging house where 4 out of the 5 boys retreated into the building after waving goodbye to Juliet. Kid Blink lingered behind, hesitant to let her go alone through Manhattan at night. She insisted she would be fine, but Blink knew better than to not trust his gut instinct.

"I'm walking ya home, I cant let you walk alone during da night. 'Specially cuz ya don't know da streets all too well," He explained earnestly.

"I'm sure I'll be fine! Honestly, how dangerous can it be? Besides, won't it be dangerous for you to walk back alone?" She asked.

"Nah! I know dese streets like da back of my hand!" Blink reassured her as he lead her through the streets, "What's it like being da mayors daughter?"

Juliet sighed, "It's not horrible, but he never lets me leave the house. The only time I get to leave is to go with him in a car to some meeting he has. All I do is study. Don't get me wrong, I know I'm lucky. I have a consistent roof over my head, a consistent food source, and I'll never run out of money or new clothes. But what's the point if I don't ever get to talk to anyone?"

"I see," He nodded, "Hey, me an' da boys may not be rich or have any of dat food stuff often, but we sure as hell is a family! Life is worth the living as long as you got good friends to live it with. You ain't neva had no friends ever?"

She chuckled a little and shook her head, "Sure, I've had friends. They were all quite rude and stuck up, though. I sure hope I don't come off that way to you-"

"No, ma'am. You ain't stuck up, don't worry 'bout it!" Kid Blink told her, stopping at the house that towered over them. "Nice place ya got here."

"Thank you," She grinned, "Oh, and thanks for showing me around, Kid Blink."

He tipped his hat and nodded, "My pleasure, Ms. Adams."

"Juliet," She corrected.

"How 'bout Jules?"

"That works too, Blink."

She ran up the fire escape and waved at him from the top. He gave a short wave before turning back around to head back to the lodging house. Juliet tapped on the railing, deciding on what to say to the boy. She groaned and cupped her hands around her mouth.

"Kid Blink!" She shouted, "Think I could help you sell some more papers tomorrow?"

"It would be an honor to spend another day with you! I'll be here tomorrow with some papes, all right?" Blink yelled back, a grin playing on his lips.

"All right! Thank you, Blink!" She waved again before smiling widely and running back into her room.

"Julie?" A voice boomed from downstairs, Juliet cringed.

"Coming Father!" She called, going through her door and down to his office.

He continued to work on the papers laid out in front of him as he talked to her, "I'm sorry about our argument today. Thank you for keeping quiet. I've decided that you can go outside tomorrow, on your own. I trust you, for the most part. Just stay away from those newsboys, got it?"

Her eyebrows furrowed and she tilted her head at him, "What's wrong with the newsboys?"

"Flirts! All of them," He explained angrily, "Dirty and aggressive too!"

"All right, Father. I'll steer clear of the newsboys," She sighed. As she walked back to her room, she laughed to herself. Of course she wouldn't stay away from the newsboys, not like she listened today, right? Kept quiet, She thought, more like wasn't here to make noise.

Juliet woke up the next morning, already feeling the heat from outside, and rushed to her window in hopes to see the newsboy from the day before. Much to her dismay, he was not there. She decided not to stress, maybe he slept in or sold all of his papers already.

"Morning, Father!" She called as she walked into the kitchen, she gave him a kiss on the cheek, "I'm heading out now!"

"Stay safe, Juliet! And remember," He stated firmly, "Stay away from the newsboys!"

She rolled her eyes, "Yes, Father!" Then she was out the door, a wave of heat pushing against her. Juliet smiled before running off towards The World building.

Boys crowded around the town square, shouting and pushing into each other. She looked around and tried to push through the crowd, the kids all backing away from where she was. Juliet looked for familiar faces but couldn't see anyone.

"Ma'am! Ms. Adams! Juliet!" Elmer called out happily, pushing past everyone and bouncing over to her, "Watcha doing in these parts?"

She had to shout over the chaos to be heard, "Kid Blink said he would meet me at my house with papers, but he didn't! Did something happen? Do you know where he is?"

He grinned goofily at her, "Oh, boy, are you in fah a treat! We'se newsboys is on strike! Pulitzah raised the pape prices, so we'se don't sell till he puts it back! C'mon, Blink is over here!" Elmer grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd to the very front.

"- Gotta be ambastards and go tell the others that we're on strike!" A boy who stood in front the building shouted. Juliet was dragged by Elmer to stand next to Kid Blink, who turned to her and smiled.

"Say, Jack, we'll take Harlem!" Blink called out to the boy, Jack, and grabbed Juliet's arm.

"Good- Who's dat?" Jack asked the other newsies, Blink and Juliet were already gone.

"Da mayors daughter! Anyways, I got Midtown!" Race shouted before running off.

"Mayors daughter?" He shouted in confusion, but they ignored him and people continued to call out turfs they would go to.

"Sorry, Jules. Honest ta God, I'se was gonna go get ya! But, the price raise was ridiculous! Anyways, we'se goin' ta Harlem, tell dem about da strike! Dat alright with you?" Kid Blink asked after rambling.

She grinned, "Sure! Oh, guess what? My Father finally decided to let me go out freely, so I don't have to sneak away anymore."

"Nice! How'd ya manage ta convince 'im?" He questioned. They walked together through the streets, Kid Blink pulling his shirt to try and give himself some cool air.

"I don't know! Said he was happy that I didn't make any noise after the conversation yesterday! So, he's letting me out freely and he said..." She paused hesitantly.

Blink looked at her and tilted his head curiously, "What? What did he say?"

Juliet groaned and looked at him, "He told me to stay away from the newsboys. I won't, of course! But it's just- I don't get him. It's hard work, isn't it? I think you should all be admired, working this hard at such a young age with no one treating you fairly."

He laughed, "Thanks, miss! Sure is hard work, but we'se don't complain! Now, when we get ta Harlem, just ignore everything dey say. If dey make you uncomfortable, let me know, alright? I'll soak 'em! Or we can just leave. Whatever's easiest!"

"Thanks, Blink. Let's go," She said hesitantly, walking with him into the new borough.

A young boy ran towards them, "Hiya, Kid! And- pretty goil! Hi! Watcha here for?"

"Gotta talk ta Stitch," He explained, "He here, Scram?"

"Well, I reckon he's out by our circulation building! Trying ta calm down all da boys n' stuff! Hear bout the prices?" The boy, Scram, asked them.

" 'Course we did, Scram. That's what we're here to talk 'bout, 'Hattan newsies is on strike," He explained.

"Strike? Ya crazy! Ya know dat means makin' no money, right?" Scram questioned them, absolutely baffled by the idea of loosing a days pay.

"We know, Scram," Blink sighed, "But listen, if we don't work, they'se don't make money either. They need us! They gotta put the price back up soona o' later!"

Scram gave them a look, "I dunno, Blink! Think da World, Journal, and da Sun, and all of dem can go longer then we can without making money!"

"If we get all of da newsies togedda, they can't ignore us!" He explained, hoping to get through to Scram.

"Whateva ya say, Blink! C'mon, I'll take ya two ta Stitch. See what he gotta say 'bout it!" Scram nodded to the side before walking off. Juliet shrugged at Blink and they both started following him. There was havoc everywhere around the circulation building. People were shouting at each other and pushing each other into the floor. She walked close to Blink and Scram, trying to stay away from the fists people were throwing.

"Stitch!" Scram called out, tugging on the shirt of a boy about a foot taller than him. The boys shirt was tight on his arms and completely unbuttoned. His brown suspenders tugged at his shoulder, probably chaffing him. He had multiple scars all over his chest.

"What Scram? What?" Stitch groaned, shaking the boy off his arm.

"Kid Blink and a goil is here to talk to you about somethin'!" Scram explained.

The boy tipped his hat at Juliet, "Ma'am," Then spit in his hand and shook hands with Blink, "Kid Blink. What's up?"

"Well- We- 'Hattan-" Blink attempted to speak but couldn't talk over the yelling. Stitch looked to Scram and nodded at him.

Scram grinned widely and screeched, "Scram! Da bulls!" Everyone froze, stopped yelling and fighting, and bolted away. Scram waved to them, tipped his hat at Juliet, and ran off with everyone else.

"We'se on strike over in 'Hattan. We want you to join too!" Kid Blink explained.

Stitch hesitated, "Oh, I dunno, Blink! We won't make any money at all! We don't like da price either, but it's hard ta make no money at all. All dem newspaper big shots could go months without making money!"

"Yeah, but they can't ignore us if we get all da newsies in New York!" Blink tried to convince him.

"What's Brooklyn doin'? What'd they say?" Stitch asked.

Blink sighed, "I dunno yet."

"Look, when ya get the nod from Brooklyn, come back. Alright? Get the nod from Brooklyn and you can count on Harlem," Stitch promised. Kid Blink sighed again but nodded.

Juliet tilted her head, "So, Harlem is just a bunch of followers? Can't make your own decisions? Seems like Brooklyn is more the leader of Harlem than you are, Stitch." Both boys looked taken aback by her statement.

"No way, ma'am! It's just- We ain't gonna win dis thing if we ain't got Brooklyn!" Stitch explained.

"Oh! You guys aren't strong enough to help us, right?" She instigated.

"Yeah we are!" Stitch groaned, "Fine. Count us in, alright? The second you guys give up, or show any sign of giving up, Harlem is out. Got it?"

"Got it! Thanks, Stitch," Blink smiled, spitting in his hand and sticking it out for Stitch. He spit in his own hand and shook hands with Kid Blink.

"No problem, Blink. Now, as Scram would say, scram! I got to prepare me boys for a strike," He chuckled. Juliet started off, but Stitch grabbed Blinks arm and whispered to him, "Great gal, pretty too. If we get all da newsboys in one place with her, she's gonna be snatched up quick. Beat 'em to it, Blink. Or someone else will." Kid Blink rolled his eyes at Stitch and tugged his arm away, running to catch up with Juliet.

"Jack! What did Spot say?" Race asked as soon as he saw the leader.

"He was concerned 'bout us being serious, you believe that?" Jack scoffed.

The boys looked amongst themselves before Race spoke up, "I dunno Jack. None of da burrows will join us without the O.K. from Brooklyn."

"Wrong! None of da burrows except for Harlem. Harlem'll be here," Blink shouted as he ran over to them with Juliet.

"Awesome! Nice job, Blink," Jack praised.

He shook his head, "Not me. All thanks ta Juliet!"

"I knew she was an angel!" Elmer gushed, grabbing the girls hands and grinning at her.

One newsboy nudged another, "Looks like one too!" Blink shoved the boy who made the comment with his elbow.

"Shut up, Romeo."

The boy who had been nudged the first time laughed, "He told you!"

Said boy, Romeo, rolled his eyes, "Shut up, Henry."

"So what? We got Harlem, how does that help us? Gives us maybe 50 more kids? We should call it off, Jack. We need Brooklyn," A boy stated glumly. Jack looked at Davey, who Juliet had learned was the co-leader of the strike, with desperation evident in his eyes. David nodded and started to sing.

Juliet honestly didn't know how she ended up on the floor. Before, she was listening to the boys singing and watching them dance. At one point, Kid Blink pulled her up to dance with him and the others. She danced with them, but not for long due to the circulation bell ringing. The newsies charged and shouted at what they called 'scabs.'

Then, she was getting shoved all around. She was on the floor and looking to get out. Harlem came running in to help Manhattan, fighting scabs right along with them. Stitch noticed Juliet's struggles and grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet. He shoved her to Scram, who took her and lead her out of the crowd.

"Hey, Scram!" Julie said breathlessly, smiling down at the young boy as she caught her breath.

"Hiya, ma'am. Ya alright?" Scram asked her.

She nodded, "No need for the formality, Scram. Call me Juliet, or Ms. Adams if you really insist to be formal."

"Okay, Ms. Adams! We gotta run, da bulls is comin'!" He shouted at her, noticing the police running into the circulation building. Scram grabbed her arm and dragged her away.

"Ms. Adams, please take some wadda," Scram begged her, but she refused. She didn't want them to waste any water on her.

"I'm all right, Scram. I promise. Do you think Kid Blink and all the others are all right?" She asked him. He shrugged.

"I dunno, Ms. Adams, but I can check fa ya!" He grinned and bounced excitedly.

"No! It's fine! Relax, Scram, take a running break. I'll check in with them tomorrow," Juliet assured. Stitch walked up to them and sat down behind her on a crate.

"You alright.. Uh.. Wat's ya name?" He asked.

"Juliet Adams," She replied.

Stitch nodded, "Ya alright, Ms. Adams?"

"Yeah," She reassured, "What happened after the police came?"

"Dey only got one guy, 'Hattan guy. The gimp," Stitch reported, "Dey didn't back down though. Still won't quit. We'll be there 'gain tomorrow." Juliet nodded. "Stitch, introduce her to the boys. Have Charles walk her home, got it?"

"Yessir!" Scram called and walked over to a group of boys. "Hiya, guys! This here is Juliet Adams! Ms. Adams, this is Charles, John, Skippy-" Juliet swore he kept talking for a hour. There was about 25 boys she was being introduced to, maybe one day she'd actually keep track of them all. She just nodded as he kept listing off names and pointing at boys.

Juliet just kept nodding, "It's very nice to meet you all. I really must be heading home now, though. Thank you for everything, Scram. Tell Stitch I said thanks too, okay?" Scram nodded excitedly and waved at her as she walked off.

"Wait up!" A boy called, running up next to her, "C'mon, I'll walk ya home. I'm Charles."

"Thanks, Charles. Hey, were you at the circulation building in Manhattan, today?" She asked him.

"Yes, ma'am," He nodded, "Wherever Stitch is, I'm there too."

"I see. Gotta follow the leader, right?" Juliet joked.

Charles blushed and adjusted his cap, "Something like dat. Think we can win?"

"The strike? From what I know, Brooklyn basically leads most of the burrows, right? After today, Spot Conlon, whoever that is, will know we won't back down," She started, "Hopefully, he'll join us after seeing what happened today. Then we'll have all the other turfs. We'll be unstoppable with all of them. We're bound to win."

"Well, I guess you're right. Unstoppable, huh? I like the sound a' dat," He grinned.

"Me too," She smiled, "This is my house. Thank you for walking me here, Charles. I really appreciate it. I'll see you at the circulation building tomorrow."

He tipped his hat at her before walking away, "Bye, miss!"

Juliet walked through the doors of her home, "I'm back, Father."

"Dear! How was your day?" He called back to her.

"Good. I really just walked around, I sat by the Brooklyn bridge and just looked over the scenery," She lied.

He huffed in acknowledgement, "Hear about the newsie strike? I think the streets are gonna be too dangerous. I want you to stay inside again-"

"Father!" Juliet sighed, "You can't do that! I've finally had a taste of freedom. Let me stay out, please? I promise you, I'll be extremely careful."

"Fine. Just," He paused, "Stay away from them, okay? They're already getting violent. Don't get hurt, if you do, you'll be stuck inside until you're an adult, got it?"

She rolled her eyes but nodded, "Yes, Father. I'm going to sleep now." She ran up the stairs to her room and groaned as she sat on her bed. She wouldn't stay away from the newsboys. Maybe she wanted to rebel, maybe she like their company. Her Father was right about one thing, they were already getting violent. And although she couldn't pull herself away, she was scared of getting sucked into the angry force of the newsboys union.

a/n: uhhh sorry if this sucked i havent written in a while but i hope you enjoyed!!

#kid blink #kid blink newsies #kid blink fanfiction #hidden in concrete #hic #mylo.types #newsies #92sies #newsies fanfic #newsies fan fic #newsies fanfiction #newsies fan fiction #1992sies #newsboys

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whifferdills · 7 years

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idk if you're still doing fic requests, but i've had this half-formed idea kicking around in my head and i trust you'd be able to bring it to life: 12 builds an inspector gadget style dildo/sex toy machine thing. i don't know what else would happen (like i said: half-formed) but that seems like it'd be a fun fic. alternatively, maybe another Kate Lethbridge/12 one because that pairing doesn't get nearly enough attention.

ooh, i’ve refined it a bit more if you’re at all interested: Clara asked him to build one and he gets more excited about the gadgets than the dildo, and ends up being hilariously unusable. but also sexy? idk; i trust what you come up with.

So You Want to Build a Sex Machine12/Clara, not explicit but still risque, comedy mostly, ~1k words

(read on Ao3 instead)

Here’s what you’ll need.

Considerations: materials, feasibility, semantics, ethics, use-case scenarios, mechanics both internal and external. The fulfillment of desire, what ‘want’ means; how to create it, or find it; friction. Erotic as a poorly-translated word from a language you do not speak and that your ship will not speak on your behalf.

Google searches:

sexual requirements of the average human

sexual requirements of the unusual human

sex toy personality quiz

Metallica

how can i know what she wants without asking what she wants

The three ‘R’s: Research, Research, Research.

An hour spent watching videos of anonymous amateur fucking and masturbation.

Two minutes spent with your hand wrapped experimentally around what you’d let someone assume was a cock, if anyone were around to notice. Three minutes with your right thumb pressed into the spot just below your rib cage, where your key is still lodged. You feel nothing, and an aching empty sort of wrongness, in that order.

Five hours spent watching videos of people unboxing new dildo shipments. It’s satisfying, watching them crack open the packaging and methodically assess the contents,

Plans. I know it seems weird, to plan ahead of time, but trust me on this.

Four-One

Two mood boards, one on the ship - in a private room tucked far away - with magazine clippings taped to a dry erase board, and one on Pinterest that is followed immediately by a user named KinkyDave17. Hey there, Kinky Dave.

Four-Two

Fifty rough concept sketches, loose and easy. One drawing of Mr. Blobby holding a sign reading “There is no such thing as ethical consumption under capitalism” (it’d seemed funny at the time). Ten selected and elaborated upon; five chosen and explored with attention to detail. Four mugs of tea, two of which are immediately forgotten and eventually absorbed back into the timestuff of the ship.

Four-Three

One sketch, and fifty variations. The implication and execution of multiple penetrative devices. Orifices, modularity. Texture, color, the minutiae of hydraulics. Desire diagrammed. Both mood boards gradually evolve into evidence that Sammy Hagar is a fixed event in time and space. The Pinterest board is immediately followed by GuitarDave1975. Hey, Guitar Dave.

Four-Four

One variation, ten life-size mock-ups. Cannibalize parts from automobiles and electric pianos. Use similarly-shaped objects as stand-ins for dildos. Create a Catherine wheel of bananas. Remember, belatedly, that that’s probably not how sex works. Take a mental note of the texture and firmness of the bananas anyway. Eat one. Eat four more, and regret it instantly. Thrust, vibration, pressure, response, haptic feedback and precision stimulation. Turn the motor on and watch it spin as you eat a sixth banana.

On the mood board in your ship, tape a picture of her over Sammy Hagar so it looks she has Sammy Hagar’s body, or that Sammy Hagar has her face. Resist the sudden impulse to punch the dry erase board. Resist the constant impulse to do something sentimental. Do it anyway. Say something that pretends to be mean, like your human pastimes are ridiculous at best or it’s just an interesting engineering problem, that’s all. Touch the picture of her face, or Sammy Hagar’s face, touch the picture of the face gently and try to think positively about the ten failed attempts littering the room. Eleven, the eleven failed attempts. Or is it twelve, now?

Immediately realize it’s been Eddie Van Halen all along. Spend an hour arguing in the comments section of a YouTube video with a user named, simply, Dave. We meet again, Dave.

Punch the whiteboard, delete the Pinterest account. Sit down on the middle of the floor with a cup of tea. Make a mental list of all the times you can recall her making a face or a noise or a motion, an indication that there was something in her body you only partially recognize:

When you’d had your hand inside her, knuckle-deep, fingers crooked

The time it took for the red mark to show after you bit the skin on her neck, just under her ear

Not sure but it was a Tuesday local time and you were on your knees

why not ask her, Dave will type. or just fuck her lol. Pause. Type back, shut it you sorry excuse for an internet avatar i never liked you anyway. Turn off your personal computation device with a degree of petty, misdirected anger. You will still be on the floor, at this point. Stretch your legs out and then lay down and press the palm of your right hand to the spot just under your rib cage where your key still is, where it’ll always be, where it’s throbbed inside you since before you left home.

Ask her. Ask her, ask her, stammering and fumbling. Make sure it’s a Tuesday local time. You aren’t on your knees but you might as well be. Ask her what she wants.

And she’ll say, you, and she’ll laugh, but not in a mean-spirited way. Pull out your diagrams, your lists from your pockets. Put them back.

Say No, I mean specifically, in terms of the specific thing. Make a gesture that implies fucking and also hopefully how you understand and accept and regret your inadequacy in this area.

You, she’ll say again.

But for when you’re not there, or you’re there and you can’t, or you can but you’re not enough. What does she want? What’s better than you, what’s the ideal?

Don’t you get it yet? she’ll ask.

From here, futures splinter. It could go any way, there is a near-infinite set of possibilities. But if you take her hand and stay, it’ll be one of the good ones.

10.

Let her lead you to her bedroom on the ship, where she feels safe. Let her hold you. Admit you spent the better part of two days, local time, inventing her a sex machine. She’ll roll her eyes and say I’ve got it covered, but thanks I guess, gesturing to her proudly-displayed collection of dildos and vibrators and a fair few things you’ve never even seen before, despite at least three Googles. You nod and feel a certain awe come over you.

11.

Guide her hand to your belly, the spot just below your rib cage. Feel your key move inside you. Try not to cry.

Go down on your knees; it worked once before.

12.

Later, return to the Van Halen fan forum and ask Dave if he’s David Lee Roth, and if so, is he a fixed temporal event. He won’t respond.

#whouffaldi #promptapalooza #Anonymous

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